The Scoundrel's Bride (22 page)

Zach sat back in his chair. “Knowing how to cook is way down on your list of need-to’s. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to know how to do everything. Even I don’t know some things. I can’t sail a boat, for instance.”

“Earlier you said you could do anything,” she said in a dry tone.

“Well, I li—” He frowned. “I’m not falling into that trap again. The point is, up until now you haven’t had much need for cooking skills. Now that you do, you can learn.” He took a long sip of milk. “I’ve heard Eulalie Peabody knows her way around a kitchen. I’m certain that after I’ve taught you what I know, she can finish the job. You’re a quick learner, angel. You’ll do just fine.”

Morality laid down her fork. “If what you’re saying is true—and I’m not necessarily agreeing that it is—then why should I need to learn to cook at this particular moment in my life?”

Here goes nothing
. “Well, honey, I don’t mind cooking breakfast this morning, but I’m not doing it every day. That’s for certain.” He set down his cup.

“What are you talking about?”

Slowly lifting his fork, he cut a bite of flapjack, swirled it in the pool of honey collected on his plate, and brought it toward his mouth, stopping just inches away. “Angel, you’ll have to carry your load of the work once we’re married.” He popped the pancake into his mouth, enjoying the mingled tastes of his cooking and his scheming.

She cleared her throat. “Married?”

“Yep, married. And after I teach you how to do it proper, you can bake my biscuits anytime you like.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “In bed or out.”

Her chin lifted. Her eyes flashed. The contents of her cup hit him square in the face.

Chuckling, he reached for her flour sack and wiped his face. “Think I’ll start you off on my chili recipe. Something tells me you’ll fix it just the way I like it—hot and spicy.”

Morality was horrified at the violence of her behavior. What was it about this man that stirred her to such…passion. “I don’t want to learn to make chili,” she said, her voice betraying a slight tremble. Both of them knew what she was really saying.

She didn’t want to marry Zach Burkett.

“Sure you do.” His smile was positively wicked.

“No, I’m sure I don’t.”

“It’ll keep you warm on a cold night.” He slowly licked his lips. “Make you burn inside.”

“It’ll make you burn in hell,” she said sharply.

His eyes flamed blue heat as he deliberately shook his head. “Uh-uh. My chili is heaven, angel. Pure heaven.”

She hung her head. “Oh Lord, help me.”

“He already has,” Zach said with a devilish chuckle. “He sent you me.”

The nerve of that man! Morality’s spine snapped straight. She met his heavy-lidded gaze with a furious one of her own. “I’m tempted to do it, just to give your vanity the comeuppance it so richly deserves. Think about it, Burkett. If your chili is so fiery hot, how come I slept right through it?”

“Ouch,” he said, the twinkle in his eyes making a lie of his grimace. “See what I mean? You’re already halfway there to giving as good as you get.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “And Morality, I’m gonna see to it that you get the very best.”

Heat sizzled through her. Scaring her. Exciting her. “I won’t marry you.”

He put down his fork and sat back in his chair, folding his arms. “That’s your choice, I reckon. But don’t forget, we spent the night together. Alone. And we’ll be iced in for who knows how long. By the time I can manage to get you into town, your good reputation will be history.”

She’d worried about that herself. “I’m the Miracle Girl,” she declared, denying both his claim and her concern with a shake of her head and a sniff of disdain. “My reputation— well-deserved I might add—can withstand the siege of gossip.”

“Not if they learn you’ve been intimate with me.”

She blinked. “Are you planning to take aim on my reputation by spreading falsehoods, Mr. Burkett?”

“Angel, I don’t kiss and tell. But you can bet someone will up and ask you.” He rubbed his hand across his bristled jaw. “My money’s on Eulalie. I doubt she’s afraid to air her mind about anything.”

Morality closed her eyes and moaned, “No.”

“Yep. And what will you do then, Miss Morality?” His chair squeaked as he tipped it back onto two legs. “Tell a lie?”

Morality’s hand itched to hit him. What was it about the man that caused her to react so fiercely? She glared at him. “I’ll tell the truth. As always. Nothing illicit has happened between us, nor shall it ever.”

He snorted. “And you fuss at me for dancing with the facts. Yes, Morality, you hold on to that story. Try real hard, and you and everybody else in town might get to believing it—at least until your belly swells with my baby.”

“Oh.” Her whimper sounded similar to noises coming from the puppies.

Long minutes passed without either of them speaking. Zach rose from his seat to make a second helping of pancakes. When they were ready, he silently offered some to Morality. She silently declined.

Then Morality broke the quiet with a softly voiced word. “Why?”

He looked at her. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to marry me?”

Zach opened his mouth to answer, then stopped abruptly. Why did he want to marry her? Suddenly, none of his good, totally selfish reasons felt right. The lies lined up on his tongue didn’t want to leave his mouth. So he answered her question with one of his own. “You don’t really want to marry your uncle, do you, Morality?”

“No.”

“Will you be able to refuse him?”

After a pause, she said, “Probably not.”

Zach cleared his throat. “I’m offering more than a marriage to save your reputation, here, Angel. I’m offering you a choice. I’m offering a whole helluva…uh…heckuva lot more freedom than you’d have if you married Reverend Rumble.”

At that, she finally met his gaze. “Freedom?”

“That’s what you were ranting on about when you stormed in here yesterday, wasn’t it? Freedom to say what you want to say, do what you want to do, when you want to do it? Well, if you marry me, I’ll allow you that sort of freedom—within reasonable bounds. I mean, I wouldn’t want you up and doing anything scandalous that would hurt my business.”

“Why?” she asked again.

This time when he tried to speak the lies, they rolled off his tongue. Except, they didn’t feel much like lies anymore. “It’s like I told you that first night. Cottonwood Creek is my home. I’ve been all over this country, and nowhere fits me like here. I want a place to sink my roots, a place to raise a family. I’ve watched you with Patrick, Morality. You’ll make a wonderful mother, to this baby or any others we might have.”

Zach paused, confused at the emotions rolling in his gut. Good Lord, he had himself half believing his own lies! He looked at the fiery-haired angel who gazed at him with eyes filled with hope.

Why do I want to marry you, you ask
?
I’ll tell you why. I want your help in bringing my daddy to ruin. I want your assistance in driving this godforsaken town to ruin. I need to piggy-back on your good reputation because mine isn’t good enough to get the job done—at least in a timely manner
.

Standing, he said, “I need to dump last night’s water from the bathtub. If you’d like, I could fetch you some water to heat, and you could have a soak yourself. I’ll be in the loft cleaning the place up for Patrick, so you’d have some privacy.”

If possible, her eyes rounded even more. She said softly, “Patrick?”

“He’ll live with us, of course, after the wedding. I wouldn’t have it otherwise.” He reached across the table and gently brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.

“You really want to marry me?”

He nodded. “I do. And if, after all that I’ve said, you are still wondering why, then chew on this a bit. I want to marry you, Morality Brown, because I suspect I’m halfway in love with you already.”

At that, Zach saw to emptying the bathtub, hauling more water, and cleaning the loft. All the while, his breakfast rested heavy in his stomach.

As did his lies.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

New York City

STEPHEN CARSTAIRS PAUSED AT the doorway to the music room, a lump of emotion forming in his throat as he listened to the melancholy notes of the harp. It hurt him to watch the expression on Rosalee’s face as she poured her grief into her music. It pained him to hear her song. This was his wife’s method of exorcising the demons from her soul, and up to this point, she had met with only marginal success.

Gloomy, ethereal notes floated from the strings of the gilded harp—a tune not to be found on any scored sheet. A lone tear seeped from beneath her eyelid and spilled down her cheek, as if to confirm something Stephen had long suspected. Rosalee poured all of her heartache, her dreams, and deepest yearnings into her music.

But her song would change with the gift he offered today. He anticipated a house filled with guests listening to a sparkling, joyous melody. He pictured a Rosalee no longer haunted by her ghosts. Stephen heard his wife’s laughter, an infrequent sound now that his children had grown and moved from home. He could hold his tongue no longer. “Rosie?”

She didn’t hear him. Crossing the room, he stood beside a gleaming grand piano and offered his wife a loud—but honest—round of applause. “Bravo, my dearest, bravo.”

She lifted stormy eyes to meet his gaze, and almost immediately, they softened to a welcoming shimmer. Her hands fell away from the instrument, and she rose, extending her arms toward him. “Stephen, is it noon already? I’m sorry I wasn’t downstairs when you arrived home. I must have lost track of the time. I’ll see that luncheon is served immediately.”

He grabbed her hands and brought them to his mouth for a kiss. “I’m early, Rosie. I received a message an hour ago, and rather than ask you to come to the bank, I requested that the meeting take place here.”

“A meeting?” She looked at him in surprise. “Why would I need to attend one of your meetings?”

Stephen gave her hands a squeeze. “Paul Hatfield is downstairs, Rosie. He’s found him. After years of searching, we finally know where he is.”

Rosalee’s hand lifted automatically to the locket around her neck. She took a deep breath and asked, “And Lilah?”

“I don’t know. Hatfield’s note didn’t say, but he’s here now. Shall we go find out?”

She was scared. He could see it in her eyes, and that in itself showed how far she had come. He’d been widowed for more than a year when he’d hired her to be his children’s nanny, and she’d lived with them for months before he’d recognized the powerful emotions she’d kept hidden behind a mask designed to hold people at a distance. It frightened him to think that had he not heard her music or witnessed those undisguised moments with the twins, he might never have known the real Rosalee. He might never have experienced this happiness.

Bravely, she squared her shoulders and led the way downstairs.

The detective awaited them in the parlor, sipping the cup of tea provided him by the servants. He stood as Rosalee entered the room, but she waved him down, saying, “First you must tell me, sir. Is my daughter safe?”

Hatfield offered her a reassuring smile. “Yes, ma’am. She’s just fine. Happy too, as far as I could tell.”

Stephen caught his wife as her legs gave out and he helped her to a chair. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, coloring in embarrassment, her eyes bright with tears. “For so long now, I’ve dreamed…I’ve worried.”

“Don’t apologize, Rosie. I’m rather weak-kneed myself at the moment.” Stephen stood behind the chair, his hand resting on her shoulder.

She seemed in a daze as she began firing questions at the investigator. “What does she look like? Is her hair still red? Is she married? Does she have children?”

Hatfield held up a hand. “If you don’t mind, I’ve found it easier to begin at the beginning while making a report like this. The story is clearer to everyone that way.”

“Certainly.” Stephen nodded and gave Rosalee’s shoulder a comforting pat.

Hatfield spoke. “As you know, we’ve traced down hundreds of leads in the years since you hired me to find Mrs. Carstairs’s daughter. Up until now, we’ve had little success. In all honesty, I doubt we’d have ever found him if not for a bit of luck and a sharp-eyed researcher.”

He lifted a satchel from the floor and laid it in his lap. “As you remember, when you first hired my firm, you were able to tell us that Jack Harris had disappeared from Galveston after being implicated in the murder of a local businessman.”

Rosalee’s voice was hard. “Taking my sister and daughter along with him.”

“Yes, and his trail was old by the time we began our search.” Unbuckling his satchel, he reached inside. “What I have to tell you now comes directly as a result of these.” He stood and gave Rosalee a stack of newspaper clippings.

She glanced through them, then looked up. “ ‘REVEREND HARRISON HEALS BLIND NIECE.’ What is this?”

“After making his living as a traveling peddler for years, it was an easy step for Jack Harris to ease into the role of a faith-healing traveling preacher.”

Stephen’s thoughts took the next logical step. “He used Lilah? Had her pretend she was blind?”

Hatfield shook his head. “No, that’s the amazing part of the story. I must tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, I’ve never stumbled across anything quite like this in all the years I’ve been at the job.” He offered Rosalee a sympathetic look. “It appears as though your daughter was truly blind.”

Rosie’s faint cry all but broke Stephen’s heart. Her voice trembling, she asked, “She can’t see?”

“No, she can see now. That’s what the headlines are all about.” Hatfield offered a little smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.” Pausing, he withdrew a file from his satchel. “Here, perhaps you’d be more comfortable reading the report yourself.”

Rosalee accepted the pages and began to read, Stephen following along over her shoulder. “That’s why we couldn’t find him,” he observed. “We weren’t looking for a couple with a blind child.”

“My poor baby.” Rosalee’s shoulders trembled. She looked up from the report. “How did it happen? This doesn’t say.”