Dillon blinked, ignoring the first sprinkling of raindrops. “Who told you that?”
“You did. You mentioned it before the O’Leary sisters burst in on us this morning.”
Surprised that she’d remembered such a passing phrase, he draped an arm around her and led her under the balcony of the nearest building. “Don’t you want me to go?”
His question was a challenge, accented by a deep rumble of thunder above them. Charity placed her hands on his chest, but with his arms coaxing her against his warm, solid body, she knew she was defenseless. Her knees were wobbling as she looked shyly into his eyes, because he was the most dangerous and captivating man she’d ever met.
“If you don’t want me to escort you tomorrow, you’ll have to give me a very convincing kiss goodbye,” Dillon teased.
Charity looked away. “It seems a kiss would convince you of anything you wanted it to—except good-bye.”
A few teasing strands of her hair had fallen loose, and when the blowing rain made her cling more tightly, he lowered his face slowly to hers. “Sweetheart, I want—”
A clap of thunder made her bolt, and Charity ducked out from under his arms with a sudden laugh. The rainy breeze was cool and refreshing, and now that her green satin bustle was drenched, it was too late to worry about ruining Mrs. Littleton’s gown. She dashed out into the street, surging with a playfulness she hadn’t felt since she was a child. Dillon was staring at her, yet she began plucking out her hairpins as she twirled in the pelting rain. “If you want that kiss, you’ll have to catch me,” she called out.
Devereau hesitated for only a moment, yet it gave her a head start. Charity was scampering up the street like a squirrel, her hair flying behind her as she lifted her skirts. He couldn’t recall ever chasing a woman—and certainly never a woman who frolicked in the pouring rain—yet as his clothes became soaked his laughter raced ahead of him to mingle with hers. Damn, she was quick! Half a block ahead of him, and too feisty to slow down.
Charity shook her wet hair back from her face, breathless from running and laughing so hard. She had no idea where the Crystal Queen was, and the buildings on either side of her looked alike in the moonlight. Devereau’s footsteps were getting closer, so she darted down the next little street to call a truce.
Dillon grabbed her arm. “Never duck into an alley,” he panted as he pulled her onto a storefront porch. “It’s where drunks and despicable beasts lurk, just waiting for such a tender young thing to stumble in.”
“Beasts like you, Mr. Devereau?”
“Absolutely.” He brushed a raindrop from the tip of her upturned nose—anything to stall, so he wouldn’t devour her on the spot. Her hair clung wetly to her shoulders and she was gasping for breath, still giggling as she looked up at him, and it took a supreme effort not to crush her soaked body against his own.
Charity bobbed up to kiss his cheek and immediately realized her mistake: on a glorious summer night, with a devastatingly handsome man gazing at her, a chaste peck wasn’t enough to remember him by.
Dillon’s insides turned to mush when she closed her eyes and offered up her flawless, rain-splotched face. He brushed her lips lightly with his own; she was pressing against him with her eager innocence until he wound his arms around her and kissed her firmly, with all the pent-up longing of the past twenty-four hours. With the slightest coaxing, she opened her mouth and allowed him to savor the deeper secrets of her willing lips.
When he finally released her, Charity looked up with a tremulous smile. “That didn’t taste like good-bye to me, Mr. Devereau.”
“It wasn’t.”
“But you said—”
“I’m liable to say anything, if it gives me the chance to hold you this way again,” Dillon whispered against her ear. “Now kiss me once more, sweetheart, and then we’d better think of a damn good story to tell your father if he’s already at the Crystal Queen.”
Chapter 4
“Daughter, I forbid you to have any further association with Devereau. He’s trouble.”
Charity gripped the steamboat’s railing and stared unseeing over the wide Missouri River as they chugged away from the Kansas City dock. How did Papa know? Dillon had hung their drenched clothing in the backstage room to dry and she’d been in bed last night before Papa returned from the revival. Had a romp in the rain and two kisses visibly changed her?
They were powerful kisses, she mused as she avoided her father’s probing eyes. Wonderful kisses. . . magical kisses.
“I’m saying this for your own good, Charity,” he insisted gruffly. “As far as I can tell, he has no business in Leavenworth, save to lead you astray. To a hustling, conniving professional gambler, an innocent girl like you is no challenge at all—easily impressed by his wealth, and just as easily brushed aside when he’s stolen your virtue. That’s all he’s after, daughter. I don’t want to see you hurt, so until he’s out of our lives, you will not so much as speak to him without my being present. Is that understood?”
Charity’s mind churned with resentment, because Papa always treated her like a child—was prejudiced against any man who so much as engaged her in conversation. “Why are you just now coming to this conclusion?” she asked bitterly. “You considered him trustworthy enough night before last when you went looking for a hotel.”
“Don’t sass me. I won’t have it.” Her father lifted her chin, forcing her to meet the dark, uncompromising eye that shone behind his glasses. “I know what evil lurks in men’s hearts, Charity, and Dillon Devereau is Satan’s own doorman. The only reason he escorted us to the tent meeting last night was so he could make eyes at you. I saw him—”
“Did you want someone to steal our money again?” she challenged. “Would you like another shiner, to match the—”
Her father’s sudden grip on her shoulders cut off the rest of her sentence. His nostrils flared and he lowered his voice to a hiss. “You see? His flattery and money have already wormed their way into your soul. You’d do well to spend the rest of our journey in prayer, daughter. Asking God to clear away your idle fantasies and to give you the strength to face the grief and sorrow that await us at your Aunt Magnolia’s.”
Knowing the trip upriver would take several hours, Charity glumly allowed her father to lead her to a bench at the boat’s bow. Other passengers were already eyeing them, and she knew better than to inspire his temper when he had an audience. Was it only last night she’d run giddily through the rain and been kissed for the first time? As the humidity made her brown dress stick to her back, she wondered if she’d ever feel so free and happy again.
After arranging their luggage in the steamer’s cargo hold, Dillon came up on deck and searched the crowd. Reverend Scott was easy to find, surrounded by a knot of women who were hanging on his every word and clucking over his unsightly eye. And there was Charity, hands folded in her calico lap, looking like a pauper’s daughter instead of the fairy princess he’d beheld yesterday. He slid onto the wooden bench and slipped his arm around her waist. “You’d be cooler with your hair up, honey. Shall I help you?”
Aching with the memory of how tenderly he’d brushed her hair before she played at the Crystal Queen, Charity sighed. “I’m not supposed to talk to you unless Papa’s here. He says you’re trouble.”
“He’s right. Trouble of the randiest sort—but always a gentleman, Charity.” When he saw her gaze fall forlornly to her clasped hands, he added, “Surely he didn’t suspect anything last night? We were at the Queen at least an hour before he was.”
Charity shook her head, avoiding his gaze.
“Then he has no right to ...” Seeing the slight quiver in her lower lip, Dillon let out an irritated sigh. It was Charity who had no rights, at least where her domineering father was concerned, so rather than upset her further, he saved his choice comments for Reverend Scott. “When I speak to him about this, I’ll—”
“No! He’ll think I ... you’ll only make things worse, Dillon.”
She’d f
inally called him by his first name, yet it brought him no joy. Her eyes were a deep, liquid green with tears she was trying valiantly to blink away—tears that confirmed his suspicions: Charity would go to desperate lengths to avoid her father’s wrath, and as long as Noah Scott was pulling her strings, she’d never again be the carefree, high-spirited creature he’d kissed last night. And every moment he spent at her side was likely to incite more anger, which Scott would vent on her when he wasn’t around to protect her.
Dillon glanced toward the black-coated clergyman and his flock, then stood up. “There’s a craps game in progress downstairs. That’s where I’ll be if your father wants me.”
But what if I want you? she thought as she watched him disappear in the crowd. Couldn’t he see how miserable she was and spend an hour of this tedious trip with her? It wasn’t as though he could make any advances—Papa couldn’t object to his sitting beside her while all these passengers looked on. Yet if the roguish blond found rolling the dice more pleasurable than her company, perhaps Papa was right. Mr. Devereau was first and foremost a gambler, and two kisses—or two hundred—wouldn’t change that.
Charity suddenly felt very foolish. After skittering in the rain like an idiot, she’d all but thrown herself at Dillon. He’d stopped short of taking full advantage of her, but his lips and hands had expressed his desires clearly enough that even an innocent like herself had no trouble understanding his intentions. Her body tingled in the places he’d touched her . . . secret places no gentleman would seek out. Recalling the way his fingertips had caressed her breast sent a sunburst of shame into her cheeks.
“You need a hat, dear. Or a parasol,” a kindly feminine voice said. “That lovely skin of yours has already gotten too much sun.”
Not in the mood for conversation, Charity took the opportunity to leave. “I believe you’re right,” she said. She stood, smiling tightly at the buxom woman, then found a place on the far side of the steamship’s rail to continue her brooding.
Thinking about Devereau only annoyed her, so she mused about Mama . . . Mama, who had suffered such a gruesome death before Charity had a chance to see her again, much less say good-bye . . . Mama, whose courageous, encouraging letters had made life with Papa somewhat bearable. Her selfish thoughts pierced her miserable heart like an ice pick, and Charity realized she’d soon be blubbering and calling attention to herself, so she wondered about Aunt Magnolia instead.
Would she be emaciated by now, racked by a consumptive cough? Each letter Mama had sent from Leavenworth recounted the trials of an illness the latest medical advances couldn’t cure, and gave thanks for the companionship only a sister could provide. Charity had seen two women in the parish back home waste away until there was hardly anything left to put in their coffins, and she hoped she wouldn’t stare or say something offensive when she came face to face with Maggie. She would have to be on her most agreeable behavior for this aunt and uncle she’d never met... and perhaps Erroll would ask her to stay on in their magnificent home to be the companion Mama had been to his wife. Seven bedrooms and a library!
The moment the Powers estate come into view, Charity knew the arduous journey from Jefferson City had been worth it. Overlooking the river from its scenic green hilltop, the stone mansion commanded awe and respect even as Dillon drove their rented wagon through the iron gates at the road. Two towers flanked the entryway to the three-story structure, with wings extending back on either side of them. Huge evergreens outlined the lawn, and the rosebushes along the front of the porch bloomed in rich reds and golds that matched the stained-glass borders of the windows. As they passed beneath a canopy of stately oaks, Charity breathed in the coolness of the shade and wondered if the castles in Europe were half this grand.
Her father cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should have put on a clean shirt.”
Charity felt Devereau stiffen on her left, and with good reason—he’d suggested they stop at the Planters Hotel, where he planned to stay, and freshen up before coming out here. She’d wanted to sponge off her face and pull her hair back, if not change out of her sweat-soaked dress, but Papa had insisted that Dillon drive them directly to Aunt Magnolia’s. She was hungry and cross, and instead of making a presentable first impression, they’d be showing up on the doorstep like a couple of destitute relations who had nowhere else to go.
“Whoa, girl,” Dillon crooned as he tugged at the mare’s reins. The Powers home was as ostentatious as he’d anticipated, and he wished he’d ignored Noah Scott’s demands and given Charity a chance to tidy herself. Sweat had trailed down her dusty cheeks, and her hair hung around her face in limp, unruly waves. “I’ll wait here while you go to the door,” he said gently.
She nodded and allowed her father to help her down from the wagon seat. “I hope they offer us lemonade,” she mumbled as they approached the imposing carved doors. “I could drink about a gallon, I think.”
“Hush. You’re whining like a street urchin.” He hesitated, then banged on the brass door knocker.
Charity sighed, longing to lift her hair off her damp neck. After they waited several moments Papa knocked again, and finally she heard muffled footsteps. She held her breath as the door swung open to reveal a plump Negro woman in a black uniform and starched white apron.
The maid eyed them cautiously. “Y’all lost?”
Papa smiled and smoothed his hair back. “We must look frightful after riding the steamer all day, but Magnolia and Erroll are expecting us. I’m the Reverend Noah Scott, and this is my daughter, Charity.”
The woman’s face showed no sign of recognition, and Charity felt a queer knot forming in the pit of her stomach. “We wrote to her—to say we were on our way,” she stammered. “When we read Aunt Maggie’s letter about Mama, we came as soon as we could.”
Scowling slightly, the maid turned and began thumbing through a stack of unopened letters on a mirrored étagère. She held one up, moving her lips silently. Then her eyes widened and she looked at them as though they were long-lost kin. “You be the Rev’rend Scott from Jeff’son City?” she asked excitedly. “I’d have knowed you from your posters, ’cept for that nasty eye.”
Papa smiled. “Yes, I am. We’ve come to—”
“Well, glory hallelujah! And to think Mr. Erroll and Miss Maggie knows you!” The maid grinned, showing a wide mouthful of uneven teeth-—until she sobered. “But they ain’t here. Left nearly a week befo’ this letter come, to see to Mr. Erroll’s business with the railroad.”
Charity felt her insides prickle. “But we thought—”
“Mrs. Powers is strong enough to travel?” Papa interrupted.
The maid rolled her chocolate-brown eyes. “Miss Maggie got a mind stronger than any man’s body, Reverend, and when she makes it up, there ain’t no changin’ it.”
“I see.” Her father’s face registered a nervous bewilderment that looked rather gruesome because of his purplish-green bruise. For the first time Charity could remember, he seemed at a loss for words.
“You see,” she began uncertainly, “we were planning to visit for several days, and—”
“Lordy, child, you cain’t stay here!” the maid said with a shrill laugh. “I mean—myself, I’d be happy to have y’all, but the other servants is on leave for the month—”
“We don’t require assistance, Sister—”
“—and Mr. Erroll, he’d have my hide if I let anybody in while he’s away.” The maid stepped closer and lowered her voice. “He don’t trust nobody. Thinks they’s all snoopin’ into his affairs. I’s real sorry, Rev’rend Scott, but I’s under strict orders not to let a soul—not President Grant nor Jesus Christ hisself—through these doors.”
Charity glanced back toward the wagon with a long sigh. “I...I guess we’ll register at the hotel, then.”
“I suppose we’ll have to.” Her father shook his head as though he were dazed. “I wouldn’t want to endanger your position, sister, so we’ll be going back into town. Could you direct us to the cemete
ry where Mrs. Scott’s laid to rest? We—we’ve come all this way to pay our respects.”
She looked confused, but the woman pointed toward the river. “It’s over yonder, on the far side of town, sir.”
“Thank you. And God bless you, sister.” He took Charity’s elbow, his expression taut and unreadable. “It’s a good thing Devereau didn’t unload our luggage and leave us,” he said tersely. “If we hurry, we can check into a room and clean up before it’s too dark to find the grave. I—I wouldn’t think of visiting your mother in this—”
“Reverend Scott, sir?” the maid called after them.
They both turned to see her broad, white smile.
“I s’pose it wouldn’t do no harm to pour y’all some lemonade, hot as it is,” she said in a hopeful voice. “Won’t take me a minute to fetch it.”
Charity grinned and looked at her father, but she could tell he was in no mood to dawdle over refreshments. “Thanks, but we’ll go on,” she replied reluctantly. “You take care now.”
Dillon helped her up to the wagon seat, and when she dropped down beside him, the weight of her disappointment made her look older than her eighteen years. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know you were looking forward to—”
“Gone,” Charity mumbled as she shook her head.
“Who would’ve thought she could travel? Especially when she sounded so overcome by Mama’s death in her letter.”
“And if the servants are away for a month, it’s a sure thing Maggie and Erroll won’t return any sooner,” her father grumbled. “I can’t leave my pulpit for that long.”
Hearing the finality of his tone, Charity sighed. They’d come all this way up the river and would be returning within a day or two, and she hadn’t gotten even a glimpse inside her aunt’s luxurious home. As she glanced over her shoulder at it, she tried to recall every glorious detail Mama had told her about it in her letters. As adamant as the maid was about keeping them out—and as set as Papa sounded about visiting the grave tonight and getting home—she knew she’d spend the rest of her life wondering what it was like to live so royally.
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