“I need to get out of these wet clothes and—” Miranda lifted her head. Her mouth quirked to the side in adorable frustration. “I have no clothes, do I?”
He scratched his wrist. “I can find something. I mean, we have to have something . . .” His mother’s clothes were the only things he’d given away. Never had any sisters.
“I don’t want to dirty your clean rug. I could change in the kitchen.” Giving up on her balance, Miranda flopped onto her backside and yanked off a boot.
A glimpse of a smooth, thin stocking—wet enough to see every delicate curve of her ankle—and Wyatt swallowed air. “The kitchen. Go around to the back door and I’ll bring you something to wear.” He rushed into the closed door, outpacing his ability to turn the knob, and slammed full force into solid oak. Bouncing back, he nearly toppled over Miranda. She steadied him with a hand to the back of his calf.
“Don’t forget me down here.”
No fear of that. Finding that his wrist still worked, Wyatt opened the door and took the stairs two at a time. As the youngest of four brothers, his childhood clothes had been handed down until there was nothing left to pass. The only clothing in the house was his and Isaac’s, and although Isaac was smaller, you could bet your last cotton-picking dollar he wouldn’t let Miranda wear Isaac’s clothes.
He busted into his room, his eyes naturally drawn to the space beneath his bed before he remembered that Monsieur LeBlanc no longer hid there. The drawer to his bureau rasped open and he pulled out two pairs of trousers. Holding them at arm’s length, he weighed his choice. The smaller ones were nearly worn through. The fabric had softened till it was liable to rip with one snag. The newer britches were stiffer, offered more protection, but they were also bigger. Throwing the old trousers over his shoulder, he swiped a worn white shirt. Somehow he thought softness suited her right well, and he wanted her to be comfortable. She wasn’t going to be impressed with his clothing, anyway. He heard the door creak open below. A grab for his best leather belt and Wyatt lost no time sprinting to the kitchen.
She’d already removed her silk jacket, leaving her white blouse clinging to her generous figure. Beneath his pile of clothes his hands flexed, knowing instinctively that nothing would feel so good as gathering her up and pressing that softness against himself. He’d been behind horses that couldn’t pull as strong as the desire that was working him over.
She lowered the jacket to the sink, moving the dinner dishes to make room. “This skirt is impossible,” she said. “I can’t drag it up the stairs without scraping mud everywhere.”
“I brought you clothes.” How had his arm grown so heavy? He lifted the wadded clothing. “This is all I have. When it stops raining we can buy something at the mercantile.”
Her hair sparkled with droplets that had managed to make it beneath the brim of her hat. She took the clothes from him. “There isn’t a door, you know.”
Yeah, he’d been thinking about that. Quite a lot. “I’ll wait by the front door to make sure no one comes in.”
Already reaching behind her to her waistband, she nodded. “I’ll be quick. After the chicken incident I don’t want you to accuse me of slovenliness again.”
He no longer noticed the mud. Her impossible curves were bewildering compared to the flat plains of his own body.
Enough. Wyatt spun on his heel and marched to the front door. Keeping his back to the kitchen, he hummed “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” to cover the soft grunt of accomplishment that proceeded the sigh of silk slipping to the floor.
“Oh my. These clothes . . .” She stopped. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“They’re dry and clean. I can’t promise you anything more.” Had he already made too many promises? He’d promised to help her get back home, but she’d returned. Now what? What if she flat out asked him about the painting? He had to make a decision. He wouldn’t lie to her, but he couldn’t predict how she would respond if he told her the truth. It had all the makings of a disaster.
From behind the piano he could hear Monsieur LeBlanc. I can’t believe any grandson of mine would let a painting come between him and the woman he loves. Forget about me. She’s what you want.
But what if that painting was the key to winning her? And what if he gave Miranda the painting, only to find out she never did care about him? He didn’t have much experience with women. Quite possibly one could hornswoggle him and he’d be none the wiser.
Wyatt closed his eyes. He couldn’t give it away until he knew more. It all boiled down to trust. Did Miranda trust him enough to let him keep Monsieur LeBlanc, or would she insist on possessing it herself? He was afraid he knew the answer to that question and it didn’t favor him.
“I think I’m ready,” she said.
Wyatt spun to see her rolling up the sleeve of the roomy white shirt while her other hand held her trousers up. The belt he’d given her hung around her waist as loose as a barrel hoop.
“It’s too big,” she said. “It won’t buckle small enough to hold these pants.”
Wyatt stepped toward her. He’d better figure out something quick or he was in danger of blurting everything to her.
When Wyatt darkened the kitchen doorway, “darkened” described his expression, as well. Not angry, though. More pained. Determined. He stood frozen while his gaze traveled from the shirt sliding off her shoulder to the unfamiliar trousers bunching around her waist, then back to her face. He was breathing like he’d just scaled Bunker Hill. The way his chest moved, the way he’d now become fixated on her, if she didn’t know better she’d think . . .
His warning from the bedroom came to mind. Miranda backed away from him. She raised her hand, keeping it between them. “My visit did not go well. You said you wanted to talk about it.”
His face lightened. “Absolutely.”
“You won’t think ill of me dressed like this?”
“Not if you can keep your trousers up.”
Miranda scrunched her nose. That was a problem.
Wyatt reached for her waist. Miranda’s heart leapt when he caught her by the belt and tugged her toward him, but instead of touching her person, he cinched up the belt, then looped it back through itself twice. His hands dropped away and hung by his side. Miranda kept her chin ducked and studied the wet toes of his boots. She swayed. He lifted his hand and, with the slightest nudge at her waist, brought her forward.
Her forehead rested against his chest. Wyatt gathered her closer, enveloping her in his clean, rainy scent. Confronting McSwain alone had felt like walking into battle, and from the way Wyatt was sheltering her, he understood.
“I’m proud of you for going by yourself,” he said. “When Betsy told me that Elmer had lit out without you, I wasn’t sure you’d go through with it.”
“Bravery isn’t in my character,” Miranda said. “It’s going against nature. Given the same challenge again, nine times out of ten I’d fail.”
“Horsefeathers.” Now his arms shifted and fitted her against him in a way that felt both soothing and dangerous. “All this is from that crazy doctor-cousin who feels the lumps on your head and tells you what you can do?”
Normally, she’d never allow this, but standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes made anything seem possible. “Phrenology is a proven science. . . .” Her words failed as his hands slid up her back. “What are you doing?” She tried to look up, but he cupped the back of her head and threaded his fingers through her hair. With a gentle tug, he removed a hair pin, loosening her coiffure.
“Surely Cornelius couldn’t tell anything about you as long as you have your hair up.”
“Cornelius is a doctor. You really shouldn’t . . .” But at his touch on the back of her neck, Miranda couldn’t continue. Her hands rested on his narrow hips as the last of the pins were removed and her damp hair tumbled down her shoulders. His fingers stroked up her neck to her hairline and buried themselves into her thick tresses. Her eyes closed as he followed the contours behind her ear
s.
The clock in the parlor chimed, each gong marking time that felt impossibly slow compared to her racing heart. A button on his shirt pressed into her forehead, but she didn’t mind.
“You tell me that you’re a coward, but so far I only find evidence of courage and loyalty.” His husky voice sent goose bumps up her arms.
“Maybe you don’t know where to search.”
“Then I’ll be very thorough.” He massaged a slow circle near her temple. “I may have found something. . . . No, wait. I know what this is. It’s a spot of longing. That’s what it is.”
Her eyes felt heavy, her head light. She couldn’t deny it, not the way she was holding on to him. Somewhere between her worry and the luxurious feeling of his hands on her, she wanted him to know her, because the lady he claimed to see was so much better than the one who faced her in the mirror.
“I wish everyone believed in me the way you do,” she said.
“Then show everyone the spirit you show me. Although, I don’t really want you letting them touch you like this.”
No. No one could touch her like that.
He disentangled his hands and smoothed her hair with slow strokes. Besides the rain pattering against the roof, nothing disturbed the calm grayness inside. And when she finally raised her head, Wyatt flicked her on the nose. Not what she was expecting or hoping for, but she noticed that the lightness of the gesture was at odds with the intensity of his eyes. With an arm around her shoulders, he escorted her to the sofa in the living room. Chilled by her damp underclothes, Miranda accepted a colorful afghan from him, tucked her bare feet beneath her on the sofa, and draped it over her lap.
The walls of the main room were covered with a deep red fleur-de-lis paper. A brave choice that spoke of confidence. A circular rag rug covered the smooth wooden floor, and against the wall a roughly crafted parlor table held an odd assortment of keys, tools, and work gloves. A restful room, if Wyatt wasn’t so busy trying to rearrange the clutter.
He finally settled on the piano stool opposite her. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he asked, “What did you find out?”
She’d learned that if Wyatt decided to be a phrenologist, he’d have no shortage of ladies coming to him to perform that particular inspection, but then she remembered the nature of his inquiry.
“I’d hoped the man might be helpful, but he sees himself as our rival.” Miranda picked at the yarn of the blanket. “When I saw him get off the train, I thought we’d finally solved our problem, but we’re no closer. In fact, it might be worse if he beats us to the painting.” She pulled the blanket up to her chest.
Seeing her shiver, Wyatt unfurled another blanket from the stack he’d carried in from his parents’ room. Miranda leaned forward as he draped it over her shoulders and tucked the length of it behind her back, but he seemed too agitated to sit down again.
“How did you lose this painting?” he asked.
Miranda threaded her finger through the loops in the yarn blanket. “It sold at our auction, but our customer had no intention of selling it. It’s a family heirloom. If we don’t get it back for them, our reputation will be ruined. You, of all people, understand how bad it’ll be if word gets out that we mishandled property.”
“Was it your fault?”
Here Miranda tugged on her ear. Her eyes flickered to the floor. “In part. Grandfather was the auctioneer. Normally he would’ve noticed that the item didn’t match the sale catalog, but recently—”
“Grandfather hasn’t been himself.”
“Exactly. I didn’t realize how strongly affected he was, though. I couldn’t correct him and take a chance that I was mistaken.”
Wyatt’s head tilted. “You were there. You saw it on the table?”
Miranda’s chin trembled. “I was there. I knew it wasn’t the Copley. I knew I should speak up, but there were so many people in the room. To question Grandfather’s judgment before an audience—” Wyatt came to her side. The sofa cushion tilted under his weight. He gathered her hand into his. “And I couldn’t predict how Grandfather would react. I was a coward. But you see why it’s been so important to me to recover the painting. It’s the only way I can make retribution for my mistake.”
“Who bought it? You should have a record.” He fairly crackled with excitement. Unable to sit, he bounded to his feet again.
“The information that was left was false. Our only clue was an associate who overheard the name of Hart County, Missouri, at the shipping dock. We didn’t know where it was sent, but we assumed that the sale barn dealt in art, as did ours. By offering us such a bargain, Mr. Pritchard made the decision an easy one, but we didn’t want to announce our intention when we arrived.”
Wyatt seemed to mull over this explanation as he took a seat at the piano. Leaning back, he stretched his arms out across the piano keyboard behind him, then with a lurch he righted himself and crossed his arms, hiding his hands against his chest. Miranda’s eyes narrowed. Why the sudden agitation? He didn’t have it, did he? Cautiously, she scanned the simple house once again. Nothing to denote luxury or riches. The LeBlanc painting would be as out of place here as . . . well, as Wyatt would be back in Boston. She sighed. If only he did have it, but it was impossible.
“What will you do when you find it?” he asked.
“Give it back to the rightful owner.”
“Who’s that?”
“Why, Mr. Frederic LeBlanc, of course. He’s the one who organized the sale—at least his lawyer did.”
With a sudden jolt, Wyatt took to the floor and paced before the piano again. “And what does this Frederic LeBlanc do? Why is he selling his family’s paintings?”
“He doesn’t do anything. They have a solicitor to manage their estate and provide them with income.”
“Then the solicitor must not be doing a good job. Else they wouldn’t need to sell out.”
“You never know. Sometimes the family decides to move to a smaller home, or they want some funds to invest. It doesn’t always mean they are liquidating.”
Wyatt’s steps padded as he crossed the rug, then echoed hollowly as he hit the wooden floor again. “I just wonder what kind of man he is. Would he resort to violence to get his painting back?”
What a strange question. “They don’t need violence. The LeBlanc family is powerful enough to ruin us without lifting a finger. Just a whiff of their displeasure and no one in society will give us their patronage.”
“They sound like bullies to me.”
She nodded her affirmation. Odd how his interest had piqued so suddenly. And odd that his questions were about the family back in the Boston. He hadn’t even asked what it was a painting of, for goodness’ sake.
The clean cotton shirt she wore carried his scent. Miranda breathed in woodsy aroma as she studied the man before her. Either Wyatt Ballentine was very curious, or his interest ran deeper than he was admitting.
He couldn’t keep from pacing before the painting hidden behind the piano as he cogitated on the new information. She knew the LeBlancs? She’d spoken to the family that’d rejected him? Did she know the mysterious Aunt Corinne? Had the woman acted against her own family? Who were they to him?
Sometimes the people in Boston felt like make-believe. The stories Ma told him about his birth and his parents’ death—fairy tales. But from his family he’d received something concrete. Something to hold on to that tied him to his past. And Miranda was another link.
Or was she an obstacle?
Outside, the rain had let up, and along with the sun peeking through the dripping leaves, Isaac appeared with Grandfather in tow.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Miranda.” Elmer tilted his hat, draining the rainwater from the brim before entering the open door. “Leland Moore has betrayed me.”
Isaac met Wyatt’s gaze over Elmer’s head. “You owe me,” he mouthed as he struggled out of his wet coat.
Miranda slid her bare feet to the floor. “What happened?” she asked.
Wy
att got a glimpse of slender ankles before she arranged the blanket over her unusual clothing.
“Leland and I were at the bank securing a loan when Isaac happened in, and it’s a good thing he did. Not long after he entered, the bank president informed me that he couldn’t loan any more money to me or my partner. Isaac happened to be nearby and he suggested that Leland put up a piece of property he owns as collateral.”
Leland invest? Wyatt got a tickle in his throat that had to be booted out with a forceful cough.
“You’ll be just as amazed as I was,” Isaac said, “but Mr. Moore wasn’t willing to help Mr. Wimplegate out. At the suggestion that he risk his own sorry homestead, he took out of that bank like a miner with a dead canary.”
Wyatt wasn’t the least bit surprised by Moore’s desertion, but what did amaze him was that Isaac had taken the effort to protect Elmer. “I’m glad you happened by,” he said.
Isaac shrugged. “Leland Moore has much to answer for. You don’t know the half of it.” And then his gaze wandered again to Miranda. His eyes widened. “What are you wearing?”
With a blanket across her lap and shoulders, all that was visible was the white shirt billowing around her in cloud of cotton. An unfamiliar crease stretched horizontally where her corset began. Wyatt touched the second button of his own shirt. He’d never realized how impossibly high her bosom was until he could compare it in reference to his own body. There were a lot of comparisons he’d like to make, come to think of it.
“Stand up and let me get a look at you,” Isaac said.
Wyatt’s gratitude to Isaac stretched only so far, but before he could intervene, Miranda spoke up.
“My clothes are drying in front of the kitchen stove. Until then, I’d prefer to remain covered by this blanket.”
When not asking him to tighten her belt. Wyatt couldn’t keep from stretching his chest at the thought that she trusted him, that she willingly went into his arms. But didn’t he trust her the same way? The piano drew his gaze, and the secret behind it gnawed on him. No, he didn’t.
At Love's Bidding Page 18