The Barefoot Bride (24 page)

Wesley's condescending voice maddened Saxon. "I said she was, didn't I?"

Chickadee stood and reached for Wesley's hand, shaking it firmly and rapidly. "God-proud to meet you, Mr. Wesley. Been a-hankerin' to know Saxon's friends."

Wesley's mouth dropped open briefly, before his smiling lips found their way to the top of Chickadee's hand. "Call me Wesley, Mrs. Blackwell."

His kiss left her hand wet and her stomach upset. There was something about Wesley she didn't like. Still, if he was Saxon's friend, she guessed that made him hers too. "And you call me Chickadee. Draw up a char, Wesley. What with the air a-stirrin' cool out thar, I reckon you come in here to warm yoresef." She sat and looked up at Saxon, certain her friendliness with his friend made him happy.

But Saxon's face was anything but pleased. "Wesley, forgive our rudeness, but we were leaving when you came in. I've a lot of work to do tonight." He assisted Chickadee to her feet.

Wesley took a moment to study Chickadee's perfectly outlined form, her masculine attire revealing much more of her than a gown ever would have. He'd enjoyed trying to steal Saxon's women from him in the past, and the thought of seducing his
wife
gave him immeasurable satisfaction.

Saxon saw the look in Wesley's eyes and knew it well. "We'll see you soon, Wesley," he lied, having no intention whatsoever of allowing Wesley near Chickadee again.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he answered suggestively, his eyes still feasting on Chickadee. "I'd like to get to know this lovely bride of yours."

A shiver of warning swept through her at his blatant stare. This man was
not
Saxon's friend, she suddenly realized. No true friend would look at a man's wife in the way Wesley was looking at her. And the man was being so dang-blasted obvious about it too! Like he didn't care at all that his actions might upset Saxon!

"Y'know any painters, Wesley?" she asked sweetly.

"Why, yes. I know many of them. Does art interest you?" His gaze was still devouring her.

"Don't keer nary a jag about it. But tell you what, Wesley. You git one o' them painters, and I'll let him paint me fer you. Hell, I'll even pose buck-nekkid fer him. You can hang the paintin' on yore wall, and that way you can keep on a-starin' at me even when I ain't around."

Saxon gasped. "Keely!"

"Hold yore tater, Saxon. Wesley here's been a-peelin' my clothes off ever since he got here. 'Pears to me a paintin' would last a sight longer'n a short stare ever' now and then. You thank so too, Wesley?" She took a few steps toward him.

Wesley backed away. "I... uh," he stammered, his eyes begging Saxon to rescue him. "I didn't mean to stare at you. You misunderstood my look. It wasn't directed at you in any improper way whatsoever."

"I laid eyes on you fer the first time not more'n five minutes ago, you varmint, but it tuk you less time'n that to show yore true colors."

As she continued to advance upon Wesley, Saxon realized he'd never seen the man flustered. Wesley was cool and collected at all times. But now, faced with this cheeky little spitfire, probably the first woman ever to rebuff him, all his bravado had vanished. Saxon grinned broadly despite his dismay over Chickadee's behavior.

"I wouldn't trust you behind a broom straw, Wesley," Chickadee flared. "And I ain't a-lookin' to meet up with you agin!"

Aware everyone in the cafe was listening with rapt interest, Wesley's face reddened furiously. "B-Boston is a big city. We'll probably never meet again."

She continued to stalk him, Saxon right behind her. "Maybe not, but iffen we do, you'd best mem'ry I don't go to too many places withouten my shootin'-arn and my wolf. So lessen yore a-wantin' to know what it's like a-gittin' tarred up by a wolf or what lead feels like buried in yore—"

She never finished her threat. Wesley reached the door and bolted out of it, his gloves fluttering to the ground in his haste to escape. Normally, Chickadee would have gloated, but not this time.

She could feel Saxon's gaze boring into her back.

Without turning to face him, she squared her shoulders and walked out of the restaurant to the barouche, leaving him to pay for the meal.

"Don't say nothin', Saxon," she told him when he joined her inside the carriage. "I suspicion... I
suspect
yore riled, but I ain't gwine apologize fer nothin'."

"I wasn't going to ask you to."

She peered at him from beneath her lowered lashes. He didn't
look
angry. In fact, he was smiling that lazy, mocking grin she so loved.

"Wesley's had that coming for a long time."

"But you was a-fixin' to stop me."

"True," he admitted, reaching across the space between them to pull her over to his side. "And I still don't condone your behavior, but when I saw how upset Wesley was I couldn't help smiling. But Keely, you musn't make a habit of tearing into people like that. It's simply not done."

Her reply was a shrug of her shoulders, leaving him to wonder if she was agreeing with him or scoffing at him. He started to discuss the matter further but decided it would take more than one night to make her understand.

She directed her attention at the sights once more, soon noticing a dark, littered alley. "That's the torn-downedest place I ever laid my eyes on."

"The North End," Saxon said, his hold on her tightening. "It was once a nice residential area, but as the years passed, various mercantile industries began to take up more space. Eventually, many transient workers and sailors moved there, and the section became less desirable. Then when the potato famine hit Ireland, droves of Irishmen came to Boston, settling there in the North End. It's no more than a sordid slum now."

"Irish folks is bad?"

"You can't say a whole group of people is bad, Keely. I've nothing against the Irish, but many of them are bitter and hostile. They came here hoping for a better life, but most of them have failed at making much money. Large families live in one-room dwellings, and most are as poor here as they were in Ireland. I imagine that would make any man resentful."

Chickadee nodded thoughtfully as she watched a drunkard stagger down the sidewalk. "And thur prob'ly a-missin' thur homeland too, Saxon. They got here and had to git used to a whole different life. It's dang hard to do that."

He admired her intuitive wisdom but experienced a sharp pang when he realized she missed her own homeland. "Just the same, the North End is a dangerous place. But come, we've no need to discuss that. What are you going to do tomorrow while I'm at my office?"

"Got it all figgered out. I'm gwine take Desi fer a long walk, and her and me's gwine see what sorter mischief we can git inter."

He chuckled and kissed her impish mouth. When they were but a short distance from home, they passed a large, beautiful mansion, much like the Blackwell estate. "That's Ruford Sinclair's place," Saxon said. "He's Boston's answer to your Lareny Lester."

"Stingy buzzard, huh?"

"He has the most valuable art collection around, but he refuses to let anyone look at it." Saxon pointed to two upstairs windows in the mansion. "That room is always lit at night. It's where he has his paintings, and he sits in there for hours staring at his art."

"Why don't he want nobody to see it?"

"I guess it gives him malicious pleasure to know all those masterpieces are for his eyes only. He tells people all about them, but when he's asked to share them he laughs and refuses."

Chickadee stared at Ruford's lighted windows until they disappeared from view. A rumpus over paintings of landscapes, people, fruit, and maybe animals. Weren't
real
people, animals, fruits and scenery a sight prettier to see?

Strange people, these Boston folk.

*

Chickadee pulled Desdemona along, forcing the mute girl to quicken her pace. For over a week they'd taken long walks together, and during those brisk treks she refused to let Desdemona balk. She devoted constant, neverending attention to Desdemona, and her efforts were finally beginning to show results.

"Come on, Desi, you can walk faster'n that. I'm aimin' to figger outten jist how big this Blackwell estate is, and we ain't gwine git nowhars iffen you don't git a move on!" She sniffed at the air as they headed toward the wooded area behind the mansion. "Winter ain't too fur away. Ain't gwine be long afore this here place'll be white with snow. You ever been a-sleddin'? You-uns even got sleds?"

Desdemona didn't answer, but she perked up at the mention of sledding.

Chickadee stopped and adjusted Desdemona's cloak. "Don't reckon nobody never takes you a-sleddin', do they, sweet thang? Well, don't you worry none. I'll take you. Hell, I'll even make you the God-burnin'est best sled you ever laid eyes on. All's we need is a good tree and some sharp tools. Reckon you could hep me find them thangs?"

To Chickadee's great delight, Desdemona nodded vigorously and pointed to the forest. And then Chickadee's delight turned into a burst of laughter.

Desdemona was smiling. Spreading from ear to ear, it was her first smile in years.

"Well looky thar!" Chickadee exclaimed. "A smile! I jist knowed you could do it!" She hugged Desdemona tightly.

From the drawing room window of the mansion, Eugenia Preston watched the two girls scamper into the woods. "My, my. I'm sorry I didn't arrive before your new granddaughter-in-law went for her walk, Araminta. I would like to meet the girl who makes Desdemona smile."

Araminta clutched her onyx brooch. "Smile?"

Eugenia turned from the window. "Smile. Desdemona just smiled over something Saxon's new wife said to her."

Araminta attempted to look pleased but failed.

"You must be overjoyed your granddaughter is showing such signs of improvement," Eugenia said slyly. "A smile isn't much, but it is surely the beginning. Desdemona is not insane at all, is she?" She regarded Araminta carefully.

"Insane?" Araminta's color heightened. "Why, whoever said she was?"

Eugenia raised a slate-gray brow. "How pleased you must be with Saxon's bride. She seems to be a most unusual girl from what little I've seen of her, but in only a short while, she's succeeded in doing what no one else has been able to do. She's broken through Desdemona's reserve, and for that, I'm sure you must be overwhelmingly grateful."

"Grateful," Araminta muttered. The preparations for Desdemona's departure to the asylum had been completed, and the brainless chit was to have left in the morning! But now Eugenia Preston herself had noticed the subtle changes Chickadee had wrought in Desdemona—one ridiculous smile... Now there was no way on earth Araminta could send her to the asylum.

How was she going to force Saxon to get rid of Chickadee now? Araminta's blood pelting through her scrawny veins. A curse on that redheaded heathen! A curse that would banish the mountain girl from the face of the earth!

A curse that would not be long coming, if Araminty had her way...

Chapter 13

As Saxon stepped down the staircase, he dwelled on the memory of the shy smile Desdemona had given him earlier that morning. She'd smiled every day for the past week. Those timid grins were thrilling things to see, and they were also proof Araminta could no longer threaten him with the asylum. With that worry gone, there was little with which she could torment him.

And because she'd lost the means she had to
force
him to stay with Blackwell Enterprises, he'd decided to stay with the company of which he was so proud. It was just as he suspected it would be. Remaining with Blackwell Enterprises because
he
chose to do so made all the difference. Life was looking up. Everything was almost perfect.

Almost. There was still that shivery, somewhat exhilarating emotion he experienced whenever he thought of Chickadee. It bothered him no end that she could make him feel that way without his consent.

He pondered the years during which Araminta had control over him, power over everything except his emotions. His private feelings and the fact they were his alone had been his sole comfort as he'd grown to manhood.

And now, just when he'd wrested so much back from Araminta, Chickadee had somehow taken command of the only things that were truly his: his emotions. Dammit! Would his life ever be entirely his own?

Chickadee. He slowed as he thought of her. He could still feel the warmth of her kiss as she bid him goodbye just minutes ago. He could even still smell the spicy scent of the sassafrass tea she brewed in the fireplace of their bedroom.

He was going to miss her. No matter how angry it made him to admit that, it was nevertheless true. He was going to miss her, because soon she'd be gone.

His detectives had located Barton Winslow in New York. Saxon hadn't begun the man's ruination yet, but he knew exactly how he'd do it. He had yet to tell Chickadee the news, but knew it wasn't fair to keep it from her.

He reached the bottom of the staircase and gripped the railing tightly. After he told her about her father, how long would it be before she left? Would she stay to see the man's downfall, or would she leave immediately, trusting Saxon to keep his end of the bargain?