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

by E. E. Burke

  The cheerful conversation around her seemed to come from far away, a buzzing in her head. Charm trembled as Patrick’s arm came around her. He drew her against him in a gesture both tender and possessive. “You’re being awfully quiet. That concerns me...”

  “It should.”

  Stubborn Irishman. He’d tricked her into thinking their marriage would be temporary. She should’ve known better after he’d told her the story about letting his wife go and not making the same mistake. How did he think he could prevent her from leaving? The only thing that would make it difficult, if not impossible to leave, would be if she had a...

  Child.

  Her chest grew tight as panic set in. How could she have a child if he couldn’t...? What were his exact words? He never said his wife’s accusation was true, only that she used it as an excuse for an annulment.

  Patrick leaned down and put his lips by her ear. “Are you nervous, is that what’s bothering you? It’s all right to be nervous on your wedding day. I’ll admit to being a wee bit nervous, too.”

  Nervous wasn’t the right word. She couldn’t find words to describe her heartbreak. Hadn’t she known all along that Patrick wouldn’t have to use force to bend her to his will? He’d wooed her with tenderness. Thoughtful gestures.

  She reached up, and fondled the silk ribbons on the bonnet he’d given her, a token of his regard. The sweet gesture had touched her deeply, and she’d insisted on wearing his gift at their wedding. That he’d manipulated her emotions was bad enough. Worse, she had fooled herself into believing she could marry him and keep her heart unbound.

  He held her close to his side with his arm wrapped around her, offering protection. She leaned into his shoulder, unable to resist the lure. He could give her things she longed for almost as much as her freedom. A safe shelter and a place to belong. In the end, it was a snare. He would use her love to cage her. She’d be a well-fed songbird.

  Sadly, he might not think he’d done anything wrong. He was a man, after all, and men only wanted two things from women: sex and total submission. He tried to pretend that wasn’t what he wanted, but tonight, she would force him to admit the truth.

  ***

  After everyone left and Patrick locked up, he ducked beneath the bar to retrieve something he’d hidden away for this special occasion. Gaining Charm’s agreement to marry him hadn’t been easy. The bigger challenge—dismantling her defenses—was still to come. He would start tonight.

  Whistling one of Charm’s cheery tunes, he withdrew a bottle and two goblets.

  “What? More wine?” Charm drifted over beside him. Her floral fragrance teased his senses. From perfume she wore or the flowers woven through her hair? She leaned in, and her breast pressed against his arm.

  Desire roared through him. Somehow, he managed not to fumble while he uncorked the bottle and poured. He handed her a glass. “French Cognac. Your favorite, I believe.”

  She lowered her lashes and took a dainty sip. “Mmm, it’s delicious. Where did you find it?”

  “In the back, where I keep all my expensive liquor.”

  “And you withheld it from me, shame on you.”

  “Saved it, for a special occasion.” He poured a small amount into his goblet, would savor a mouthful, but no more. “After your first performance, I brought the bottle up to your room to share a toast. You were...indisposed.”

  A blush stained her cheeks. “I was tired.”

  “Tired of putting up with me, you mean.”

  Her eyes rounded with feigned innocence. “Why would you say that?”

  “To my adorable little wife...” He clinked his glass against hers. “You heard me knocking. Loud enough to raise the dead.”

  She took another sip and licked her lips. “If I’d known you had French Cognac, I would’ve roused from my deathlike slumber.”

  “Are you sufficiently roused now?” With a wicked smile, he set his glass on the bar. Play now. Drink later.

  Her eyes widened with a look of alarm; tipping her goblet, she finished off the cognac. He’d never seen her gulp drinks until today, so he assumed she was nervous. The brandy would relax her, before he took her to bed. She set her empty glass on the bar, without the saucy smile. “We need to talk...”

  “Talking isn’t what I had in mind.” He tried to slip his arm around her waist, but she evaded capture by sidestepping and handing him the goblet he’d put down.

  “You aren’t drinking?”

  He set the stemmed glass aside. “I’ve had enough.”

  Her gaze flickered to her empty goblet, and the blush in her cheeks deepened. “So have I, it would seem.”

  She mistakenly thought he disapproved of her indulgence. He needed to explain, but in explaining, he would have to reveal some things about himself. Things she ought to know anyway, considering she was his wife. If he didn’t confess, she would figure it out soon enough.

  He refilled her glass. “Have as much as you like. The reason I’m not drinking...” He shifted his weight to his good leg. Nothing she’d said or done would lead him to believe she would despise him for his weakness, but he still feared telling her. “If I drink on top of the medicine I take, it’ll put me to sleep.” He offered a lop-sided grin. “And I’m not ready to go to sleep.”

  She looked down at his bad leg. When her eyes lifted, they shone with empathy. “You never told me how you were injured.”

  This was bound to come up sometime. He just wished that sometime wasn’t now. “It happened during the war.”

  “You were a soldier?”

  “Aye...a reluctant one.”

  “Drafted?”

  “Not exactly... Me and me brother, we were recruited fresh off the boat while we still had stars in our eyes. They told us we’d get our meals free, and on top of that, good pay. Made it sound like Christmas. By the time we realized what we’d signed up for, it was too late.”

  She looked into her glass, her frown thoughtful. “Where is your brother now?”

  “Dead.” Patrick said it quick, like yanking out a thorn. A flash of pain, and then it was over. Except, he wasn’t over his brother’s death, and never would be. That wound wouldn’t heal any better than the injury to his leg.

  He heaved a resigned sigh. Might as well have done with the explanation, and then he wouldn’t need to talk about it again, and especially not on a night meant for beginnings, not endings.

  “At Fredericksburg, it was...” He stared into the past. Once again, smelling the acrid smoke, hearing the echoes of dying men’s screams, tasting the sharp tang of fear. “We charged the Rebs. Ran straight at ‘em while they were hunkered down behind a stone fence. They picked us off, as easy as shooting ducks sitting on a pond.”

  Sweat beaded on his upper lip. The rhythm of the drum sounded in his eyes...or was that his heartbeat? “We advanced over the bodies of our dead and wounded with our commander screamin’, ‘Faugh-a-bellagh!’ Clear the way! A shell exploded behind me. The force knocked me into the air. It killed Michael right off, though I didn’t know it until later...” He hadn’t been able to retrieve his younger brother’s body to give him a proper burial. Michael’s remains had been tossed into a mass grave.

  Should’ve been him that died, seeing as it was his idea to sign on in the first place. Over and over, he’d played in his mind the different choices he should’ve made.

  Grief thickened in Patrick’s throat. Charm’s face, drawn with concern, wavered. He blinked away the tears and coughed to clear this throat, so he could finish the story without his voice cracking. “The metal tore into my right hip and lower back. The sawbones told me they dug out everything they could find. Still feels like there’s something inside... All the doc can do is give me opium to ease the pain. It blunts me senses, so I’ve been trying to take less. But I’ve got a hunger for it now...”

  Seeing his pain reflected in his wife’s gaze dragged him back to the present.

  “I can’t bear to think about how much it must’ve hurt to lose your br
other, and the pain, always with you,” she whispered, with big fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

  He knew this was a bad time to talk. Using the sides of his thumbs, he wiped her cheeks and tried to make light of a dismal subject. “It’s a reminder not to expect a leprechaun to pop out of nowhere and offer me a pot of gold.”

  “You mean you learned not to trust people.”

  That wasn’t what he wanted her to take from this conversation because he needed her to trust him, in spite of what life had taught her. “I learned I wasn’t as lucky as I thought.”

  She reached up and took his hand, turned her face into his palm and kissed it. “You’re alive. That’s my good luck.”

  With that, she would’ve snared his heart, if he hadn’t already given it to her.

  “I’m glad you think so.” The fullness in his chest from all the emotions that had been churned up made it difficult to talk. Words wouldn’t express what he felt anyway. He had to show her.

  He untied the knot on the sheer shawl wrapped around her shoulders. With his finger he traced her jaw, lifting her chin before he bent down and put his lips on the spot where her pulse throbbed. When she gasped, he wrapped his arm around her waist so she couldn’t escape and trailed kisses across her collarbone. The low-necked dress showed off her petite form to perfection. He couldn’t wait to peel away her clothing and kiss every inch of her satiny skin.

  A desperate need drove him. The need to affirm life, and to show her the things he’d hoarded in his heart.

  “P-Patrick,” she stammered in a breathless voice. “I don’t think we should—”

  “Then don’t think...” Returning to her mouth, he captured her lips. He wanted her senses engaged, not her brain. He couldn’t talk her into falling in love with him.

  They hadn’t discussed what came after the ceremony. She had to know. That didn’t mean she would be any less nervous. He circled her waist with his hands. She was so tiny. He’d have to be careful. Gentle. Maybe the disparity in their sizes intimidated her.

  He lifted her and set her on the bar, which brought her closer to eye level.

  She blinked slowly, appearing dazed, which he interpreted as progress. Encouraged, he touched a small purple flower tucked within a curl.

  “Whose idea was this?

  “Rose helped me dress my hair. She brought the flowers.”

  “I’ll have to remember to thank her.” He tugged the heavy skirts higher, ran his hands up her stocking-clad legs to her knees and gently opened them so he could move in closer and put his arms around her...bring his lips to hers... An added benefit, he could kiss her without getting a crick in his neck.

  She returned his kisses, shyly at first, and then with more eagerness, even urgency. Her restless hands toyed with his hair, combing, stroking. Her touch sent waves of pleasure crashing over him. When she drew him closer, he gave in to the hunger eating him alive.

  Cradling her head in his hands, he plundered her mouth. Cognac and lavender, tastes and smells he would always associate with his wife, with this moment. He fished for the pins that held the hair in an elaborate coiffure. As he removed them, flowers rained down on his arms.

  Liquid fire coursed through his veins, filling him with a sense of power and the overwhelming urge to mate.

  His hands shook as he undid the pearl buttons down the front of her gown. Pulling the sleeves over her arms, he pressed fervent kisses on her neck and shoulders. He didn’t intend to consummate their marriage on the bar, but there was no reason he couldn’t pleasure her before he took her upstairs. He tugged at the silk ribbon holding the neckline of her camisole together, and touched the swell of her breasts. Small, but perfectly formed.

  “Patrick, no...” She tugged his hair, momentarily pulling him off course like the wind whipping at a sail. Still nervous, but she’d get over it, as soon as he had her undressed and laid out before him like a buffet dinner.

  “I said no!” She seized his hands.

  His attention veered. He blinked, coming out of the sensual daze. She’d stopped him...why? Might have something to do with being stripped on top of a bar. He squeezed her hands and pressed a tender kiss on her forehead. “We can go upstairs,” he murmured.

  “We can’t do this.”

  Can’t. Do. This. Her words took a moment to sink in. Even then, it didn’t make sense. Of course they could do this. They were married, this is what married folks did.

  She pulled her hands out of his grasp and gripped the sagging camisole in tight fists. “I’m not ready.”

  He took in her mussed hair, flushed face and full lips still damp from his kisses. She looked ready. Except for her eyes, which were dark, fearful.

  Clumsy oaf. He’d mauled her and frightened her when he should’ve slowed down and taken his time. He combed his fingers through her loosened hair, taking great care not to tug or pull.

  “A chuisle mo chroí,” he said hoarsely. Pulse of my heart. Truly, she was, even if she wasn’t ready to hear it just yet. He cupped her cheek. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

  Her lips quivered. “I know...”

  “If you know, then why are you afraid?”

  “Because I know what you want...what you really want.”

  What he wanted? Wasn’t it obvious? He wanted her. Though he sensed she wasn’t referring to his immediate needs. He frowned, uneasy. “You’re talking in riddles. Tell me straight what it is you think I want.”

  She pulled up the sleeves and held her dress in place. Narrowed her eyes, accusingly. “You want to bind me to you with a child. I thought you couldn’t give me children. But then I realized that’s what you wanted me to think...”

  Sadness weighed down on him, creating a soul-deep ache worse than the constant pain racking his body. He couldn’t convince her that he loved her if she believed he was the kind of man who would enslave her. She mistook his intentions, though he could think of nothing more wonderful than having a child with her. That she considered it bondage broke his heart.

  He dropped his hands to his sides. “If that’s what you think, I’m surprised you married me. ”

  Her frown reflected hurt more than anger. “You told me you wanted a mutually beneficial arrangement. One that wasn’t permanent, that’s...that’s what you told me.”

  Deny it or make excuses. Lies would only confirm her low opinion of him. He did want to keep her, and planned to bed her to show her just how much he wanted her to stay; and he hadn’t given a thought as to what might happen if she became pregnant.

  Now, if he admitted to loving her, she wouldn’t believe him. All he could hope for was that she might want the same thing he did. If not, he couldn’t...he wouldn’t...force her to lie with him. Nor would he seduce her and make her distrust love even more.

  “What do you want, Charm?”

  Her suspicion frustrated him.

  “It’s a simple question. I’m not trying to trick you. You say you know what I want, but I’m not so sure what you want. That’s why I’m asking.”

  She bit her lip, appearing distraught. Then she lifted her chin, challenging him with hurt in her eyes. “What I told you before. I want to go back to acting, traveling and performing.”

  That pretty well put the nail in the coffin. She didn’t want to be with him enough to stay here and perform. She wanted a better theater, a bigger audience...and why not, she was a famous actress, not some gifted hopeful, as he’d first assumed.

  “It seems you and I want different things.” He lifted her off the bar and set her on her feet.

  “You’re right. I do want you to stay with me, and I hoped to convince you. But you’re wrong about one thing. I won’t bed you in order to trap you. You’re free to leave whenever you want.”

  Chapter 9

  Charm slept apart from her husband on her wedding night. It wasn’t because he’d admitted his intention to keep her, or because she didn’t trust him not to use underhanded methods. He had given her what she wanted. Freedom. She should feel good.
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  She didn’t. She was miserable.

  His tender seduction had confused her and made her think he might actually have strong feelings for her. When she confronted him about his deceit, she hoped he would have a reason, and his reason would be that he loved her and couldn’t live without her. But he only confessed to wanting to keep her, and then set her free.

  She tossed and turned, and more than once got out of bed and considered going across the hall. That would seal her fate. Once she crawled into bed with him and joined her body with his, it would be impossible to leave. Being that vulnerable, that intimate, she would never be able to protect her heart.

  When daylight tiptoed into her room, she could barely crack her eyes open.

  After crawling out of bed, she found a note on the floor near the door. As she read Patrick’s bold script, her spirits went into a downward spiral.

  I’ve gone to meet with Mr. Hardt about my claim and intend to resolve the issue.

  In other words, if he was successful, she could leave sooner. Tears burned behind her eyelids. She blinked them away and finished reading.

  You’ll find breakfast in the kitchen.

  His thoughtful gesture knifed her conscience. She had accused him of being selfish. There wasn’t a more generous man around than Patrick O’Shea.

  She found his door unlocked, so she ventured inside.

  Silence greeted her, along with a mouth-watering smell. Fresh bread.

  A folded newspaper and magazines were stacked on a table next to a stuffed chair. The cushion had a permanent dip in the middle, indicating it was his favorite place to sit and read. When she’d first met him, she’d judged him to be messy and uncouth because of his rustic attire and bushy beard.

  How wrong she’d been.

  On the kitchen table, she found a basket with bread, a jar of jam and fresh strawberries. He couldn’t possibly know they were her favorite. She took a bite, releasing the juicy sweetness with a moan of pure pleasure. This wasn’t the first time he made sure she had something good to eat. He fed her regularly, and well, and he saw to it that she had a safe place to stay.