My Valentine

by Sheridon Smythe

  "Take this to Mr. Newman and tell him—tell him anything you want, just make sure he takes it."

  "But, what—"

  "I'll talk to Miss Snot-nose."

  "You—you will?” she squeaked in such a silly way Christian kissed her soundly.

  "I will. Mr. Newman did not pay thirty dollars for this God-forsaken basket. He paid ten dollars."

  "He—he did?"

  Her lips glistened from his kiss, making him want to repeat his actions, then haul her onto his lap and do much, much more. Looking at her stunned expression and the shiny, tear-filled eyes, Christian wondered if she even noticed he had kissed her. The possibility did not sit well with him.

  With an effort, he resisted the urge to make her notice. “If you give that twenty dollars back to Mr. Newman, then he didn't pay thirty dollars,” he repeated again with more patience than he thought he possessed.

  "Oh. Then it wouldn't be a lie."

  "Very good.” Christian grinned when she narrowed her eyes in remembrance.

  "Smarty,” she quipped.

  Relief shot through him at the sight of her sudden smile. It was like seeing a rainbow after a particularly nasty storm. His gaze fastened on her mouth with a hunger he couldn't shake and with a muffled curse, he jerked his gaze away and opened the door. “Stay put,” he ordered gruffly, taking the image of her smiling face with him up the walk and to the door.

  How in the hell, he wondered, had he gotten himself into this? Never in his life did he imagine himself playing the role of match-maker. Hell, he didn't believe in love...

  Miss Snot-nose fit her name, Christian decided when the statuesque woman opened the door to his impatient knock. Her blonde hair looked silver in the gray light, and she held herself like a queen. With a barely concealed smile, Christian laid on the charm.

  "Miss—?” Damn, he'd forgotten to get her name from Rosalyn. He couldn't very well call her ‘Snot-nose', as much as the idea appealed to him.

  "If you're looking for Miss Tamera Brandewine, you've found her."

  Her little pointed nose upped a notch. Christian decided this wouldn't be as easy as he first thought. Mentally, he compared this ice maiden to the warm and vibrant Rosalyn and found Miss Tamera Brandewine definitely lacking. He'd be doing Mr. Newman a favor by turning around and heading back to the carriage without speaking another word.

  But then, Rosalyn awaited him ... with tears in her eyes.

  He cleared his throat and reached for her hand. Bringing it to his lips, he watched her reaction. There—a slight hitch of her unremarkable flat chest. Hiding his triumph behind a captivating smile, Christian came straight to the point.

  "It seems there's been a gross misunderstanding.” He played his New York accent for what it was worth—hoping to distract her enough to say what he came to say. When her eyes widened slightly, he continued. “I purchased a basket from The New England Valentine Company a short while ago, and the shop clerk made the mistake of sending it to the wrong address."

  "Oh?” Miss Brandewine lifted a thin eyebrow until it disappeared beneath a rim of god-awful bangs. “So the basket the delivery girl brought to me is not the one Mark purchased?"

  Very good, Christian nearly muttered. “I believe that is correct. Awfully busy time for them, I think, so the mistake was reasonable. However, I'm embarrassed to say I need the basket back, as it was a special request. The shop clerk assured me your basket should arrive shortly."

  A tiny frown marred her brow as she considered his words. “But ... how did you know ... I mean, you would think the company responsible for correcting the mistake."

  Christian sighed inwardly. Damned smart women. Outwardly, he shrugged. “I'm in urgent need of the basket, so I volunteered to retrieve it.” He feigned a helpless grin. “My fiancé is a trifle put out with me because of a long absence..."

  "I see.” She glowered at him as if she were his fiancé. “Well, you're too late. I returned the basket and it's probably on it's way back to the shop by now. Can't imagine anyone fool enough to pay thirty dollars for a frivolous basket not good for anything."

  "It's not the price, it's the thought that counts,” he chided, wondering where the hell those words came from. Certainly wasn't anything he believed. In his world, money was everything.

  "Like I said, you'll have to take it up with the shop clerk. Good day."

  She nearly clipped his nose with the door, and Christian gave a brief thought to having a talk with Mr. Newman about his unfortunate choice. Without doubt, the poor man needed a few pointers.

  Rosalyn pounced on him the moment he crawled into the carriage.

  "What did she say? Will she accept his proposal now? Oh, hurry, Chris!” She literally bounced on the seat.

  Christian took his time settling after instructing the driver to return to Main Street posthaste. “She wants another basket,” he informed her blandly.

  Rosalyn's chin dropped. “Another basket?"

  "Yes, something cheaper. Much cheaper, is my guess. Maybe just a card.” Or a sack of lemons. Good grief, Mr. Newman must be addled to want to marry such a skinflint!

  "But Mr. Newman will be waiting for me, I told him I'd be back with her answer—"

  "I'll entertain him while you hurry back with the delivery.” And open his eyes to a few things, Christian thought.

  "You are very kind,” came Rosalyn's husky response.

  To Christian's surprise, she leaned over the basket and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. Curiously moved, he turned his head to the window to hide his confusion. No matter how sweet she seemed, he reminded himself, she was a thief.

  But oh, what a charming thief. Maybe he'd take her back to New York with him, get her a nice apartment somewhere close to his textile factories where he could visit when the whim struck him.

  He watched a big snow flake swirl by as the carriage rumbled toward town. Didn't they have a college in New York?

  Chapter Six

  You Warm My Heart When Love Runs Cold

  When I Am Shy, You Make Me Bold

  With You as Mine I Have Wealth Untold

  There Is Hope I Shall Know...

  An hour later, Rosalyn entered the shop, her cheeks scalded red from the cold. She found Alice behind the counter, but Chris and Mr. Newman were nowhere in sight.

  "Alice? Where's Chris ... Mr. Brown and Mr. Newman?” She shook snow from her hair and brushed the wet flakes from her shawl before dropping it from her shoulders. Grimacing, she held the soggy material before her and crossed the plank floor to the small stove in the corner. She draped the shawl over a chair, hoping it would dry out before she left.

  "I gave them a tour of the workshop, and since everyone's gone home for the day, they decided to stay and chat. It's much warmer there, too.” Alice hugged her arms and glowered at the small stove. “They need to put a bigger stove in here."

  Rosalyn couldn't argue with that. She pealed her gloves off and rubbed her frozen hands briskly, holding them over the scant warmth. Attempting a casual air she was far from feeling, she peeped at Alice. “Are the gentlemen anxious?"

  "No.” Alice laughed. “Last thing I heard was your Mr. Brown informing Mr. Newman the pitfalls of marrying a woman who was in danger of drowning every time it rained."

  It took a moment for her words to sink in, and when they did, Rosalyn burst into laughter. Subsiding into giggles, she said, “No, he didn't! Poor Mr. Newman—I hope he isn't swayed after all the trouble I've gone through to get them together."

  "I take it she said yes?"

  "Yes, she did. As well she should, she'll be getting quite a catch in Mr. Newman."

  Alice grinned impishly. “Then you agree with your Mr. Brown?"

  Rosalyn tried to look stern. “He's not my Mr. Brown, Alice, so please stop saying that. As for Tamera Brandewine—"

  "She's a lovely woman,” a deep voice supplied.

  Jerking, Rosalyn turned as Chris entered the shop with Mr. Newman in tow.

  Her Mr. Brown cocke
d an eyebrow.

  "She said yes?"

  Rosalyn turned to the stove to conceal her embarrassed flush. She didn't normally talk about people, and to be caught—! “As I was about to say ... she seems ... nice, and yes, she accepted Mr. Newman's proposal.” Clearing her throat, she met Christian's amused gaze, wondering if he also overheard Alice calling him her Mr. Brown.

  Mr. Newman grabbed her chaffed hand and shook her so heartily the pearls bounced against her chest. With a gasp of alarm, Rosalyn caught them with her free hand.

  "Thank you, thank you so much, Miss Mitchell. You've made me the happiest man on earth."

  Uncomfortable with his unjustified praise, Rosalyn reminded him, “No, Mr. Newman, Miss Sn—Miss Brandewine made you the happiest man on earth.” Mortified over what she nearly said, Rosalyn turned to Chris, who regarded her with open laughter in his eyes.

  Cooling his mirth with a glare, she said, “Mr. Brown—may I ask one last favor? Would you be so kind as to take me home? I'm chilled to the bone, and I'm afraid the cabbies have all gone home because of the storm—with the exception of yours."

  "My pleasure."

  Rosalyn smiled at Mr. Newman. “Best wishes for the future.” Lord knows, he'd need it, she added silently, thinking of Tamera Brandewine's ridiculous inspection of the simple but elegant card. And the barrage of silly questions the snippy woman had asked—as if she would know!

  Gathering her wet shawl, Rosalyn was in the process of draping the soggy mess around her shoulders when she felt it taken from her grasp. Turning, she encountered Chris's mocking expression.

  "I think you need to let me carry this,” he drawled, holding her shawl out of reach and handing her his coat.

  Rosalyn caught her breath, her gaze traveling over his broad chest covered by a dark green wool sweater. Striped suspenders complimented the sweater, hooked to trousers the color of strong tea. Looking lower, she glimpsed expensive leather shoes peeping from the hem of his pants.

  He looked like a city man, she thought, swallowing hard. “Thank—thank you.” She allowed him to slip the coat over her shoulders. Almost immediately, Rosalyn felt the lingering warmth of his body as if he had literally wrapped his arms around her. She closed her eyes at the sheer pleasure of it.

  "Are you ready?"

  Her eyes snapped open. “Oh. Yes, yes, I'm ready.” Following him to the door, she called a good night to Alice over her shoulder.

  "Good night to you, Rosy. Sweet dreams."

  Rosalyn poked her tongue out at the cheeky shop clerk, closing the door firmly behind her. Good gracious, Chris was only giving her a ride home! Alice let her imagination carry her away, and this, Rosalyn declared, was going to get the younger girl in trouble.

  Outside, snow fell in a thick blanket. Twilight crept over the town as several young boys—bundled against the cold and snow—rushed from lamp to lamp. Soon, the town would be aglow amid the hundreds of gas lamps the city recently installed. Rosalyn paused to view the beautiful scene, pride filling her chest with a warmth she was positive no bigger city could create. Glancing up at the man waiting beside her, she saw that he, too, seemed entranced by the scene. She wondered what New York was like, and found it impossible to imagine. Would Chris stay in Worcester? What was his business here? How long would it take?

  Musing on these questions, she climbed into the carriage for the umpteenth time and scooted to the far corner, hoping Chris would take the hint. If he decided to use his considerable influence, she hadn't the strength to resist. As it was, she was afraid someone would have to chisel the corset from her body.

  She snuggled into his coat, breathing in the scent of wood smoke, cold and something else ... Chris, she decided. She smelled Chris. A disturbing, exciting scent new to her, and one she would never forget.

  "Are you comfortable?"

  Rosalyn jumped, slanting an accusing look his way. His face was in shadow, his hat tipped back against the seat. “Yes. Aren't you cold without your coat?"

  "No."

  No? Just no? Hmmm. He didn't seem inclined to talk, yet he had started this conversation, she thought. “Thank you for helping me this afternoon. Poor Mr. Newman was frantic."

  "It was an ... adventure."In the dim light, she saw his shoulders lift in a careless shrug before he added, “I hope Mr. Newman realizes what he's getting into."

  "Me too.” Rosalyn feigned a delicate shudder. “I don't like to speak ill of people, but she was a—a—"

  "Witch?"

  "No ... a—"

  "Shrew?"

  Rosalyn nodded vigorously. “Yes, a shrew. I can't help but wonder if theirs is a true match.” The sound that followed her words sounded suspiciously like a snort, Rosalyn thought.

  "Do you really believe in a ‘true match'?” he asked softly.

  "Yes, I do. Everyone has a heart mate somewhere, and a person is truly lucky if they happen to find them.” He stirred restlessly on the seat and Rosalyn hated the growing darkness that wouldn't allow her to see his expression.

  "I suppose someone told you this myth."

  She stiffened. There was an edge to her voice as she replied, “It's not a myth. Callie told me, and she should know.” Did he truly not believe in love? The possibility caused her chest to ache. How could someone not believe in love? She watched it happen every day, knew it to be true. It saddened her to think some people didn't believe. It crushed her to think Chris might not believe.

  "Happy, was she?"

  Was he making fun of her? It certainly sounded like it. “If by she, you mean Callie, then the answer is yes. She and her husband were very happy."

  "Did you know her husband, too?"

  Rosalyn peered into the shadows, frustrated. His voice revealed nothing, but there was something ... something she couldn't put her finger on. “No. He died before I came to live with Callie, but she told me all about him. According to her, Henry treated her like a queen—even though she couldn't have children—” Was that a gasp she heard? Something was definitely queer here. “Chris, do you—did you know the Garrets?"

  His tight, “No,” alarmed her further.

  Unwisely, she scooted across the seat and placed her hand on his arm. She felt his muscles tense, then relax. The carriage passed beneath a gas lamp and for an instant she saw his expression. Pain, so raw and ugly it brought tears to her eyes.

  "Chris ... what's wrong? Why do you—"

  He smothered her words with his mouth, grinding his lips into hers until she whimpered. As he eased the pressure, the kiss became lighter yet deeper, tender yet more dangerous. He gripped her arms and pulled her closer. Rosalyn's hands crept to his neck and clasped there.

  Lord, but he could kiss—! she thought, melting against him, opening her mouth to his gentle nudging. Immediately, his tongue danced hot flames inside her mouth, then withdrew, leaving her aching for more. Strong arms lifted her onto his lap and settled her there. Rosalyn didn't resist.

  When he shoved his coat from her shoulders, she allowed it.

  When his hands moved from her waist to her breasts, she arched into them.

  When he moved them away, she moaned a protest, then quickly grew silent as she felt his hands at the nape of her neck, working at the buttons there.

  Lord, would she never stop him? A tiny, working part of her brain asked the question, and quickly dismissed it. They were in a carriage, he could do nothing—

  She screamed as a whiskered, hooded face appeared in the window of the carriage—inches from her head.

  "The lady gettin’ out, Mr. Brown? My wife's awaitin’ supper, I ‘magine. Besides, it's blowing heavy out here."

  Chris growled a curse that added to the heat in Rosalyn's face. “Hold your horses, man,” he snapped to the driver.

  "Ain't got but one."

  Rosalyn covered her mouth to stifle her laughter at the driver's cocky response and the look of surprise on Chris's face.

  "What are you laughing about?"

  Prudently, she sobered, moving from his
lap and reaching for the wet shawl on the floor of the carriage. “You. I couldn't help but laugh at you—the look on your face when Willis—"

  "Willis?"

  Rosalyn faltered at his sharp tone. “Y—yes, Willis, the driver—"

  "You know him?” He sounded incredulous.

  "Of course I know him. He's the cheapest rate of all the cabbies, you see.” When he didn't answer, Rosalyn picked his coat up and laid it across his lap, suddenly nervous. “Well, thanks again for the ride and all your help today.” What did a girl say to the man who weakened her knees and made her forget her name? A man who kissed her senseless, then growled at her for knowing the driver's name?

  Shaking her head, she opened the door and stepped out. Snow swirled against her face and into the carriage, nearly blinding her. She gasped as her foot sank into a thick, cold drift several inches deep. Worcester was in for a big one, she thought, carefully putting her other foot down.

  Before she could take another cautious step, Chris appeared before her, blocking the driving snow for a thankful moment. “Whew, it is snowing, isn't it?” She laughed up at him with the enjoyment of a child. “I love the snow."

  For an answer, Chris scooped her into his arms and carried her up the path to the door. Shocked into silence, Rosalyn gripped his arms, trying to hold on to the wet shawl at the same time. When he set her down on the relatively clear porch steps, she lifted her face, intending to thank him again.

  The words never came. He stared down at her, and through the furious whirling of the snow, Rosalyn recognized the raw desire in his eyes. It scared her. It elated her.

  It made her think foolish thoughts.

  She turned and fumbled with the door latch, cursing her frozen fingers. Nearly falling inside, she quickly slammed the door and leaned against it, breathing as hard as her corset would allow. Clearly, in her mind's eye, she saw his face again—hardened with lust, and not one trace of love.

  The alarming part was, she suspected she looked like a love-sick puppy.

  Lord, what was she going to do?

  Somewhere in the house, a door clicked shut. Rosalyn came to life, squaring her shoulders. Automatically, her hand crept to her neck in search of Miss Howland's precious pearls.