Beloved Counterfeit (9 page)

Jean Luc paused before throwing open the parlor door. “To meet this man who calls your name,” he said in a perfect imitation of the Irish accent that sent terror through her once again. “Surely he’s the reason you’re reluctant to renew our acquaintance.”

“Wait.” Her voice surely gave away her fear, but it worked. For a second.

Then Micah Tate called her name again, and the smuggler swore under his breath. “None were better than you. Together we made quite the team, my dear Mrs. O’Shea,” he said in an all-too-familiar Scottish brogue as he disappeared into the hall, leaving Ruby to chase the humiliation and shame he left in his wake.

* * *

Micah wandered through to the kitchen and found the pots empty and nothing but bread crumbs to show that a meal had been prepared. He swiped at the mess then decided to leave it until after he found something to fill his belly.

Beginning with the nearest cupboard, he began his search. Jars and tins hid some things he recognized and others he didn’t, but none could be called a decent meal.

Sounds from somewhere on the other side of the house caused him to stop his pilfering. He hadn’t been a bachelor so long as to forget how territorial a woman could become in regard to her kitchen. Still, the jar of jerky he kept at his nearly empty house was nowhere near an even substitute for whatever scraps he might find here.

“Didn’t intend to bother you, Miss Ruby,” he called when footsteps headed his way.

Micah straightened his mess as best he could then turned to wait for the mistress of the house to arrive. He even put on a grin just in case.

Instead of Ruby, a stranger appeared. “I’m sure she’ll not mind you helping herself to anything she has. Who is. . .Ruby?”

Micah stared down at the man, a fellow who looked to spend as much time in front of the mirror as he did polishing the pistol that hung at his side. His accent gave him away as French, his expression as trouble.

Miss O’Shea came flying around the corner as if her skirts had been set afire. Skidding to a stop on what was surely a freshly cleaned floor, she worked a strand of hair back into a braid that looked as if she’d fashioned it in the dark. Splotches of color just a shade lighter than her mussed-up hair stained her cheeks.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out he’d arrived either at the wrong time or, he hoped, just in time. “Miss Ruby?”

She averted her gaze and seemed to study her shaking hands. “Mr. Tate, I’m afraid you’ve missed lunch altogether.”

“Nonsense.” The stranger laughed and gathered her to his side in a way that made Micah’s temper bristle. Something about the man and his treatment of Ruby O’Shea didn’t set right. “Surely you can use your considerable talents to please Mr. . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Forgive me. I didn’t get your name.”

“Tate,” Micah said as he watched Miss O’Shea shrink from the man’s grasp. “Micah Tate.” He returned his attention to the Frenchman, who seemed a bit less sure of himself now that he’d felt the handshake of a wrecker. What the fellow didn’t realize was that his hand was still weakened from last year’s injury. “I trust I’ve not missed anything important other than lunch.”

“Tate?” When Micah nodded, the fellow grinned then winked at Miss O’Shea. “Sadly, you’ve missed nothing at all, though not for lack of trying on my part.”

That was when Micah hit him.

Chapter 11

Two things Micah hadn’t bargained for: that the Frenchman would fall so easily, and that Ruby O’Shea would land beside the man as if she, too, had been struck. She hadn’t, of course, though anyone who stumbled upon the scene might think otherwise.

He watched her tug at the man’s arm then pat his forehead as if her efforts might undo the damage Micah’s fist had done. All the while she made little whimpering sounds.

“Get up,” Micah demanded, wondering what in the world had caused him to react so strongly. When she refused to comply, he hauled her to her feet. When she wobbled a bit too much for his liking, Micah set her on a three-legged stool and told her to stay put.

“You don’t understand.” Miss O’Shea looked as if she might bolt, so Micah made a point of standing between her and the door.

“What’s there to understand?” he asked as he watched the man for signs of movement. “He was practically begging to be hit.”

Not completely the truth, but the best Micah could come up with while Ruby O’Shea was staring at him like that. The pink had disappeared from her cheeks, replaced now with skin gone ashy white.

“You really have no idea what you’ve just done, do you?”

“I’ve defended your honor, and I’ll not apologize for it.” He straightened his backbone, warming to the topic. “I reckon you’ve not had anyone take up for you, Miss Ruby.”

Her silence spoke volumes.

“Then it’s high time you know that a man doesn’t talk to a lady that way, nor does he stand for listening to anyone else who does.” A fat tear slid down her cheek, taking some of the starch from Micah’s sails. “And another thing,” he said. “I fail to see how you can be worried about him when he went down faster than an anchor in a rainstorm.”

For emphasis, he nudged the Frenchman with the toe of his boot. The man groaned in response but made no move to open his eyes.

Miss O’Shea, however, seemed to come to life right before his eyes. While he watched, she jumped to her feet and stormed over to stand toe to toe with him. He was two heads taller at least, but she seemed not to care. She looked ready to do to him what Micah had just done to the Frenchman.

“Before you go and hit me, Miss Ruby, I think you ought to know the judge has asked me to be his second in command here on the key.”

“You go ahead and make jokes, Micah Tate, but you’ve just gone and ruined everything.”

She looked serious, but even as she poked at his chest with her forefinger, Micah found it hard to imagine things were that dire. One Frenchman with a headache surely wasn’t the end of the world.

“What have I ruined other than this man’s day?” Again he nudged the man with his boot. “And if anyone deserved what he got, it’s. . .what’s his name, Miss Ruby? I don’t think he gave it.”

“No.” She stepped back and looked toward the window. “I don’t recall that he did.”

“Yet you’re acquainted with him.” He paused. “That much I can see.”

“You can’t see a thing, Mr. Tate.” She turned to slip past him, and for a moment, Micah thought she might be heading for the back door. Instead, she found the basin and dipped the corner of her apron into it, then returned to kneel beside the rogue.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he watched Ruby bathe the man’s swelling cheek. “Do you not appreciate the fact that this man showed you no respect?”

“What I appreciate,” she said as she repeated the process of soothing the now-rousing Frenchman’s face, “is that Jean Luc will be fine.” She offered the man a smile. “Won’t you, Jean Luc?”

Jean Luc. He’d have to remember that name, especially if he took on the responsibilities the judge offered. Likely he’d see this one again, and it wouldn’t do to forget who he was.

“What happened?” the man asked as he struggled to rise up on his elbows.

“You fell,” Ruby said as she continued treating the man as if he were long-lost royalty.

It didn’t take but a few seconds of watching her to fuel Micah’s temper past the boiling point—again. He stepped past Ruby to stand in front of Jean Luc.

A lesser man would have waited for the fool to try to stand, then knocked him down and seen that he stayed there. Micah decided to ignore the urge to do just that.

Reaching down to grasp the Frenchman’s wrist, he gave the man a yank, and the stranger stumbled to his feet. Holding his grip a little tighter than before, Micah made sure to look the man in the eyes when he shook him loose and finally spoke.

“Apologize to the lady.” He pointed to Ruby, who now looked as if she might throttle them both at any minute. “And take care that I don’t find double meaning in your words.”

A grin began to form on the intruder’s soon-to-be misshapen face. It disappeared when Micah’s eyes narrowed. He shifted his attention to Ruby.

“Mr. Tate, this is really enough.” Her voice was high, thin, and her face still pale though her eyes sparkled with what looked to be unshed tears. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and when she caught him staring, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her apron.

“I didn’t ask your opinion, Ruby.”

The Frenchman had the audacity to look amused. “So you’re Ruby to him, too, are you?”

The question seemed to startle Ruby as much as it confused Micah. “Who else would she be?” he demanded.

“She’s crafty, that one. She can be anyone she wants.”

Ruby O’Shea might tolerate his behavior, but Micah surely would not. “Leave,” Micah said through clenched jaw, “while you can still walk out on your own.”

The man seemed ready to argue.
Good.
Micah’s fingers itched to silence any complaints the stranger might have. Instead, the man smoothed his lapels then appeared to study the toes of his boots.
 

“He is right.” Jean Luc shrugged. “I’ve treated you poorly,” he said, “and for that I beg your forgiveness.”

“Accepted.” Ruby stepped between them. “Now I’d prefer if you left, Mr. Tate,” she said.

“Me leave?” He chuckled. “Not until I know you’re safe.”

Her look of desperation almost convinced him to do as she asked. Then he spied the Frenchman and knew he’d not be the first man to depart the boardinghouse. Not while there was a woman with more cooking skills than good sense to be protected.

From the expression on the Frenchman’s face, Micah figured he held a similar sentiment. Time to end this game.

Micah reached for Ruby and gathered her to his side. “I know I’m late, but I’d much appreciate you fetching me something to eat.” He paused. “Dear,” he added with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll see our visitor to the door.”

He released her, trying not to smile at the stunned look on her face. Clamping his hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder, he half guided and half pushed him to the front door. When they reached the front porch, he stopped short.

To be sure there was no mistaking his intention, Micah held tight to the man’s shoulder. “I don’t know who you are or what your business is with Ruby O’Shea, but if I ever see you on Fairweather Key again, it’ll be you who’s sorry, not me.”

The fellow didn’t seem in much of a hurry, though he did shrug out of Micah’s grasp. Only because Micah let him.

He seemed to be sizing Micah up. “If I am to believe you, Mr. Tate, I would know your relation to. . .”

“Ruby?” Micah supplied.

“Yes, of course,” Jean Luc said with a nod. “
Ruby
.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Micah noticed the curtains part. Surely Ruby had decided to spy on them rather than rustle up some lunch. Fine enough, he supposed, for once he disposed of this fellow, he’d likely find his own meal of jerky back at his place up on the bluff.

The Frenchman backed up three steps, seemingly unwilling to turn his back on Micah. It did not escape Micah that the man with the gun seemed to be the one who was afraid.

Nor did it escape Ruby that the Frenchman had retreated without putting up much of a fight. By the time Jean Luc whoever-he-was had disappeared around the corner, the redhead was storming across the porch boards to continue the discussion they’d started before the Frenchman found his feet.

At least the look on her face told him it was going to be that kind of talk.

In his limited experience with women, Micah had never seen one pace like Ruby O’Shea. If he let her, she’d likely wear out the boards around the edges of the big front porch.

“Slow down there,” he finally said, reaching out to grasp her wrist.

She hauled back and nearly swatted him, so he let her go. “I am stunned,” she fairly sputtered, “at the complete lack of respect you’ve exhibited today, Mr. Tate.”

“What?” Only after he stamped his foot did Micah realize how silly the gesture was. “I just chased off a man who obviously meant you harm, and all you can do is tell me I’ve shown a lack of respect? What about the things he said?”

“I don’t recall what you’re talking about,” she said, though her statement didn’t seem to be delivered with much enthusiasm.

He stood his ground. Nothing the redhead could say would turn him from his task. “Where I come from, a woman is treated with dignity and respect.”

“And where I come from, a woman is. . .”

She didn’t say it; she didn’t have to. The lone tear that slid down her cheek spoke for her.

A southerly breeze lifted a strand of her hair and teased her neck. The same fingers that itched to obliterate the Frenchman now reached to press the curl behind her ear.

While he hadn’t intended for the gesture to be intimate, Micah nonetheless felt he’d somehow stepped beyond the bounds of propriety. He was about to apologize when she turned her back on him to look toward the sea.

“You’ve killed us all,” he thought he heard her whisper.

“Ruby?” He moved to her side, unable to say anything more than her name.

Her sideways glance revealed a woman who, in the afternoon sun, looked to be more vulnerable child than hardened woman. The moment passed, and the old Ruby returned even as she swiped at her cheeks with her sleeves.

“I’ll see what I can do about finding you some lunch,” she said as she brushed past him and disappeared inside. “Likely the chickens have left an egg or two, but don’t expect anything fancy.”

Micah followed her into the kitchen and waited in the doorway while she bustled around doing whatever a woman does when she wants to let a man know she’s displeased. He let her storm just long enough for her to blow off some steam, and then he caught her.

“Mr. Tate,” she said as she looked up at him with wide eyes. “You’ll release me this instant—else your lunch will burn.”

A fussy one, this gal, though whatever scared her about the Frenchman had her more high-strung than usual. “Let it burn, Ruby,” he said. “I’ve a mind to say something, and I’d appreciate doing it while you’re standing still.”