To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  “Or we could simply leave right now and get to town before sunup.”

  Realizing he was teasing her—as well as purposefully waiting for her to go to her room first—Maggie ignored his jesting. “Good night, Mr. McGrath.” She strode to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

  But just before it latched, she heard, “Rest well . . . Miss Linden.”

  And would’ve sworn she heard him laughing.

  Cullen closed his own bedroom door, still smiling, but bothered as well, though he couldn’t reason exactly why.

  The night had cooled but his room still felt warm, so he nudged the open window up a little farther, the chirrup of crickets growing louder. Grateful for the pitcher of water and a glass on the dresser, he poured and drank. His thirst slaked, he stripped to his drawers, turned down the lamp, and fell into bed, exhausted.

  The sheets were cool against his bare back and chest, yet no sooner had he closed his eyes than the day began to replay before him in quick succession. Scarcely in bed a minute, he grew overwarm and threw back the sheets. He stood and crossed to the door.

  Silently he turned the latch then eased the door open. Ah . . . The transom above the double doors leading to a balcony at the end of the hallway was blissfully open, ushering a breeze through.

  He turned to head back to bed when the telling squeak of a hinge brought him up short. He stilled, then a smile came. Could it be that Miss Linden—

  “Cullen?” came a whisper.

  His smile widened, not in pleasure, but at his own foolishness. “Aye, sir?”

  He stepped into the hallway to see the older gentleman standing in the doorway to his own room, dressed in a nightgown similar to what Cullen’s grandfather had worn, the collie right by him.

  Cullen kept his voice low. “Do you need somethin’, sir?”

  “I was warm. Just thought I’d open my door the rest of the way.”

  Cullen nodded. “I did the same.” He glanced down the hallway only to find Miss Linden’s door still closed.

  “Could I . . . trouble you to get me some water from downstairs? My pitcher is empty, and that yarrow tea Onnie brewed me earlier always makes me thirsty.”

  “Not at all, sir. But I think I have some left in mine.”

  Cullen got the pitcher from his dresser and carried it next door, able to see his way into Mr. Linden’s bedroom in the scant moonlight, mindful of Bucket lying watchful on the floor by the bed.

  Cullen found a glass on the dresser, poured, then handed it to his father-in-law, when he noticed . . .

  Mr. Linden’s window that faced the front of the house was wide open—and directly above the porch steps where he and Miss Linden had had their exchange outside just minutes earlier.

  Cullen turned back.

  Mr. Linden handed him the empty glass and wiped his mouth then eased back into bed. “Thank you, son. I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” Thinking about all the things he and Miss Linden had said to each other—about him having taken their land, how he’d said they were the same and she’d argued just the opposite, her saying this was a business arrangement.

  “Sir . . .” Cullen sighed. It was late, and the fatigue he’d felt earlier settled over him double-fold. Yet he couldn’t assume or pretend the man hadn’t heard. Not with the promises Cullen had made to him that morning before the ceremony. “What you overheard from below earlier this evenin’, Mr. Linden . . . I don’t want you to think I’ve changed my mind or gone back on my promise to you. Because I haven’t.”

  Maybe it was the quiet coupled with the dark, but the silence seemed to stretch on forever.

  “I know you haven’t,” Mr. Linden finally whispered. “And I know it’s going to take some time. And commitment. And . . . patience.”

  Cullen winced, remembering the tone in which he’d said Mrs. McGrath, and wishing he could take it back. “Aye, sir. I realize that. I am committed and I will be patient. More so than I demonstrated tonight, I give you my word. Again,” he finished, his voice tight with unexpected emotion.

  After a moment, a gentle chuckle lightened the darkness. “I told you she was headstrong, just like her mother.”

  Cullen felt the touch of a smile return, yet couldn’t give in to it. “I won’t let you down, sir. And I won’t let her down either. At least, not intentionally. This isn’t a . . . business arrangement to me. It’s a marriage. And I’ll work to make it one.” Even if it wasn’t sacred, as his first had been.

  In the dim light Cullen saw Mr. Linden reach out a hand, and he met the man’s weakened grip.

  “Son, you’ve already won my favor. Now all you have to do is win hers.”

  Chapter

  TEN

  Cullen was up and dressed before sunrise. A night as fitful as the previous one left him feeling at odds with himself and with his surroundings, and he wondered again if he’d done the right thing. Especially when he recalled what Mr. Linden had said to him late last night. He tucked the leather money pouch down inside his shirt, feeling the weight of his dreams within it.

  On his way downstairs he looked back and threw a cursory glance in the direction of Miss Linden’s closed bedroom door—which was surely locked and bolted, perhaps even nailed shut, for all he knew—and his doubts deepened.

  It had taken the better part of the night to figure out what had bothered him so much after they’d said good night, and the more he thought about it, the more riled he got.

  He hadn’t held the least expectation of taking Miss Linden to his bed. What kind of man did she think he was?

  Margaret Linden was a beautiful woman, and regardless of his knowing that nothing was going to happen between them last night, it still hadn’t stopped him from imagining what their wedding night might have been like had circumstances been different.

  Especially with her bedroom only yards away, and remembering how that cream-colored dress she’d worn set off the brown of her eyes, as well as other things he noticed. After all, the woman was his wife.

  Correction, his business partner.

  Rankled all over again, he eventually found his way to the dining room. His mood and outlook improved by the time he’d downed three cups of Miss Onnie’s black coffee, along with a full plate of scrambled eggs with toast and ham, all served up silently but kindly enough by the woman.

  With no sign of Miss Linden, he headed to the stable to hitch up the wagon, the sun still yawning over the eastern horizon, the air fresh with morning. He found Cletus already at work in the garden tending newly planted vegetables set in neat, even rows in the tilled soil.

  “Mornin’, Cletus.” Cullen nodded as he passed.

  “Morning, Mister McGrath.”

  Cullen slowed then retraced his steps. “A question for you this morning.”

  The man paused, hoe buried deep in dirt. “Yes, sir.”

  Cullen went as far as the fence bordering the garden plot, making note of the rotting wood and missing slats, and adding both to his mental list. “I’m lookin’ for about twenty men. Strong, able workers, willin’ to put in a full day’s work for a fair day’s wage. I’m thinkin’ you would know where I could find such men.”

  Cletus ran a hand along his jawline, his gaze roving the fallow fields. “Sure do. Reckon you want me to ask ’em for you too, sir?”

  “No, I’ll do the askin’. If you’ll give me the names and where I can find them, of course.”

  Cletus eyed him. “Ain’t many white men be in that part of town, sir.”

  “Well, they won’t have trouble seein’ me comin’ then, will they?” Cullen smiled, glad when the older man did too.

  Cletus glanced over at the barn. “I know me some men who make wagons, too, sir. And tools. Better and cheaper than what you get in town.”

  “Good. I’ll take their names as well.” Cullen hesitated. “Would you like to tell them to me later, or—”

  “I have Onnie write ’em down, sir. My wife, she smart. She got her letters and numbers you
ng. Me . . .” He laughed. “I ain’t never took to ’em.”

  “No shame in that. Plenty of things I never took to either.” From the corner of his eye Cullen spotted movement in one of the second-story windows and recognized Miss Linden’s form as she passed by.

  “I have them names to you real soon, Mister McGrath.”

  “That’d be appreciated, Cletus.”

  Cullen discovered that Cletus had already tended to Levi, so he wasted no time in hitching the Percheron to the wagon, having clearly understood from Miss Linden last night that she wanted to leave early. To his pleasure, he found the Lindens’ one and only wagon more than serviceable, though it was a bit smaller than he would’ve liked. But seeing no tarp, he returned to the stable and found one.

  He also found Miss Linden’s thoroughbred to be as exceptional upon closer inspection as he’d thought at first glance.

  “You’re a pretty girl, you are,” he whispered, stroking the bay mare and appreciating the way she nuzzled up to him. “Like to run, too, don’t you? I’ve seen you out there.” With your mistress, he added to himself. Odd for the Lindens to keep such a horse when surely she’d bring a handsome sum. Why keep such a fine thoroughbred when they could sell her to someone in the racing community? Why not keep a draft horse accustomed to working on a farm?

  Of course—he gave the mare a gentle rub on her nose—this fine lady could do the work nicely, too, if she was well trained. Yet it would be a waste of her truer gifts. He knew, though, why Mr. Linden hadn’t sold the blood horse.

  His daughter loved this animal. Her bond with the mare had been evident the first time he’d seen her riding.

  “I’m ready, Mr. McGrath.”

  Cullen turned to see the woman herself standing in the doorway. She wore a blue dress that hugged every curve, reminding him yet again of what he hadn’t enjoyed as a new groom the night before. In an instant the frustration he’d awakened with returned, especially since she appeared so well rested.

  Yet he determined, as he’d promised her father, to be patient, to try to smooth the road before them. Wherever it might lead.

  “Miss Linden! I was just admirin’ your horse. She’s quite a beauty.”

  “Thank you. And yes, she is.”

  “How long have you owned her?”

  She held his gaze. “I’ve raised her from a foal, Mr. McGrath.”

  “I’m impressed. What’s her name?”

  Her focus moved from him to the horse. “Bourbon Belle.”

  He nodded, giving Bourbon Belle a rub. “That’s a good name. Where was she bred?”

  Was it his imagination, or did her eyes narrow the slightest bit?

  “At the neighboring stud farm, Belle Meade.” Her smile was fleeting. “And now, if you don’t mind . . .” She fingered the reticule dangling from her arm. “Shall we be going? It’s getting rather late.”

  Hearing the impatience in her tone, Cullen glanced outside, knowing it couldn’t be much past seven o’clock. It scarcely took half an hour to get into town, and doubtful any of the shops would even be unlatching their doors until at least eight.

  “Aye, we can be goin’, if you like.”

  Outside, Miss Linden started to climb into the wagon of her own accord, but Cullen tossed the tarp in the bed, came up behind her, and lifted her to the bench seat—with momentum to spare.

  She landed a little hard and looked down at him as though questioning whether or not he’d ever assisted a lady before.

  “My apologies,” he muttered, the back of his neck heating. “You’re even lighter than I figured.”

  He’d meant it only as an observation but could tell by her slight frown that she’d taken it for the worse.

  Jaw tight, he strode to the other side of the wagon, remembering what she’d said about his “lack of family breeding.” Likely she was recalling the same thing about now. But even more frustrating to him was how fine it had felt to touch her, even that littlest bit. His hands encircling her tiny waist, the pressure of her slight weight against him. And her scent—sweeter than lavender in full bloom.

  He climbed up beside her, doing his best not to appear as unsettled as he felt. But the wagon bench proved a narrower width than he’d wagered, and the feel of her thigh pressed flush against his only taunted him further.

  She, on the other hand, seemed oblivious.

  She merely stared straight ahead, clutching that fancy little purse of hers. Which only vexed him more.

  He released the brake, gently slapped the reins, and the wagon jerked forward, the Percheron pulling with greater force than required. A rueful smile tipped Cullen’s mouth. He wasn’t the only one miscalculating.

  Passing the house, he glanced up and saw Mr. Linden staring down from his bedroom window. The older gentleman lifted a hand in greeting, and Cullen, hoping he hadn’t made the man a promise he couldn’t keep, nodded in return.

  “So where do you need to go in town, Miss Linden? After we finish at the Tax and Title Office?”

  Maggie took her time in responding, still stinging over the comment he’d made when assisting her into the wagon minutes earlier.

  She’d been almost fifteen before she’d finally gotten any semblance of curves. And this, after the rest of the other girls had already budded, bloomed, and blossomed. She remembered walking home from school with Mary and Savannah, both friends already well into womanhood, and the boys having taken notice of that fact. One day they passed the mercantile where the boys gathered outside and, wanting them to notice her, too, she had pulled her long hair forward over her chest, arranging the curls just so, hoping to give the appearance of substance where there was none.

  But as her brother Abe had told her in that teasing voice, “You can’t hide what you haven’t got, Little Mag.”

  But for Cullen McGrath to all but say as much . . .

  Maggie firmed her jaw, focusing her gaze on the hard-packed dirt passing beneath the wagon. Papa said Mr. McGrath had been married before, and she wondered . . . what had his first wife been like?

  She sneaked a look at his profile, her imagination filling in the blanks. No doubt she’d been a buxom Irish beauty, full-figured with fiery red hair and alabaster skin like the women in the dime novels. A woman who would never have been mistaken for a boy. At any age.

  He turned and met her gaze, and Maggie quickly faced forward.

  “I need to stop in Mulholland’s Mercantile for a few items,” she said. “Then the dry goods store.”

  “All right. I know where Mulholland’s is. But you’ll need to direct me to the dry goods store.”

  She’d already worked out the details for how to coordinate their various errands that morning, beginning with paying the back taxes. But she decided to wait until they were closer to town before mentioning it.

  Persistent spring rains in prior weeks brought green to the area earlier than usual, and the trees were leafed out and full. The pungent scent of pine layered the air. But the relentless moisture combined with passing wagons had left claw marks on the road, and the wooden wheels jarred over sun-dried ruts and dips.

  With each bump and sway Maggie became more aware of the man beside her.

  She’d ridden beside her brothers all her life, so to have a man crowding the wagon bench, his muscular leg brushing against hers, wasn’t anything new. And yet . . .

  It was.

  Because sitting next to Cullen McGrath wasn’t the same at all. Nor did it feel like sitting next to Richard, the only boy she’d ever kissed. Being with Richard had been like being with her brothers—the same ease and playful banter, only with a sweetness that set him apart and made her feel safe and comfortable.

  Cullen McGrath made her feel anything but safe. And sweetness was not an attribute she would assign the man.

  You’re even lighter than I figured. His words played over in her mind. She glanced down at her chest.

  Why was it men preferred women with larger busts? In the drawings she’d found in her brothers’ room, e
very one of those women had a bosom ample enough to suffocate a small child. Women with waists so tiny and middles corseted so tight everything spilled over the top like bread left too long to rise. Well, if that’s what Cullen Michael McGrath liked in women, then he could just—

  “I went to university, Miss Linden. For two years.”

  Maggie’s thoughts skidded to a halt. Where had that come from, she wondered, and looked over at him. “The Irish . . . have universities?”

  He laughed. And too late, she realized how foolish she’d sounded.

  “Aye, we have universities. And though it’s been years since I left, I hear horses and buggies should be comin’ to the island soon too.”

  His laughter was deep and full and all but invited a person to join in. Maggie felt herself smile. Then before she knew it, a tiny laugh escaped.

  He looked over at her, and a warmth that she hadn’t seen before filled his gaze. And she realized again how attractive a man he was. Even though rough. And Irish.

  “What did you study, Mr. McGrath?”

  He smiled and gave a boyish shrug. “Agriculture. And actually I studied in England, where my family lived at the time. Only it wasn’t . . . regular university.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a school in the Irish part of town run by professors who taught in Ireland before they left. They weren’t welcome in the English universities. No Irish were.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, yet in the silence following, and in the way his grip tightened on the reins, she sensed some lingering bitterness.

  “When did you and your family leave Ireland?”

  “I was nearly sixteen,” he answered after a moment. “So that was . . . almost fourteen years ago.”

  She didn’t know which surprised her more. To discover he was nearly ten years her senior, instead of five or six as she’d thought, or that he’d left Ireland so long ago to live in England. “But you still have your accent,” she noted.

  He turned. “What accent?”

  His expression was so somber, she almost believed him. She gave him a look.

  “As I said, we all lived in the same area. It suited us. And . . . it suited them.”