Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2)

by E. E. Burke

  ***

  Daylight flooded the room when Charm finally crawled out of bed. She threw the sheets and blanket over the petticoats she’d stripped off the night before. Her dresses and undergarments were strewn about the room. She sighed, too tired to pick them up.

  Fatigue had pulled her into a deep sleep shortly before dawn. Long after Mr. O’Shea had given up on having their “talk.” After demonstrating he could easily seduce her, he’d calmly informed her he intended to marry her only a few hours before she had to go onstage. By some miracle, she’d gathered her scattered wits and performed. Only stumbling once, when she caught the devilish charmer watching her with a possessive look in his eyes.

  He enjoyed keeping her off balance. She would be prepared for him today.

  She cleaned up as best she could with a pitcher of water, a cake of strong soap and a threadbare towel—a far cry from the scented baths she was used to taking. Combing the tangles out of her hair took longer. She would deal with dressing it after she found something to eat.

  A knock at the door made her jump. She’d barely gotten out of bed, and he was back again? Last night she’d ignored him. He wouldn’t go away again, and at some point she had to face him, get control of the situation and manage his expectations. Neither task would be easy. He’d demonstrated how stubborn he could be...and how persuasive.

  “Yes?”

  “Good, you’re up. Are you hungry?”

  Her stomach had collapsed in on itself. “I could eat something.”

  “I’ve made you breakfast.”

  He cooked? Well, of course he did. He had to eat. But to make her a meal as well, that showed he was thoughtful, as well as self-sufficient.

  “Food sounds wonderful. Give me a moment...”

  If he’d brought her a plate, she could eat in her room, which meant she didn’t have to talk to him...much. She grabbed a blue cotton day dress from a wad of clothes in the suitcase and pulled it over her head, buttoning the front. Padding barefooted to the door, she opened it a crack.

  Her employer greeted her with a smile. Was he always this cheerful in the morning? “Good, you’re still here. I was beginning to think you’d slipped out the window.”

  If he’d provided the ropes she asked for, she might have. “Not before breakfast.”

  His smile deepened, revealing twin dimples.

  Charm swallowed her heart before it leapt out of her throat. Yesterday, she’d been shocked at seeing him clean-shaven and dressed like a gentleman. She admired the lines of his strong jaw. His beautiful light eyes were more noticeable, and that devastating smile. She could suggest he grow the beard again. That way, she wouldn’t be tempted to stare at him, which she was doing right now.

  Her grumbling stomach broke the trance.

  A frown creased his brow. “You need to eat.”

  “I thought you said you brought me breakfast.”

  “No, I said I made you breakfast.” He gestured to the door across the hall.

  Charm trembled. The shivers running up and down her arms had nothing to do with being cold. The air was quite warm. “You want me to...join you...in your bedroom?”

  His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Might be better if I served you in the kitchen. I’ve got your breakfast in there.”

  In order to eat, she had to enter the lion’s den. Demanding he deliver breakfast to her room would be rude, and he’d already gone beyond any expectation she should have. She had managed to ward off overenthusiastic suitors for years. Granted, she had help: a protective father and a zealous mother, and later, her manager, although Simon only saved her so he could have her for himself. Mr. O’Shea hadn’t forced his attentions on her, but he seemed to think he should make her respectable and wed her. Today, she would set him straight.

  Charm ventured across the hall into what appeared to be a combination sitting room and kitchen. All very cozy, and surprisingly neat, considering he lived alone and men were known to be messy creatures. Virtuous women were neat and orderly. Another strike against her.

  Her eyes darted to an open doorway leading to another room. His bedroom? She squelched her curiosity and jerked her attention to the table in the kitchen area. Eat, and then leave as quickly as possible. The less time spent in his private quarters, the better.

  She passed a large framed mirror mounted on the wall. That was a mistake. Seeing her washed-out reflection only reminded her how bad she looked in the morning. Turning away from her reflection, she tossed loose hair over her shoulder, would’ve preferred pulling it in front of her face. Oh, what did it matter anyway? If he saw her at her worst, he would change his mind quick enough about wanting to marry her.

  “If you’d like, I’ll put that mirror in your room. None of my other guests needed one for anything besides shaving.”

  “That explains why the one in there is only large enough to see my mouth.”

  He maintained a disgustingly jovial mood as he pulled out her chair. On the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth, a single place had been set with a fork and knife and a folded napkin. Evidence that he had expected her to capitulate.

  What else did he expect?

  Growing nervous, she rearranged her skirt, checked the tortoiseshell buttons down the front of her dress. This feeling of being exposed had to come from not wearing her corset and padding and layers of petticoats. Without them, she resembled an underfed waif. “I’m not really dressed for dining out.”

  When she started to stand, he gripped her shoulders and held her in place. “You aren’t dining out. Now sit still and stop fidgeting.”

  After fetching a coffeepot from atop the stove, he poured the steaming brew into two ceramic cups. She lifted the coffee to her nose, inhaling gratefully before taking a sip.

  “Mmm. You make good coffee.”

  “Here’s something I can’t take credit for making.” He moved a wire basket to the table and removed a napkin, revealing a loaf of sliced bread, and nestled next to it, a tub of butter. “Mrs. Appleton’s brown bread.”

  Charm slathered butter on a slice, remembering her manners about the time she took a bite. “Thank you,” she mumbled around a mouthful.

  “More on the way.” He went back to the oven and used a kitchen cloth to withdraw a plate of food. Keeping it warm for her. How sweet.

  “Should’ve fed you better yesterday.” He set the plate in front of her. “Meat pie, with potatoes and onions.”

  “Oh, it smells delicious. Is this from Mrs. Appleton, too?”

  “No. That, I made.”

  She took a bite. The flaky crust and savory filling tasted even better than Mrs. Fry’s potpie. “You’ve mastered coffee and cooking. I’m impressed.”

  He took the chair across the table and picked up his cup, regarded her with a pleased smile. “A handful of skill is better than a bagful of gold, as they say.”

  “Another old folks’ proverb?”

  “That one’s from me sainted mother, and never let it be said I called her old.” He leaned back and took a sip of coffee.

  Charm paused with her fork in hand. “Your family is from Ireland, I presume?”

  “Was it the accent that gave me away, or the proverb?”

  “The proverb, of course.” She went back to eating, more slowly, being somewhat sated and enjoying their conversation. She wanted to know more about him and his sainted mother, and the old folks, as he called them, what his family had been like and whether he had siblings. As an only child, she’d longed for a brother or sister. But if she probed, it would invite his questions, and she wasn’t ready to open that door.

  “Where is your food? Aren’t you eating?”

  “I ate hours ago.”

  “Hours? What time is it?”

  He pulled a watch from his vest pocket. “Close to noon.”

  “Oh...” She took the napkin from her lap and wiped her mouth. He must consider her a slug. “I tend to sleep late after performances.”

  “Can’t imagine why, what with all that singing a
nd dancing.” He nodded at her half-finished meal. “You need to eat more. You’re so tiny you’ll blow away.”

  People often assumed her small size implied weakness. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  He set his cup down. The tenderness that came over his face made her heart quiver. “Even a strong woman needs someone to take care of her. Marry me Charm.”

  So that was his plan. Bring her in here and feed her to demonstrate how well he could take care of her so she would accept his proposal. She couldn’t fault his consideration, and he was surprisingly sweet when he shed the gruff exterior. Still, his motive for marrying her couldn’t be anything more than pure selfishness. Exerting control, that’s how men cared for women. There was no reason to think Mr. O’Shea would be any different—even if she wanted him to be.

  Tiny waves disturbed the coffee’s black surface. Her trembling hands were the blame. She set down her cup. Now, she had to put an end to her fantasies about him, as well as any expectations he might have where she was concerned. “Mr. O’Shea, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. In fact, I prefer it.”

  His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Patrick.”

  “What?”

  “We know each other well enough, you can call me Patrick.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Still smiling, he leaned back and folded his arms over his chest in a way that suggested supreme confidence. “You said you prefer to take care of yourself. If you want to do the cooking, I won’t argue.”

  He wasn’t stupid, so she could only assume he wasn’t taking her seriously.

  “You know I’m not talking about cooking.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  Her temper flared. “Let me clarify. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

  The moment his smile faded, her conscience pricked. Regardless of his motivation, he had been thoughtful, kinder than she deserved.

  “What I mean to say is, I’m very grateful for all you’ve done, for cooking me breakfast, and for letting me have a room, and for the job...”

  “Don’t forget the stage.”

  “Oh, yes. And for building the stage...” She tried to think of anything else she might’ve missed. The best kiss she ever had, but she wasn’t thanking him for that.

  “You’re welcome.” He stood and gathered the dishes, took them over to a dry sink, where he stacked them. “I’ll wash these later.” He glanced around with an arched eyebrow. “Unless you’d rather do it?”

  Why was she sitting here letting him wait on her? It just proved his point, that she needed someone because she wasn’t capable of doing for herself. She jerked up out of the chair and pushed him out of the way. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Don’t bother with those. I’m just teasing...” He caught her by the arm and hauled her up against him, bent down and began to nuzzle her hair and kiss her cheek. “We have better things to do than wash dishes.”

  His playful affection startled her. But her instinctive response, putting her arms around him, shook her to her core. Panicked, she pushed him away. “Get your hands off me!”

  “They’re off...” He held his hands up in the air. “Don’t get upset. I just wanted to give you a wee kiss.”

  Not for a second did she believe he would stop at a wee kiss. She backed away, bumped into the chair and had to catch it to prevent it from falling. Never was she clumsy. The reason had to be this frightening vulnerability he stirred up whenever he came near.

  She trembled, fought fear with anger. “What makes you think I welcome your attentions? I don’t want you to kiss me! I want to be left alone.”

  The dense man didn’t even look offended. He frowned as if puzzled by her reaction. “What’s wrong, stóirín?”

  So many things were wrong, not the least of which was her unwanted attraction to a man she hardly knew and wasn’t sure she could trust. “Don’t call me that.”

  “It just means wee darling.”

  He wooed her using sweet words and tender gestures. With one kiss, he could dissolve her restraint. He wouldn’t need to use force to bend her to his will.

  She hugged her arms to keep from running into his. “I’ve made my position clear, Mr. O’Shea. I’m not interested in being your wee darling, or anything other than your employee. If you can’t respect my decision, I’ll seek a job elsewhere.”

  Chapter 7

  The following Saturday, Patrick’s hopes hit rock bottom before noon. He’d failed to convince Gilly’s brother to release his claim on the property. Even offering McGill a portion of the profits hadn’t worked. The scurvy dog said he’d just pay off what was owed on the loan, so the saloon would be his, too, and all the profit. To cap the climax, the railroad agent had a Closed sign on his door.

  Patrick used his hands to block the light and peered through the window of the darkened land office. Hardt had been gone for several days. Didn’t matter. Patrick knew he would get the same response he’d gotten the last time he’d come by to plead his case.

  “Come back when you’re married.”

  Easier said than done. Not only had Charm rebuffed him, she seemed intent on ignoring him completely, except for when she wanted her take each night. She played to packed crowds, and she was right, he made more on drinks than he had ever made. He still didn’t have enough to pay off the building, or McGill, greedy bastard. Soon, Hardt’s decision would be made and it would be too late.

  He had to convince Charm to marry him.

  Patrick headed back to the saloon in time to open for lunch. He adjusted a hatbox under his arm. On a spur of the moment, he had stopped into the dry goods store to find a gift for her. Mr. Middaugh had suggested a new bonnet. Patrick hoped Charm liked the one he picked out. Might have too many flowers. He knew nothing about buying for women. Kathleen had dropped obvious hints about what she wanted. Charm never asked for anything.

  A thunder of hooves caught his attention.

  Wagons pulled over to make way for the cavalry patrol. Their mounts kicked up dirt and dust as they rode south, likely headed for the railroad construction route.

  Outside the saloon, McLaughlin and three of his friends leaned against the wall, following the soldiers with narrowed eyes.

  The army had managed to maintain a semblance of peace after putting down the riots that had reached their peak earlier in the year. But the vandalism continued, and three counties remained under martial law. Other than occasional harassment, the army hadn’t taken direct action against leaders of the militant Land League. But if the soldiers noticed four members of the organization hanging around the saloon, they might suspect something was going on.

  On the other hand, McLaughlin and his friends weren’t doing anything wrong and they were customers. “Here for food or drink?” Patrick asked the men, as he unlocked the door.

  He would fight for his rights, whether against McGill, the railroad or the U.S. Army. Battles, he understood. Women, not so much.

  The four men filed in behind him. The last one shut the door.

  Patrick turned, surprised. “What are you doing? I’m opening up.”

  McLaughlin hooked his straw hat on a set of antlers. “We need a place to meet. You’re a member of the league. We figured you wouldn’t mind us using the saloon for a little while. We’ll pay for our drinks.”

  The request, if it could be called that, came at a bad time, and Patrick wasn’t in the mood to pretend friendliness. “You bet you’ll pay, but no meeting. Not here.”

  If Hardt found out, he’d sign the land over to McGill without batting an eye. The railroad had announced they would not do business with anyone who aided the Land League; and the army had orders to bust up meetings—or bust heads.

  Patrick set the hatbox beneath the bar. He wanted to take the gift up to Charm, except he had to tend bar until his part-time help showed up. Later, before her performance, he would have a chance to see her. He hoped the hat pleased her enough to give him another chance. He couldn’t push her
, at the same time, he had to hurry up and get married before he lost the saloon. Ruminating over the dilemma, he shrugged off his coat and hung it on a hook next to the shelves.

  “Boys, get a table, I’ll join you in a minute.” McLaughlin stepped up to the bar. “Pour a round of drinks and come join us. I think you’ll be interested in hearing what we got planned.”

  Patrick glared. “Have you lost your hearing? I said you can’t meet here.”

  McLaughlin pulled a cigar from inside his coat, which confirmed he was deaf...or begging to be tossed out on his duff. He continued to unload items from his pockets, including a watch, a deck of cards and a handful of change.

  He patted his coat as if searching for something else, and then heaved a sigh. “Just my luck...no matches.”

  Patrick fished out a block of matches and set them on the bar. “Keep it. Just take your meetings elsewhere.”

  McLaughlin broke off a match, puffing as he lit his cigar. “I don’t understand. I thought you were on our side.”

  That pretty well summed up the problem. Men picked sides instead of resolving disputes. This country had fought a civil war because of that kind of thinking. Patrick was sick of it.

  “There’s a good chance I could lose my saloon. It’s a given if you’re caught meeting here. Does that explain it well enough?”

  McLaughlin took a moment to consider the remark. He removed the cigar from his lips, and smoke wreathed his face. “We’re your friends, Patrick. If you need our help, all you have to do is ask for it.”

  Tempting, the thought of asking the Land League to persuade McGill to leave town. Then the favor would have to be returned, and things would go downhill from there. No. Fighting McGill would have to be a personal battle.

  “There’s nothing you can do.” Patrick lined up four glasses and poured drinks. “Except not hold a meeting here. Have a drink, and then be on your way.”

  McLaughlin scooped up the items on the bar and returned them to his pockets, except for the deck of cards. He pushed it toward Patrick. “Here, I just bought those at the mercantile. Take them, in exchange for the matches. There’s some nice pictures on the cards.”