His Mountain Miss (Smoky Mountain Matches)

by Karen Kirst

  By the time he’d reached Megan’s farm, his mind was blessedly clear.

  Taking the worn path veering from the lane, he passed a fair-sized vegetable garden and a crude, open-air shelter fashioned from four sawed-off tree trunks topped with a slanting, wood-slat roof, under which sat a wagon. The barn, while sizable, had seen better days. Boards were warped or missing altogether. Beyond sat a corncrib and smokehouse in much better condition. Diagonal from the barn, its roof sheltered by the branches of a towering magnolia tree, sat a two-story, shingled-roof cabin with a long, narrow porch running the length of the dwelling. Stacked river rock formed the supports. Flowers spilled from crates on either side of the door, spots of color in the porch’s shadow. Two rocking chairs waited, still and silent, for someone to relax and enjoy the view.

  Nearing the barn, Megan’s voice drifted out through the open doors, and he stopped to listen.

  “Mr. Knightley,” she all but crooned, “we can’t go for another jaunt in the woods today. It’s almost time for supper.”

  Lucian frowned. Who was Mr. Knightley? Another suitor? Treading silently, he edged closer to the shaded opening, craning his neck for a glimpse of her and her companion.

  “How about tomorrow afternoon? If the weather cooperates, that is.”

  There was no response. Seeing a flash of her blond hair, he moved into the barn itself and saw that her Mr. Knightley was in fact a beautiful bay dun.

  “Bonjour.”

  With a gasp of surprise, she pivoted his direction. Her eyes were huge and dark. “Lucian! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “That’s a fine horse you have there.” He advanced farther inside, noting the neatness and order, gardening tools and pails stacked in one corner. A dairy cow shifted in her stall as he passed. Fresh hay littered the earth floor.

  When he reached her side, he placed a hand on the horse’s powerful neck, inches from where hers rested. She didn’t speak at first, simply stared at him as if trying to absorb the fact that he was actually here, on her property. The air around them shimmered suddenly with energy, sharpening his senses. She was so very close. Adrift in blue eyes that reminded him of the mysterious ocean deep, Lucian found his ability to speak failed him. As did his common sense.

  He covered her hand with his own. Edged closer. Inhaled the faint rose scent that clung to her. Captured a wayward curl and wrapped it around his finger.

  “Lucian?” Her whisper caressed his neck.

  His heart thundered inside his chest. “Has anyone ever told you that your hair is like moonlight?” he murmured, his gaze freely roaming the silken mass. “So pale it practically glows luminescent?”

  Her peach-hued lips curved sweetly. “Actually, you’re the first.”

  That smile nearly felled him. His gaze homed in on her lush mouth, and he bent his head a fraction. Her breathing changed. He stilled.

  What was he doing?

  “I’m sorry. I—” What could he say? That he’d temporarily forgotten all the reasons he mustn’t fall prey to her charms?

  Uncoiling his finger, he put distance between them. Focused on the horse. Mr. Knightley. “I take it you’re an admirer of Jane Austen? Emma, in particular?” Averting his face, he grimaced when his voice sounded more riled bear than human.

  Megan didn’t move. “Y-yes, I am as a matter of fact. You’re familiar with her works?”

  “You sound surprised.” He dared a glance at her, watched her expression change from bemused to contemplative.

  “Not surprised, exactly. Pleased would be a more apt term. Some men consider female authors inferior and, as such, unworthy of their attention.”

  “And here I thought you’d be surprised that I read at all.”

  Lifting a shoulder, she averted her gaze and stroked her horse’s neck. “Charles mentioned he’d passed his love of books on to Lucinda. I surmised she taught you to do the same.”

  Lucian didn’t respond. She was right, of course. His earliest memories were of sitting on his mother’s lap, snug and warm, listening to bedtime stories. She’d read to him until he’d learned to do it for himself. Growing up, he’d passed countless afternoons hidden away in their estate’s library, immersed in one adventure or another.

  “I have to admit, I never did warm to Emma and her matchmaking. I prefer Mansfield Park.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Megan—” they turned as one at the feminine intrusion barreling into the barn “—what’s taking you so...long?”

  The raven-haired beauty’s momentum faltered when her wide-eyed gaze encountered him. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.”

  Once Megan made the introductions, Lucian nodded in greeting, surprised that, besides their striking eyes, the sisters didn’t share any other physical similarities. He instantly recognized the calculating gleam in Nicole’s, having witnessed it in scores of other young ladies’ gazes. What schemes was this young minx entertaining? He had a feeling she caused her poor parents a fair share of grief.

  “Supper’s on the table,” Nicole announced brightly, smoothing her lace-and-ribbon-embellished purple skirts. “Please say you’ll join us, Mr. Beaumont.”

  He glanced at Megan, uncertain of her feelings on the matter. He wanted to accept, not because he was particularly hungry, but because his curiosity had only increased in the time he’d been here.

  Her hesitation lasted a fraction of a second before good manners kicked in, and she smiled her agreement. “Yes, please do. You can meet our younger sister, Jane, and taste her fine cooking. It’s simple fare,” she hastened to add, “nothing like you’re used to, I’m sure.”

  “Not all of my meals are seven-course fanfares,” he said leaning towards her, a slight smile playing about his lips. “In fact, when I’m out hunting, I sometimes make do with a can of cold beans and hard biscuits.”

  “I can scarcely believe it,” she responded with mock horror. “Lucian Beaumont, lord of the manor, eating out of a can? What would people say if they knew? I hope you at least had a fork and weren’t forced to use your fingers.”

  Lord of the manor? Was that how she saw him? As some stuffy stick-in-the-mud?

  “Well, beans aren’t on the menu tonight, thank goodness!” Nicole said with relief. “Jane’s fixed pot roast and all the trimmings. Let’s go eat before it gets cold.”

  With a shrug and a smile, Megan fell into step beside him, explaining the whereabouts of her mother, Alice, and sisters Juliana and Jessica. There was no mention of a father, which meant the man had either abandoned his family or passed on. The question would have to wait until later.

  Preceding Megan into the cabin, he stepped into a rectangular, low-ceilinged room crammed with furniture. Oval-backed chairs surrounded one long, chocolate-brown settee and a yellow-gold fainting couch. Two oversize hutches monopolized the wall space opposite him, while sewing baskets, fabrics and supplies occupied a low table in the far corner. To his left, impossibly steep stairs disappeared into an opening in the second floor. Beyond the living area, he glimpsed a narrow passageway that contained the dining table laden with dishes and, past that, the kitchen.

  The rich aroma of succulent meat and fresh-baked bread hit him. His mouth watered. Perhaps he was hungrier than he’d thought.

  As he understood it, until recently, six females had shared this cabin. That number was now at five. Despite the crowded nature of the space, they did a remarkable job of keeping it clean and clutter-free.

  Auburn-haired Jane, he found, did resemble Megan to a degree. While her hair and eyes were different, she had the same cheekbones, nose and chin, though that last part lacked her older sister’s stubbornness. That could be due to her young age. Jane exuded the same gentle sweetness, but she lacked Megan’s spark, the inner fire that drew him unwillingly to her. Ignore it or fight it. If you don
’t, you could wind up getting burned.

  Beside him at the table, she was unusually quiet. She didn’t have to utter a word, however, for him to be aware of her every movement. Did she resent having him here?

  He should’ve felt awkward, outnumbered as he was by unfamiliar females. However, the delicious meal and the younger girls’ eager inquiries about city life put him at ease, as did the realization that Nicole didn’t have her sights set on him. In fact, the thoughtful glances she slid between he and Megan indicated she had ideas about the two of them.

  Pity she was bound to be disappointed.

  * * *

  Tonight Jane’s pot roast didn’t melt on Megan’s tongue. It was difficult to chew and even harder to swallow, and it was all his fault. Every time Lucian shifted in his seat, his shoulder brushed hers and her stomach took a dive. Once, when his knee bumped hers, she nearly toppled her lemonade. His masculine presence filled the room, robbing her lungs of air. All she could think about was that scene in the barn. He’d almost kissed her! The worst part was the acute disappointment she’d experienced when he didn’t. If anything, she should be relieved.

  Kissing Lucian would have disastrous consequences. One kiss from him and she’d be planning their wedding. Risking a sideways glance, she tried to imagine him in formal black wedding clothes. His unruly waves slicked back...

  Lowering her gaze to her still-full plate, she swirled the potatoes through the gravy with her fork. Have you forgotten the children? He’s made it plain he seeks to circumvent Charles’s will. I guarantee he won’t be quite so attractive if you have to cancel story time and explain to them that their fun is over.

  Besides, his home was hundreds of miles away. If she allowed herself to get close to him, to care for him, he’d take a part of her heart with him when he left. Could she endure that? Pining hearts made for great fiction...why else would she have pored through the pages of Pride and Prejudice half a dozen times? She wasn’t so certain she wanted to experience it in reality.

  “Megan,” Jane’s voice intruded, “would you like a slice of pie?”

  “No, thanks.” She dredged up a smile, laying her fork aside when she noticed everyone had finished. “I’ll help clear the dishes.”

  Rising, she began to stack them.

  “Jane and I will clean up,” Nicole protested, rising and taking the plates from her hands. “Why don’t you and Mr. Beaumont have a seat on the front porch while we dish up dessert?”

  Megan stared. Nicole didn’t volunteer to do anything unless it suited her purposes. What was she up to?

  Lucian stood, as well, and placed a hand against his flat stomach. “That was a fine meal, ladies. I enjoyed this evening very much. Thank you for your generous hospitality.”

  Jane flushed. They’d all noticed he’d eagerly accepted second portions. “It was our pleasure, Mr. Beaumont.”

  After inviting her sisters to call him by his first name, he turned that intense focus on her, waiting for her to lead the way. Where they’d be alone again. Her nerves zinged with equal parts anticipation and dismay. Would he touch her again? She hoped not. Really, she did.

  Outside, darkness blanketed the land, obscuring the distant mountain peaks. Moonlight cast the yard and outbuildings in a muted glow, glancing off the treetops while the thick forest below remained cloaked in impenetrable blackness. The nearby stream’s hushed journey over and around moss-covered rocks formed a backdrop to the cicadas’ calls and frogs’ songs. The night air was pleasant against her skin, not too warm and not too cold. Perfect.

  Lucian stared into the night, one shoulder propped against a wooden support. She moved to rest her back against the one opposite, arms crossed over her chest. She studied his proud profile, wondered if he ever truly let go and allowed himself to relax. Lost the brooding tension humming along his body.

  “What’s the city like at night?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. “The air is humid, almost sticky, and sweet with the scent of magnolias and beignets. Buggies and people roam the streets at all hours, the sounds of horses and wheels clattering over bricks, laughter and jazz flooding the night. It’s a vibrant place.”

  If it was so wonderful, then why did he sound dissatisfied? Wistful for something else?

  “What are beignets?”

  “Fried dough dusted with sugar.”

  She smiled. “Sounds delicious.”

  “They are, indeed, especially when accompanied by café au lait. We use chicory in our coffee, which makes it stronger, more bitter than what I’ve tasted here.” He angled his face to study her. “I think you’d like it there, Megan, especially the waterfront. The nonstop activity. Interesting characters. The boats and the water.”

  “I’ve yet to leave these mountains. Not sure I ever will.”

  He shifted so that his stance mirrored hers, his back against the support. “You surprise me. I would’ve guessed that a young lady such as yourself yearned for adventure, hungered to see the world you read about in all those books.”

  “I’ll admit I’ve often wondered what other places are like. I’m realistic enough to know, however, the opportunity will probably never arise.” She shrugged. “That’s all right with me. I’m content right where I am.”

  “The mountains are all right,” he agreed offhandedly.

  “Just all right?” She dropped her arms, indignation pushing upward. “How can you say that—”

  “There’s no need to get huffy, mon chou,” he responded, amusement deepening his accent. “I was merely teasing. While I prefer the lowlands, I can’t deny East Tennessee is lovely. In fact, it sort of reminds me of my property outside New Orleans. The landscape is vastly different, of course, but the feeling I get is the same. A feeling of freedom. Free of constraints, of expectations. I can let down my guard there.”

  During supper, she’d found his descriptions of his life in the Crescent City fascinating, if somewhat confining. The thought of all those strict social rules and expectations, not to mention the head-spinning whirl of parties and engagements, made her break out in a cold sweat. Made her grateful she wasn’t part of a prominent, wealthy family like the Beaumonts.

  No wonder he was coiled tighter than a copperhead about to strike. How much time would it take for him to let his guard down here?

  “Do you go there often?”

  He paused. “Not nearly as often as I’d like.”

  “Have you ever considered leaving the city behind?”

  “I have.” He heaved a sigh. “This last year, especially.”

  Because his mother was gone.

  Lying in bed last evening, she’d prayed for him, asked God to comfort him as he sorted through the truth. His instinctive denial, his difficulty in accepting that his mother might’ve deceived him in this matter, revealed how deeply he’d loved her. Treasured her, even. Recalling his pained denial, outrage had bloomed inside Megan. How could Lucinda betray him that way? Deny both men a chance at a close relationship? She couldn’t begin to understand the woman’s reasoning or motivations.

  With tears wetting her pillow, it had dawned on her that she no longer blamed Lucian for not visiting Charles. Lucinda had led him to believe his grandfather was apathetic. And perhaps worse. Her actions had inflicted deep hurt on two men. Charles, her friend and substitute grandfather. And Lucian, someone who, if the circumstances were different, she could come to care a great deal about.

  But they’re not. Remember that. He’s not the hero you’ve been dreaming about your whole life.

  Needing to divert her treacherous thoughts, she grasped blindly for a change in subject.

  “Did your house sustain any damages last night? I trust you didn’t discover any handprints on the furniture.” She hoped he didn’t detect the breathless strain in her voice.

  “I didn’t find any when I inspec
ted the parlor in the morning light.”

  Oh, why did the man have to have a sense of humor beneath that brooding reserve? Where was the haughty arrogance she despised?

  “No misplaced children after I left?”

  “No,” he said with mock sternness. “I can assure you that if I had, I would’ve brought them straight here for you to deal with.”

  “Aw, but look at how well you handled Ollie and Sarah.”

  “If you dare to leave me alone with that boy again, there will be dire consequences.”

  She couldn’t hold back her laughter, the thrill his subtle teasing sent rushing through her.

  “Go ahead. Laugh. You think I’m jesting when in fact I’m completely serious.”

  “Right.” The tremor of humor belied his words. Holding her stomach, she laughed harder, recalling his look of strained patience when dealing with the boy.

  When Lucian pushed away from the post and stalked towards her, black eyes burning, the laughter died in her throat. Uh-oh. Every nerve ending stood to attention. What were his intentions?

  He came very close, clasped his hands behind his back even as his upper body bent towards her. A good three to four inches taller than her, his broad, muscled chest and capable shoulders blocked the moonlight. His nearness didn’t trouble her in the least. She welcomed it, felt sheltered by him. She pressed her arms tighter around her middle to keep from reaching up and weaving her fingers through his brown locks, from pulling him to her. That would be unwise. Extremely unwise.

  That didn’t mean she didn’t long to do so. This enigmatic man tugged at her heart, her soul, like the pull of the moon on the ocean’s waves.

  “Has anyone ever told you that your laugh is like a song? A merry tune brimming with unbridled enthusiasm?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’ve a heart of a poet?”