Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  She set the tray down so hard the ice clattered against the glass pitcher. “I don’t plan to share your refreshments, Mr. Frye. I only brought this because you have something of mine.”

  “The key to your heart, no doubt.”

  Celesta slapped him, but then he caught her by the wrist, his face alight with a devilish grin. She watched, heart pounding, as he slowly, slowly pressed her palm to his lips. “You are the most underhanded—’’

  “You smell like lemons, sweetheart,” he murmured, inhaling deeply as his mouth brushed her pulse point and continued up her bare forearm. “All tangy and tart, like the spirited woman you are. I like that.”

  “You’re changing the subject,” she muttered, sounding much less irked than she wanted to. “You stole an envelope and my best pen, and I want them back.”

  Damon paused halfway up her lovely arm. “There wasn’t a pen in your basket when—”

  “Was too!” she blurted. She tried to jerk her arm away, but he held her fast, taking in her agitation with teasing brown eyes. Although he was freshly shaven and tanned, the shadow of his beard along his taut, square jaw made something quiver in the pit of her stomach . . . and he knew it, too.

  Celesta was trembling, yet her spitfire eyes never blinked. The color was indeed flooding her cheeks with a pink akin to the showy blooms of the mimosa trees that whispered in the breeze around them. “If you want your story back, you’ll have to ask me very nicely for it,” he murmured, glancing suggestively at her mouth. “I’ve enjoyed Sally Sharpe’s adventures since she first appeared in print, and I’d hate to miss an issue because Montgomery C. Lester didn’t meet her deadline.”

  His praise was sweet, but so infuriating! “I wrote another story last night,” she jeered, “no thanks to you, thief! Mama gave me that pen for my—”

  “I’m telling you, there wasn’t any pen—”

  “You’re lying!”

  When she tried to jerk away, he caught her around the waist and held her so close he could feel her pulse racing against his stomach. “No, I’m pouring us some lemonade,” he said as he lifted the pitcher, “and we’re going to toast your literary success. I gather your aunts don’t know about your writing?”

  “Heavens no!”

  “And what about Patrick?”

  “NO! And if you breathe one word—”

  “Then, it’ll be our secret, Celesta,” he murmured, raising the cold glass to her lips. “I consider it an honor to be privy to such information, because I truly admire your way with a story, sweetheart. And as long as you give me what I want, your identity’s safe. A woman with your cunning mind surely understands what I mean . . . and what I want.”

  Her heart was pounding so loudly she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “That’s blackmail.”

  “Of the sweetest kind, Celesta—the kind lovers engage in to keep each other interested. Now drink up,” he coaxed. “Here’s to your continued success, and to a passion as deep and compelling as your wildest imaginings.”

  Frye tipped the glass until she had to swallow the sweet, tangy lemonade. Its coldness trickled down her insides, a startling contrast to the heat of his arm across her back. All she could do was watch as he solemnly sipped the drink himself, tilting his head back until his Adam’s apple throbbed with his enjoyment.

  When he looked at her again, Celesta stared, fascinated, as a drop of pale liquid ran from the corner of his lips.

  “Catch that,” he breathed.

  She gaped at him, too stunned to move.

  “Better hurry. The farther down it drips, the more of me you’ll have to kiss.”

  Infuriated, she again tried to free herself but his other arm caught her behind the head, and her tongue slithered out of its own accord to halt the progress of that single, tantalizing drop. He tasted sweet and salty. His low moan spurred her on until she’d rounded his chin, reveling in the virile roughness of his face—such a difference from the silken lips that now closed over hers.

  This was insane; Justine could return home any moment! Celesta resolutely clamped her teeth together.

  Damon pulled away slightly to smile at her. “One more kiss,” he whispered. “No one’ll see us. Open your mouth this time, honey.”

  She almost protested but caught herself: talking would give him the opportunity he wanted! She tried to back away, but her wily captor touched his cold, wet glass to the back of her neck.

  When Celesta gasped, he claimed her again. Lips sweet with lemonade coaxed him to drink deeply of her soft helplessness, until she went limp against him and savored the leisurely kisses he bestowed upon her like gifts she’d someday repay in kind.

  Celesta pulled away, dazed by his magic. “Damon, we can’t—I want my story back!”

  “We can,” he breathed into her ear. “And you’ll get what you want as soon as I do, Celesta. I’ll make it easy for us, perfectly discreet. Leave it to me, sweetheart.’’ He released her, sending her up the path by playfully swatting her behind.

  Dizzy and giddy—and appalled at how quickly she’d succumbed to him—Celesta teetered up the stone walk as though she’d guzzled whiskey. Leave it to him, he said! How stupid did he think she was?

  She stopped outside the pantry entrance to smooth her apron and take a deep breath. His threats meant nothing: she didn’t intend to publish “The Pen is Mightier” anyway. But the thrumming of her senses . . . the tickle of the hair on Damon’s chest, the scent of sweat and lemonade as he whispered they’d be lovers, the dark eyes that held promises she should never keep . . . these images would taunt her every time she saw him. Every time he wore those overalls, she’d know he had nothing on underneath them, and she’d be more frantically aware of the power he already held over her.

  As dinner progressed, Celesta watched Katherine and Justine fall victim to Damon’s charm as well. He’d worked until he was called to wash up, had put his blue chambray shirt on again, and was now complimenting both ladies profusely, with a smile that appeared maddeningly sincere.

  “I can’t recall the last time I shared such a wonderful meal with such delightful company,” he said as he reached for his fourth piece of fried chicken. “Home-grown vegetables, good talk—and a bird so tender it must’ve been specially ordered,” he said with a purposeful glance at Justine.

  “And there’s peach pie for dessert,” Katherine piped up. “It’s a joy to cook for someone with your appetite, Mr. Frye.”

  When Damon’s gaze flitted suggestively to Celesta she choked on her last bite of biscuit. His appetites were no secret to her, and she couldn’t understand why Justine wasn’t cutting into his flattery with her knifelike tongue. As she and Katherine carried the dirty dinner plates to the kitchen, she was amazed to hear the spinster sounding as cultured and polite as a society matron.

  “I had no idea you’d gone into architecture, Mr. Frye,” her voice floated in from the other room. “No doubt you’ve noticed the fine craftsmanship and detail here at Ransom Manor.”

  “It’s a proud house,” he stated. “I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but when I was a boy it was the badge of bravery to sneak up here and take a chunk of loose mortar from your retaining wall. Or better yet, to steal a peach from your trees.”

  Katherine was chuckling as she lifted slices of pie from the glass plate, and then she gaped at Celesta. Justine was laughing out there, as though Damon were a beau she sought to impress with her wit!

  “You were no doubt trying for a glimpse of Father,” she was saying with mock sternness. “His reputation as a riverboat pilot made for some fascinating gossip, not to mention his rather eccentric ways.”

  “We were in awe of him and his adventures aboard the Phantom,” Frye agreed. “And whenever I saw these solid stone walls I thought of a castle in King Arthur’s time. Couldn’t help but wonder what sort of priceless treasures and princesses I’d find inside.”

  “You’re a shameless flatterer, Mr. Frye,” came Justine’s twitter, “but since you have an a
ppreciation for such things, I’d be pleased to show you around the house—if you’re interested, of course,” she added hastily.

  Celesta nearly dropped the plates she was carrying. And as she reached the table, Damon was plying her maiden aunt with an appropriately awed gaze.

  “I would be honored,” he said quietly. “Why, until John Cruikshank commissioned his current home, Ransom Manor was the finest example of architectural excellence in northeast Missouri.”

  “It still is. If you ask me, Mr. Cruikshank’s taste tends toward the excessive.”

  “Don’t let Justine’s frugal streak offend you, Mr. Frye,” Katherine insisted as she placed his pie before him. “With the loss of our men, we haven’t maintained our home’s original splendor as we should, and we truly appreciate your time and labor today. We’d be delighted to show you around.”

  He wasn’t sure why these two old girls were suddenly treating him as long-lost kin, but he wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass him by. “I’d like nothing better, but I should complete the gazebo repairs—”

  “Which gives you the perfect excuse to stay for supper!” Katherine perched daintily on her chair, a fragile smile on her face. “You’re the ray of sunshine we need in the wake of Rachel’s untimely demise. I hope we aren’t boring you with our gloom.”

  He honestly couldn’t remember feeling more welcome, but Celesta’s simmering scowl warned him not to press his luck. Her aunts had unwittingly invited him to take advantage of her vulnerable state, and if they guessed his motives, he’d be out of her life—and probably out of a job—before nightfall.

  ***

  Frye returned to his repair work, aware that three pairs of eyes watched him from the house now and then. It felt good to perform these manual tasks, because his position as a designer and supervisor made him more an administrator than a carpenter these days. He replaced the damaged upright supports and then the beams that met in the gazebo’s peak. If he pushed himself, he could hammer the new latticework in place and have it painted by sunset.

  But with prudent pacing he could return tomorrow, to finish this job while Patrick and Eula were visiting. What a treat, to watch Perkins plead his case and lavish gifts upon Celesta—maybe kiss her when he thought they were alone—only to have her refuse his offer of marriage. It was a rejection he richly deserved. Miss Montgomery outshone him in every respect, and her keen intelligence would compensate for her lack of social status when she stood up to him. It was a showdown he didn’t want to miss.

  And as Celesta watched from the alcove window, she sensed Frye’s mind was working much faster than his muscled arms. He was lithe and confident with his tools, pure pleasure to watch as he reconstructed Katherine’s gazebo without seeming to think about what he had to do next.

  His presence these past few hours had left her terribly confused. She’d been so sure her fountain pen had been in that wicker basket, yet thinking back, she’d been scrambling so frantically through her desk at Eula’s that she might have overlooked it. Frye seemed certain that Mama’s gift hadn’t been among her papers, but who could believe him? He was a smooth-talker of the highest order, and even Justine was now caught up in his spell. His kisses. . . . Celesta touched her fingertips to her lips, fearing he’d opened a Pandora’s box of emotions it was already too late to shut the lid on.

  And after Damon allowed himself to be coaxed into supper and a tour of the house, the situation became even more exasperating. Both her aunts were escorting him, pointing out Ransom Manor’s unique if eclectic beauty, so she would appear impolite if she retired to her room. Celesta saw the huge old home through the eyes of a duly impressed visitor—a visitor who noted the repairs two old women couldn’t see to, and who would use them to his advantage.

  “You’ve seen our kitchen and dining room, and this is the study where my father and brother conducted their riverboat business,” Justine said with a wave toward the doorway.

  Frye looked into the masculine den, with its paneled walls and leather furniture, knowing Ambrose had chosen this rounded tower room for its view of the river. The white roof of the gazebo was barely visible through the blossom-studded mimosa trees that surrounded it.

  “And of course the other dining room door leads us to the vestibule,” his elderly guide continued. She paused so that he could take in the grandeur of the carpeted stairway and the glossy floors of dark marble, covered with a Turkish rug that was showing some wear down its center.

  “When I first came to this house, I thought it was designed backward,” Katherine said with a faraway chuckle. “Since the pillared porch is on the other side, most people assume that’s the main entry rather than the back hall.”

  “Father wanted it that way,” Justine said crisply, “because the breeze from the river would cool the kitchen, and because he wished our home’s magnificence to be most evident from the water.”

  “So he could see it every time he came home from a trip,” Damon ventured.

  The spinster gave him a tight smile. “Precisely, Mr. Frye. And here we have our main parlor, where my mother used to hostess her church committees and teas.”

  It was a quaint, flowery room, and its focal point was a baby grand piano that glowed in the light from the bay window. “Do you play?” he asked. It was a fine instrument, and his fingers itched to caress its keys.

  “No. The piano was Rachel’s eighth birthday present, and since Mother was gone by then we used this as a music room,” she answered stiffly. “And this door leads to the library.”

  Celesta heard the resentment in her oldest aunt’s voice and sensed the questions Damon wanted to ask because of it. He was gazing at the fireplaces and decorative details of these rooms with a keen interest, as though he would like the chance to linger and learn more about the family that once lived here. She took Aunt Katherine’s arm as they entered the library, hoping Mr. Frye would refrain from exhuming too much of the Ransom past.

  His smile widened as he stepped into the cozily furnished room, with its striped chairs and settee arranged before a stone fireplace. The collection of books was impressive, but the reason he circled the room was to stand before the large portrait of Ambrose Ransom, Senior, noting how the old fellow’s piercing eyes seemed to follow him. “Celesta certainly inherited her grandfather’s coloring and striking facial features. From what I recall of him, though, he was much less intimidating in real life than he looks in this painting.”

  “That’s because he wanted you to peek in here and be scared, after sneaking his peaches,” Celesta commented wryly. “He still haunts this house, you know. Better beware, lest the floorboards open up when you wander where you shouldn’t.”

  That wouldn’t happen—the house was only fifty years old, by his estimation—but the raven-haired Miss Montgomery was clearly warning him not to feel too much at home here. These high-ceilinged rooms with their graceful swag draperies and chandeliers appealed to him, however, and despite their faded colors, they exuded a warmth that drew him in. He was guessing Katherine was too sentimental—or not allowed—to make any improvements and that Justine was too tight, since money certainly wasn’t a problem.

  “And the last room on this floor is our summer parlor,” his guide was saying. “Needless to say, Katherine spends a great deal of her time here.”

  Damon chuckled. Above the mantel, between the tall, rectangular windows—everywhere—hung her samplers. Most featured alphabets and simple home scenes, but some were elaborately stitched words of wisdom: Trust and Obey, Haste Makes Waste, Lead Us Not Into Temptation.

  “She does lovely work,” he said, noting how Celesta’s gaze had followed his to that last sampler, and then she’d flushed and looked away. “This is a very homey room, with its ferns and the shaded view of the river. It’s much like I remember our parlor when my mother was alive.”

  Katherine looked around pensively, and then ran her hand along a yellowed section of wallpaper. “Compared to the exquisite materials you’re working with at Joh
n Cruikshank’s, our patterns and colors must seem a little dated.”

  Damon shrugged. “They’ve retained their beauty remarkably well, just as the home as a whole has kept its structural integrity. If it hadn’t, you’d be seeing stains and cracks.”

  As he followed the three ladies up the back stairway, he wondered if Katherine might be working up to a very bold proposition, for a woman in her place. The wall coverings and floorboards were worn in places, yet Justine, as the head of the Ransom family, was apparently blind to the house’s fading glory.

  “On the second floor we have our bedrooms—and I don’t think we’ll need to see those,” the spinster added primly, “but I’ll show you the ballroom that was once the envy of Hannibal society. You’ll have to pardon our dust, as we never come up here anymore.”

  The air grew noticeably hotter and mustier as they ascended the last few steps. A narrow hallway took them past dormered rooms—formerly the schoolroom, nursery, and maid’s quarters, Justine was saying—and then they turned the corner to enter a large, opulent ballroom with another baby grand on the dais, and hardwood floors, and a vaulted ceiling which housed a huge, tiered crystal chandelier.

  Katherine let out a lingering sigh beside him. “How this room rang with life at Rachel’s wedding dance, and for the masquerades and Christmas balls we used to have,” she said wistfully. “The bronze sconces glimmered with candlelight, and everyone laughed and chattered above the music. It breaks my heart to see it looking so ... forlorn. Hasn’t been a child in the nursery since Rachel was born forty years ago, and now that Ambrose has passed away, I ... I can’t bear to come up here.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Katherine,” Justine said after her sister-in-law hurried down the stairs. “She’s a fine one for talking about balls and Father’s spirit haunting this floor, but I think her romantic notions overpower her reason at times. She should accept the fact that the past is gone and my brother’s not coming back. These rooms will probably never be used again.”

  Damon flinched at the harsh finality of her words as he walked slowly down the center of the ballroom.