The Bad Luck Wedding Cake

by Geralyn Dawson

The grin she flashed was downright naughty, and Tye froze like a birddog on point when what felt like every drop of blood in his body rushed to his loins.

  Her eyes twinkled wickedly as she said, “Oh, I have a spelling word or two up my sleeve, Mr. McBride. You can count on that.”

  Tye’s blood ran so hot he halfway expected to see steam rising from his skin. Damn all his good intentions. A mischievous Claire Donovan was alluring; a saucy Claire Donovan irresistible.

  The spelling match resumed, but now he observed it through a sensual haze. He imagined the people seated around him took his fidgeting for nervousness on Maribeth’s behalf. The fact was, he couldn’t get comfortable sitting down.

  Tension crackled in the air like summer lightning as Maribeth and Claire both rattled off their next four words. From out of the corners of his eyes, Tye spied Emma reaching out to clasp her sister’s hand. All signs of boredom had vanished as the two girls shared a nervous look. A very nervous look. Up on the contestants’ platform Maribeth had begun to bear a distinct resemblance to good old Spike; she’d gone a bit green around the gills.

  The president faced Claire for her next word. “Miss Donovan, from Act Four, scene one, please spell for us the word ‘esperance.’“

  “Esperance?” Claire repeated, as many in the audience flipped through their copies of King Lear to locate the word.

  “Esperance.”

  “Hmm. Esperance.” For the first time all evening, a frown of consternation settled on the beautiful baker’s face. She folded her arms and tapped her pursed lips with a finger. “Well, my brain seems to have reached its limits. How many words have we used so far in this contest, Mr. President? Forty-three? Forty-five?”

  “This is our fiftieth word, Miss Donovan.”

  “Fifty!” She laid a hand against her breast and turned her head, flashing Maribeth a gaze of amazement that Tye didn’t believe for one second. “Fifty. Imagine that. And how many choices are left on your list?”

  The president cleared his throat. “Actually, yours is the last word. After this I guess we’ll resort to pulling words from the play itself. I’m afraid we never expected this to go on so long. Never has before.”

  Maribeth shuffled her feet as Claire said sweetly, “Obviously Miss McBride and I are exceptional spellers. Perhaps we should call this a draw?”

  Suddenly Emma surged to her feet. “No! The word is yours, Miss Donovan. You have to spell ‘esperance’ correctly first. You might miss. Even if you get it right, it’s not over.” Though she continued to speak to Claire, she shot her sister an encouraging look. “Mari is a very, very good speller. She always has been. She can do this. She can still win!”

  “I’m sure she can.” Claire smiled tenderly at Maribeth. “You are a worthy opponent, Maribeth. No matter what the outcome, I’ve been honored to share this competition with you.”

  Tye wondered if anyone other than he and Maribeth was watching Claire closely enough to see the wink she gave his niece.

  “Now,” she continued, “please forgive me for the delay. I believe my word is ‘esperance’? Very well. Esperance. E-S-P-E-R-E-N-C-E. Esperance.”

  “She missed it!” Katrina shouted with glee. “Miss Donovan missed it! Maribeth is the winner!”

  The room erupted as the membership of the Fort Worth Literary Society surrounded their spelling bee champion and runner-up, offering effusive and heartfelt congratulations. Tye observed the goings-on from the sidelines, slowly shaking his head. Was he the only person in the room who realized a seven-year-old just now learning to read recognized the misspelling first?

  “Little criminals,” he murmured, indulging in a reluctant grin at his nieces’ joyous reaction when the treasurer announced the record-breaking kitty. Accepting the leather bank bag heavy with winnings, Maribeth named the sisters of St Stanislaus Kostka Church and the homeless animals shelter as this month’s charity recipients.

  And Tye didn’t believe it for a minute. The Blessings had mischief on their minds. Fiduciary mischief, he suspected. Of course, he’d put a halt to whatever impish goal they had in mind, but after watching their happiness, he’d decided it could wait until tomorrow. Tonight he’d let them enjoy the sweet taste of victory. Tomorrow was soon enough to throw a fly in their buttermilk.

  Claire Donovan’s laughter rang out over the buzz of the crowd, and his body reacted to the sound. Magic. He had a taste for it tonight. A taste for her. It was a damn good thing he and the girls were heading straight home.

  He ambled toward the row of hooks along the back wall of the ballroom and retrieved his hat. Casually he held it in front of his fly.

  He’d heard of sweet tooths before, but this was ridiculous.

  ***

  CHAINS SQUEAKED and wood creaked as Claire gave a push with her feet sending the porch swing into a gentle rock. She gazed out over the lawn toward the flickering lights of town that were clearly visible from here, at Trace McBride’s home, built at the crest of Willow Hill. Two and a half hours after the spelling bee ended, she shouldn’t be here, alone, surrounded by night and a magnolia’s perfume, waiting for a man.

  What passed for proper in daytime changed with the setting of the sun. She risked her reputation by coming here unchaperoned at this time of the evening. She knew it, but at the moment she truly didn’t care. Never before in her entire life had she felt this excited and bold; daring and alive.

  Tye McBride stirred her juices.

  High spirits and a good dose of curiosity had prompted her to approach the McBrides following Maribeth’s “victory” and offer a congratulatory treat at The Confectionary. When Gus Willard stormed out of the hall following a public spat with Loretta Davis, Lars had suggested including the former champion in the party.

  Lighthearted best described Claire’s mood during the time that followed. Lars devoted himself to soothing Loretta’s romantically ruffled feathers, and Claire watched the pair with amused interest. Over the years she’d seen her friend charm many a woman, but never with quite this same degree of intensity. Could it be the mighty Lars was finally falling?

  If so, the blacksmith had missed his chance with the fair Loretta. No man would defeat Lars Sundine in the battle for a lady’s affections. Except, maybe, Tye McBride.

  Claire wondered if the Menaces had noticed the spark arcing between their Miss Loretta and Claire’s right-hand man. If so, she tried to guess what mischief they’d next commit. Once they finished with the current bit, of course.

  At The Confectionary she had taken pleasure in watching Tye down not one but two pieces of her devil’s food dessert, and his praise of her baking, though grudgingly offered, had been music to her ears. Once the girls had licked their plates clean—literally, in Katrina’s case—the McBrides had done the dishes while Claire sat and giggled along with the girls to silly stories about Trace and Tye as boys. Lars had kissed Claire’s cheek and offered a good-night and the information that he intended to escort Loretta home. Tye, rather reluctantly, she thought, had volunteered to see Claire to her front door.

  Ordinarily such an attitude would have offended her, but tonight two things prevented that reaction. First, in between his grumpy remarks Tye sent her hot, heated looks that stirred a fire inside her. And second, tonight simply felt different. She felt different. She sensed a magic in the air, an excitement. Inside herself she felt a daring, vibrant sense of independence; a tension that zinged through her blood like the finest of wines.

  Claire reveled in it. She was a true, independent woman in charge of her own fate. And tonight that fate declared she pass the time with Tye McBride.

  During the walk home she’d gotten so involved in a debate with Emma about the superiority of chocolate pudding over butterscotch that she hadn’t noticed they’d traveled the wrong direction until they started up Willow Hill.

  “I thought I’d get the girls to bed first,” he’d explained, moonlight illuminating his face. “It’s been a long day. Too, I hate to carry this much money around. It’s aski
ng for trouble.”

  Boldly she replied, “And sometimes trouble does follow us home, doesn’t it?”

  He stared hard at her, then looked away. But his gaze returned, and with it, a long sigh. “So, Claire,” he’d said softly. “Come up the hill with me?”

  She sensed he asked for more than a walk, but the web of enchantment that held her in its grasp provided no defense. Now, as he read a bedtime story to his nieces and the sensuous rumble of his voice drifted from the open window above, shivers of anticipation danced across her skin.

  She knew she shouldn’t be there. Calamity Claire. Some things never changed. This mischief simply took another path. A grown-up path. Papa would kill her if he knew what she was up to. “The boys would break his face.”

  “What’s that?” Tye stood in the doorway.

  “I was thinking about my brothers.”

  He ambled out onto the porch. At some point between the time he went inside with the girls and now, he’d removed his jacket and unbuttoned his vest. His necktie hung loose and he’d rolled the cuffs of his shirtsleeves back, halfway up his forearm. He looked disheveled and dangerous, and as he took a seat beside her on the swing, Claire’s mouth turned to cotton.

  “I’ve thought about your brothers a time or two myself. I’m surprised they haven’t been up here checking on you half a dozen times already. That’s what I’d have done if one of my sisters had run off all alone.”

  “You’re a good brother, Tye McBride.”

  “No, Claire,” he said softly, sadly. He reached out to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin, traced the curve of her ear as he added, “Believe me, I’m not. I’m a bastard. A real son of a bitch.”

  “No.” Claire protested, resisting the urge to lean into his hand. “You are wonderful, Tye McBride. Wonderful.”

  Their shadowed gazes met. The air thickened, and she blinked twice. Ever so slowly his hand cupped her face, pulling her toward him as he lowered his head.

  Tenderly he kissed her, and she responded without hesitation. Recklessness had hold of her, and tonight, being here felt right. This man felt right, in a way she’d never known before. It was as if his mouth belonged to her, had been made just for her. And hers, for only Tye McBride.

  He deepened the kiss, and she surrendered completely, her head falling back against his supporting arm. His kiss was pure magic, transporting her to another time and place. He wove a fantasy of rainbows and medieval knights and of pledges sworn before a cheering crowd. Claire heard music in her head as his tongue pillaged the warm, sweet interior of her mouth.

  “Claire.” Her name was a groan, and the fantasy disappeared in a fireburst of need. She moaned softly against his lips, her body trembling with an ache so fierce it threatened to consume her. It frightened her so much that she abruptly pulled away from him. She pushed roughly to her feet sending the porch swing into a crooked twist. Like my emotions, she thought. “Tye, I don’t know…I’ve never…I need…”

  “Me too, honey. Me, too.” Standing, he grasped her hand and gathered her close. He murmured in her ear, “I’ve tried my best to ignore this, but you get to me. Tonight I simply don’t have the energy to fight. You make me remember, Claire, and you make me forget. You make me want what I know better than to want. For that alone I should run hard and fast away from you. You make me remember what it’s like to feel, damn you. You make me want to feel again.”

  His mouth took hers, no longer tender or gentle but fierce and needy. Angry. Desperate.

  And Claire gloried in his desperation.

  His tongue stroked hers; a rough, rhythmic pulse that called to something primitive inside her. His kiss was so intimate, demanding and needful and…hungry. But Claire was hungry, too, and so she met his tongue thrust for thrust. She whimpered when he released her mouth. She moaned when he nibbled his way to her neck, nipped at her, then licked the spot with his tongue. His hands swept freely up and down her back, then lower, touching her in ways no man ever had before. He drew her tight against him, holding her, molding her, and through the layers of lawn and petticoat Claire felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire.

  Her blood raced hot. Her lungs strained for air. At the first brush of his hand against her bosom she startled, and for the briefest of seconds considered saying no. But she didn’t want him to stop, so when he kneaded her breast and walked her backward, around the corner of the porch and into the darkest, most private corner, she allowed it without protest.

  Nimble fingers worked her buttons and before she realized what was happening, her dress fell to her waist. “My beautiful, magical Claire.”

  She quit thinking at all when he made quick work of her corset. All she did was feel. And moments later when the mild night air caressed her bare breasts, she felt wicked and wanton and more free than she’d ever felt before. Free. Delicious freedom. Delectable independence.

  And yet so dependent on this man, this moment.

  As Tye bent his head, Claire’s eyes drifted shut. She gave herself up to the scratch of shadowed whiskers, the brush of soft lips, the wet stroke of his tongue. His every touch stoked the fire inside her, driving her onward, upward, toward an invisible summit. Then his mouth—oh God, his mouth—sealed itself around her. And Tye McBride suckled.

  A lightning bolt streaked from her breast straight to her womanhood, and Claire went taut with pleasure. But it wasn’t enough. Instinctively she arched her back—offering, wordlessly asking…begging for more. Growling at her response, Tye tended each breast in turn until her knees turned to water and she sagged against him, overwhelmed by the magnitude of her need. “Oh, Tye, what are you doing to me?”

  His mouth released her, and he slowly straightened. His breaths sounded harsh in the shadowed darkness of the porch. “It’s you. You’ve bewitched me.”

  “No. I’m no witch.”

  “No?” He trailed a finger down the bare expanse of her bosom, caught her swollen nipple between thumb and forefinger and gently tugged. He answered Claire’s soft gasp in a husky tone. “I think you are. I think you’ve dosed me up with Magic to make me forget I can’t have a woman like you.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in, to douse the heat burning inside her. She wrenched from his arms. “What do you mean ‘a woman like me’?”

  His laugh was strangled, harsh and self-directed. “A lady. A beautiful, tempting, magical lady.”

  “I don’t understand.” Now Claire had grown cold.

  Tye shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step away from her. “A man must be careful when dealing with a lady. Your kind can fool a fella, Claire. If y’all deploy all your weapons, your kind can tell a man blue-bonnets are red and he’ll believe it. That’s why I try to stick with whores. Whoring is up front and honest. Basic commerce.”

  His biting words brought a shiver to her skin, and Claire yanked her chemise back over her bosom. Tye made no attempt to stop her, although his gaze remained fixed on her chest. Belatedly her cheeks began to burn with embarrassment. She tugged and hooked and fastened, righting herself as best she could when dressing in the dark beneath the hot, hooded gaze of an infuriating man. As she attempted to finger-comb her hair back into some semblance of order, she snapped, “Is it your intention to be so insulting or are you just stupid?”

  He snorted. “Oh, I’m stupid, Claire. Definitely stupid. History has proved that. You see, I’m a poor judge when it comes to picking honest ladies from the crowd, and my mistakes have burned me bad. That’s why I’ve made it a point not to trust any of you. I can’t afford another folly.”

  It made absolutely no sense for Claire to continue to argue, but she did so anyway. “So you’d rather live your life consorting with whores than honorably passing time with ladies?”

  This time his laugh was amused. “Is that what this little interlude between us was called? Honorably passing time? If so, then, honey, I damn sure want to see you when you’re up to no good.”

  “You bastard.”
Mortification fueled her itch to slap him. That, and anger and humiliation and embarrassment and shame. Her feelings were as tangled as a box of fish hooks, and just as sharp.

  “I believe I’ve already owned up to that.”

  Resisting the urge to strike out, she pushed past him in an effort to flee the scene. She had to go home, to sort this whole thing out in the privacy of her bedroom. Tears pressed at the backs of her eyes and she feared she might cry. She refused to do that in public, in front of him.

  But Tye didn’t let her go. He reached out, grabbed her arm, and said, “Wait. Sugar, wait.”

  Don’t you “sugar” me. She didn’t say it out loud because she decided she wasn’t speaking to him.

  “Ah, hell.” He gentled his voice and continued, “I’m sorry, Claire. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I just…” His hand released her and his arm dropped back to his side.

  Claire waited for him to finish his thought, her mouth dry as yeast powder.

  “I just couldn’t resist you any longer. I think about you all the time. I dream about you every night. You’re my fantasy. And tonight, well, my dreams finally got the better of my reality.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  This time he was the one who walked past her. He stood at the porch railing and gazed up toward the stars. Moonlight reflected anguish on his face; a wrenching pain she’d never before glimpsed or even suspected. “I’ve done some wicked, contemptible things in my life. And even if the person I hurt the most can get past it, I…well…I can’t.”

  He looked at her then, her eyes gleaming like a cat’s eyes in the night. “The truth of the matter is, it’s not you I don’t trust. It’s me. And because of who I am…what I am…I don’t dare reach for the dream. I have nothing to give you, Claire. I’m empty inside. And you deserve so much more.”

  “Tye, what is it—”

  “I’m sorry. This won’t happen again.” He drew a deep breath and blew it out on a sigh. Then, straightening his spine, he gestured toward the front porch steps. “Let me walk you home. I’m not the only bastard in Fort Worth. I’ll feel better knowing you got there safe and sound.”