Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2) (9 page)

His breath blew warm against her skin an instant before his mouth touched hers.

He didn’t force her lips apart, or grind his teeth against the tender flesh, as she anticipated. He cradled her head with his hands, moving his fingers in soothing circles on her scalp as he brushed feather-light kisses over her mouth, leaving her lips tingling and her body aching. With her senses fully engaged, her mind was too busy to dwell on fear.

Gradually, he increased the lush pressure until it felt so good the ache became impossible to ignore. She tilted her head at his tender lead, letting him coax her into deepening the kiss. That felt better, though it didn’t relieve the ache. Not entirely. If she could get closer perhaps that would help.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she threaded her fingers through his hair. Soft, like her favorite cashmere shawl. She drowned in a sensual flood of taste and texture, swaying against him, her desire increasing as he worked magic with his mouth and fingers. Trailing kisses down her neck, he caressed her shoulders, arms and back, touching her with a kind of careful reverence reserved for fragile objects.

Overcome by his gentle invasion, her defenses crumbled. Strangely enough, she didn’t care because she didn’t want to keep him out, her unlikely knight. With resolute tenderness, he cut away the thorns surrounding her heart. Hurtful memories gave way to something stronger than fear and more powerful than despair. Whatever this feeling, it was exquisite, like nothing she’d ever experienced.

His hand slid up the side of her ribcage and he shaped the underside of her breast, held up by the corset. Her nipples stiffened, her skin grew warm, her chest compressed. The tightness could be on account of the special corset, which she wore to give the illusion of fuller breasts. She half expected him to point out the deception. Again, he surprised her, touching her like she’d offered him something rare and precious.

She trembled with apprehension, excitement, and, astonishingly, eagerness.

His questing fingers drew the scooping neckline lower.

Surprise jolted through her. Strong enough to startle her out of the seductive stupor. With a gasp, she jerked away. Her hand flew to her lips, still damp and swollen from his kisses.

How had this happened? She hardly knew the man, yet she’d been eager to give herself to him, had behaved like a harlot. That must be what he assumed when he encountered no resistance. Even knowing better, she still longed for his touch.

Shame flooded her face. She caught a sharp breath on a sob.

He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. When he reached for her, she backed away, another whimper escaping. His expression changed from dazed to remorse. He dropped his hand. “
Stóirín
, don’t be fearing me. I’d ne’r harm a hair on yer head. I only want to take care of you, protect you...if you’ll let me.”

His brogue thickened and he called her by a name she didn’t understand. Who was this man she’d let kiss and fondle her? Her father had scorned the Irish for their uneven temperament. Her mother had dubbed them slothful. Patrick didn’t fit the image of the drunken, lazy Finn depicted by apish caricatures in the newspapers. But what did she know about him, really? She knew nothing, other than the fact that she’d fallen victim to his seduction.

Simon had ruined her. This Irish charmer had the power to turn her into a whore.

Confusion rattled her wits.

“Please...please leave....” Her plea came out in a high, wavering voice she didn’t recognize. She dredged up courage and managed to address him in a calm, remote tone. “I need to get ready for the show tonight. If you’d be so kind as to leave so I can have some privacy.”

He hesitated, and then heaved a sigh. “All right, I’ll go. We haven’t got time for a long discussion now anyway. But later, we’ll be having a talk.”

Her fear spiked. The very idea! Having a conversation about her inexcusable lapse of judgment. He had to be mad.

She moved another step away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

His features hardened in a look of pure determination. “Yes, there is. I mean to marry you, Charm.”

––––––––

L
aughter echoed off the walls of the saloon as Charm strutted across the stage in an oversized frock coat. “Come now, gentlemen. Take a good look at these fine ladies....” She whipped off a silk top hat with a sign tucked into the band that read
Official Matchmaker
, and motioned to twelve male volunteers who’d joined her on the stage, dressed in wigs and lacy shawls. Tablecloths had become skirts.

One of the “brides” pointed the toe of his boot and twisted his hips while fluttering his eyelashes. The audience responded with hoots and catcalls. Charm smacked his arm and waved her finger in his face, scolding him for flirting.

Patrick remained on guard from his position at the edge of the stage, keeping an eye on the rowdy crowd, at the same time trying to watch the hilarious performance. He’d hired a bartender and two working girls to take care of serving customers so he could focus on protecting Charm, not trusting anyone else with her safety.

Her antics had the crowd mesmerized. No one would guess she’d been so upset earlier she had stayed locked in her dressing room until time for her debut. He had managed to get her to take a bowl of stew, but she wouldn’t let him in. Fine. He would wait until after the show to secure her agreement to marry him.

She took long swinging strides across the stage, aping the railroad agent’s mannerisms right down to the unfriendly glower. Spinning around, she projected her voice over the laughter. “You won’t find women like these anywhere in the territory...”

That was a sure bet, she couldn’t have selected a homelier bunch.

“As agent for the railroad, I have the responsibility of seeing these ladies married off tonight. They can cook, sew, plant a garden, dig a well...” She counted each trait on her fingers. “And plow your fields!”

Howling laughter erupted.

“I’ll plow your field,” hollered an inebriated settler near the front.

Patrick tightened his grip on the baseball bat in case any of the men got too excited. With a bat, he could take down three attackers in less time than it took to cock the hammer on a revolver after dispatching one bullet. He wouldn’t kill his customers, just crack a few heads.

Charm didn’t act like she’d heard the coarse remark. She caught one of the volunteers by the arm and pulled him to the front of the stage. “I hear this lovely lass can skin buffalo!”

Bob Scritchfield, better known as Buffalo Bob, grinned, displaying a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. His wig sat askew and golden curls dangled over a thick black beard covering most of his face. “Skin yer own dang buffalo,” he bellowed.

She raised her hands high. “Do any of you fine gentlemen want one of our brides?”

“Yes!” the men in the audience roared.

Charm whipped up the crowd better than a traveling evangelist peddling salvation.

“Well, boys, here’s all you gotta do.” Settling the hat on her head, she marched over to a small chest on a table at the side of the stage and gathered a handful of newspaper clippings cut to resemble greenbacks. “Pay the railroad LOTS of money!”

Laughter turned to loud booing.

Patrick watched, amused. She pranced over to where he stood and lifted the bundle high. Fake money rained down on him. “Mr. O’Shea doesn’t want one of our brides. He wants a performer to bring him riches.”

Cheeky monkey. She rubbed his nose in his own words...more or less. He’d never said anything about riches, and had made it perfectly clear how much he wanted to marry her. Something he intended to settle later tonight.

“Do I get my pick?” yelled a man at the back of the crowd.

“I’ll take the railroad agent!” Arch Childers waved at Charm. The bootlegger must not value his skin.

Patrick tapped the bat against his palm in warning. He didn’t experience the mad rush of jealousy because now he knew Charm had a weakness for him. Her prancing and posturing on stage was an act. The way she responded to his kiss, that wasn’t an act. Although it appeared to surprise her, based on how flustered she got—right before she threw him out of her room.

He wouldn’t regret kissing her, but he should’ve waited until after the performance and proposed to her first. Discovering their mutual attraction had given him the courage he needed to ask for her hand. Well, he hadn’t asked, exactly. He’d informed her that he intended to marry her. After the show, he would ask properly. They could be wed before the next night’s performance and he would make an announcement. That would put an end to any ideas these horny settlers had, including Arch Childers.

After the bride lottery skit, Charm ducked behind a canvas curtain hung across the back of the stage. When she reemerged, she’d shed the coat and hat. She sat on a chair, arranged the skirt of her pretty red grown, strummed her banjo and began to sing.

The room quieted down at the mournful ballad. The lyrics were silly, something about a sailor and a mermaid, but she sang it with such heartfelt emotion he got choked up.

McLaughlin lurched out of his seat and staggered toward the stage. “M’god, she’s fizzing!”

Patrick planted his hand on front of the man’s shoulder. “She’s brilliant, I agree. Now take your seat. No one’s allowed near the stage.”

“But I can’t see her from over there.” McLaughlin blinked, bleary-eyed.

“You won’t see any better from up here.”

“Tell ya what, I’ll protect her and you go sit down.” McLaughlin draped his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and leaned in, whispering loudly. “Gonna ask her to marry me.”

The man stank to high heaven. Only a sow would accept his suit.

“She’s already spoken for...” Patrick unwound McLaughlin’s arm and pushed him away.

“Who’s the lucky fellow?”

“Me.”

McLaughlin’s eyes got big. Then a laugh burst out of him. “Oh, I get it. That’s a joke...”

“It’s not a joke.” Patrick raised the bat.

The obnoxious drunk held up his hands, still laughing, and reeled away in the direction of his seat.

Patrick noticed none of the other men paid the disturbance any mind, being too engrossed in Charm’s performance. Good thing he hadn’t put up those ropes. If Charm had been swinging overhead, tempting these coyotes with her lacy petticoats and pretty ankles, he would’ve gone into a foam-mouthed fit and killed every man in the room.

The banjo twanged. Her voice lifted over the shouts from the crowd as she launched into
An Irish Volunteer
. She’d leapt into his arms the last time she sang it. He wouldn’t mind it if she did that again.

She marched in place, her multicolored petticoats flashing from beneath the hem of her skirt. The red silk dress gleamed in the light of two-dozen candles lining the front of the stage. When he could afford it, he’d bathe her in limelight. She glowed with exuberance, even brighter than the lights. This brightness came from inside, and she projected it into the far corners of the room, banishing the darkness. So beautiful and talented, and to think, she would soon be his wife.

He willed her to look at him so he could offer her a proud smile.

Her gaze dropped and their eyes met. She stepped out of beat...paused, her face reddening...and then went right back to strumming her banjo, establishing the rhythm once more. No one appeared to notice. They went right on shouting and singing along.

Patrick returned his attention to the rowdy crowd. He resisted the temptation to smile—not because she’d stumbled, he felt bad about that—because he was the only man in the room who was able to rattle her. Her flustered reaction he took as a good sign.

After the show came to an end, he herded the crowd out the door, including men who had to be assisted or carried away. He paid the bartender and the two working girls he’d hired to help serve drinks. If the whores plied their trade afterwards, it was none of his business. But they weren’t allowed to entertain customers upstairs, especially now that Charm lived here.

She had exited through the crowd, throwing kisses, bidding the men
adieu
, and disappeared through the rear door on her way up to her dressing room.

Patrick’s anticipation had reached a fever pitch by the time he placed the bar over the front door and followed her upstairs with a bottle and two glasses in his hands. He’d managed to obtain a bottle of French Cognac and wanted to offer her a congratulatory drink before he went down on one knee.

He knocked on her door, and waited.

“Charm?” He knocked again.

She might be in bed. She’d been through a lot. Evicted and kissed, all in the same day. Ironic, how things turned out for the best. She’d come to him with her defenses down, needing him. He would take good care of her.

He twisted the knob. The door wouldn’t budge. Had she bolted it to keep others out—or just him?  Growing uneasy, he knocked harder. “Are you awake? I’ve got a surprise...a nice one. Something you’ll like.”

She had to be dead to the world, or she wanted him to think so.

Patrick put his ear to the door. Only gossipy biddies snooped at doors, but he’d already done things he never thought he would do where Charm was concerned. Asking her to marry him, for one. He couldn’t hear anything. Not even the sound of breathing by the door.

She had to be sleeping, not ignoring him.

He straightened and released a disappointed sigh. He could understand why she’d collapse after that exhausting performance, it wasn’t the thought of marrying him that sent her running. At least, that’s what he’d keep telling himself until he saw her again in the morning.

***

D
aylight flooded the room when Charm finally crawled out of bed. She threw the sheets and blanket over the petticoats she’d stripped off the night before. Her dresses and undergarments were strewn about the room. She sighed, too tired to pick them up.

Fatigue had pulled her into a deep sleep shortly before dawn. Long after Mr. O’Shea had given up on having their “talk.” After demonstrating he could easily seduce her, he’d calmly informed her he intended to marry her only a few hours before she had to go onstage. By some miracle, she’d gathered her scattered wits and performed. Only stumbling once, when she caught the devilish charmer watching her with a possessive look in his eyes.