His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches) (16 page)

Happy he’d agreed, Megan smiled and allowed him to guide her down the hill and along a nearly deserted Main Street. As they passed Tom’s darkened barbershop, she sensed Lucian’s perusal. If he’d noticed Tom’s absence this morning, he made no mention of it.

They walked in amiable silence, nature’s springtime music a well-orchestrated symphony. Beneath the wooden bridge, the Little Pigeon River churned and crashed over mossy boulders, the hum of rushing water trailing them onto the tree-lined lane that led to her aunt and uncle’s farm and, a mile and a half farther down, her own home. The dense forest on either side popped and cracked, branches swaying in the breeze. Somewhere a woodpecker pecked. Thrushes and warblers whistled and cooed.

Sneaking a glance at Lucian, she wondered what he was thinking. Wondered if he would ever change his mind about love. About marriage. Would he ever learn to trust again?

And could
she
be the one to teach him how?

Chapter Seventeen

R
ocking on the porch, Sam lifted his head at their arrival and gestured to an empty chair beside him. “Sit and rest a spell, Lucian. The gals will let us know when the meal is ready.”

Grasping the door handle, Megan smiled her agreement. “It shouldn’t take long.”

As she disappeared inside, Sam commented, “Hope you brought your appetite. They tend to go overboard for Sunday dinner.”

Smiling, Lucian lowered himself in the rocking chair. “Since I overslept and had to skip breakfast this morning, I’d say that suits me just fine.”

“How’s the arm?”

His fingers grazed the sling. “It’s coming along. Doc wants me to wait two to three more weeks to travel home.”

Sam gazed at him. “It’s awfully generous of you to leave the house in Megan’s care. Folks around here will be mighty grateful.”

Lucian studied the older man, judged him to be about the same age as his mother. “How well did you know my grandfather?”

“Charles? I knew him to be a fair man. Well liked. A responsible member of the community.” He nudged his spectacles farther up his nose. “You probably heard that in recent years he didn’t go out much. He came to church but didn’t attend any functions. Why do you ask?”

“Megan said that Charles wrote my mother in an attempt to mend the rift between them. That he wanted to meet me. My mother didn’t mention any letters. She...led me to believe Charles was indifferent. I’d like to know the truth. So far, I haven’t found anything in the house that can shed light on their relationship. Or lack thereof. I plan to look through her things when I get back to New Orleans. Maybe I’ll have better luck there.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. I
can
tell you this,” he said as he waved his finger. “Family was extremely important to Charles. He adored Beatrice and Lucinda. Bea’s death devastated him, but at least he still had your mother. They were very close. After she left...” He shook his head in regret. “It makes sense he would try to make amends. There’s no question in my mind that he would’ve wanted to meet you.”

Lucian trusted Sam’s judgment. And Megan’s. Granted, Charles could’ve said those things simply to gain her sympathy...but he didn’t think so. As difficult as it was to admit, even to himself, it appeared his mother had misrepresented the situation. And, while he understood her reasoning, it hurt to know she’d deceived him. Her only son. Cheated him and Charles out of a relationship. It hurt bad.

“Kinda tough to be angry at someone who’s not around to defend themselves,” Sam observed offhandedly.

He stood and crossed to the rail, stared out across the yard. “Yes, well, she did it to make my father happy. Too bad it was all for nothing. She cheated not only herself, but Charles and me, as well.” Bitterness encased his heart, dripped from his words. Didn’t he have the right to be angry? Deceived by someone he’d trusted completely? This lie of hers...it had far-reaching effects.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” he murmured, turning as the door creaked open.

Megan’s questioning gaze volleyed between her uncle and him. “Dinner’s on the table.”

“It’s about time.” Sam winked at her, pushed to his feet.

She looked at Lucian. Her gaze caught by something behind him, her face brightened. “Caleb!”

She swept past him. Turning, he spotted the youngest O’Malley loping towards the house, serious and drawn. When Megan threw herself into his arms, his head dipped, hat brim blocking his expression. He gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Hey, Meg.”

Lucian shot a glance at Sam standing stiffly by the door, watching the exchange with pronounced lines about his eyes.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” she chided gently, stepping away to look full in his face. She tugged on his arm. “Come on—there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Lucian straightened from the rail, moved to the top step to intercept them. While the younger man matched him in height, he was bulkier than Lucian. His dark gaze flicked to Sam for an instant. Clearly happy to see her cousin, Megan made the introductions. Caleb angled his face to the side, but not before Lucian glimpsed a jagged scar near his eye. Hmm.

“Nice to meet you,” Lucian said evenly as they shook hands.

“Likewise,” he bit out. It was apparently a struggle for him to be civil. What was behind his absences? Didn’t he help Nathan and Sam around the farm? Josh did what he could, but the majority of his time was spent building furniture and managing the store.

Sweeping off his hat, Caleb paused in front of his father. “Pa.”

“You’re just in time for dinner, son,” Sam said with a strained smile as he held the door open.

Twirling a stray curl about her finger, Megan shot Lucian a meaningful look as they followed the men inside. This would no doubt prove to be an interesting meal. Everyone greeted Caleb with warmth. Warmth he had trouble accepting.

When everyone was seated and grace offered up, conversation progressed in fits and starts, the edge of tension palpable. The youngest O’Malley sat with his head bent, looking as if he wished he was invisible. Gradually, though, the mood eased.

With Megan at his side, Lucian savored the meal of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, assorted vegetables and fresh sourdough bread slathered with butter. The O’Malleys were a lively bunch. There was a lot of good-natured teasing going on. Hearing Megan’s laughter, seeing her happy and relaxed, he finally understood her desire for a large family.

Perhaps if he’d grown up in such a setting, he’d want that for himself.

All through the meal, he surreptitiously studied Josh and Kate, who were seated directly across from him. Josh was affectionate with his delicate, dark-haired wife, constantly touching her hair, her cheek, whispering in her ear. Still in the newlywed phase, obviously. For some couples the phase lasted longer than others, he supposed. Watching them exchange secretive smiles, Lucian resented the fact he couldn’t be so free with Megan.

Once, she’d caught him staring at the couple, and her smile had faltered, tremulous, fierce longing blazing in her expressive blue eyes...searing him with its heat, making him crazy to hold her. To lay claim to her. And then the panic had set in. He was close, dangerously close, to giving in to these forbidden feelings. To throwing caution to the wind and going down on his knees right here in front of everyone and begging her to stay with him forever.

Somehow, he garnered the strength to break eye contact. Did she notice the tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow? His uneven breathing?

All he had to do was think of his parents and know what a monumental mistake that would be. He told himself this was an infatuation. What man wouldn’t be enamored of her natural beauty, her strength of character? Her compassion and wit?

What he felt for Megan was not love. Not even close.

He was so confident of this fact that he thought nothing of asking her to accompany him back to his house later that afternoon. He had yet to tell her of D’Artagnan’s return, and he decided it would be more fun to show her.

At the entrance to the barn, he put a hand out to stop her. “Close your eyes.”

“What?” She laughed up at him, charming curls framing her face. “Why?”

“Just do as you’re told, young lady,” he admonished with a grin, too content to be properly wary. With an arched brow, she complied and he took her hand and led her deep into the barn’s interior. “Keep them closed,” he warned.

“I’m not sure I like surprises,” she said smartly, her boots scuffing the dirt as she took halting steps, her free hand outstretched to catch herself if she stumbled. Of course he wouldn’t let that happen.

“I guarantee you’ll like this one.”

When they reached his horse’s stall, D’Artagnan came close and extended his head their direction. “All right. You may open your eyes now.”

Lids fluttering open, she gasped. “What? He’s here?” Her incredulous gaze volleyed between him and his horse. Stepping closer, she rubbed a hand down D’Artagnan’s face. “Oh, Lucian, I can hardly believe my eyes! How did you find him?”

Enjoying her reaction, he stood still and watched her. “I didn’t. A man by the name of Cyril Hawk found him on his property and brought him back to me. Do you know him?”

Her brows met in the middle. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“He must not come into town very often, then. He wouldn’t accept payment.”

Megan paused in bestowing affection on the big animal, brow furrowing. “And your things? Were they in the bags?”

“Yes, everything.” He nodded. “Including my mother’s Bible.” And he’d been reading it every day since, just as he’d told God he would. “You were right about the notes. I’ve found lots of underlined verses and words jotted in the margins.”

“You’ve been reading it?”

“Since it’s been a while, I decided to start in Psalms. I find them...comforting. Uplifting.”

“This is a positive answer to prayer, Lucian. You see that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“I’m so happy you got it back. And D’Artagnan, too.”

Eyes shining, Megan threw her arms about his neck, burying her face beneath his chin. Stunned, he didn’t move. He’d taken his sling off as soon as they’d arrived, so his injured arm hung awkwardly at his side. Her silky hair tickled his throat. He curled his good arm around her waist in a kind of half hug, anchoring her more firmly against his chest. His eyes drifted shut, and he inhaled her rose scent. Megan here, in his arms, felt right. Natural. Meant to be.

With a tiny, reluctant sigh, she lifted her head. Touched his every feature with her hungry gaze. He couldn’t
not
kiss her. Unlike the kiss at the stream, this one was tentative. Gentle. Their lips clinging in tender reverence, his heart shifted, strained towards her as if it recognized its lifelong companion...its soul mate.

He lifted his injured arm and carefully sank his fingers in her curls, luxuriating in the weight and feel of it. What was a little pain if it meant he got to touch her crowning glory? Her fingers kneaded his nape and tangled in his hair. His heart felt as if it might burst from his chest.

With bone-deep regret, he lifted his head. If only he had forever to kiss her.

She unwound her arms, sliding them lower so that her palms rested on his chest. “I should go.” Her eyes were a turbulent blue storm.

His fingers flexed on her slim waist. “Are you certain? We could go inside and play a game of chess. Or read.” He liked that idea, the two of them together in the cozy library, sharing funny or interesting bits of the books they were reading.

“I can’t.” Extracting herself from his arms, she gave D’Artagnan a final pat. “Good night, Lucian.”

He stopped her exit with a hand on her shoulder. “We should talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She was avoiding his gaze, and it gave him a panicky feeling.

Dropping his hand to his side, he demanded, “Are you planning on avoiding me again this week?”

When she shot him a helpless look, he went on beseechingly, “My time here is growing short,
mon chou.
I’d like to spend it with you.”

“I’d like that, too.” But the pucker between her brows revealed her disquiet.

“Why don’t you and the girls come for dinner tomorrow night?”

A weak smile was his reward. “What time do you want us here?”

“Six o’clock?”

“Okay.”

Standing in the barn entrance, he watched her walk away. Watched until she’d rounded the bend and disappeared from sight, a yawning emptiness in his chest.

Odd...this didn’t feel like a harmless infatuation.

* * *

Megan and her sisters dined with him every night that week. Nicole’s and Jane’s presence acted as a buffer, making it easier to maintain his perspective and eliminate any chances of acting rashly. For just a little while, the sprawling house would transform into something resembling a true home with laughter and conversation and the glow of friendship...far removed from the stiff formality he’d known at home.

For Lucian, the hours between breakfast and dinner stretched endlessly, and he found himself prowling about the property, counting the minutes until she arrived, her smile the only antidote to his lonely, restless state. Late Thursday evening, after they’d gone and the rooms once again stood silent and brooding, he wandered into the study to where his mother’s Bible lay open on the desk. He sank into the chair. Scanned the pages of John.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

Troubled? That summed up his entire year.
God, I don’t have this peace. Not about my mother and Charles. And definitely not about Megan.

Resting his head against the soft leather, his eyes drifted shut. He was exhausted. A bone-deep, soul-weary exhaustion that stemmed from frustration. No matter where he turned, the answers he sought eluded him. And the situation with Megan...it was impossible.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes and stared at the polished copper ceiling tiles, his gaze falling naturally on the shelves opposite. There, wedged between the ceiling and the shelves, sat a wooden box. Lucian’s lungs hung suspended. What was that? Standing, he crossed to that side of the room and cast about for something to stand on. His palms were sweating. Heart hammering. He had a funny feeling about that box.

Shrugging out of his sling, he dragged a chair over, and, stepping onto it, he balanced himself with a hand on the shelves. It was a stretch, but he managed to scoot it close enough to get a good hold and lower it without losing his balance. Anticipation zipping along his nerves, he carried it over to the desk and placed it in the center. Stared at it.

Don’t get yourself all worked up. For all you know, Charles could’ve stored expensive cigars in there. Or photographs.

“Only one way to find out,” he murmured, lifting the lid.

At the sight of the stack of letters all tied up with a black ribbon, Lucian sank into the chair. That was his mother’s handwriting. Megan was right. Charles had been telling the truth.

His mother and Charles
had
been in contact.