The knock at the door made her jump guiltily as if Reed Malloy had known she was in there thinking of him. She kept telling herself that it was natural for her to be interested in the only male to darken her doorstep since... Well, the only male to darken her doorstep. And such an incredibly male one at that!
Then all of a sudden, his head appeared around the door.
Chapter 7
"Fancy a nightcap and some conversation?"
Charlotte nodded wordlessly before she caught herself. Reed pushed the door open with his shoulder, and she could see he carried two glasses in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. Now where did that come from?
"Are you sure I'm not disturbing you?"
"Oh no," Charlotte said quickly. "I wasn't getting any work done anyway." She immediately wished she hadn't said that as he honed in on the remark like the seasoned lawyer he was.
"Why is that, Miss Sanborn?" He settled in the chair on the other side of her desk and, after attempting to clear a place on the little Pembroke table, finally set the glasses on top of the nearest pile of books.
He didn't look at her as he poured, but she was quite aware that he awaited her answer. To give herself time, she moved around the front of her desk and leaned against it.
"Naturally the events of the past weeks have caused a bit of turmoil in my head."
"Yes, of course." His remark was toneless as he handed her a glass. "And I suppose the sooner it is all over with, the better for your career?"
"My feelings have not changed any, if that is what you're asking. I maintain that I am not suited to be their full-time caregiver." She couldn't believe they were at this again within seconds of starting a conversation.
He narrowed his eyes, taking a sip of the brandy. "I see." He stared into the rich amber liquid, and Charlotte wondered just what it was he saw.
She looked at his dark, thick hair, the now familiar lock of it hanging rakishly over his forehead—he looked like anything but her idea of a stuffy city lawyer. Her gaze went to his mouth, to his firm, well-defined lips that she had seen both smiling at her and held in a grim straight line. She preferred the gentle curve of his smile.
His eyes flickered to hers, and their gazes locked. Charlotte was unable to look away from his intense blue stare.
"How about a compromise, Miss Sanborn?"
She didn't say anything, mesmerized by his sensual gleam that didn't waver.
"What if you were only a part-time guardian?"
Charlotte frowned. "And how would that be?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but an idea is coming to me. What if you were to move east with the children, have them live with you, and let their grandmother look after them whenever you were too busy."
Charlotte just stared at him for a full five seconds; she was utterly flabbergasted that he could expect her to rearrange her whole life and move thousands of miles from her home in order to make his duty as executor easier. What made him think that she had no roots here, no friends, no stake in her homestead? Of all the unmitigated gall!
"You're gurgling."
"That's because I can barely frame a civil word to you, Mr. Malloy. How dare you presume to move me and the children about to suit your liking, as though we're pawns?" She looked down at her glass and took a sip of brandy.
He had hit a nerve with that one, and she freely admitted—to herself only, of course—that moving was one thing that terrified her. This home, and Spring City, were all she'd ever known.
His eyes widened in surprise at this reproachful utterance. He leaned forward, looking earnest. "I believe you're making excuses, if you'll pardon my saying so. As for the children, they're young and completely unaffected by all this traveling. They find it exciting. As for you," he paused and she stared into dark sapphires and was mesmerized once again.
"As for you," he continued, "I don't presume, but I can suggest. I believe your writing career can only benefit from being in the midst of a large city as opposed to being stifled out here. Besides, many great writers and thinkers have come out of New England—Longfellow, Whittier, Hawthorne."
"Thoreau, Emerson," she added, with an involuntary grimace. "All men. If I were to move anywhere, Mr. Malloy, I would be better off moving to Wyoming. At least there, I could vote and have a say in the laws that you so aptly use in the defense of your clients."
He smiled at her. "I assure you, the Woman's Suffrage Association is active in Boston. The women of Massachusetts already have a great deal of power, Miss Sanborn. Perhaps you heard about the 1860 strike parade of shoe workers? That was led by 800 women."
She wasn't convinced. The issue was not, after all, her being a woman in Boston. The issue was her own terror at facing the unknown, with two small children in tow.
"In fact," he continued, "you would not only fit in perfectly in our fair city, you would be welcomed as another literary light if you chose to write under your own name. Frankly, I would be extremely pleased to have you as an addition to my circle of friends and to help acclimate you to your new surroundings."
This last bit of news interested her the most; the idea of being escorted around Boston by Reed Malloy held great allure. But Charlotte was taken aback by this sudden insistence that she move east.
"My career isn't stifled," she said finally, latching on to his earliest point as the only part of his speech she could debate. "After all, you had heard of me in Boston."
"Only because your cousin brought you to my attention."
She took another sip of her brandy.
"I will take it into consideration, Mr. Malloy. It had not occurred to me that I could share the responsibility of the children."
She lied—it had occurred to her but only as a ridiculous daydream of sharing them right here in her own home with this handsome man whose very voice seemed to strum a chord in her. Something in that must have shown in her clear, artless face, for his own took on a bemused look.
He tilted his head to one side, considering, and then he smiled. And something about the sheer sensuality of watching his mouth caused her stomach to clench. He stood up, setting his glass down in a slow movement and letting his gaze come rest on her again.
"It would make it easier on both of us," he told her, and he seemed to lean in closer, until Charlotte could smell the clean male scent of him, all sandalwood and the warm aroma of brandy.
Her heart started to thump somewhat painfully in the base of her throat. His interests seemed to be shifting from their discussion to something more personal as his hand reached down and took one of hers in a firm, warm grasp.
The jolt that went through her at his touch was as strong as it had been the first day they'd met, and she sucked in her breath as he lifted it to his lips. His eyes left her own wary green gaze only once, noticing the telltale heartbeat, throbbing at the side of her throat, and she watched his pupils dilate.
Gently, he kissed the back of her hand, and then to her amazement—almost to her undoing—he turned her hand over and branded her palm with another soft kiss. She gasped and yanked her hand away as if she'd been burnt. His sudden inclination was clear to her, and the most frightening part was that she wanted to go along with whatever this improper Bostonian wanted to do.
"I'd best be getting to bed," she heard herself say before flaming up in embarrassment, hoping he didn't think she had that on her mind. Silently, she cursed. That was the second time she'd embarrassed herself in the same way. In truth, his eyebrows shot up devilishly as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"What I mean to say," she added, stepping away from him and heading for the door, "is that it's late."
He was grinning like a cat with a canary in easy reach, but she heard him bid her good night as she slipped out the door. It wasn't until she was on the stairs that she realized she'd fled her own study!
* * *
When the tap came at her door the next evening, she was not as surprised. He was gracious enough to leave her to her work during the day, but it seem
ed even he longed for some adult company at night. She had told herself if he came again, she would not let herself be scared off—no matter the turn of events.
Charlotte took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, tugged absently at her white cotton blouse where it tucked into her skirt's waistband, and beckoned him to enter.
This time, he had two cups of coffee, but her first sip told her there was whiskey in the cup. It slid warmly down her throat, and she smiled.
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness. It is a real treat to be waited on in my own home, and it has been a long time since I have had nightcaps."
He coughed at that, then crossed one denim-clad calf over the other, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
"What is it?" she asked, seeing his amused look.
"It's just that you don't seem old enough to have had a nightcap a long time ago unless it was the knitted type, and you wore it to bed."
She blushed at this; he had caught her out, but she laughed good-humoredly at the image of her in a knitted nightcap.
"You're right, Mr. Malloy. This study has not seen nightcaps of the liquid variety since my father's day. But I do, on occasion, have a glass of wine at Fuller's restaurant in town."
He sipped thoughtfully. "You mentioned that your father was a writer, too, didn't you?"
Charlotte found it easy to tell Reed about her family. Her stories of childhood were similar to the fantastical stories she told the children at bedtime, only these were of a family from the past; it seemed so long ago that she was a little girl with parents. She told him of her father's love of history and his work chronicling the lives of the early settlers here—those who came even before the rich veins of gold were discovered.
"I have read much history, Miss Sanborn, but I apologize, I have never heard of your father's work."
She wrinkled up her nose. "That is because my father's manuscripts lie right here in the drawer of this desk, still unpublished. One day, perhaps I'll remedy that." She shrugged.
"Anyway, he continued to work on them until he died, though to earn a living, he had to turn to the more practical field of teaching. He was the schoolteacher in Spring City for many years. But what he wanted was to strike it rich in one of the mines, and then... Then I'm not sure what he would have done."
She spoke with such sangfroid that Reed asked, "Weren't you close to him?"
"Not particularly. He didn't see that I had similar interests, but then he wasn't close to anyone except my mother. He was extremely engrossed in his work—I guess I get that from him. And Mother, who saw that I was more similar to him than not, probably wished for a normal little girl. I know she missed her old life and all the social niceties of the city. But I'm sure you know more about that than I do."
"Some women live for it," he said obliquely.
Charlotte had the notion that he was not talking about her mother at that moment, but she nodded. "Fortunately, I've never known any other way than my life here, so I am content."
"What about your brother?" Reed asked, sipping his coffee.
"Thaddeus was seventeen when he left." She bit her bottom lip. "Now that was an all-overish feeling—coming inside this house after he rode off the first time. I see him about once a year, but I am not sure where he is now."
While Charlotte talked, she came around her desk and settled down on the floor in front of the fire. It seemed odd to her now to think of her younger years. Sometimes, it just seemed as if she'd arrived here, fully grown, to look after Teddy and then to live out her quiet life without ever really connecting with anyone. She shook her head.
"What is it?" Reed asked, coming to sit cross-legged beside her on the floor. "What are you thinking?"
"I was just wondering what it would have been like to have a more normal upbringing. Would it have shaped me differently? Certainly, my nature was already fixed as my mother pointed out to me time and again." Charlotte smiled wryly.
"But I wonder now, knowing Lily and Thomas, if the tone of the household, with Father so preoccupied and Mother so restless, must have had something to do with Thaddeus being rootless and with my being somewhat of a stick in the mud now." Though there were many moments lately, she thought, when she'd felt more akin to the wildflower that Reed had mentioned.
"For the most part, there was no place here for children, not in my parents' lives." She sipped at her coffee again.
"And now?" he asked.
"Not now either," she continued. "I think if I had been more attached to people as a child, I would feel the need for company as an adult and would find this solitary existence much more of a burden than I do. Once I got used to Teddy being gone, this lifestyle turned out to be a blessing. I can do as I please. But then, here," she gestured around her to take in all of the house and the land and even Spring City, "there is not that much trouble I can get into as a single woman anyway."
She held her cup in both hands and breathed in the rich smell of the coffee, wondering why she was being so talkative tonight. Normally, she went weeks hardly speaking to another soul, yet she was unburdening her thoughts on Reed Malloy, who seemed to be studying her intently and listening carefully.
"Oh, I'm talking bunkum," she finished.
"No, I believe there's something to what you're saying." His eyes remained fixed on hers. "I have always been outgoing and have enjoyed public oration since I was a youngster. I'm sure the confidence and security instilled in me as a child partially led to my following my father into the practice of law."
Reed looked into the fire a moment, smiling at something far away in his thoughts.
"And the good-natured teasing of my sisters kept me humble, no matter my achievements."
But his confirmation of her notion worried Charlotte, especially in light of how they each had turned out. She was frowning, as she considered the place of parents, a large family, and a secure home. He reached up and touched the deep furrow between her brows, but she was too distracted to be alarmed at this intimate gesture.
"What about Lily and Thomas?" she asked abruptly. "Do you still believe that I am best for them? Don't they deserve a normal home?"
He sighed, and instead of replying with more reasons why she should take the children, he shrugged.
"Ann Connors wanted you to raise her children. I've never been a father and can't possibly say what's best. I trust her instincts that you would be a more vibrant influence than living solely with their grandmother. It is not just her age." He took another sip of his drink.
"Alicia Randall has old-fashioned ideas of raising children, leaning strongly toward their being little seen and rarely heard. Of course, she loves her grandchildren, but her society is closed, stuffy even, and entirely made up of adults—quite old adults. The children would live on a busy street in the heart of the city, in a fastidious residence. Would they get to be children? That's my question."
She stared at his concerned face. He obviously cared for them a great deal; it was not hard to do, given their charming natures. Having heard his description of Alicia, Charlotte could see how her own home, with its open meadows and her easygoing way of letting the children do whatever it is that children do would seem preferable.
They might be even more isolated with their grandmother than with her. But what about sharing the children? In truth, she had given some thought to his suggestion that she move to Boston. However, the very notion raised in her such an overwhelming feeling of fright that she had dismissed it quickly.
His eyes returned to her serious face. "I understand how this was a surprise to you, but I know, given your personality, that you're keeping an open mind."
She smiled at that. "Have you gleaned my personality, Mr. Malloy, from my writing or from the wonderful hospitality and domestic ability that I have demonstrated since you came to my house?"
"As you told me on the day we met, you have more important things on your mind than domesticity, and I don't fault you for a lack of culinary skills. You have more than enough positive traits
to make up for that."
"Do I?" she asked before lowering her eyelashes. Goodness, she was flirting, leading him on to compliment her. Taking a gulp of the steaming drink to cover her embarrassment, she choked as the whiskey burned her throat.
He patted her on the back, but as she waved him away, holding her handkerchief up to her mouth, she felt his hand making warm circles against the thin cotton cloth of her blouse. He pushed her long chestnut-colored hair, gleaming with firelit streaks of gold, over her shoulder. It felt delightful to be touched, to be comforted, even for something as silly as drinking too quickly.
He looked at her with a dark, interested gaze that set on fire the nerve endings where his palm rested.
"I guess delicate sipping isn't one of my good traits," she said, trying to sound light, but her voice had a huskiness that was strange to her ears.
He said nothing. His hand was still on her and he now slid it down to the small of her back and then upward, resting it on the nape of her neck. Slowly, he massaged her muscles, grown stiff from leaning over her desk all day.
She bent her head up and then down, unable to stop herself from closing her eyes and relaxing under his touch. It was heavenly, this feeling of her muscles unknotting under his gentle kneading. She felt as if, in another instant, she would be purring like a cat.
Then to Charlotte's amazement, she thought she felt his lips touch her hair, brushing the crown of her head. It must be her imagination, she told herself, smiling anyway, her lips parting in a sigh.
But she wasn't imagining the groan she heard next, and her eyes flew open. He was close, and he leaned toward her upturned face, his gaze on her soft lips. She watched the flicker of firelight play across his tense features, and she was certain he was going to kiss her—every part of her was ready for it. And then abruptly, he pulled away.
She could have cried out in frustration. The man seemed unable to keep his hands off of her, but at the same time, he was restraining himself, though noticeably with greater and greater difficulty.
He stood up abruptly, towering over her, looking anything but relaxed and comfortable as she felt.
The Defiant Hearts Series Box Set Page 16
