Darling Annie

by Raine Cantrell

  She wasn’t in her room. Kell discovered that when he didn’t bother to light a lamp and tripped over a chamber pot in the middle of the rug and landed on the bed which was empty of the body he had designs upon—murderous ones. His prey wanted serious tracking.

  Subjected to a steady dripping shower while he stood in the middle of her room, figuring out where she could be hiding, he began to think about other designs for her body. The kind they hanged a man for doing.

  No one, but no one, would blame him for killing her. And at this moment, he knew he didn’t give a damn what happened to him. He wanted his hands around her neck.

  He didn’t bother to check the doves’ rooms. She’d no more seek them out than she did him. Finding the bathtub empty was no surprise, but he thought to check the small room. Li’s room was empty. Everyone was asleep because their beds were dry. He wouldn’t put it past that devious, prissed-up witch to have deliberately knocked a hole in the ceiling above his bed. The woman was born to torment man.

  It was about time she found out she had picked the wrong man.

  Every step added a number to her sins. Muldoon wouldn’t admit she’d committed any, but a man had to protect himself with the weapons at hand. The top of the list: she caused him a steady Irish toothache. The annoying state caused him to lose sleep. She was the added reason he dug in his boot heels about staying in Loving to rebuild the Aces.

  And that mouth. You’re slipping, he warned himself. Can’t forget that sugar-soft mouth that teased and tempted you.

  Prowling into the front parlor, he checked beneath the sofa, then moved into the back parlor, all the while thinking he was racking up an impressive list.

  If he was ever brought to trial, he’d have a defense ready. It was a good thing women didn’t have the vote. An all-male jury would acquit him faster than he could spot a marked deck of cards. From the top of her bright-as-new-copper hair to the tips of her high buttoned shoes, Kell managed to add nine more attributes of Annie Muldoon that offended him.

  “Freckles,” he muttered, opening the door to her aunt’s room. He could barely make out the low trundle bed where Fawn slept, but he wouldn’t discount the cowardly Muldoon seeking refuge here. The woman wasn’t aware that she couldn’t hide. He was determined to find her. Tonight—or what was left of it. And he wasn’t going to forget about her freckles. The serious question of finding out if she had them all over had caused him all sorts of agony.

  Over the years Kell had done his share of sneaking into and out of too many rooms. He stepped inside, controlled his breathing and listened. Fawn’s breathing was soft. But he received an earful of Hortense’s snoring. If another body was hiding in there, it wasn’t alive and breathing.

  A light thud amended that. Dewberry meowed and tried to twine himself around Kell’s bare feet. He scooped up the cat before he woke either of the women and closed the door softly behind him.

  With Dewberry settled in the crook of his arm, Kell walked out into the lobby and spotted the weak sliver of light that showed at the far end of the dining room.

  “Eureka, cat. We hit the right pocket.” His voice was as soft as his hand absently stroking the big tom. Now that his prey was close, Kell took his time walking to the closed kitchen door.

  “Accommodating lady. She’s far enough away from the others so I won’t have a witness when I strangle her. That’s what I call lady luck, cat.”

  Dewberry purred. Loudly.

  “Nice to know you approve. She probably beats you when no one’s around.” Kell set the cat down on one of the dining room chairs. “Stay there. I need both my hands free.”

  A plaintive cry made him shoot a glaring look at the big cat.

  Kell leaned down and whispered in the cat’s ear, “You want to see justice done, don’t you?” Dewberry flicked his ear, then settled his haunches with his front paws tucked neatly out of the way, face turned toward the door. “Good boy.”

  Kell jerked up straight. Christ! Now Muldoon had him talking to a cat!

  Closing his hand over the doorknob, he took a deep, calming breath and released it before he shoved the door open. He was ready for anything.

  Or so he believed.

  Muldoon waiting with her horse pistol would not have surprised him. He was ready to duck if she attacked him with a broom. He was even prepared to dodge flying china—a very brief affair that had gone sour had taught him how and was best forgotten—the affair that is, not how to dodge, and nothing would stop him from having his satisfaction.

  Except Annie Muldoon herself.

  Each scene he imagined disappeared when he opened the kitchen door. He had found his quarry. She was accommodating him by being alone. She sat at the table, facing the door, her head bent, a fretful hand wiping at her face. Muldoon crying?

  “If you’ve come for a bucket, there’s none left. Not a pot. Not one pan. There’s not even a bowl to be found. Unless you want the cracked one. But that’s of no use. It leaks.”

  “Pity I’m not interested in the contents of your kitchen.” Kell closed the door and leaned against it.

  Annie looked up. “Oh, it’s you.”

  The dismissive tone and her obvious fascination with the table stung. “Should I apologize? Help me out here, Muldoon. Were you expecting someone else perhaps? An angel of mercy? A knight to rescue you? Who, Muldoon?”

  “If I was expecting one of them, I’m doomed to disappointment. All I got was you.”

  “An unrepented sinner.”

  “How true. I tried to empty the flour crock, but there’s nothing left to put the flour in. These,” she said, a stabbing motion of one finger indicating the crooked row of teacups on the table, “are all that remain.”

  “Teacups for showers? Who would’ve thought? Much as I hate to dampen your brilliance, Muldoon, don’t make that offer to anyone else. Despite what your lowly opinion is of us, I wouldn’t drink from a cup that’s filtered water through your ceilings.”

  Annie sniffed. Her shoulders sagged and she had to rouse herself. “You’ve likely had ample opportunity to drink from the most disgusting vessels. Take them and leave. They are all I have.”

  Kell almost argued the fact. Her weary sigh stopped him. “Poor Muldoon.” And if she had looked up at him in that moment, she would have found genuine compassion in his eyes. “While I could debate the issue of your assets … I’ll admit, you look like something even Dewberry would reject bringing home.”

  Her head fell forward into her cupped hand. “Dewberry, I’ll have you know, is a male. He has no taste. Even you would be surprised by what he brings home.” Annie jerked herself awake. “Then again, maybe not. He’s very much like you.”

  Into Kell’s sleep-starved brain, the slurring tones of her voice slowly penetrated. He sniffed the air. Spirits? Was he truly smelling liquor in Muldoon’s kitchen? His eyes brightened with interest. It was something fruity. But then, he was staring at a woman who claimed she liked eating lemons.

  The pooling spread of the lamplight on the table helped his eyes pick out details—the tangled fall of her red-gold hair that nearly hid her back and shoulders, the plump curves of her breasts hiding the edge of the table while her damp, pristine white and too-thin-for-his-peace-of-mind nightgown revealed the darker shade of her nipples. He noted the faint trembling of the slender hand that held up her head. As if she became aware of his intense scrutiny, Annie lowered her hand to the table and looked up at him.

  Kell added the overly bright blue eyes, lashes—dark and thick as molasses—fluttering with the effort to hold his gaze. The flush on her cheeks hid her freckles and he had to avoid looking at her mouth. Fragile as a battered wildflower, she appealed to a softer, gentler side of him that had not been awakened in some time. He tilted his head to one side. There beneath the table her bare feet were hooked around the chair rungs. The hem of her nightgown was caught high enough to reveal dainty ankles and curled toes—damn Annie Muldoon and her bare feet!

&
nbsp; He had come looking for her to strangle her, not to feel this vulnerable tug of compassion for her beaten state.

  She shivered and briefly squeezed her eyes closed until the chill passed. From her lap, her right hand appeared holding a small cut-glass bottle. Too tired to make herself tea, Annie had tried liquor to get warm.

  Kell’s avid gaze couldn’t hide his surprise. Muldoon drinking? The Bible-thumping leader of the Loving corset-contingent? He settled himself in a slouch against the door, his arms crossed over his chest. His need for sleep disappeared. He never expected to be entertained. Murder was no longer the option he considered. But, oh, he still had designs on that body.

  She lifted the bottle, grunted, then glared at it for a few seconds before she raised it to her lips. Kell’s gaze followed her move. And so much for his need to avoid looking at her mouth.

  “Tell me, Muldoon, did you intend to finish the bottle and use it for your flour?”

  Annie shot him a disdainful glance, took a swig, and coughed. In a most unladylike fashion, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then licked her lips. Focusing her gaze—and she retained enough sense to realize that it was an effort—she hiccuped.

  “ ’Scuse me.”

  The giggle that followed made Kell grin. “It’s all right. What’s a little hiccup between friends?”

  “Friends?” That was too much for Annie. She took another tiny sip.

  “You didn’t answer me, darlin’.” A blank look made him add, “about the flour.”

  “Mr. Stork—no, that’s not right. Ah, York. That’s it. Well, what you know about a crock of flour would fit in a … a … a thimble!”

  “Maybe not, Muldoon. But flour, darlin’, ain’t the only thing crocked around here.”

  “It’s not?” Eyes wide with this startling announcement, Annie sent a searching gaze around the kitchen. She reared back in her chair, but trying to sit up straight was too much to ask of her aching body. She slumped forward again. What had he said? Pay attention to him, she warned herself. He’ll tangle you up in words and looks, then hang you out to dry. Dry? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. She could use something dry. But he said crocked…

  “Did you accuse me of being crocked?”

  “No offense, honey, but you’re—”

  “I’ll have you know…”

  “Yes?” he prompted when she appeared lost.

  “Ah, that ladies don’t get crocked.”

  “Much as I hate to correct a lady, crocked is what you are.”

  “Nooo,” she groaned. “Tip-sy.” Annie blinked. Shoving aside her tangled hair, she leaned forward, staring up at him. “Your hair’s all west.”

  “West?”

  “Wet. It’s wet.” She gently shook her head. Had she accused him of some misdeed?

  “Annie, it’s raining outside.” Her moan had him add in a gentle tone, “Raining inside, too.”

  “Oh, I know. I know.” His gaze waited for hers like a trap set for a mouse. Annie could no more avoid looking at him, than she could stop another hiccup. “I tried. Really I did. But the rain wouldn’t stop.”

  “Annie,” he said in that same gentle tone, but now undercurrents of laughter shimmered in it. “If you had all the buckets, pots, and pans from every kitchen in Texas, you couldn’t stop the rain.”

  “Stop the rain? Have you indulged in the evils of drinking?”

  “I’ve done my share. But, darlin’, you can bet I hold my liquor better than you. Need some advice on coping?”

  Listen! He’ll talk rings around you. “You’re most deliberately trying to confuse me. I wasn’t trying to stop the rain outside. I know you don’t have a very high opinion of me.” A buzzing began in her head. Annie had to speak with extreme care. “I’m a woman.”

  “I can see.”

  “Don’t interrupt. I may be only a woman, but I’m perfectly intelligent. I was attempting to stop the leaks in the house.”

  “Ah, that accounts for it then. I wondered what you’d been doing. I wouldn’t have guessed unless you told me. Were there a great many of them?”

  Having exhausted herself trying to speak coherently, Annie laced her fingers together over the top of the bottle and rested her chin on them. “Ever so many. I couldn’t keep up emptying the buckets. Everyone tried to help, but I sent them to bed.”

  “I can see that you’re very tired. Why don’t I take you up to bed?”

  Annie bolted up from the chair and sat down as quickly. She caught the bottle before it spilled, wondering why her knees felt as if the stuffing had been taken out.

  “Bed?” she repeated.

  “As in to sleep. To rest your weary little … ah, head. To—”

  “Oh. You were being kind.” Tears welled up in her eyes. Annie never cried if she could help it. Crying made her nose stuffy. She couldn’t manage dainty tears, not like Emmaline, whose eyes sparkled prettily if she cried. Annie’s eyes became red. The rims of them already burned as if she had used her scrub brush on them. Sniffling, she heard the buzz in her head increase. Her head ached from all this thinking that he was forcing upon her.

  Had she really told Kellian York that he was being kind?

  Annie pulled back and eyed the bottle. This is what happens when a body makes free with spirits. You feel feverflushed and cold at the same time. Your mind resembles Aunt Hortense’s succotash. Pay attention, Annie Charlotte. The man is talking about bed. And you thought he was being kind? He wouldn’t know kindness if it sat up, tapped his stubborn set chin, and kissed him!

  Kissed … him? Why would she think about kissing? Through the sheen of tears, Annie focused on his mouth. It was a nice mouth, as mouths went. Maybe his was a little full on the bottom. And there were those charming indentations when the corners lifted. Annie stared at his forming smile—all honey innocence and comfort, his smile could have sweetened every cake in the county.

  The upper half of his face was shadowed, but the light from the table lamp spilled a flowered glow on his bare chest. Really! The man had to do something about his lack of shirts.

  As with his mouth, Annie tried telling herself that he was made of skin and bone. Nothing at all special. But a small voice—one she swore was inebriated—countered that that wasn’t true. The patterning of hair on his chest appeared soft as goosedown, golden and so inviting to her weary head that her fingers curled with the need to touch him.

  She attempted to give herself a mental kick to beat back the enveloping haze from the little blackberry brandy she’d had. It didn’t work. She knew that exhaustion accounted more for her state than the brandy.

  Staring at the canted jut of Kellian’s hip sent warmth unfurling inside her. The room seemed suddenly warmer, but a shiver raced over her. Annie squeezed her knees together. Cold drafts touching her through the damp nightgown had not caused shivers; they came from excitement stirring. Her blood sizzled awake body parts, all the ones unmentionable even to herself.

  But she couldn’t stop looking…

  “You must be cold standing there with nothing on.”

  Kell’s smile became a wicked grin. He glanced down at himself, then slowly straightened away from the door. A few short steps would bring him to the opposite side of the table from her. His hesitation lasted all of a moment. Then he stood in front of Annie and placed both his hands palms down on the table.

  “Open your eyes, petunia. I’m wearing pants.”

  “Most men do,” she snapped, aware, as she had never wanted to be, of the loving fit of cloth to his body. She couldn’t remember ever being concerned about the fit of any man’s pants, but then she had never met a man like Kellian before. And not one man that she knew had a body…

  Annie!

  Hush. It’s true.

  And she silenced that little voice, losing the battle at the same time. Her gaze slid down to his waistband. She didn’t know if she should feel thankful that the top button was fastened or disappointed that the cloth hid
an intriguing swirl of hair encircling his belly button. Every button was snugly closed. Her eyes opened wide, then closed. The fit of his pants had changed to a decidedly pronounced state guaranteed to bring about heart palpitations. Her hand rose and curved over the upper slope of her breast as if to contain the quickening beat of her heart.

  Merely by his close presence he had effectively routed her again. She was frightened of her own reaction to him. Any intelligent female could deal with the likes of Kellian York. All her life she had thought herself rational, logical, and most practical.

  So why was running the only solution that came to mind?

  Like the thick, unstructured puddle of succotash she had likened herself to, Annie found she couldn’t order all body parts to move. Some parts put up resistance at being taken out of his sight.

  He was still watching her with a calm, remote expression, but his eyes were narrowed and strangely intense.

  “Did you come to complain about your bed?”

  “The thought crossed my mind. It’s wet and while there are times I don’t mind the sheets getting soaked, it’s usually because—”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Wouldn’t make any sense to explain it to you. You wouldn’t know what I was talking about anyway. Would you mind if I sit? No! Don’t look at me like I suggested taking a broom to your backside.”

  “Mr. York!”

  “And you can call me Kell.”

  “It’s easy finding names to call you, but using your first is not proper.”

  “Darlin’, you’re sitting there in a nightgown that hides as much as strawberries swimming in cream—oh, Lord, now I’ve made you realize how ridiculous your talking about propriety is.”

  He raised a distinctly skeptical brow. She sat with her arms crossed over her chest like some about-to-be-set-upon heroine from a bad play or one of those penny dreadfuls that the doves had Pockets read to them.

  Annie looked down at herself. Dismay filled her. She rearranged her forearms. The new placement offered no better concealment. When she glanced up to find his eyes had darkened to the green of sweet spring grass, she was spurred by a new surge of modesty to hide her breasts with her cupped hands. Kell’s groan told her she had not achieved success; if anything, judging by the flush tinting the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, she’d done the opposite.