Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "Not that I'm such a paragon of virtue," Sera continued miserably. "For the last nine years, I've been pretending to the neighbors that I outgrew my Touching Curse. The only reason I can get away with it is because Michael was clever enough to have me 'cured' by one of his Louisville doctor friends. And the gloves have helped, of course. But I can't very well wear gloves all day and night around a husband, now can I?"

  Sera's chest heaved.

  Dejectedly, she fingered the stained and dog-eared pamphlet that she'd hidden in her journal. The radical document, written by Suffragette Laura Clay, was one of Sera's most prized possessions. She'd rescued it from the compost pile behind the rectory, where Henry Precott lived. Sera had been appalled to learn that her preacher-suitor thought so little of a woman's condition, that he'd dumped coffee rinds and potato peels all over the inspired writings of Laura Clay.

  "I just don't think I could love a man who doesn't support a woman's legal right to the guardianship of her own children," Sera confided to Tempest. "I mean, there's something morally wrong with that, don't you think?"

  Tempest tossed her head.

  "Yes, it really is the height of too much," Sera agreed. "Women aren't allowed to do half the things that men are allowed to do. I mean, nobody ever thought twice about Gabriel stripping off his shirt during the heat of midsummer. But when I did it, Michael and Papa were aghast. Even though I was only five years old."

  Tempest snorted.

  "Yeah? Well, just wait 'til you start poking out in all the right places. Breasts are a curse. Men can't stop staring at them. Women can't go skinny dipping because of them. And the silly things get all pinched and bruised inside a corset.

  "If I had my druthers," Sera insisted staunchly, "I would never wear a corset. Or a bustle. I mean, honestly. What earthly purpose is served by a big old wad of cotton on a bum? None! That's why men don't wear bustles!

  "In fact, I was reading here"—Sera waved Laura Clay's pamphlet under Tempest's nose—"about KERA. That stands for the Kentucky Equal Rights Association. KERA members believe that women should have the right to wear pantaloons."

  Tempest stretched her teeth over Sera's shoulder, trying to snatch a corner of the yellowed pamphlet, which had been stained illegible in some places by Henry's table scraps. Sera pushed the pony's head away.

  "Stop that, you little monster. This isn't a horsie treat. You're female, aren't you? Pay attention!

  "This pamphlet says that women should have the legal right to vote. And sit on juries. And buy and sell property. And write a Last Will and Testament. And retain the guardianship of their own children in the event of a father's death.

  "In fact, Laura Clay says that women should have equality in every profession and every opportunity available to men! Isn't that the most sensible thing you ever heard?"

  "Who's Laura Clay?" a rumbly Texas baritone drawled.

  Sera nearly jumped out of her skin.

  "Jesse!" she choked. "You gave me such a fright! When did you get back from town?"

  "About a minute ago, I reckon."

  All sun-baked and wind-groomed, he smiled his lazy smile as he carried Tempest's saddle and blanket toward the corral. With his Stetson knocked back, his eyes looked particularly feline today, thanks to the angle of the sun and the way the green of his faded, gingham work shirt accentuated his irises.

  But his stare wasn't the only thing feline about him. Lithe and rangy, he walked along the gravel drive in thigh-hugging dungarees, Justin boots, and silver spurs without making a single sound. If she hadn't witnessed him placing one foot in front of the other, she wouldn't have believed that any human could walk in silence. Especially while wearing rowels.

  She scrambled to her feet, mostly to hide her petticoats. Her face burned when she realized the incongruity of her behavior. Hadn't she just asserted that a woman should have the right to do anything that a man was legally and morally allowed to do? Like expose her tender places to the sun?

  Not for the first time in her life did Sera bristle at the insidious power of social convention to curb a woman's will. She didn't like feeling obligated to deny herself pleasure just because some narrow-minded prude might object.

  But she liked even less the idea that Jesse might tell Michael how she'd been blathering about breasts in front of the hired hand.

  "You were eavesdropping on me!"

  "No, ma'am. Not eavesdropping."

  "What would you call sneaking up on a body, then?"

  "I'm real sorry, Miss Sera. I didn't mean to startle you. I reckon I got used to walking real quiet like, to keep the beeves from spooking on the trail."

  Jesse heaved Tempest's saddle onto the fence. When he unlatched the gate and stepped inside the corral, Tempest did what she normally did: bolted to the other side.

  Unsettled by his closeness, Sera wanted to bolt, too. But she mustered her courage and raised her chin. "Well, there aren't any cattle around here, if you haven't noticed."

  "I'm real sorry, ma'am," he said again, his thick, sun-darkened fingers splaying across the seat of the saddle. The seat that her bottom would be rubbing against in several minutes.

  The thought was distracting. Jesse was distracting. Every time those large, gentle hands stroked Tempest's neck, every time those strong, muscular thighs gripped the filly's girth, Sera would grow ridiculously jealous. She yearned to feel Jesse's tender, dark fingers caressing her skin. She ached to be held against his warm, comforting length.

  Sera might be a maid, but she wasn't an innocent. She knew what it was like to kiss a man. She'd enjoyed the possessive way that Kit had tangled his fingers in her hair. She'd liked the rapid drumming of his heart against the whalebone of her corset. She'd even secretly delighted in the sizzle that had charged down her nerves when he'd thrust his tongue into her mouth.

  But when Kit had started gripping her buttocks and worse, dragging her hips against his arousal, she'd grown uneasy. She'd had to slap his face.

  She wondered if Jesse kissed like such a scoundrel.

  He was gazing at her now with those steady, catlike eyes. If she'd learned one thing about her Panther Man, it was that his canny gaze didn't miss a thing: not a disturbed leaf, not a broken twig, not a rabbit spoor...

  And not a single nuance of emotion that crossed her face.

  He was doing it again: reading her the way he read tracking signs in the woods.

  She blew out her breath. "I'm sorry, too, Jesse. I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's just that... well, I found this pamphlet a couple of weeks ago, at the church, while I was sweeping up after the Sunday pancake breakfast. It just galls me that Preacher Prescott would throw away anything so important. I mean, people look up to him in this town! And not just for spiritual guidance."

  Jesse cocked his head, those arresting eyes focusing on her journal and the dog-earred, soiled paper that she clutched so protectively to her heart.

  "May I see it?"

  She bit her lip. No bachelor of her acquaintance would have thought kindly of her for rescuing Laura Clay's controversial KERA platform from the dung beetles and the potato bugs. She was tempted to hide the pamphlet safely inside her journal.

  For shame, Sera. Would Laura Clay be such a coward?

  Her heart quickening, she ignored her vision of teeny, tiny paper scraps scattering on the wind and dared to pass her one and only copy of the writings of Kentucky's most prominent Suffragette to Jesse.

  For an agonizing moment, as he unfolded the page, Sera held her breath. She was prepared to snatch the document away, before he could crumple it into a ball and toss it onto one of Tempest's dung piles. But once he started reading, he looked interested. His gaze roamed back and forth over the lines. A small furrow formed between his dark-as-midnight eyebrows, but he kept reading. His lips pursed thoughtfully. He even flipped the page over to peruse the sentiments about hygiene and dress reform that Laura had described on the back.

  Minutes later, Jesse wasn't smiling when he raised his head and locked st
ares with her. In fact, he looked as serious as a hanging judge. "This woman has uncommon courage," he said quietly. "You're right to support her."

  The air fled Sera's lungs in a whoosh. For a moment, she was so stunned by his affirming response, that all she could do was blink.

  "I... um... Thank you, Jesse," she finished lamely.

  His dimples peeked. "You sound surprised."

  "Well, I am." She laughed. "But in a good way. I mean, Kit McCoy used to make lewd comments about a woman's right to dress in comfort. I can't believe I ever let that man—"

  Kiss me. She bit off the words just in time. Her cheeks burning, she avoided Jesse's intensely insightful stare. She told herself she shouldn't care if her brother's hired hand knew about her sparking days with an old beau.

  On the other hand, she didn't want Michael to be reminded of those reckless summer days when she used to sneak out of her bedroom window to rendezvous with Kit.

  Fidgeting, Sera continued, "If men had to wear 10 pounds of underwear and totter around on pointy little heels to haul a 30 pound toddler on their hip, the laws in this state would change double quick."

  She cast a furtive glance at Jesse. He didn't appear shocked by her declaration; instead, he looked inclined to agree.

  "What does your brother think?" he asked.

  "Michael? Good heavens. Michael's too busy to bother with politics. I daresay Michael doesn't even know that Laura Clay exists—even if she is the biggest big deal in my life."

  "A bigger deal than Tempest?" he teased.

  She laughed at him. "Well, if by Tempest, you mean you, then I'm inclined to plead the Fifth Amendment. A Kentucky woman has the right to silence, if nothing else."

  He grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "I can see that I've been outfoxed by you again, sir."

  Those endearing dimples broadened at her game. "Well, if all the women in Kentucky are like you, Laura Clay, and Aunt Claudia, then I can tell you first-hand that Kentucky is a real jewel among states."

  "You really think so? After all the places you've traveled?"

  "Without a doubt," he said, a wistful smile playing about his lips. "I like Kentucky. I like the hills, and the forests, and the hardy nature of the people. And I like this town, Miss Sera. I like the way folks here watch out for each other."

  Sera was pleased by the warmth in his voice, even though she knew the compliment wasn't directed at her.

  Then she imagined he must also be thinking of Allison, and her spirits deflated a notch.

  "I suppose that's true, but..."

  She cleared her throat, distracted again as the breeze teased a curl to dance across the untanned peak of his brow. She imagined the sun shining on that glorious hair, striking blue sparks from its raven-wing blackness. She imagined all the winds that had tugged the red bandanna at his throat or whispered lullabies in his ear beneath a velvety dome of stars. She imagined all the prairies, canyons, and rivers that had molded his character, all the birds and animals that had taught him his deep respect for nature.

  Her heart ached to know more about this man, Jesse Quaid.

  "Sometimes, I wish that I'd seen more places, Jesse. Done more living. Like you."

  His chest rose and held. The verdant depths of those eyes gazed into hers... gazed on and on. She imagined that he was searching the very depths of her soul. But for what?

  "The world can be a big and lonely place, Miss Sera," he said poignantly. "And mean and cold, too. Not every town welcomes strangers, like Blue Thunder. Not every man looks after his neighbors."

  She heard pain in his voice, and her heart went out to him. Not for the first time did she wonder about his past. Jesse clearly didn't like to reminisce about his family, his childhood in Texas, or even his work on the cattle trails.

  And yet, whatever had happened to Jesse on his journeys hadn't made him cruel. Just the opposite. To watch the way that animals put their faith in him was proof of his goodness. On his first evening at the house, when Eden had exhausted every trick she knew to lure Stazzie, her cantankerous black cat, inside before the coyotes started to prowl, Jesse had come to the rescue. Taking the saucer of milk from Eden's hand, he'd gazed up into the tree and started crooning something too low for any human to make sense of the words. A couple moments later, Stazzie had started her descent.

  The next afternoon, Sera had watched nervously as Jesse had teased a rat snake out of the stable's rafters so Tempest wouldn't get spooked by all the slithering and tongue flicking. Sera had grown squeamish to think that Jesse might kill the harmless reptile, but to her surprise, he'd eased the snake into a burlap feed sack and carried it carefully to the woodlands' edge to set it free.

  Yesterday afternoon, she'd watched in wonder as he'd coaxed a gray squirrel into snatching a hickory nut off his boot toe. To watch the trick unfold, one would have thought that squirrel was a long-time pet, instead of some random rodent who'd been chattering its fool head off on the rain barrel.

  Jesse was, quite possibly, the most understanding man she had ever met. Sera liked how he respected feral animals. She liked how he created an instant accord with the domestic ones. She didn't know what his secret was, but one thing was certain. He had a way of understanding people, too.

  She pasted on a smile in an attempt to restore his good humor.

  "No town is full of perfect people," she said, striving for a playful tone. "I know this will come as a horrendous shock to you, Jesse Quaid, but even I'm not the angel I was named after."

  He raised both eyebrows in mock surprise.

  "It's true! I used to hide in the woods all the time when Michael came hunting for me to do my chores. And Michael was never the wiser—except for that one time, when I made the mistake of hiding out with Goober," she confided dryly. "Goober was Gabriel's coonhound. Michael had stashed a piece of beef jerky in his pocket, so Goober bolted out of hiding to beg a treat. Needless to say, I could never hide from Michael again in that hollow log."

  Jesse smirked. "Is that the worst thing you've ever done, Miss Sera? Sneak out on your chores?"

  "Of course not. But I can't tell you the worst thing I've ever done."

  He looked thoroughly amused now. "How come? I thought we were friends."

  "I don't hear you volunteering tales of your wickedness, Jesse Quaid!"

  "That's 'cause you're a lady. And you'd look mighty silly if your ears melted off."

  She snorted. "Fiddle. My ears are as impervious as stone. Fess up. What did you do? Sneak a penny-dreadful inside your school reader? Hide a frog in some pesky girl's bonnet? Curse a blue streak to shock some little old granny? Switch the sugar for salt at the church barbecue? Tell me!" she pleaded, stomping her foot in exasperation.

  He was folding the KERA pamphlet and shaking his head, those green eyes dancing with mirth.

  "I tattled on me!" she said. "It's only fair that you tattle on you."

  "Miss Sera, I'm quite a few years older than you, so I've had quite a few more years to make mischief. Let's leave it at that."

  She pouted. "Honestly, Jesse, you could show a little faith in me. I won't tell. Did you rub grease all over your schoolmaster's chair, so he would slide right off?"

  "Is that the worst prank you can think of?"

  "Well, no. But I came close to greasing Michael's chair, once. It would have served him right, too, for making me sit at the dinner table until I ate every last one of my peas." She shuddered. "Cold black-eyed peas are the worst, you know. Like swallowing buckshot. Thank goodness for Goober."

  "Goober liked peas, eh?"

  "Let me put it this way. If there's a heaven for dogs, Goober is definitely in it."

  Jesse chuckled, a deep, warm rumble of mirth that launched the butterflies in Sera's belly. She had the notion that Jesse didn't laugh nearly enough.

  "You really were a handful," he teased.

  "What do you mean were?"

  "I stand corrected, ma'am." He winked. "I can see why you get along so well with Li
ttle Miss Contrary, there."

  "That's an awful thing to call my pony. Isn't it, Tempest, honey?" she called. "It's not your fault that squirrels have big bad frightening teeth."

  The filly trotted closer to hear her name, and Jesse patted her neck, his fond expression growing even fonder as his gaze strayed to Sera. "You have a way with horses, Miss Sera. It's not common for a high-strung gal like this to take a shining to a stranger so quickly."

  "Well... before you arrived in town, we used to sit up 'til all hours of the night, trading secrets. Just like real sisters."

  Furtively, Tempest reached her teeth for the wind-riffled pamphlet, fluttering in Jesse's hand.

  "Ugh." Sera pushed the filly's nose to the side. "And like a real kid sister, she likes to torment me." She slapped Tempest's flank. "You know you aren't supposed to eat my pamphlet, Moocher."

  Tempest snorted and moved off to munch more daisies.

  Jesse cocked his head toward the road, as if listening. Sera imagined he must have ears as keen as his eyes, because she couldn't hear the approach of any horses or carriages. Not yet, anyway.

  He repositioned the hat on his head. "Well. Reckon I should start putting Tempest through her paces. I wouldn't want your brother to accuse me of malingering."

  "As if I'd ever tell Michael what you and I did out here, while he was off minding his patients."

  Jesse turned an endearing shade of red. Sera grinned. She hadn't meant anything naughty—well, all right. Maybe she had. Just a little. She liked to flirt with Jesse. To see the proof of his attraction to her was a heady pleasure. To know that attraction came with a conscience was reassuring. It made her wish he would ask her to the Founder's Day Dance, even if he was her brother's hired hand.

  He handed the pamphlet back to her. She reached for it reflexively.

  In the second that her fingers closed over the paper—a paper that she'd held without gloves at least a hundred times—a surge of electricity crackled through her hand. She started, completely caught off guard by the bolt of energy that leaped from Jesse's side of the page to hers.

  It wasn't a welcome feeling. She gritted her teeth. The lightning pulse charged up her arm into her brain. She realized she was about to have one of her dreaded Episodes. She fought the kaleidoscopic rush of color with all her strength, but it had already gotten a toehold in her mind, blanking out the royal-blue expanse of sky and the concern that was kindling in Jesse's pine-green stare.