The Barefoot Bride (20 page)

"Saxon, if it is your sister's solitude that worries you, send your trollop upstairs to dine with her," Araminta suggested coldly. "As simple as they both are, I imagine they will get along famously."

Chickadee's laughter drowned out Saxon's muttered curse. She snapped for Khan and walked to the table. She reached for a soft roll and fed it to the hungry wolf. "Me and Desi's got somethin' in common all right, Araminty. And that's the bad-mouthin' we take offen you. But you'd best be keerful lessen you want them ill words flanged back at you."

Saxon, who had been about to join his mountain girl in her challenge, closed his mouth abruptly when Desdemona let go of his hand and joined Chickadee at the table. She too reached for a roll, intending to feed it to Khan as Chickadee had done.

Araminta slapped her granddaughter's hand. Desdemona dropped the bread back into the silver basket and turned to flee. Again, Saxon caught her. Khan watched the scene briefly, then lifted his paws to the table and gobbled up every roll left in the silver bread basket.

Araminta quivered with anger. "Thatcher, get that animal out of this house!"

Which one?
Thatcher wondered. He sniffed and started toward the wary wolf.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Thatcher," Saxon said, pulling Desdemona back to the table. "Khan enjoyed that bread, but what he normally eats is raw meat."

Araminta stood. "I will not tolerate this blatant disregard for propriety. Go for the authorities, Thatcher."

"The authorities?" Saxon bent his head and grinned. "Now, Grandmother, calling in the authorities because of your own granddaughter-in-law would cause an uproar of the grandest kind. What would Mrs. Preston say?"

"Who's Miz Preston?" Chickadee asked, wondering why the mere mention of the woman's name silenced Araminta.

Saxon took a moment to seat Chickadee and Desdemona, making a great show of seeing to their comfort before he sat down in his own chair. "Tell Keely about Mrs. Preston, Grandmother."

"You have made your point," Araminta snapped.

Saxon acquiesced with a nod of his head, and then motioned for the serving girl to set three more places at the table. "Please bring more bread as well," he said to her.

"What's this thang a-doin' down here?" Chickadee asked and held up the tablecloth to look at the small stool she had knocked over. "This whar you-uns hide furniture you don't want no more?"

"The stools are placed under the table for the ladies' comfort, little one. You rest your feet on them."

Law, these rich folks is somethin' else,
Chickadee mused. "The way you-uns talk, this Miz Preston sounds like she's a queen. 'Pears to me—"

"I, for one, do not care how anything appears to you," Araminta interrupted.

"Grandmother, when Keely is introduced to society, she will certainly meet Mrs. Preston. Surely you don't want your new granddaughter-in-law to speak ill of you."

Araminta wearily slithered back into her chair.

"Mrs. Preston is the most highly respected woman in Boston society," Saxon explained. "Our local matriarch, wouldn't you agree, Grandmother?"

Araminta realized he was taunting her and enjoying it immensely. He didn't care a whit about Eugenia Preston or the woman's opinion, but he knew very well that Araminta cared deeply. She pursed her lips in irritation.

"Yes, well, as I was saying," Saxon continued merrily, "Mrs. Preston's fourth cousin is married to some English earl—"

"It's her
third
cousin who is married to a
fifth
cousin of the royal family," Araminta corrected him haughtily.

"How kind of you to set me straight, Grandmother," Saxon said and grinned. "Anyway, Keely, because of Mrs. Preston's... uh,
ties
with royalty, she is Boston's grande dame. Of course, her enormous fortune doesn't hurt her respectability either. You'll meet her soon, little one. I do think Keely should meet some other women, Grandmother. Having friends will help her adjust to Boston and also fill her time when I'm not here. I'll depend on you to help me with that."

Araminta choked on her wine. "You—unthinkable! If you believe I am going to assist you in any way with—"

"Oh, but you will," Saxon said, attacking his oysters. "You will escort Keely to various ladies' activities, because if you do not, I will take her to them myself."

"You wouldn't dare!" Araminta stood again.

"Why wouldn't I? I've always wondered what you women do at all those get-togethers. I might enjoy attending them, now that I think of it. That way I could get all the latest gossip and not have to wait for the wind to carry it to the male socials. We men never know what's happening in the circles of the fair sex, and—"

"You can be sure there will be gossip!" Araminta screeched. "It will be about
you!"

"And when have I ever given a damn about what people say about me?"

"Saxon, I ain't gwine eat these thangs." Chickadee was paying no attention to the heated argument taking place in front of her. She was studying her oysters with confusion and disgust. "They don't look like they been cooked, and I don't eat no raw meat."

At Saxon's nod, a serving girl removed Chickadee's plate of oysters and replaced it with a bowl of creamy soup. "Aren't you going to sit down and join us for dinner, Grandmother?" He hid his grin in a bite of brown bread.

Araminta watched Chickadee pick up a dessert spoon and slurp up the soup. Her gaze then went to Desdemona, who, after looking at Chickadee, picked up
her
dessert spoon and began to swill down her soup in the same loud manner. "See what you have brought upon us all, Saxon. Think about it, because I assure you your punishment for the disrespect you have shown me will—"

"I suggest, Grandmother, that if you find our company repulsive, you go eat in your room as you previously suggested we do. We have no intention of leaving the dining room, and will be taking all our meals here."

"But... but look how they are eating!" Araminta returned, aghast as she pointed to Chickadee and Desdemona.

Chickadee, who had finished her soup, was exasperated with her knife and fork. She put them aside and ate her roast mutton with her hands. "Saxon, tomorrer I'm gwine sharpen these here knifes fer you. Thur so dull you could ride 'em to mill and back withouten no blanket. Desi here give up on hers too, didn't you, darlin'?"

Desdemona remained silent, intent on finishing her meat. Her mouth and fingers were greasy, and there was a large smear on the front of her pink gown. But Saxon gave her an encouraging smile. "Yes, Grandmother," he said softly, "see what I have brought upon us all."

"They are eating with their hands!"

Chickadee looked up from her plate. "Iffen my knife warn't so dang dull, I wouldn't use my hands, Araminty. I got manners same as all you-uns. But 'sides that, fangers was around long afore forks. Maybe the good Lord above
meaned
fer us to use our hands."

"The good Lord? What do you know about Him? In my dictionary, a heathen is a person who does not acknowledge the teachings of God or the Bible."

Saxon's ire was immediate. He stood, threw his napkin to the table, and took a step toward Araminta. His extreme anger erased all thought of trying to remain genteel in his dealings with her.

"Keely was right in saying I am the man of this household. Grandmother! I have done everything you commanded, and in doing so have stripped you of your previous power over me. You may simmer in your wrath, or you may accept the changes that will undoubtedly take place in your life. What you choose to do is entirely up to you, but I—"

"You will pay for your insolence." Araminta turned to look at Chickadee. "And as for you, you are a most repugnant person. Your manners are as atrocious as your grammar, appearance, and—"

"Here's to you, Araminty," Chickadee said and lifted her wine glass, noticing that Desdemona imitated the action. "Yore snuff's a mite strong, but I got to hand it to you. You don't give up easy, and I reckon you and me's gwine have us a time on account o' I don't give up easy neither!"

Fuming, Araminta swept from the dining room, the odor of her perfume lingering over the table like a cloud of cloyingly sweet roses.

Saxon blew a sarcastic kiss at her back and sat down again. "Shall we finish our meal, ladies?"

*

Chickadee awoke with a start, disoriented until she remembered where she was. The bedroom was dim and chilled, the fire having gone out. Glancing at the heavy, scary canopy above her, she reached to Saxon's side of the bed, wanting to feel the warmth of his strong arms around her while she went back to sleep, but her hands encountered only cold, empty space. Then she remembered he hadn't come to bed with her. She found the warm robe Candice had brought to her, snapped her fingers for Khan, and left the bedroom.

At the upper landing of the staircase, she walked into a table. "Dang it," she muttered, "What fer do these Blackwells got to have all these God-burn tables and chars a-settin' around in ever' corner?" she asked Khan. "A person could git kilt jist a-tryin' to git around!" She rubbed her bruised knee and grabbed the banister.

"You reckon thur's anythang dangerous a-settin' on these here steps, Khan? Iffen thur is, I ain't a-takin' no chances." Swinging her leg over the slick railing, she slid all the way down.

She swiftly reached the bottom, dismounted, and wandered around the ground level of the mansion until she saw light coming from beneath a closed door. She opened it and saw Saxon sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. He hadn't heard her enter, and he hadn't seen her yet, either.

As always, her breath caught in her throat when she studied his features.

He still wore his evening clothes, but the elegance of his attire in no way diminished the aura of potent masculinity that accompanied him as faithfully as his shadow. He'd removed his dinner jacket and waistcoat. Those, she noted with a smile, were thrown in a heap on the floor. His cambric shirt was open, revealing the muscled expanse of his broad chest, the whisper of hair covering his skin like soft slivers of midnight.

His hair was mussed, the golden light of the fire flickering through its raven waves like stars shooting across the dark night sky. His eyes, half shielded by his thick lashes, stared directly into the flames, as if that eerie blaze was telling him something of great importance.

She noticed a bottle by the leg of his chair. He'd been drinking, she realized, and when she saw shattered glass in front of the lyre-shaped fire screen, she knew anger was the reason behind his bout with brandy. Even now, his jaw was clenched, indisputable evidence of his inner turbulence. He must have had words with Spider Woman.

"Are you going to spy on me all night, or are you going to join me, Keely?"

She nearly jumped out of her robe at the sudden sound of his voice. "Saxon, I—"

"Come in and shut the door."

She sat on a velvet empire sofa and waited for him to speak, but he only picked up the bottle and drank, his gaze never leaving the fire. "Saxon, why ain't you in bed? I can tell yore a mite upset, but likker ain't—"

"You know nothing about me, Mrs. Blackwell," he slurred. "Despite what you say about those heart eyes, you will never know who or what I am."

Lord o' mercy, he shore was ill tonight.
"I know yore mad about somethin' and I suspicion—"

"The word is
suspect. "
His eyes finally settled on her. "You don't
suspicion.
You
suspect."

She bristled. "Don't them words mean the same thang?"

"No they do not." He gulped more brandy. "You don't really hate Barton Winslow. You don't know what genuine hatred is. You may want revenge on him for what he did to your mother, but you can't truthfully say you hate the man."

"What does that have to do with—"

"I know what hatred is, though." He rose and crossed to stand in front of her. "I've lived with it for years. Every hour, minute, second, hatred closing in, coming nearer until finally it owned me." He spun and weaved to the fireplace. There, he put his arm on the mantel and leaned his head on it.

Chickadee sat in confused silence. Saxon obviously wasn't receptive to her opinions tonight, but she knew he'd never have begun this conversation if he hadn't needed to talk.

"Hatred," he mumbled, his face still buried in the vee of his bent arm. "A profound hostility, Keely. Loathing."

"Yep, I reckon hatred's both them thangs, Saxon, but y'know," she said, pausing when he turned to face her, "hatred ain't somethin' that can git to you lessen you let it. Iffen somebody hates you... well, that don't set real good on nobody, but it ain't got to break yore life to pieces."

"What do you know about hatred?" Saxon tried to put his elbow back on the mantel, but it slipped off. "Has anyone ever hated you?"

She met his hostile stare with a look glimmering with understanding. "Yore granny cain't stand me. And I don't much believe Thatcher's got a hankerin' to be my friend neither. But I ain't gwine let it bother me none."

The smile he gave her didn't reach his eyes. Swaying, he drank more brandy, but even as he swallowed, his cold gaze never left her. "Of course you don't care how Grandmother or Thatcher feel about you! Soon you'll be returning to those ridge mountains or whatever the hell they're called, and you'll never have to see Araminta Blackwell or Thatcher again. Keely McBride Blackwell—not a care in the world does she have!"

He toasted her with the bottle and then staggered to a tremendous shelf of books. As he walked past them, he slid his thumbnail across their leather-bound spines. The noise made him think of a drum roll—the kind played before an execution.

Chickadee sank back into the soft pillows, knowing Saxon was by no means finished with his verbal attack. Normally, she wouldn't have let him go a step further before setting him back on his heels. But she instinctively understood he was using her as a scapegoat for something that had nothing to do with her, so she waited for him to continue.

"Look at you sitting there," he growled from behind her, his hand vanishing into her hair. "No worries, no problems, eh, Mrs. Blackwell?"