His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches)

by Karen Kirst

  Slipping her hand free, she went to sit on a wooden bench beneath the rose arbor, arranging her skirts about her. He came and sat close beside her, his leg brushing hers.

  His face was inches away, his dark gaze a caress. “Tell me your news.”

  “We finally received a letter today.” Her joy overflowed into a huge smile. “Juliana had her baby—a healthy boy with a shock of black hair like his pa’s. They named him James, after his late uncle. They’re both doing great. Evan is over-the-moon excited. Ma wrote he hasn’t stopped smiling.”

  Lucian’s smile was curiously wistful. “Congratulations—you’re an aunt now. Auntie Megan.”

  “I like the sound of that. I hope to go and meet him later on this summer, perhaps in August. Jane is anxious to go, as well.”

  “Not Nicole?”

  “Nicole isn’t what you’d call sentimental. And she doesn’t get excited about babies.”

  “That may change. She’s young yet.”

  “The twins are younger than her, yet they’re more mature. I’m not sure if she’ll ever grow out of her selfishness.”

  “Everyone matures at a different rate. Give her time.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Thank you for sharing your news with me.” His low drawl wrapped her in cozy warmth.

  He was close enough to kiss. Memories of that other kiss by the stream, of how it felt to be held in his arms, rushed in. Her fingers gripped his sleeve. She leaned closer, tilted her face up a fraction. Lost herself in his molten gaze. Waited for him to lower his mouth to hers in tender possession. Waited in vain.

  His expression darkened. Frowning, he disengaged her arm and, surging to his feet, strode purposefully away from her.

  Megan ducked her head. Hot color infused her face. How could she have been so bold? He’d made it clear he thought kissing her was a mistake. That other kiss on the horse had been an impulse, an attempt to comfort her and assuage her guilty conscience.

  “It’s getting late,” he said without looking at her, his shoulders rigid. “You should go. I don’t like the idea of you walking home in the dark.”

  Humiliated and hurt, she shot to her feet. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  He turned, one brow arched. “Yes, I know. Humor me.”

  So, he wasn’t really concerned for her welfare. It was an excuse to get her to leave.

  “Fine. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

  As she passed by him, his hand snaked out and snagged her wrist. “Don’t ever think you’re not wanted, mon bien-aime,” he forced out. There was a battle going on inside him, emotions warring on his face. “I’m trying very hard to protect you.”

  Slowly, he bent his head and brushed a light-as-air kiss on her cheek. Megan’s heart kicked. Longing engulfed her.

  “Lucian—”

  He released her wrist and stepped back, his gaze once again hooded. “Go get some rest, Megan. You’ve been working hard all week, and the poetry recital is tomorrow night.”

  “Right. Good night, then.”

  “Bonsoir.”

  He did not accompany her inside. Unsettled, she hurried down the hall, her steps echoing through the silent, empty house. This is what it will be like once he leaves, she thought glumly. Strange and lifeless, as it had after Charles’s death.

  Tears pricked her eyes. Lucian’s presence had assuaged somewhat her grief, lessened the impact of Charles’s absence. All too soon, he would leave her, too.

  What was she supposed to do then? Especially now that she knew she loved him?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lucian relented and took the laudanum that night. His body needed the rest, as did his mind. The medicine would knock him out cold, granting him a reprieve from these persistent thoughts about Megan. Resisting her had drained him of every last drop of strength he possessed. If he expected to be in her presence tomorrow night without crossing the line of friendship, he had to get some sleep.

  And perspective. Perspective was good. Remembering their differences was good, too.

  Sliding beneath the cool sheets, he fell asleep listing them all.

  When he awoke Saturday morning, it was much later than usual. After nine. Where was his valet? Smith should’ve woken him. The house was silent, so the reserved gentleman was either still abed, which was not his custom, or he’d gone to the stables. Mrs. Calhoun was off duty on the weekends, but she’d be coming in at some point today to help ready the house for tonight’s event.

  He awkwardly pushed himself up. As expected, his head felt too heavy for his neck, his brain a bit foggy. Hopefully a large cup of coffee would fix that. Dressing took some doing on his part, despite the fact his injury dictated he wear less clothing. Unfortunately, Smith wasn’t around to assist with the buttons, so he pulled the sides of his shirt closed as best he could and slipped the sling back over his head. The windows in this guest room overlooked the back of the property, and he looked out in search of his valet. No sign of him.

  Exiting his room, his gaze strayed to his mother’s old one directly across the hall. He had avoided it since that first week when he’d snooped through her and Charles’s things searching for answers. He hesitated. What did you do, Maman? He hated the suspicions rifling through his mind, tainting his memories. He’d been ready to leave here without the answers he sought, but he had time on his hands now. Perhaps he should resume the search.

  He strode to the door and pushed it open, paused on the threshold. White lace curtains hung at the windows and a pink ruffled bedspread adorned the bed where two dolls—one porcelain and one handmade—lay waiting. There was a small writing desk and chair and an oversize oak wardrobe. A small stack of fancy stationery and envelopes lay untouched on the desktop, and two paintings hung above the headboard. His mother’s work? She hadn’t painted at home. Something else she’d given up in an effort to please his father?

  He walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors, fingering the dresses hanging inside. Good material, pretty yet simple in style, fitting for life in this quaint mountain town. Similar to Megan’s and her sisters’ clothes, in fact. He certainly hadn’t seen his mother wear anything like this. She’d dressed the part of the ship baron’s wife in gowns crafted by the most fashionable designers around, ears and neck dripping with jewels and hair styled just-so. Father must’ve brought someone in shortly after their wedding to transform the humble mountain girl into an acceptable lady of society.

  Had she missed her old life at all? He wished now that he’d thought to ask her.

  He couldn’t picture Megan in his world. Found it nearly impossible to picture her amid the splendor and opulence of his family’s mansion in the city. What a shame it would be to try to tame her natural beauty, to mold her into an unoriginal socialite with pretty manners and shallow conversation. No. Megan didn’t need extravagant clothes or flashy jewels. She was perfect just the way she was—delicate and feminine in her softly flowing dresses, her white-blond curls tamed by a single ribbon. In his eyes, she was more beautiful than any other woman in the world.

  With a heavy sigh, he pushed the doors back into place, thinking he should do something with the dresses. Perhaps donate them? He would seek Megan’s advice. As Charles’s close friend, she might have an idea what would’ve pleased him.

  His grandfather must’ve left this room exactly as Lucinda had left it. Why? Had he ever entered it again? Or had it been too painful a reminder of all he’d lost?

  Dear God, I’m so confused. Help me, please, to find the answers I’m looking for. And if there aren’t any to find, help me to accept that. To find peace.

  He hoped Megan was right. Hoped God was listening and that He cared.

  Through the window, Lucian heard someone whistling a merry tune. From the sound of it, that someone was advancing up the lan
e. He pushed the curtain aside with a quiet swish and stared out. His jaw dropped. His horse! Squinting, forehead pressed against the cool glass, he studied the large, sleek animal. No question about it...D’Artagnan was home.

  Hurrying down the winding staircase, his hand skimming the banister for balance, questions zipped through his brain suddenly cleared of all fog. Could it be true?

  Out on the porch, he held on to the post and waited for the seedy-looking character leading his horse to reach him. When the man spotted Lucian, he tipped his battered hat up and studied him. “Howdy do. Would you be Lucian Beaumont?”

  “Yes, sir.” He descended the steps, stopping at the bottom, his gaze sweeping D’Artagnan in search of possible injuries. Relief expanded his chest when he didn’t notice any. Dirt-coated, his mane knotted with debris, all he appeared to need was a good meal and thorough brushing down.

  Impatient to greet his old friend, he moved closer and, skimming a palm along his neck, murmured in French. Snickering, D’Artagnan turned his head and nudged Lucian. Transferring his gaze to the wizened old man who, by the looks of him, was a down-on-his-luck drifter, he said, “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.” He grinned, shocking Lucian with his rows of straight white teeth, made brilliant against his sun-browned skin. “The name’s Cyril Hawk.”

  “Mr. Hawk, where did you find him? And how did you know to bring him to me?”

  Shrugging, he released the reins. “He wandered on to my property last evenin’. I went through the bags and found a Bible. Can’t read, so I brought him into town early this morning and showed it to Sheriff Timmons. Belonged to your ma, did it?”

  Lucian nodded, gratefulness clogging his throat. Opening the bag, he clasped the large black tome and, lifting it with his good hand, held it against his chest. Thank You, God.

  Cyril just stood watching him, wise understanding in his eyes.

  “Do you live nearby?” he asked, voice gravelly.

  He motioned over his shoulder. “About five miles south of town.”

  “Five miles?” He hadn’t brought a wagon or second horse with him.

  Noticing Lucian’s confusion, he offered another grin. “I like to walk. Well, now that I’ve done my good deed for the day, I gotta be headin’ back.” He tipped his hat. “Nice to meet ya, Beaumont. You have yourself a good day.”

  “Wait.”

  Cyril paused midturn, bushy brows raised in question.

  “I’d like to repay you for your kindness. Give me a moment, and I’ll get you some money—”

  He held up a hand. “No need for that. I was happy to do it. Golden rule and all that.”

  “I insist. You’ve returned something very valuable to me.”

  “Horses can be replaced.”

  Lucian gripped the Bible tighter. “This one can’t.”

  Approval showing in his expression, Cyril said gruffly, “Your gratitude is payment enough, young man.” Then he turned resolutely and headed back down the lane, whistling a vaguely familiar tune.

  He watched until the stranger disappeared from sight. I don’t know if this was Your doing or not, God, but thank You.

  Because both hands were indisposed, he buried his face in his horse’s neck. “Welcome home, buddy. Wait until Megan hears this.”

  * * *

  Stationed in the parlor entrance, Megan was able to see the guests mingling inside and those just arriving. The house was abuzz with anticipation, chatter and the clinking of glasses echoing off the walls. Nervous excitement bubbled in her tummy. The turnout so far exceeded that of any previous poetry recital, and there were still fifteen minutes before time to begin.

  Her gaze was drawn once again to the fireplace, to where Lucian stood sandwiched between the Moores and the Jenkinses, his air of command making him seem a foot taller than those around him. Wearing a black vest and evening coat beneath the sling, his rich brown hair somewhat tamed away from his face, he was easily the most handsome man in the room. His austere mask didn’t fool her. She was well acquainted with the sensitive, hurting heart hiding behind it.

  When she realized his attention was not on his companions but on her, his black-as-midnight gaze intent with undisguised admiration, her breathing quickened. Sparkling awareness danced along her nerve endings. Since the moment of her arrival, she’d sensed his perusal move with her about the room.

  Wanting to look her best this evening, she’d borrowed one of Nicole’s dresses. Crafted from exquisite ivory silk that brushed against her heated skin like cool water, bands of seed pearls enhanced the scooped neck and fitted waist and edged the short puffed sleeves. An intricate lace overlay adorned the full skirt, and along the hem, Nicole had stitched delicate gold-and-silver flowers. Kate had secured the top section of her hair with sparkly diamond pins—family heirlooms, she’d called them—allowing the remainder of her curls to tumble down her back. Judging from Lucian’s reaction, the effort had been well worth it.

  Megan shoved aside the inner warning that she was playing a dangerous game.

  “Megan? Hello?”

  With a start, she tore her gaze from Lucian and looked up into her cousin’s amused face. “Nathan!”

  Surprise spurred her to hug him. Low laughter rumbled in his chest, and she eased back, smiling. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your cup of tea, so to speak.”

  “Would you believe I just happened to have free time on my hands?” He touched his still-damp brown hair.

  “You? Free time? No, sorry. Not buying it.” Nathan and Caleb stayed busy around the farm, neither one much inclined for social events such as this.

  “I didn’t think so.” He sighed with mock defeat, his gaze straying to the crowd behind her and then back. “Josh and Kate were all set to come, but then she had a dizzy spell. She insisted it was nothing, but Josh urged her to stay home and rest. She’s been awfully busy lately with people wanting their photographs taken, which is good for business but you know how Josh worries. Anyway, he asked me to come in their place. Wanted someone here to support you.”

  He shrugged, clearly perplexed. Nathan was a good man, caring and protective of his family, if a bit too serious and introspective at times. But he’d never been in love. Seemed uninterested in finding himself a wife and utterly oblivious to the single girls’ attempts to snag his attention. Of course he wouldn’t understand Josh’s need to take care of his wife.

  “I was with her earlier today. Now that you mention it, she did seem a bit more subdued than usual.” Had she been feeling unwell and hadn’t wanted to let on? Or was it her longing for a baby weighing on her mind?

  Nathan squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, the bloom was back in her cheeks when I left. Josh was plying her with tea and cookies.”

  “If she’s not at church in the morning, I’ll pay her a visit afterward.”

  “I’m certain she’ll be there.” Searching the crowd once again, his gaze intercepted Lucian’s and he tipped his head in silent greeting. “How much longer do you think he’ll be here?”

  Megan shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. “A couple of weeks.”

  His voice deepened in concern. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Don’t try and pretend he doesn’t matter to you. When I walked up, the two of you were locked in your own little world. You didn’t even hear me greet you the first time.”

  Megan’s cheeks burned. Were her feelings that obvious? Was Lucian aware?

  She had to be more careful. He’d made it plain there was no room in his life for love. He would not be pleased to learn she had disregarded his wishes. Had foolishly allowed her heart to love him.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Nathan said into the silence hanging between them. “I’m worried, that
’s all.”

  Twisting her hands together, she forced a bright smile to her face. She had the entire evening to get through. “You didn’t.” Glancing at the clock, she said, “You should go and find a seat. I—I remember something I need from the library.”

  His brow furrowed. “Megan—”

  “I really can’t talk right now.”

  Not daring to look in Lucian’s direction, she hurried down the hall and into the blessedly empty library. The night was dark behind the curtains, and with only one lamp lit, the room was wreathed in shadows. She moved into them, taking refuge in the far corner against the bookshelves. She needed to clear her head. To regain control over her emotions.

  Suddenly she wondered how she was supposed to stand up in front of everyone, Lucian in particular, and recite words of love without the truth shining through? Why, oh why, hadn’t she picked something humorous? Or lighthearted?

  One thing she knew—she must not look at him. Not even once. He’d see her heart’s yearning and if he did... She shook her head. At best, he’d be disappointed. At worst, horrified. Repulsed.

  The skin of her nape tingled then, the fine hairs on her arms standing to attention.

  She whirled. “Lucian?”

  He came towards her, concern pulling at his mouth. “You looked upset, so I followed you.” He came very close, his expression difficult to read in the relative darkness. His broad shoulders blocked out what little light there was. “Are you all right?”

  “Just a little nervous.” And going a little bit crazy worrying over you.

  “You’re a natural storyteller. I’m confident you’ll have them all mesmerized by your talent and grace. That is, if they can focus on your words.” He gently tugged on a curl and watched it spring back into place. “You look absolutely breathtaking tonight, Megan.”

  She couldn’t think straight with him standing so near. No matter what, she wouldn’t repeat last night’s mistake. Sidestepping him, she moved in the direction of the door.