To Seduce a Rogue (4 page)

She continued to stare at him, her eyes wide, not a flinch or a blink coming from her. He applauded her fortitude, even if her motives were misguided.

What the hell had he said all that to her for, anyway? What was he trying to prove?

She looped the dishrag around her hand and pulled. “Mr. Chase, I...I don’t know what connection you have to Oliver Stokes, but he isn’t going to be satisfied until he owns this whole town. He already has the hotel and the restaurant. My uncle is fighting to keep the bank. Mr. Whitefield fears losing his general store, and he has five children to feed and hardly two pennies to rub together.” The rag fell to her side. “Mr. Chase, I’ve also hand-inked presses—because that was all we had. And, taken them apart and put them back together. I’ve written about everything I could get my hands on to fill a couple of pages of the cheapest newsprint, and I’ve read everything to stay current in an area that is severely obsolescent.”

“What would you have me do, Miss Whitney? I wasn’t given a choice about propping up this newspaper. Far from it.”

Charlie slapped the dishrag against her leg. “Don’t you realize he wants to commandeer the
Sentinel
for his own political advantage?”

Adam quelled the urge to laugh. Charlie Whitney had done well to learn anything about the business in this place. “My, you are naïve,” was all he said.

“I don’t expect you to understand. My father was a good man, and we did the best we could.”

“I can do better.”

Kath groaned and dropped her head to her hands.

Adam watched as Charlie struggled to speak. “Mr. Chase, you can go to hell,” she finally said. Then, she threw the dishrag into his face. He pulled it from his eyes in time to see her walk out the back door.

“Mercy.” Kath wrung her hands in her apron.

Adam braced his hands on the table and stood. “Honestly, I came here tonight in part to explain my reasons for working for Oliver Stokes and encourage Miss Whitney to remain with the
Sentinel
.” Damn. He had made a mess of things.

“She is a little...excitable.” Miles braved a smile.

Adam shook his head. “No, this was entirely my fault. I was trying to provoke her. Maybe I should go after her.”

Miles coughed and glanced his wife’s way.

“No.” Kath grabbed Adam’s sleeve. “Probably better to let her cool off.”

Adam stepped forward, rubbing the scar on his wrist. He glanced out the window, searching. A flash of green gingham was visible in the distance. He could see her inky hair bobbing along, too. The silly woman probably did not own a bonnet.

Tomorrow, the
charming
Adam Chase would explain the situation. And make her see reason.

Acceptance

The act of taking or receiving something offered.

Charlie stood in her kitchen, surrounded by sunlight streaming in the windows. She mentally outlined the chores on her list and decided the first order of business was to weed the vegetable garden. She poured a glass of lemonade and walked outside, muttering to herself about the thickness of the humid air.

Her house sat on a healthy plot of land a mile outside Edgemont’s town center. It was a modest dwelling, comfortable and natty. Not too much, not too little, as her mother used to say. She perched her glass on top of a wooden wash bucket sitting upside down on her back porch. Her father had added the porch three summers ago. There was no door connecting it to the interior of the house, but it was a wonderful place to do laundry or snap beans on a cool evening.

She had dressed for comfort for her chores. Actually, it was her favorite outfit: a pair of men’s trousers—which she had fashioned from a
Godey’s
pattern—and a faded, yellow cotton shirt. She could wear the outfit here, in the relative privacy of her home.

Banishing idle intentions, she knelt and began to pluck weeds from the dew-coated soil. She loved the feel of the earth beneath her fingertips, in sharp contrast to the heat that penetrated the air. Even if you could only immerse yourself to the first knuckle, the chore was welcome relief.

After an hour or so of weeding, her muscles began to cramp and protest from the imposing position. She paused and stretched, working her lower back with dirt-stained fingers.

And noticed him.

Her hands fell to her sides, her mouth parted. For one honest moment, the full, potent impact of seeing him struck her.

He was leaning against the porch railing, his feet linked at the ankle, his hand wrapped around
her
lemonade glass. His hair was damp and ruffled, as if he had just drawn impatient fingers though it. He wore what she recognized as his uniform: conforming trousers, mud-caked Hessians, cotton lawn shirt—unbuttoned two buttons at the top. A bit of skin shown through the open neck, she noted, and she shivered despite the extreme heat.

Trying hard to maintain her poise, she rose and brushed her hands on her shirt, inwardly cringing as she imagined how she must look. His expression was calm as she walked toward him, but his gaze was inquiring. She stopped in front of him. A drop of perspiration slithered from one very high cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. A beautiful mouth really...firm and full. She quelled the urge to wipe the bead of sweat from his face.

Feeling rather defiant, and still angry over the way he had run her off from the Lambert’s dinner, she took the glass from him, swallowed the last of the lemonade, and turned, needing to hide the flush crossing her cheeks.

She rounded the porch and entered the house without a word. Of course, he was there when she turned with a glass of fresh lemonade in each hand. She passed him his without comment, wondering what he expected from this visit. An apology? He didn’t look like the apologizing type, leaning against her kitchen table like he owned the house.

Ostensibly oblivious to her unease, he drank, his gaze never leaving her face. It unsettled her, truly, the way he stared.

But she’d be damned if she showed it.

He placed the glass on the table. “Miles mentioned your broken fence the other night, and I thought you could use some help fixing it. Just trying to be neighborly.” He flashed a smile and a pair of overworked dimples.

She may have accepted if the smile were genuine, but it was so different from the one she’d seen on his face when he’d talked with Miles. Too different. She eyed him suspiciously. “Neighborly? You’ll have to forgive me for being...wary.”

He coughed or
laughed
into his hand.

She jerked his glass from the table and thrust it by the side of her leg. “Mr. Chase, I must have a simple mind, because I can’t see any reason for you coming here.” She turned and circled back to the dry sink, placing his glass there with a firm crack.

“There is nothing
simple
in that beautiful head.”

Charlie’s shoulders tightened as she grasped the edge of the sink. Beautiful?
Beautiful
? She had heard the compliment before...but in a town as small as Edgemont, she figured it was due to poor selection. Adam Chase had probably seen lots of lovely women. Women dressed in the latest Parisian fashions, women who knew how to entice a man with a flick of their wrists. Women like her cousin Lila.

And he thought
her
beautiful?

“I guess I could use some help with the fence.” Uh, oh. Had they been talking about the fence? No. They had been talking about her mind or some such nonsense.

A light laugh sounded behind her. “Changed your mind so quickly? Miss Whitney, you are an unpredictable woman.”

She closed her eyes. Oh, what she would like to say to him, if only she could form a clever, coherent thought. Instead, she whipped about and marched out the door.

“Faustus?” She slapped her hand against her leg and whistled.

“Who names a dog Faustus?”

“Faustus is a
cat
.”

Moving in front of her, he sat on the stairs, his head just about reaching her hip. “Faustus...hmmm, I would guess that was Latin. But, considering it came from you, I’ll venture it’s a kind of whiskey at the Four Leaf Clover.” 

“Whiskey at the Four Leaf?”

He tapped the top of her boot. “I was only kidding. Well...sort of.”

“That’s the second time you’ve touched me. The next time you may jerk that hand back minus a finger.”

He leaned against the top step and threw his head back, laughter flowing from him. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t quell the sudden flood of pleasure because she felt sure, with no way to explain her reasoning, that laughter from this man was rare. And as much as it chagrined her to admit it, he
was
appealing. All dark eyes and dimples, overburdened though they were.

She frowned and dropped to the step beside him.

He slanted his gaze to her, his hand covering his mouth. “I must say I’m flattered that you’ve counted the number of touches. And, I promise, I’m a quick learner.” He made a grand show of putting his hands in his lap, like a chastised schoolboy.

My, his were the brownest eyes she had ever seen, she decided, the exact color of the southern soil she treasured.

She squirmed and slid across the step, as far from him as she could get.

Despite her discomfiture, the silence between them flowed—comfortably, companionably—strange for two people who were practically strangers.

“Why are you here, Mr. Chase? Not the fence story, if you please.”

He raised his gaze to the sky and leaned back. “After I was so ungraciously thrown out of university, I found a junior editorial job at a newspaper. It was love at first sight. An editorship is all I’ve worked for since.” Absently, he began to run his finger along his wrist. Charlie followed the movement and saw he traced a jagged, white scar. “Stokes promised me an editorship if I get the
Sentinel
in good shape before summer’s end.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He owns the largest newspaper in Washington, and I want in. Even if I have to leave Richmond to do it.”

“He doesn’t care about good journalism.”

The step squeaked as Adam turned to face her. “I’ve fought for exceptional articles and won, and I’ve fought for factual, realistic editorials and lost to political influence.” He laughed softly. “If I looked at every story after the fact, I wouldn’t have the energy or the heart to create the next day’s edition. I’ve learned to be flexible.”

“Flexible? Regarding your principles?” She looked away but could feel his gaze on her. “As I already told you, I won’t sell myself like that.”

“You’ll never work for a newspaper in any town, in any city, where you respect every man you work for, where you like everything you write. I didn’t come here to be anyone’s puppet. Stokes could have sent an inexperienced editor if that was his aim.” He tapped his boot against the step. “Use Stokes, use me. Learn everything you can while I’m here.”

She turned to him, intent on refusing his request, only to find his gaze locked on her. Quite without reason, she wondered how he regarded her.

And, she wondered why she cared.

“I can see the wheels turning, Charlie. Just think about it while we repair the fence.”

“You’re sure you want to help?”