His Yankee Bride (2 page)

Carolina's feet moved to the steps in time, which was a miracle considering the chills skating down her spine at those words, and she continued to hum to cover up her sudden discomfort that had little to do with being held so tightly. The last time Myron—or anyone for that matter—had voiced those exact words, they were soon followed by an offer of marriage. “Not now, Myron,” she said between hums and then resumed as he led her down the aisle created by the other couples.

“We'll talk later,” he said, relinquishing her hand.

Their spot was in the middle of the two lines, and at least eight other couples had to pass between them to form the lines before they'd have to clutch hands and finish the reel. It wasn't much time, but it would be long enough to form a plan of escape for when the dance ended.

Holding her red skirt between her fingers and mindlessly doing the steps, Carolina searched the ballroom for a gentleman who'd be able to save her from having to deflect another proposal.

Ernie Michaels and Barry Truitt stood by the door. She scowled. Neither of them would work. Ernie hedged on the side of simpleminded. Myron wouldn't believe Carolina had an interest in speaking to him, and Barry was set to marry Myron's sister Lucy in a month. A couple passed in front of her, and Carolina shifted her gaze to the far wall where a cluster of seven eligible bachelors stood together drinking punch.

Drunkard.

Old enough to be her father.

Seemed to still think the country was at war due to his never-ending talk of Valley Forge.

Handsome, but she'd once seen him go off into the bushes with Martha Palmer. Three weeks later, Martha decided to go stay a while on her cousin's plantation...

Dullard.

Charming, but smelled horribly of tobacco from his habit of continuously overindulging in the product while in public, which he felt was appropriate due to his ancestors having been tobacco farmers from Virginia.

Had attempted two proposals—both of which she'd dodged in the same manner she was attempting now.

She sighed and turned her attention to the back corner of the room. There were only two more couples to come through the line, so she'd better make a decision and quick.

Shorter than her—which was astonishing since she was only five foot two—balding, and had the strangest fascination with discussing everything he ate along with the aftertaste it left in his mouth following the meal.

Handsome, but was extremely condescending and cruel toward those he felt were inferior.

Ah, Donald O'Leary. He had unusual speaking patterns and, like most gentlemen she'd met, talked overmuch about the plantation he one day longed to own; but compared to her other choices, he'd do just fine.

The last couple passed in front of them, and with no warning whatsoever, Myron's strong hands found her again and started leading her in the final steps. He pulled her closer than was proper, crushing her breasts against his chest.

A slow sense of unease washed over Carolina. She hated it when her partners did this. Did they think she didn't know they did it on purpose?

Yes, awkward Donald O'Leary would certainly suffice as her next dancing companion if it meant getting away from Myron and his unwanted attentions.

“Lina, would you care to join me on the balcony?” Myron asked as soon as the music stopped.

Carolina flashed him her best attempt at a smile, considering that he was still holding her in a way that pressed her breasts against his equally soft chest and had her looking straight up into his red-tipped nose when she tried to meet his eyes. “How about another time? I need to ask Mr. O'Leary a question, and I'd like to speak to him before all the other young ladies flock over to him.”

Myron snorted. “Surely, whatever it is you have to say to the Irishman can wait. This will only take a moment.”

Maybe a moment to him, but to her it would seem like a lifetime as he praised her brown hair and matching eyes, then went on to say how lovely her daughters would be with her delicate features and perfect smile. Then, he'd take her hands into his and squeeze them until she’d think her fingers might break while he’d compliment her flawless manners and would blush and tell her that she was far more intelligent than he, which would be a point in the favor of any child she bore. And then, just as the uncomfortable pressure surrounding her was about to choke the air from her lungs, he'd ask if she thought...that is...if she could accept a lumbering oaf like him as a husband. Then those beautiful, intelligent children could be theirs together.

At least that's what would happen if history repeated itself. After having two proposals by three other men, she was quite convinced history did, in fact, repeat itself; but only if allowed. And Carolina, for all the charm and manners a young lady of her station was thought to have, did not want a repeat of that particular history lesson.

“No, Myron, I really need to ask him something now. It's important.”

He raised a brow.

“It's about my brother,” she continued, inwardly congratulating herself for her quick thinking. “I wanted to ask if Mr. O'Leary has seen any letters from him.” Though she doubted he had. Her brother had left to join the war seven years ago and that was the last time her family had seen or heard of him.

“Wouldn't he have delivered them to your house?” Myron hedged.

Carolina shook her head wildly. “Oh no, not at all. The post is still being delivered out to the plantation where my father is staying.”

He nodded once then sighed. “Oh, all right.” He released her and wagged his finger in her face. “Just don't you be forgettin' I have somethin' I want to talk to you about.”

“I won't,” she murmured, walking as quickly as she could to get away from him without it looking obvious.

He really wasn't a bad sort; he just wasn't
her
sort.

“Mr. O'Leary,” Carolina greeted with her best smile as she approached Donald O'Leary.

He stood with his arms crossed and his shoulders leaning against the wall. Upon her arrival, his green eyes lit and a small smile tugged at his lips. “Aye?”

“I was wondering if you'd seen any letters from my brother come through the post.”

“Nay. Me's not seen nothin' of the sort, Miss Lina.”

Carolina bit her lip and nodded.

He reached out and clucked her on the chin with his thick callused fingers. “Ye donna be worrin' now, ye hear. He'll be back soon 'nuff, I spect.”

“Thank you, Mr. O'Leary.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw Myron's keen eyes on her. Carolina turned back to Mr. O'Leary and cut her eyes at him.

Nothing.

She batted her lashes at him, praying he'd understand her silent plea and ask her to dance the next reel with him to save her from a trip to the balcony with Myron.

Nothing.

The idle strums of the banjars started, indicating the beginning of the next dance. If Mr. O'Leary didn't do something fast, she'd have to resort to bold tactics and lead him onto the dance floor herself.

Just then, the soft ring of a plucked banjar string grew silent, as did the rest of the room.

“Are you
British
?” Hubert Brown, the son of the host and hostess of the ball, demanded loudly in a voice that dripped with disdain.

All eyes in the room flew to the stranger who'd just walked in. He was tall and blond with a small patch of reddish-brown whiskers. His clothes were just as unkempt as his hair with various shades and sizes of stains covering the torn garments he wore.

Though several of the men present wore shabby garments that rivaled this fellow's, not a one of them had the same confident air about him that, in the span of a second, had captivated Carolina's full attention.

“'Fraid so,” the stranger said in the thickest English accent Carolina had ever heard.

Around the room, low grumbles, muttered curses, and even
spitting
could be heard.

“And just what do you think you're doing at a ball held in celebration for the men who served our country to defeat yours?” Hubert asked with a snarl.

The uninvited stranger, who actually looked rather dashing in a rugged and mysterious sort of way, tipped his left shoulder up in a casual shrug. “I thought I'd come tonight to represent what the Redcoats looked like after getting our arses whipped by you Yankees.”

~Chapter Three~

The tension drained from John's body as the hostile crowd around him evaporated into loud, unbridled laughter at his half-hearted jest.

Thank goodness.

Had the arrogant man to his left not mentioned something about a celebration to the Colonial Militia, he wouldn't have had a clue what he'd have said to divert the attention from himself. After more than a year in the northeast, he'd learned hostilities toward the English were still common. He'd also heard southerners were far more outspoken about such, which didn't speak much for John's common sense when he agreed to travel with his friend Gabriel to South Carolina to experience a different type of American culture.

The arrogant man with the oversized nose standing next to him slapped him on the back. “Very good, then. Enjoy your night.”

John nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

In a moment or two, the crowd went back to talking and the musicians played the beginning notes of another reel. Heedless to the odd looks he was receiving, John made his way to the corner to search for his friend Gabriel, who had said he'd be here tonight.

Around him, the music grew louder and the gentlemen, who were dressed little better than he, twirled the beautifully dressed ladies around the floor. Odd. Not odd that they were dancing, that was normal enough, he supposed. But, of the few local assemblies he'd attended in England before coming here—and even the handful of balls he'd been to in Boston and Philadelphia—no gentlemen would dress in such a way. He shook his head. His brother Edward with his unbridled love for biological science would love to visit, because there was no doubt about it, this was a whole different breed of humans who inhabited these parts.

“Ooh, excuse me,” murmured a petite young lady wearing a crimson gown.

John stepped back to let her pass. “Pardon me, miss.”

She didn't move, just stood right there no more than half a step away. She looked at him with the darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen. But for the life of him, he couldn't understand why she just stood there staring.

“Am I keeping you from something?” he inquired, taking another step back so she could get through without touching his dirty breeches with the skirt of her pretty gown.

“Someone,” she said with a slight smile, her eyes shone with all sorts of mischief—the very thing he wanted no part of. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and gave her head a slight shake to the left.

John's eyes traveled in the direction she'd indicated. A decent looking gentleman with a blue shirt and buff trousers stood against the wall with his arms crossed and what appeared to be a scowl on his face. “Are you telling me you'd prefer a Redcoat's company to his?” he asked, lifting his brows.

His new companion licked her pink lips and whispered, “He wants to propose to me.”

“And you don't want him to?”

“Would you want him to?” she retorted.

“No. But that might be because I'm not a lady.”

She sighed. “Believe me, even to a lady, he holds no real appeal.”

“Why not?” John forced an overdone frown. “He doesn't seem so bad. A bit gruff, perhaps.”

“A bit gruff doesn't begin to describe it. Every time we dance, I end up with two hand-shaped bruises and a limp for a week.”

“Have you danced with him already tonight?”

“Yes,” she said, scowling.

“Pity, I thought to ask for your next dance. But now that I know you're bruised—” he shrugged— “I'll have to find another young lady to dance the next set with me.”

She flushed the brightest red he'd ever seen. “I'm sure I can put on a brave face for you,” she said, peeking up at him from under her lashes.

He shook his head. It didn't take a gentleman who'd survived a decade—or even two weeks—on the Marriage Mart in London to see she was hedging for an invitation to dance. Perhaps after he gave her a spin around the floor, she'd go find another gentleman to use in her mission to avoid the lovesick fool in the corner and leave him be.

Together, the pair waited for this song to end and the next to start. This brazen creature stood closer to him than most would consider proper, John noted as he began scanning the room for Gabriel again.

“Oh, they're starting the next reel. Let's go,” she said, grabbing his hand.

John's gaze shot to their entwined hands. Hers was small and delicate, covered with a long, white lacy glove, while his was cut up and dirty from a hard day of work at the mill. He tried not to scowl at her or pull his hand from hers, but inwardly he cringed. It was ladies like her, the ones who were too forward and played loose with their affections, who made fools of their husbands.

He sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that after this dance, he'd be free of her and her scandalous behavior.

John made his way to the center of the floor with her and nearly groaned when he recognized the piece as a slower song, one that didn't allow for changing partners or even a temporary separation from the dancer’s original partner.

The piano player began with a slow minuet, and instinctively, John moved his feet to those familiar steps he'd been made to practice as a boy.

“Why were you exiled?”

John snapped his eyes down toward the boldness-in-a-skirt who was his dance partner. “I wasn't,” he said slowly. He twirled her and then brought her back against him. “Why would you think that?”

She flashed him a smile that nearly stole his breath away. She might be bold, but she was certainly beautiful, too. “I just assumed, that's all. I haven't seen too many English around since the end of the war. I didn't think any would come here, unless they found themselves in a condition at home which was worse than the hatred they'd find here.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. Fortunately, in the northern cities he'd visited, nobody had questioned his loyalties or where he'd come from and why. He'd assumed that was because his accent was similar to theirs, thus they hadn't noticed the difference in his speech as the folks of Charleston had. “But, no, I am not living out the rest of my days in exile.”

“Then why did you come?”

He shrugged. She couldn't possibly begin to understand the heavy weight he'd felt concerning his life and having had it all planned out since the day he was born. Nor did he really wish to tell her. “My brother suggested I come.”

“Has he been here?”

“Not the one who suggested I come. But two of my other brothers have, and both of them returned dressed identically to how I look tonight,” he said with a quick grin.

Her cheery laughter filled the air and an uninvited tendril of desire coiled in his gut. “Did they fight in the Revolution?”

“You mean the Rebellion?” He winked at her when she misstepped. “Yes.”

“I'm sorry,” she murmured.

He heaved an exaggerated sighed. “I suppose I'll have to forgive you. But just don't shoot Jarred in the backside again, please.”

Her brown eyes grew to the size of his sister-in-law's favorite tea saucers, just as he'd hoped they would. If she thought to play the role of cosmopolite by boldly pressing him for an invitation to dance and going so far as to stand close and touch his person, then he'd play right along with her and adopt Edward's tendency to say whatever scandalous thing came to mind for the sole purpose of shocking her.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

“Two of my brothers, Thomas and Jarred, came to fight in your revolution,” he said, hating the way that word tasted bitter on his tongue. At least his brothers had returned home, he reminded himself. Beaten and weary, they may be, but at least they'd returned. “They returned, but not without their share of injuries. One was the result of Jarred taking a musket ball in the derriere.”

She choked on her laughter. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am,” he said flatly. Did she truly find that humorous? There went his attempt to scandalize her into leaving him alone. Not that he should have actually expected it to work. His words were evidently too mild for a forward young lady like this one. “Still there, too,” he continued. “The physician who came to Watson Estate said it was in there so deep that it'd be best to leave it.”

Her face shone with laughter—or perhaps that was the candles' reflection off her damp cheeks, where tears, presumably borne of laughter, had streamed down her face. She blinked her eyes and sniffled once. “Watson Estate? Is that the name of your...your...whatever you call it back in England.”

“My home?”

She made a show of rolling her eyes. “Yes, I assumed that; but here our large pieces of land are called plantations because we grow crops on them. I didn't know what you called them there.”

“Ah, nothing so fancy, I'm afraid,” he said with a casual shrug. “Watson Estate is just the house and land that's positioned at the seat of my brother's barony.”

Her eyes widened again as he knew they would. “Your brother is a land baron?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, he's a baron. But you're too late; he's already married.”

She knit her brows as if she didn't understand his jest and then forced a thin smile.

“You do know what a baron is, don't you?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, blushing.

John shook his head. She very clearly didn't know a thing about English titles. Not that it mattered. Most people his age who he'd met here didn't. A few did, but mostly only those who had immigrated here as children. It would seem in their hurry to form a new world, things such as class and peerage were abandoned and not missed.

“What are your reasons?”

She blinked at him. “Pardon me?”

“Since my dancing with you is keeping you from Goliath’s proposal, I think I should at least get to know your reasons for wishing to evade it.”

“Other than him being as tall as a tree and as rough as its bark?”

He nodded.

“It's not him, necessarily...” She shrugged. “The problem is more that I've told him no before. He just keeps asking, and I hate to see that sad look come over his face and know I caused it.”

“I see,” John said, though he didn't see at all. Why would a gentleman ask the same lady more than once to marry him? She was attractive, to be sure, but who wished to subject himself to rejection twice?

A soft humming that went in time with the music floated to his ears. Without even needing to look to confirm it, he knew whence the merry sound was coming. At least it was better than her talking or flashing him her smile, he told himself. This way, he could force himself to stare at something—
anything
—other than her in order to keep himself distracted and not seem rude.

He danced her around the room in companionable silence until the music came to an end with a grand ringing crescendo.

Relief washed over him like a seaquake. This young lady was extraordinarily beautiful to behold, but she was not for him, and the sooner he could get away from her, the better off he'd be. He offered her his arm like the proper gentleman he'd been brought up to be, then led her to where a little cluster of older women had congregated.

“You're a wonderful dancer,” his former dance partner said without showing a sign of releasing his arm.

He stared at her. What was her game? Did she think if she held onto him and complimented his dancing that he'd agree to keep her company for the rest of the evening so she could escape her lovesick suitor? If so, she was about to be sorely disappointed. He had no desire to be used tonight. He just wanted to find his friend then go back to his rented room and sleep. Dancing with an attractive but shameless young lady was not a priority.

Apparently, according to both this young lady and fate, his plans were unimportant at the moment.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, trying to remove her hand from his arm without being too obvious.

Her grip tightened and she flashed him a smile. “Don't worry; I shan't expect you to dance again so soon. How about I introduce you to everyone?”

He didn't want her to show him around. He'd scanned the crowds as they'd danced. Gabriel wasn't here. He needed to leave so he could find the man, not chat it up with a room of southern aristocrats who hated him on principle alone.

“Come, I'll introduce you to my mother.”

John bit his tongue so he didn’t say something unkind. “Miss—” He frowned. He didn't even know her name! A slow smile spread his lips. “Lead the way.”

She eyed him askance, and he averted his eyes. While he had no strong urge to meet her mother, he was rather curious how this quick to action, but not so quick to thinking, miss would introduce him to her mother given that they hadn't even been properly introduced.

Suddenly, something hard and forceful landed on John's shoulder.

John spun around and met the large green eyes of the man from the corner.

“I believe 'tis my turn with the lady,” he sneered; his distaste for an Englishman escorting his desired lady evident.

John glanced at the lady in question and watched her visibly swallow. A kernel of pity took root somewhere within him, and he instinctively reached for her hand again and mindlessly placed it back on his arm, then covered it with his free hand. “I believe she's still spending time with me,” he said smoothly.