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

by E. E. Burke

  Patrick turned the box over in his hand. On the back was a photograph. A pretty woman looked over her bare shoulder, smiling suggestively. “You’re giving me naughty pictures for matches?”

  McLaughlin laughed. “I kept the ones with the best pictures. Those have photographs of actresses. I’ll show you.” He took the box and pried open the top, pulled out a card. “This one says its Adah Menken. There’s a picture of her tied to a horse...” Bill squinted at the image. “Looks like she’s naked.” He glanced up at Patrick, and grinned. “Guess I didn’t keep all the good ones.”

  He handed Patrick the box, then gathered his drinks and returned to the table.

  “Don’t let me catch you talkin’ politics,” Patrick warned him.

  “We’ll look at the other pictures.” McLaughlin called over his shoulder.

  Good, that ought to keep them out of trouble.

  Patrick spilled the cards into his hand, his curiosity piqued. He thumbed through the deck until one image stopped him. The young actress looked like Charm right down to her golden ringlets. A filmy white dress billowed around her as if a strong wind blew. The fact that she seemed unaware of the way the thin fabric hugged her form made the image more provocative. His body reacted to the sensual imagery while his mind balked at accepting what was right before his eyes.

  He read the name below the photograph in swirling cursive.

  Juliette DuCharme, La Belle Enfant.

  He didn’t know this woman, but he had fantasies about one who looked like her.

  Charm LaBelle.

  The truth landed a sharp blow to his heart. The conniving little actress had deceived him. Even after he’d made a fool of himself by asking her to marry him. Not once, but twice.

  He rubbed his thumb over the image. The ache in his chest worsened. All the warnings had been there. Ignored. He chose to believe she wanted him because he wanted her.

  Another unlucky break. Or maybe none of his failures had a damn thing to do with luck, only making wrong assumptions. Walking into things blindly. Letting his heart rule instead of his head. Like when he set out for America, expecting a land where gold lined the streets just waiting to be picked up. Or signing up with the army, thinking he’d just march around, get paid and eat good food. Asking a spoiled, selfish girl to marry him without anticipating the inevitable mutiny. He set his sights higher this time, and hadn’t even realized it.

  No, that wasn’t true. He knew. Had known from the moment he met Charm that she was unique. In spite of his past failures and every sign that the future would bring more of the same, he still reached for the glittering treasure.

  The hatbox under the bar mocked him. Charm wouldn’t need a new bonnet. She’d have dozens, along with her pick of men. No wonder she reacted the way she did when he’d proposed. Famous actresses didn’t wed lame saloon owners with nothing to offer.

  Famous actresses also didn’t show up in his saloon, looking for a job.

  Patrick frowned at the card, puzzling the mystery. Why would she change her name and sign up for the bride train? Not to find a husband, she’d made that clear enough. She had to be on the run. What better place to run than to a settlement on the edge of the wilderness where few would expect her or recognize her.

  She hadn’t worn that white dress. If she had, he would’ve locked her in her room. An appealing idea, if he could get away with it.

  He slipped the card into his pocket, and fished out a small flask he kept with him when he went out, in case he needed something to numb the pain. Taking a swig, he hardly noticed how bitter it tasted. Nor did he care. He wouldn’t take so much he couldn’t think straight. God knows he needed clear thinking for a change. No more dreams about pots of gold or improbable matches made by luck or God or saints. He had one goal, to secure his land and his livelihood...and Charm was going to help him.

  ***

  Charm buried her head under the covers at the second round of knocking, harder than the first. Did Patrick never sleep? He retired late, got up early. Something had to be wrong with him that he could make do with so little rest.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Oh, all right! I’m coming.” She flung the covers off, bleary-eyed, and stumbled over to the suitcase, digging for her wrapper. A week’s reprieve he’d given her, and during that time he hadn’t bothered her. That was what she wanted, to be left alone. She shouldn’t have been miserable about it.

  Today she would get out for a few hours and clear her mind. Since being evicted, she hadn’t gone anywhere for fear she would be ridiculed. She would have to face her former friends at some point, and it would be best to get it over with. In the meantime, she would find out why Patrick had come knocking, and tell him to leave her be.

  She opened the door a crack, enough to peer out, but not so much that he could see more than a sliver of her face. She, on the other hand, could see him just fine. He had on a nice suit, looked very handsome, except for the scowl. “What is it?”

  “We need to have a private conversation.”

  Sometimes his humor could be hard to decipher, but this...this was just downright funny. He couldn’t really think she would open the door. “Is that so? Pray tell, why?”

  “A personal matter. Believe me, you don’t want anyone else to overhear. Let me in, or you come over to my room. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

  He was serious...no, he was mad, and now, he’d made her angry.

  “I am trying to get some rest, so I would appreciate it if you would cease knocking. Whatever it is we need to discuss, we can do it later. Downstairs.”

  She shut the door, firmly.

  “Fine,” he called out. “When you come downstairs, I’ll introduce everyone to Juliette DuCharme...” His voice faded and the sound of his steps receded.

  Charm’s heart ceased beating, or so it seemed. God help her. He’d discovered the truth, and planned to tell everyone. Her secret would be out.

  She would leave. Except, she didn’t have enough money to get very far.

  What could she do? Stop him.

  She jerked into action, flinging the door open. “Wait!”

  Patrick stood a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing a smug smile. Curse him. He’d tricked her into opening the door.

  She looked out into the hallway, both directions. No one else around. She grabbed his arm, dragged him inside her room and slammed the door. Then she whirled around, fists clenched at her sides, frightened, also furious because he meant to scare her by revealing he knew her identity. It might only be a guess. He had no proof.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Patrick reached inside his coat, withdrew a card, a queen, and held it up, sandwiched between two fingers. When he turned his hand, a photographic image appeared.

  She caught a sharp breath. Oh God. Now she remembered. Simon had paid a man to take pictures of her in that white dress. He’d apparently sold her image to be put on playing cards and didn’t tell her, and she would never see a penny of whatever he negotiated. How many of those cards existed? She couldn’t escape her past if her picture kept turning up.

  “A very good likeness, don’t you think?” Patrick’s lips twisted into a smile that wasn’t warm or kind.

  Charm considered grabbing the card and tearing it into pieces. That wouldn’t help. There were more wherever that one came from. He had her at his mercy, and he knew it.

  He turned the card, looked at it and then frowned at her. His disapproval landed like a fist to the soft part of her belly.

  “Patrick, please...” She put her hand over her mouth to stop the miserable plea. Begging wouldn’t help. Gone was the gentle giant, and in his place stood a cold stranger. Even his eyes looked different. The dark centers eclipsed all but a thin ring of blue, making them appear empty. She ached to see the familiar tenderness that warmed her like a low fire. The only fires she might see in that impenetrable gaze would be blazing anger.

  Unable to bear it, she turned away. She
would put up with his passionate kisses and affectionate teasing, if only he would forgive for deceiving him. How he must hate her.

  Foreboding prickled her skin. The fact that he came up here before he exposed her falsehood could mean he planned to blackmail her. She had nothing except her meager earnings. He might take the money, and then where would she be? Stuck out here, unable to get away. The idea wouldn’t be so repellent if she were stuck with the other Patrick.

  She hugged her wrapper, shivering. “What...what do you want?”

  “First, tell me why you’re here.”

  No point lying about it. He had found her out, so she would be better off telling him the truth and appealing to his decency.

  “That might take awhile.” She picked up two dresses flung over the back of the chair and tossed them across her bed, then gestured for him to take a seat.

  When she sank onto the bed, Patrick moved one of the dresses aside and sat next to her. His weight pressed down the mattress and she slid against him. His warmth seeped through her wrapper, and an answering ache throbbed deep in her core. He knew his effect on her, and if he was trying to make her uncomfortable, it was working.

  Shifting over, he opened up a hair’s breadth of space between them. Because he sensed her discomfort, or because he couldn’t bear to touch her. Now, she longed for his arms. When it was too late.

  He rested his hands on his knees, still holding onto the card. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked around the room. “Your suitcase exploded.”

  Was he scolding her for being messy or trying to lighten the mood? Had he not been scowling, she would guess he was teasing. She offered a lame excuse, which he could take any way he liked. “They won’t stay shut.”

  “And the clothes won’t stay in the suitcases?”

  “It is odd how things slip out while I’m asleep.”

  He didn’t smile, but his eyes appeared less flat. “You aren’t used to picking up after yourself, are you?”

  If he could banter with her, all was not lost.

  “No.” She sighed. “And I’ve realized I’m very lazy.”

  He tapped the card against his knee, staring off like his mind had drifted somewhere else. “Seeing as you’re a famous actress, you must be rich. With servants to pick up the mess.”

  So, he was still with her, but he had stopped teasing. Evading his questions would be pointless. He held all the cards...or the one that mattered.

  “My mother hired people to help with makeup and wardrobe, but I never had servants. Maybe at one time we were rich enough to afford them, but I don’t know...”

  Patrick stared at her with disbelief. “You don’t know how much money you made?”

  His tone implied she must be stupid. In hindsight, she had been. Stupid. Naïve.

  “I never knew what we made. Mama always took care of financial matters, she kept the gold locked up in a steam trunk. Whatever I needed, she purchased.”

  “If your mother took care of you, why did you leave?”

  Charm rubbed at her stinging eyes. “My mother died three months ago.”

  She had resisted crying, believing grief, and the acceptance that went with it, would worsen her fear of being alone. “I miss her...terribly. She took care of me. Maybe too much. Looking back, I can see I should’ve been more independent. Without her, it feels as if I’ve been set adrift in a leaky lifeboat.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Did he mean he was sorry for her loss, or her belated insight? Whatever his meaning, his tone conveyed sympathy. His heart could be softening. Then again, the kind man she believed him to be wouldn’t blackmail her. She had to discern his intentions before she gave away too much information. “Is it money you want?”

  He shook his head.

  How could she be sure when she didn’t know him well enough to discern whether he would be truthful? “I want to believe you.”

  He looked down at her. The distant coldness in his eyes melted into sadness. “I want to believe you, too.”

  She dropped her gaze before the tears welled. How hypocritical to question his trustworthiness after she’d deceived him.

  Her toes dangled several inches above the floor. His booted feet were firmly planted. He easily had the strength to overcome her, even injured. Still, she wasn’t afraid of him, had never been. He could have seduced her had he been persistent instead of giving her a wide berth, as she’d asked. Unlike Simon, Patrick had integrity, and the strength of character her father had lacked. In her heart, she knew he could be trusted. She wasn’t as sure she could convince him to trust her.

  First, she had to be more honest and open. “When I was four, maybe five, my father owned a concert saloon in San Francisco. Even then, I loved performing. He used to set me on the tables and I would sing and dance to entertain the miners. They called me Little Belle.”

  “La Belle Enfant,” Patrick murmured in a thick Irish brogue. “The beautiful child.”

  “You know French?”

  “Enough to translate that.” He’d been holding the card face down. Now he turned it over. Revulsion rolled through her as she imagined what he must be thinking.

  “I look like a whore.”

  “That’s not what I see.” His declaration eased her churning stomach. However, she couldn’t read what was in his expression.

  “What do you see?”

  “An innocent, unaware of her seductive powers.”

  “That’s a poetic way of putting it.” She wouldn’t mislead him. Not again. “I’m not innocent, Patrick, and I haven’t been unaware since I was young enough to grasp what men meant by the things they whispered to each other...and sometimes to me.”

  He tossed the card, and her image landed in a suitcase. She thought about closing the lid. Covering it up wouldn’t change anything.

  Patrick glowered, as if it offended him. Maybe that was his way of handling his disappointment in learning she wasn’t pure. However repulsive or painful, the truth would be better for both of them. “Your father should’ve protected you.”

  How surprising his anger would be directed at her father instead of her. Her Papa had been even-tempered and fun loving, brilliantly witty, and protective in his own way. She loved him so much she couldn’t condemn him for his flaws. “He didn’t let anyone near me for as long as he lived. He died when I was fifteen. My mother protected me, too, although she encouraged the image. She told me I was only giving men what they wanted—an innocent they could lust after. That it was their sin, not mine. For a long time, I believed her.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “No. That’s why I won’t wear the white dress. It makes me feel...filthy.”

  Patrick shifted closer. He put his arm around her, drawing her against his side. She should pull way rather than encourage him, and she would have if she had the willpower. Though there was nothing lurid or offensive about the way he touched her. He offered comfort because he was a good man with a compassionate heart, something she had seen in him from the start and couldn’t resist. With Patrick, and only with Patrick, she felt truly accepted and cared for, like a person, not an object.

  She gave in to her longing and rested her head against his shoulder.

  He reached up and stroked her hair. “Why did you run away?”

  “A few years after my father died, my mother met a man who owned a theater in St. Louis. Simon LaBar became my mother’s lover, and then her husband and my manager. He arranged for me to perform in the best theaters, and had the contacts to get publicity wherever we went. He dictated the shows, the music, the dances, what I wore. Insisted on personally inspecting every costume.”

  “With you in it?”

  “Yes. He said he wanted to see how well it fit.” She had tried to tell herself he wasn’t undressing her with his eyes. “My mother finally put a stop to it...a week before she died.”

  The muscles in Patrick’s arm tensed. “That’s why you ran? You thought he had something to do with her death?”

 
“The doctors said she had a weak heart. That’s what killed her.” Charm closed her eyes and willed her stomach to calm. If Simon had done something and she had missed picking up on it, she would never forgive herself. “I don’t think he would murder her. He was her husband.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Some men beat their wives.”

  “Simon didn’t beat her. She would’ve left him. He didn’t beat me, either.”

  “What did he do to you?” Patrick’s voice resounded like a death knell.

  She couldn’t tell him, it was too humiliating, and no one would believe her. Everyone assumed actresses had loose morals. Patrick might think she invited the attention. There were other reasons she fled. “I found out after my mother died that he had managed to get complete control of our finances. He told me if I married him, he would take care of me...”

  “So you ran.”

  “I thought if I went somewhere no one knew me, started over with a different name, Simon wouldn’t find me.”

  Patrick didn’t speak for long moment. She was glad he didn’t take his arm away. If anything, he held her tighter.

  She clung to his vest, which smelled of wool and tobacco smoke. Burrowing closer, she detected the scent of his warm skin. Clean, masculine, not masked by cloying fragrances. She ached to be closer, flesh-to-flesh, with nothing between them. Close enough she could forget about another man’s hands on her.

  “I’ll protect you.” His voice became husky, the brogue stronger. “Marry me, and LaBar can’t touch you.”

  His heartfelt offer tempted her. Patrick would be a kinder master. Except, she didn’t want another master, and she didn’t want him tying himself down for her sake. Something inside her had been broken and couldn’t be fixed. For that reason, she could never love him like he deserved to be loved.

  “Thank you, Patrick. Your offer means more to me than I can express. But I can’t accept. I won’t let you bind yourself in a loveless marriage just so you can protect me.”

  He removed his arm. “Who said anything about love?”

  ***

  Patrick left the bed. Remaining beside Charm would be unwise when every part of him ached to hold her, and never let go. She thought he’d come up here to shame her. Revenge wasn’t what he sought. But coercing her into a marriage she didn’t want would make him no better than that snake LaBar.