His Yankee Bride (3 page)

The other man twisted his lips then he ran his purple tongue over his stained teeth. “Is that so?” He moved his eyes to the young lady standing next to John. “Have you forgotten we was supposed to talk after you spoke to O'Leary?”

The young lady's fingers tightened their hold on John's arm as if it were some sort of lifeline she'd been thrown while drowning in the Atlantic. “I'm sorry, Myron, I cannot marry you,” she whispered.

The other man's face fell. “But, why not? I own my own business. It's not too fancy now, but it'll be enough to keep you in town, I think,” he asked; his lower lip holding the slightest quiver.

“I know,” she said, licking her lips. “I just don't think I'd make you a good wife.”

Myron didn't look convinced. “That's not true. You'd be a great wife.”

She smiled. “Thank you, but what I said was that I don't think I'd make
you
a good wife.”

The other man folded his arms and gave a curt nod to her. Next, he turned his attention to John and let his gaze travel from John's mussed hair to his worn shoes then shook his head.

Frankly, if John were him, he'd be confused, too; there was nothing wrong with that gentleman. She was a fool to let him go.

“What are you doing?” John asked without ceremony as soon as the man was out of earshot. “He may not have a gentle grasp and might lack a few manners, but otherwise, he's quite a catch.”

The addled woman looked at him, shrugged and said, “Just as I'll make a fine wife for someone else, he'll make a find husband for another woman. Besides, I've set my sights on someone else.”

John didn't even pretend to misunderstand her. He couldn't. There was absolutely no way that could possibly be misunderstood, from her blushing cheeks to her not-so-discreet smile to her subtle-as-a-hippopotamus-pulling-a-carriage-down-the-streets-of-London statement. She'd set her cap on him, and God only knew why.

He lifted his free hand and idly scratched his temple. It was merely irritating when he'd thought she was using him to escape the company of another gentleman. But, for her to have formed some sort of attachment to him after only twenty minutes was pure lunacy.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I think we need to discuss something,” he said as calmly as he dared.

“No, I don't believe there is anything left for the two of you to discuss,” a waspish woman with shrewd brown eyes and a deep scowl said, coming up to them.

The raven-haired young lady blushed. “Mother, I'd like you to meet—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” her mother snapped. “I have no desire to make the acquaintance of any vagrant.”

John didn't even try to hide his grin. Her mother had good taste. If he were she, he wouldn't wish to make his acquaintance, either. However, her easy dismissal and obvious disapproval of him provided him the perfect means to escape the clutches of this misguided miss. He removed her hand from his arm and gave her a final nod.

One thing was for certain: she'd been correct when she'd said she'd make someone a good wife. But like Mr. Cale, it wouldn't be John.

~Chapter Four~

Carolina stood paralyzed as the man who just might forever hold her heart walked from the room.

“Stop gawking, Lina,” Mother said in a tone hard as steel.

Despite her mother's edict, Carolina didn't stop staring, as in her mind, the memory of them dancing played over and over.

“Oh look, Lina,” her mother said in a voice dripping with false charm and an overdone smile taking her lips. “Speak of the devil, there is Liam Farnsworth!”

Liam Farnsworth, who was no less than ten years older than her father but wealthy enough for Mother to see him as a young, virile twenty-five, lumbered over. “Good evening, Miss Lina, Mrs. Ellis.”

With a none-too-gentle reminder of her manners by way of a sudden vice-like grip on her arm just above her elbow, Carolina murmured her greetings and agreed to dance with him.

Fortunately, the reel started out more upbeat than the last one had, and Liam wasn't afforded much opportunity to engage her in conversation for the first half of the dance. Not that she'd have been able to pay attention anyway. Her mind was far too occupied with thoughts of her former dance partner to be able to bother with trivial matters such as Liam Farnsworth would like to discuss.

He led her to the dance floor and, like all the other gentlemen she'd met this summer, followed the first half of the dance routine exactly. The music slowed down, indicating it was now time to slow their steps and dance closer together.

“I hope you're enjoying your stay in the city. Did you know it was named Charles Towne because in...”

Carolina was overwhelmed with the urge to pull all of her own hair out. There was no doubting it now; she
had
to find a way to manage another meeting with her English stranger. Then, when she found him, she'd have to hold onto his arm and never let go.

As if those who influence fate were smiling down on Carolina Ellis and her scandalous dream of being swept away by an Englishman, such an opportunity was afforded her not twenty-four hours later when she saw him while trying to avoid anyone who might recognize her on this side of town.

“What are you doing here?” the handsome stranger asked as if that were a perfectly acceptable way to greet someone.

Carolina mindlessly swept a stray hank of hair behind her ear. “It's wonderful to see you again so soon.”

He grunted and shifted the small pile of logs in his arms, presumably to make them easier to carry. He must have worn his nicest clothes last night, for the ones he wore today were far more stained and ill-fitting than the ones he'd worn to the ball. His tattered, blue trousers had two large holes in the knees, and around the holes, the fabric was fraying. What she could see of his shirt was covered with large brown stains; and as the large muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed to hold the wood, she noticed a split in the arm that looked to be on the verge of tearing more. Oh how she'd like to feel those muscles. Her eyes grew wide at the scandalous thought!

“How did you find me?”

Carolina shrugged and flashed him her best smile, ignoring the jar of butterflies that seemed to be let loose in her stomach every time he spoke to her. “'Twas fate.”

He scoffed and shook his head. “No, it was you stalking me.”

“Stalking you?” she gasped. “And how do you propose I did that? Waited for you to leave the ballroom last night and then walked a safe distance behind you? Oh, then I'd have had to sleep somewhere—on your front stoop, perhaps? Only to wake before dawn to stand in the shadows until you emerged from your home, then crept like a cat behind you and waited in the foreman's quarters until just now to present myself to you? Not only does that
sound
ridiculous, you've forgotten that I've changed my gown since then.”

His eyes narrowed. “Lady, you know far too much about what would be involved in stalking a man for your own good. It's rather unnerving.” He shifted the logs in his arms. “But just so you know, I'm not dimwitted enough to believe
you
actually did the stalking. I assumed you'd hired someone.”

Carolina waved her hand in front of her face. “Not at all. As I said, it was fate that led me to you—both times.”

The handsome but terribly disheveled man in front of her muttered something she couldn't understand other than something about something being unbelievable.

“It's not unbelievable. I actually have a good reason to be here.”

He shot her a dubious expression. “And what is that?”

“Silas.”

“Silas?” he repeated. “What business does a young lady like you have with him?”

“None,” she acknowledged. “But Bethel seems to like him quite a bit.”

“Bethel?” he asked, frowning.

“She's...uh...” she swallowed her unease. “She works in our house.” Carolina glanced over John's left shoulder to where Bethel and Silas were engaged in conversation. Silas had to be the luckiest man Carolina had ever met. Not only had their neighbor Jacob Reynolds granted Silas his freedom at the end of the Revolutionary War, but he'd somehow managed to win Bethel's heart.

Trips to their Charleston townhouse were rare; so when they came to town, Carolina tried to think up reasons to go to the mercantile as often as she could to give Bethel a chance to see Silas while she took the long way to the store. It was the only relationship the two would ever have. He lived in town. She didn't. He was free. She wasn't. They could never really be more or have more than a passing relationship.

Carolina pushed away her thoughts. There was nothing she could do to change Bethel's fate and wishing she could only led to more sadness. “I'm glad I found you though,” she said. “I've been meaning to talk to you— what is that about?” she demanded when he started shaking his head.

“Do you realize you don't even know my name?”

Carolina started. He was absolutely right. “I'm sorry. Usually—never mind. I shall break custom of a proper introduction and tell you my name is Carolina. Like the state.”

He shook his head again as if annoyed by her mere presence.

“Aren't you going to tell me yours?”

“John. Like the saint.”

“A state and a saint, we're quite a match, wouldn't you say?”

He didn't look quite as amused as she was. “I must be getting back to work now.”

She sobered. “Do you not have but a minute to talk?”

“No. I have to have this wood delivered to Mr. Sawyer before the hour if I want to get paid,” he explained, lifting his arms full of wood to emphasize his point.

Carolina's face burned with shame. Being born to a family of wealth, she'd never wanted for monetary things. He'd said yesterday his brother was a land baron. But, she knew from watching the struggles of other planters in the region that just because you have land, doesn't mean the whole family prospers from it. “Of course.”

He made a move to walk past her.

Carolina bit her lip. This was her last chance, for if she didn't say something now, she might not get a chance again. She reached out and placed a staying hand on his hard, muscled shoulder. “Wait, would you care to join my family for supper tonight?”

“Absolutely not,”
Mother's shrill voice trilled, sending shivers up Carolina's spine. How had she found Carolina? “Remove your hand from this filthy vagabond at once!”

Slowly Carolina removed her gloved hand from his strong shoulder and dropped it to her side, fisting it into a tight ball to keep from making a scene by pulling her mother's hand away from where she was holding Bethel by the ear. Swallowing uncomfortably, she met John's clear blue eyes once more and saw a calm in them she hadn't noticed before.

He glanced to her mother and then turned his impassive face back to meet Carolina's eyes one final time before walking away to the little wagon nearby.

“What is wrong with you, Lina?” Mother demanded in a low, sharp tone. “What is it about that—that—rogue that fascinates you so? He's dirty, poor, and
English
. Decidedly not worthy of you.”

Carolina bit her tongue so not to remind her mother that she, too, was of English descent. But it would do no good. Ever since the Revolution, it was as if their heritage had been forgotten in favor of just being considered American—free from English rule.

Mother's exaggerated, yet typical, sigh pulled Carolina from her thoughts. “Well, Lina, you have just received your wish.”

“My wish?” she echoed, climbing into the back of the buggy her family used around the city.

Mother waited for Dalton to set the horses to pace before she spoke again. “Your behavior is unbecoming and deplorable for a young lady of your station. Several times you've expressed your wish not to marry any of the gentlemen you've met here so far, and I do believe once word gets out that you've been throwing yourself at that no-good vagrant you'll not have to worry about gentlemen callers again.”

Carolina pursed her lips. Just as well. As long as that particular no-good vagrant wished to marry her, she saw no problem with her mother's complaint.

***

John dropped his armful of heavy logs into the back of the wagon then dusted his hands off on his trousers. What were the odds he'd have run into her again? Of course, nothing had changed. He still wanted a meek, quiet wife, and she was just as forward in the daylight as she'd been at the ball last night. He shook his head and readjusted his left suspender strap then stalked back inside to grab another heavy load of logs.

The house where he was to deliver the logs was only a mile away—on a normal day. But just to make certain he didn't cross paths with his breathtaking stalker and her vulturous mother, he steered the horses in the opposite direction they'd taken to leave.

The soft, familiar sound of horse hooves on the ground filled the air, serving as a pleasant reminder of how close he was to returning to England. After today, he'd have enough money to return home to his family.

From the corner of his eye, a lady with large hoops under her skirt struggling to exit a carriage caught his attention, and he whipped his head to the side to make sure it wasn’t that intolerable chit who had a habit of appearing when he least expected it. He shook his head to clear her from his thoughts. A wife like her would only lead to a life of misery as her carefree—or perhaps care
less
—attitude and impulsiveness would quite possibly lead to her husband's ruin.

“Whoa,” he called to the horses, pulling back on the reins. Whistling, he jumped from the wagon and unloaded the wood for Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer before riding back to the mill.

“You're a stubborn man, Banks,” Mr. Morrison, the foreman of the mill, called to John as he steered the horses toward the back of the main building. “But it's what I admire about you.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said quietly as he dismounted the wagon and then moved to unhook the horses. The Sawyers were the last delivery of the day which meant it was up to him to put the wagon away and take care of the horses for the night.

Morrison sighed. “If you're ever in need of a job, you'll always have one here.”

“Thank you,” John murmured. He'd have to find himself desperate indeed to accept a job here. As it was, working here the past three weeks to earn enough to fund his travel back home had been quite enough. Of course, if it had truly been
that
bad, he could have swallowed his pride and accepted money from his brother. But he didn't want to do that. He might not have had a problem doing just that before he'd come across the ocean. But seeing how everyone here worked for his own wage, he'd decided to step out from his brother's protection and support himself. Getting that first handful of coins as payment for work he'd done, only spurred him to harden his resolve and refuse to accept his brother's generosity.

“Do you plan to return to England?” Morrison asked, presumably just to make conversation.

John removed the bridle from the second horse and nodded once. “Yes. It's time.”

“You can't mean to tell me that no pretty young lasses have caught your eye in the weeks you've been here.”

An image of the hoyden he'd seen earlier flashed in his mind. “None that I'd like to marry,” he said, unable to meet the other man's eyes.

A slow smile spread across Morrison's lips, and he cocked his head to the side in interest. When John didn't say anything else, the older man pursed his lips and made an unusual face. “Very well,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a handful of coins, picked out a few of the larger ones, and then dropped them into the gaping pocket in the front of John's shirt. “There's yer pay.”