The Barefoot Bride (18 page)

Chickadee wrinkled her nose at the officer and let Saxon lead her away from the crowd. One woman in the group gathered her skirts away from her as if the mountain girl would contaminate them. Chickadee glared at the woman but refrained from comment. Khan, however, displayed his dislike by lifting his leg and spraying the woman's fine gown with his special scent as he passed her.

Saxon turned when the woman began blubbering hysterically. He saw the suspicious yellow stain on her ivory dress. With a tremendous sigh, he pulled out his money pouch yet another time and handed some money to her escort.

"Damn," he muttered as he ushered wolf and wife back to the carriage. "If I don't get the two of you home, the whole Blackwell fortune will be spent in one afternoon!"

Chickadee simmered in silence as they traveled to the estate, located in the lush countryside outside the city limits. When Saxon tried to soothe her, she threw her shoes at him. He soon gave up and turned his thoughts to what happened at the wharf.

His jaw tightened with the memory. "Damn," he muttered again. He was usually cautious in all his endeavors, anticipating possible problems and finding solutions for them before they even arose. His years with Blackwell Enterprises had taught him that.

"Damn," he muttered for the third time as he continued to ponder the situation. The excitement he'd felt about outsmarting Araminta and finding possible help for Desdemona had overwhelmed him to such a degree that he hadn't fully comprehended that he planned to move a mountain into the middle of a city. For though his barefoot bride was now Keely Blackwell, she was first and foremost Chickadee McBride.

That thought weighed heavily on his mind when the carriage turned at last into the long, elm-lined drive to the Blackwell mansion.

Chapter 9

The silent plea in Saxon's sapphire eyes roused Chickadee's anger. "Saxon, you didn't have no call to order me—"

"I'm sorry I was curt, but I wanted to prevent your arrest. You didn't want to go to jail, did you?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I'd jist break out."

"Keely, this is Boston," he said gently. "There are rules here, and there is a certain—"

"They ain't my rules, and I ain't gwine larn 'em. I cain't treason my values jist on account o' thur different'n the ones you-uns have. I done tole you ever'thang deserves respect, and that wolf killer back thar owed Khan a apology. I ain't no city lady, but I got my beliefs about the right way o' livin' and ain't no rule that's gwine change 'em."

Saxon knew she was right. She was who she was, and he had no right to chastise her. Besides, she had a point about standing up for her values, and he admired her for defending them. "I apologize," he said, his fingers whispering across her palm.

Satisfied, she settled into the soft cushions and watched him surreptitiously. He was antsy, she noted with a mental frown. Gone was all the heartease he'd only just begun to attain in the Blue Ridge: his eyes held a look she'd seen many times in hurt or defensive animals; he sat rigidly, as if relaxing would crack his body; and his slight smile was forced, as if he'd pulled it from his pocket and attached it to his face.

Following his line of vision, she saw the house and remembered this place held bad memories for him. Even as he watched it come nearer, a dreadful sadness was creeping across his finely sculpted face. The tension that shrouded him was almost tangible.

When the carriage came to a halt, one of the footmen opened the door, holding out his hand to assist Chickadee. She looked at his open palm. "Iffen it's money yore a-wantin', you best know I'm as poor as gully dirt, Mr. Carriage Man. Saxon's the one who was raised on a floored pen around here."

The footman grinned. "I only thought to aid you in alighting from the carriage, miss."

"Aid? You hear that, outlander? Respect's what this here feller's a-givin' me." She placed her slender, tanned hand in the footman's white glove and allowed him to help her from the coach. Khan bounded out after her, and with a shake of his head, Saxon too stepped out.

While he gave instructions to the footmen regarding Hagen's care, Chickadee stood gaping at the huge, white structure before her. The granite mansion stood on an eminence way above the level of the driveway. She counted eight Corinthian columns, and decided that number was probably needed to hold up the three-story monstrosity. The glistening windows that dotted the alabaster facade were covered with lacy wrought-iron grilles, and each story had its own balcony that extended the length of the house.

As she stared in disbelief, the awesome, whitewashed door slowly opened. A distinguished-looking man stood on the threshold, his hands, too, encased in snowy white gloves. "Mr. Blackwell." The name rolled off his tongue as if saying it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Welcome home, sir."

As Chickadee listened to his voice, the picture of a jagged rock bouncing down an equally jagged hillside came to mind. He was looking down that beak on his face as if it pained him sorely to see Saxon again. His black dot eyes were narrowed in contempt, and his thin, colorless lips were pinched so as not to utter any more gracious salutations than were necessary.

Saxon's head snapped toward the man. "Thatcher, how is Desdemona? She's here, isn't she?"

"Miss Desdemona," Thatcher said, and took a long, slow breath designed to irritate Saxon, "is as she always is. I believe her to be in her bedroom."

Saxon nodded and pointed to the baggage. Thatcher sniffed once before he proceeded down the marble steps. As he walked past Chickadee, she reached out and took hold of his arm. She might not be in love with Saxon, she mused, but she sure wasn't going to let anyone insult him! "Yore about as friendly as a bahr with a sore ass, feller. Maybe Saxon didn't notice it, or maybe he don't keer none, but I seed the way you looked at him."

Thatcher gave her a hard stare before he jerked his arm away from her and brushed the sleeve of his spotless coat. "If it's work you want, I must insist you use the servants' entrance. You may wait for me there, but it is highly doubtful that a woman of your... uh,
quality
will find employment here."

"Thatcher!" Saxon roared. "That woman is—"

"Yore a strut fart, mister," Chickadee said coolly, her simmering green eyes never leaving Thatcher's insulting black ones. "It contraried me the way you looked at my husband. You don't like him none, do you?"

"Your hus—" Thatcher looked at Saxon and then back at Chickadee. "You're
married
to Mr. Blackwell?"

"Reckon that's the onliest way he could be my husband."

When Saxon didn't deny what Chickadee said, Thatcher bowed his head. "My apologies to you both." With that, he straightened and went down the remaining steps. Grabbing the bags, he took them inside the house, pausing at the door to allow Chickadee and Saxon to enter.

Saxon took Chickadee's arm and led her inside. "Take the bags to my room, Thatcher, and see to it that a bath is made ready for my wife. Also, tell that little maid, Candice, that I will be up to see Desdemona shortly."

Thatcher nodded and began to close the door. But before it was shut, Khan wiggled his way through the narrow opening, yelping when Thatcher tried to kick him back outside. Saxon pushed the door wide open for the indignant wolf. "Khan will be allowed to roam as he pleases. If I ever hear of you mistreating him, you will answer to me."

"As you say, sir." Thatcher marched down the spacious, arch-divided entrance hall and scaled the spiral staircase.

Chickadee watched him go. "He walks so straight, it's like he's got a arrow rammed up his spine." She giggled and looked around her. "Saxon, I ain't never seed nothin' like this here house in all my days."

"You like it?"

"Didn't never say that."

"Don't you?"

"It's a mite big, ain't it? And what fer do you-uns need so many chars?" she asked, pointing to the sets of ladder-backed Chippendale chairs lining the hall. "And what are all them decorations up on the ceilin' fer? What do you-uns do? Lay on the floor and stare up at 'em fer fun?"

Ignoring his chuckle, she looked at the wall. "Paper on the dang walls. Iffen that don't beat all."

He regarded her with amusement. "It's called wallpaper."

"What genius come up with that name?" She crossed the floor to a gleaming Queen Anne drop-leaf table and picked up the delicate vase that sat on it, nearly dropping it when a screech suddenly shot through the foyer.

"Put that down immediately!"

In the archway of one of the doors opening into the foyer stood Araminta Blackwell, her pale blue eyes sparkling with disgust and anger. Her hands, their skin like parchment, were folded around the silver knob of her ebony cane, and her onyx brooch glittered as brightly as her eyes.

For one brief moment Saxon looked away from it, struggling with remembered horror.

"Saxon, I command you to get this person out of my house. I will not tolerate your fortune-hunting doxies here."

Chickadee a fortune hunter? The ridiculous accusation eased his tension, and he enjoyed a shiver of excitement. The moment had arrived. Smiling a lazy, mocking smile, he led Chickadee to his grandmother.

Araminta gasped when Khan sat down by her feet. The wolf looked up at her and began to pant, his spittle sluicing to the fine kid slippers that peeked out from beneath her black gown. Her gasp dwindled to a silent scream at the sight of his huge, wicked teeth. She backed away, her arm searching wildly for the door frame.

"Ain't no need to faint or nothin', Araminty," Chickadee assured the terror-stricken lady. "Khan wouldn't never hurt nobody lessen they asked fer it."

Struggling to regain her icy composure, Araminta straightened, but felt promptly infuriated by Saxon's taunting grin.

"Careful, Grandmother. If you do anything at all Khan could interpret as a threat, I assure you, you will regret your actions. Now, shall we converse over tea?" He tucked Chickadee's hand in the crook of his elbow, led her into the drawing room, and assisted her into a lemon-yellow satin chair. "And you, Khan. Over there," he said, pointing to the thick Oriental rug in front of the fire.

The wolf wagged his tail and ambled to the warm hearth. Once there, he lay down, rolled on his back, and with his feet up in the air, turned his head toward the doorway to watch Araminta enter.

She stepped in slowly, her precise movements designed to demonstrate her command of the mansion and everyone in it. She held her head high and pointed her cane regally at Chickadee. "You will remove yourself from this house immediately. And take that beast with you," she ordered, glancing at Khan.

Silence settled over the room. Araminta waited for her demands to be met, Chickadee sat openmouthed at the woman's rudeness, and Saxon, smiling broadly, tried to decide if
he
wanted to break the news to his grandmother or if he wanted to watch Chickadee do it.

Finally Chickadee arose and crossed gracefully to stand before the outraged woman. The wrinkles radiating from Araminta's nose in cobweb fashion made Chickadee think of a spider. Araminta the Spider Woman. Skinny enough to wash in a gun barrel and so ugly she'd probably gag a maggot.

She successfully controlled the bubble of laughter that tickled the back of her throat. What was it about this silly stick-woman that made Saxon so edgy?

And yore a-tryin' ter make me feather-legged too,
she told Araminta silently. "Got a case o' the uneases, Araminty? Come on over here and set a spell whilst I tell you all the gwines-on's." She took Araminta's arm.

"How dare you put your hands on me!" She raised her cane above Chickadee's head.

Khan became a white blur as he bounded toward has mistress. In one smooth motion, he leaped high into the air, caught the ebony cane between his teeth, and wrested it away from the terrified Araminta. When he landed, his ears were laid back flat, a low growl coming from his throat.

Chickadee sighed. "Araminty, I done tole you not to rile him. You cain't bang me over the head withouten Khan—"

"Saxon!" Araminta jerked her arm from Chickadee's grasp and started for her grandson. But before she'd made much progress, Chickadee grabbed her arm again, this time holding it with such force that the sleeve of Araminta's dress was torn from the bodice.

"Thatcher!" Araminta sputtered, clasping her scraggy hand over the rip. "Saxon!"

"Sit down, Grandmother," he said coolly. "Surely you're not forgetting your duties as hostess? The dress can be repaired later. Pour the tea." He sat in the chair beside Chickadee's, crossed his legs, and drummed his fingers on his knee.

Chickadee looked at the huge silver tea set. "I'll pour it, Araminty," she said, firmly leading the woman to the settee and pushing her down onto it. "You jist set thar, and I'll give you yore tea."

Araminta stared ahead blankly. "Saxon, if this is your attempt at humor, I assure you it is a most feeble one."

He heard the distress in her voice. Someone else might have interpreted it as defeat, but Saxon knew she was merely gathering her wits about her again.