It would have to. Mac turned to the window again and watched for the first sight of the Palace.
The wait was brief. Only a few blocks away rose a building taller than any other Mac had seen—seven stories plus a mansard roof, square and imposing and lined with row upon row of bay windows. It dominated the block like an emperor among genuflecting subjects.
She’d seen pre-earthquake photos of it, but they didn’t do it justice. Nothing short of reality could.
“It’s incredible,” she said.
“I’m glad you approve. I wouldn’t have wanted to disappoint you.”
His faint derision couldn’t rob Mac of her wonder. She noted the sign for New Montgomery Street as the coachman drove under a great arch to the side of the building and on through a gated entrance big enough for two carriages side by side.
The sunlight dimmed. Hoofbeats echoed in the vast space of an open court within the hotel itself, a glass-domed rotunda overlooked by seven balconied and columned galleries. A line of carriages waited in the circular drive to take on or deposit passengers; men and women and children looked down on the courtyard, their voices drifting disembodied from the heights.
Mac angled her head for a better view of the glass dome high above. “This is—”
“I know. Incredible.” Liam jerked her hood up and fastened a button under her jaw. “Keep this up. I don’t want gossipmongers prying into my business.”
She pushed the hood back. “Afraid people will wonder who you’re smuggling in here?”
He tugged the hood forward again and didn’t bother to reply. Mac had a good idea what he was thinking. The Palace was a social center in the city, and it wouldn’t do for people to see him bringing one woman into a hotel when he was planning to marry another.
That was the curious part of all this, that he’d keep her around at all. But she’d play along while she could, hoping she’d learn enough in the meantime to form a better plan.
Mac’s preoccupation melted away when the carriage door swung open. The strangeness of it all came crashing down like old buildings in an earthquake. The smell of smoke and horses and perfume laced the air. Pairs and groups and crowds of people in period costume moved in stately patterns among columns and potted palms, decorative fish in a vast and antique aquarium. Muted voices became a roar as overwhelming as a storm-tossed ocean.
This was undeniably real, and she was as alien as if she’d dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Oh, boy,” she whispered, feeling dizzy. “Oh boy, oh boy.”
At least Liam was otherwise engaged and not a witness to her distress. He spoke briefly to the coachman and turned to consult with a uniformed bellhop. The employee produced a sheet of paper, on which Liam scribbled a note, folded it, and returned it to the other man. Mac watched the figures fade in and out of focus.
Stay on your feet, Mac. That was all she had to do. Stay upright until she could get to someplace quiet, where she could sink into a nice, peaceful faint. Or at least have a minor fit of hysterics.
Right. Probably acceptable behavior for a Victorian female, but not for MacKenzie Sinclair. She could just imagine herself swooning artistically over a sofa or settee, handkerchief draped from languid fingers…
“Are you all right, Mac?” Liam asked, rejoining her.
“Fine,” she said, pitching much like Liam’s steamer had done on rough seas off the coast of Baja California a few days ago. She tried desperately to focus on Liam—the one familiar face, the single link between her time and his.
He took her arm. “You’re pale as a ghost. You’re not about to swoon on me, are you?”
“Me?” She chuckled weakly. “Not hardly.”
“Good. The last thing I need now is a fainting female.” And a public scene, Mac added silently. But the rough disdain of his tone was belied by the firm, gentle hold he kept on her arm, lending her the support she needed to stay on her feet.
The bellhop already had her pathetically small carpetbag. “The room is ready, sir,” he said. “If you’ll follow me…”