“That’s all, folks. You can see yourselves out.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Carla demanded in a furious whisper the instant the library door closed behind them. She wanted to shout at Beau, but the last visitors of the day were slow in making their way down the hall, as if they hoped for more entertainment.
“Giving you a hand with your role as Emmeline,” he said without the slightest sign of remorse. “You can’t tell me it wasn’t appreciated.”
If he meant to infer something from the way she’d responded to him out there at the foot of the stairs, she might slap him again. Or maybe not; her hand still stung from the one she’d given him. “Those women out there might have been carried away with the romance of it all, but I wasn’t, thank you very much. You could have at least warned me you were going to join the story.”
“What, and miss the fun of surprising you?”
The gleam in his eyes made her wary, but not enough to keep her quiet. “Fun? That was supposed to be fun? You—you are the most—that was the most—”
“So I took advantage. Is that not allowed? Heaven forbid I should act like a man instead of a cardboard gentleman.” He took a step closer, there in the small alcove created by the massive cabinets that held shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes behind glass doors.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She eased away to keep a bit more distance between them. “Being a gentleman means having good manners and the intelligence to use them. It has nothing to do with being a man.”
“Are you sure? Or do you expect me to be too good for words, never giving in to temptation?”
He moved closer again. She tried to step back but was brought up short by the shelving behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest instead. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to be a saint.”
“Good, because I’m not,” he said with precision as he waded into the fullness of her skirts until only the ribs of her hoop separated them. He closed his hands on her upper arms, caressing them slowly through her thin sleeves. “You’ll find out, if you look close enough, that few southern gentlemen fit that description. We’re not like Ashley Wilkes, courtly, bland, and drawn to gentle ladies like Melanie. There’s a lot of Rhett Butler in us, which means we like fire and sass. We also go after what we want, and don’t mind being a bit underhanded to get it. For me, it means I don’t mind playing good old Rhett to your Scarlett by saying you need kissing, Carla. In fact, ‘You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’”
He caught her to him with swift power, his firm-muscled body pressed against her from breasts to knees. Smoothing his hand from her upper arm to her shoulder, he cupped her chin to tilt her head. His mouth, warm and sure, came down upon hers.
Annoyance and disbelief spun away, becoming vivid delight. Carla let her eyelids drift shut. Shivering with his heat against her and the gratification of overstrained senses, she grasped the fabric of his coat, wanting, needing to be closer. The hard planes of his body were gratifying in some way she couldn’t quite grasp, fueling the need to absorb his strength, to feel his weight upon her. Warm pleasure and something more spiraled up from deep inside her, mounting to her brain.
His thumb brushed the corners where their lips met so her own tingled, swelling to match his. The sure touch of his tongue along the line of their joining made her gasp, allowing entry for his careful probing. He swept the fragile underside of her lower lip, glided over the edges of her teeth, and invaded her warm, moist depths in a rhythm that hinted at more, much more. She met the entry, hypnotized by its sweet flavor and temptation, and returned it with ventures of her own.
Without releasing her mouth, he allowed his hand to drift down the curve of her jaw to the low neckline of her dress. He cupped her breast that was pushed up by her borrowed corset, seeking the tightly beaded nipple with thumb and forefinger. His gentle attention to that sensitive tip was enthralling in its certainty and promise of impending joy.
Never had she felt like this, so overwhelmed by tastes, touches or the beguiling desire that rose from the depths of her body and mind. She was drowning in purest eroticism and unexpected dreams. How incredible that this man of all others could do that to her.
But what could she do to him?
She spread the fingers of her good hand over his chest, sensing the play of rigid muscles, before sliding them under his old-fashioned coat. She loosened a stud and let if fall inside his shirt as she touched bare skin. Fine chest hair tickled her palm, sending a quick shudder over her before she flattened it above the hard throb of his heart. At the same time, she shifted her hips, brushing over the greater hardness she sensed below his waist.
He caught his breath, and an instant later, she felt the sudden freedom from confinement as he pushed her neckline lower and scooped her breast from beneath it. Releasing her mouth, he bent his head and took the nipple with hot, wet suction.
She arched toward him, pressing her head against the shelf behind her. Her blood raced hot and swift in her veins. She knew he was gathering her skirts up in one hand but didn’t care. Thrusting her fingers through the crisp thickness of his hair at his nape, she held him to her.
The jangle of a cell phone intruded. It wasn’t hers, as she had not replaced the one drowned in the flood, though it and her purse had been returned to her earlier in the day.
Beau whispered a curse and straightened. He adjusted her top, though with a lingering caress for the breast he tucked back inside. She was touched, inexplicably, by that gesture when most men would have left it to her. Yes, and also by his hard, uneven breathing that matched hers so well, and the way he rested his head against the top of hers for a strained second before finally answering the call.
“Yeah.” He voice was gruff, barely polite. He listened a moment, and his tone changed. “Yeah, okay. I’ve got it.”
He glanced at her as he tucked the phone away in a pocket in the tail of his coat. Carla lifted a brow.
“Two things,” he said without inflection. “Somebody let a kitchen grease fire get away from them. I’ve got to go.”
No wonder he’d answered his phone. As a volunteer fireman as well as member of the rescue unit, he could hardly have ignored it, as much as she might have wished he would. “Yes, of course. And the other?”
“Lance asks if you’ll take Mandy’s place for the opening night of the pageant. Seems it wasn’t a stomach virus she had, after all. She’s pregnant, and swears she’s not wearing a corset again this spring, not for anybody.”
Alarm filtered through Carla. “There must be half a dozen girls who can do that better than I can. Can’t they get someone else?”
“The costume Mandy was to wear fits you. Besides, it’s my partner, so my choice. I choose you.”
“But tonight isn’t a rehearsal!”
“No,” he said, his eyes darkly blue. “Tonight’s the real thing.”
Chapter 12
“You like him, don’t you.”
That sly question came from Granny Chauvin. She was standing beside Carla in the makeshift wings of the gym as they waited for the pageant to start. The elderly lady had parts in two of the skits, including the first that showcased the arrival of settlers in Chamelot and the surrounding area after a long trek from Virginia in wagons pulled by oxen. They could hear the musicians tuning up for the folk song that would provide background, one that had come from Scotland by way of Ireland.
Beyond the open hallway and dance floor, the audience was streaming in, finding their places, shuffling into their seats. The murmur of their voices echoed like surf against the high ceiling of the old gym. It was going to be a full house.
But it was Beau that Carla watched. He was working behind the scenes for the first skit, securing a maypole that would be used later. He wore the ballooned-sleeved shirt, pantaloons and suspenders of a pioneer, and the stretch and flexing of his muscles beneath that close-fitting outfit was perfectly clear.
Granny Chauvin�
��s sharp eyes had not failed to notice where her attention was directed, therefore, her equally sharp comment.
“We agreed once before that he was worth watching,” Carla said in dry appreciation.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, honey bun. I heard about how they found you and Beau nested together like two spoons on top of his truck. It’s all over town how he swept you off your feet this afternoon, too. Now here you are, can’t stop eyeing him. Not that I blame you, mind. But it worries me.”
A half smile curled Carla’s mouth as she looked down at the tiny lady. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what’s going to come of it? How long are you staying? How’s our Beau going to take it when you go?”
“I doubt it will be a problem.” She couldn’t help it if her voice was a little wan.
“Don’t you believe it. He’s not like those guys they show on television, potty-mouthed skirt chasers, every one of them, always drinking themselves stupid and jumping into bed with anything that wiggles because they don’t know how to keep it in their pants.”
“Granny!”
“Well, he’s not.” The older woman’s wrinkled lips formed a narrow line. “And why any woman would want him to be that way beats the devil out of me. Bunch of babies, this young crop of actors, never learned to think for themselves or control themselves, either. The movie camera goes off, and they have about as much character as that wall over there.”
“You’re a hard woman, Myrtle Chauvin.”
“Maybe. But I been around the block a few times and know what’s what. Beau is worth more than any ten of them.”
“Not that you’re prejudiced, or anything.”
The elderly woman sniffed. “Maybe a little. You wrote that piece on him yet?”
“I’m working on it,” Carla answered.
“Well, I don’t know when, since it seems you’ve been in Beau’s back pocket ever since you got here.”
Irritation for that description washed over her. “Not all writing is actually putting the words on paper.”
“Works a lot better that way, though.” Granny Chauvin gave a lady-like snort.
She was right, of course, and Carla knew it. She’d been procrastinating about the profile. The extra interviews she’d done, photos taken during rehearsals, and questions she continued to ask of all and sundry were mere excuses for delaying.
A part of it was uncertainty over the angle she should take, but some of it was fear. She’d come close to making a mistake before. What if her next effort turned out no different?
Granny Chauvin seemed to have forgotten her first question, but Carla hadn’t. She did like Beau, maybe she liked him too much.
Regardless, she hadn’t quite decided how she felt about what he’d done this afternoon. He seemed to think she needed to see a different side of him, one a bit more aggressive. He’d proved his point.
What he hadn’t counted on, she thought, was that she might like that side of him just as well, or maybe even better.
She closed her eyes, reliving those moments in the library. She’d never known anything quite like them, had never come so close to forgetting everything except the man who held her. Her brain was always engaged, weighing, anticipating, always trying to keep up. Sex was pleasurable enough, but she’d never completely lost herself in it.
When she lifted her lashes again, Beau was watching her from across the brightly lighted space backstage. His gaze held hers. She could feel its heat. Her breathing ceased, and then started again at a faster pace. The blood pouring through her veins in fits and starts caused her heart to take on an uneven beat.
She hadn’t been thinking in any manner at all during those short moments in the library. If Beau hadn’t stopped, she’d have made love there, standing against the book cabinet. If he hadn’t answered his phone, she might know what it was like to not only be kissed by someone who knew how, but much more.
He’d said he was no saint, yet he had released her to answer the call of duty. Could be he was wrong on that question.
“Places, people! Places!”
It was the pageant director, striding through the hallway with a clipboard in one hand and diet soda in a cup the size of a water pitcher in the other. The pageant was about to start.
Carla had seen the full production at rehearsal, but somehow there had always been an informal, fun element to it. Tonight, that was absent. This time, it was serious.
The skits were played out one by one, each more impressive than the last, and with only short pauses for scenery changes between them. Little dialogue was included, but the music was rife with meaning, starting with a folk tune rich with hopes and dreams for the future, and continuing in the next skit with a fandango to match the discovery that Native Americans, French and Spanish had been on hand in the wilderness to welcome these pioneers.
The third skit featured a Stephen Foster ballad to mark the building of the big houses financed by sugar cane and cotton, though the rich voices behind it were from the African-American church choir, humming barely loud enough to be heard.
Following that was the children’s skit, with girls in ruffled pantalets down to their ankles under frilly dresses and boys in pantaloons and round hats with flying ribbons. They were a touching sight as they sang in high voices while dancing around a maypole, braiding it with the ribbons they each carried. Behind them, as they clattered off the stage, appeared a brief version of a ring tournament—two horsemen vying with flying hooves and sand, for the prize of a golden ring—as a reminder of Chamelot’s autumn medieval fair.
A rollicking river song played as steamboats made their appearance, with wealthy passengers as well as gamblers and cardsharps waving from the tall platform decorated like a deck and pilot house. That segued into a deep bass version of Old Man River sung by a burly stevedore, played by the owner of the local funeral home.
The highlight of the evening came next, the lovely waltz of men in tailcoats and women in hoopskirts, romance personified. Carla, swirling around the floor in Beau’s arms, was torn between wild exhilaration for the magic and terror that she would make a public misstep. As the last note sounded, she was glad to escape into the wings while the stage lighting pantomimed the rise of a blood-red moon.
Oh, but the scream of a Rebel yell marked the end of that era, and the audience came to its feet as one, hand on heart, at the sight of gray uniforms and the stirring sounds of Dixieland—though that old song slowed to a dirge, sung beautifully and with vibrant feeling by the lone soprano voice of the church choir’s lead singer, fading in a final, long-held note.
That anguished skit was followed by another with an old beloved hymn as defeated men limped home in ragged gray and butternut brown, tired beyond bearing, to pick up the pieces of their lives in fields and homes lost in clouds of smoke.
Finally, the folk tune of hope and thanksgiving returned with a three-quarter rhythm as men and women came slowly from each side of the gym, meeting, bowing, taking their places in the endless, timeless waltz of love and life, while history marched onward. Life in the south had changed, it seemed to say, but it was unending.
Carla, watching from the sidelines except when taking a part in the two featured waltzes, suddenly saw the South as those who lived there might see it: flawed, yet built from the dreams and ambitions of immigrants exactly like the rest of the United States. It was a place of shared heritage, shared tragedy that welded family and friends together beyond all severing, making them inescapably different and proud with it.
And floating in Beau’s arms during that final, life-affirming skit, feeling the lilt of the waltz of life in her blood, she was honored to be a part of the difference for that one brief, shining moment.
Chapter 13
Beau glanced at Carla in the light from the dashboard of Aunt Tillie’s vintage Lincoln. She had been quiet all evening, but he figured that was his fault. He’d gone a little overboard this afternoon in his bid to convince her how unlike a namby-pamby gentlema
n he could be. Not that he regretted a minute of it, but it was possible he owed her an apology.
She might be outdone with him about their transportation. Though his dually was fine in spite of its dunking, it seemed a bit rough for transporting a woman in a fancy antebellum gown. The Lincoln was hopelessly out of style, Aunt Tillie having been convinced buying a new car more often than every ten years was criminally extravagant. But it had a great ride, not to mention wide doors for stuffing a hoop skirt inside along with the female wearing it.
He’d enjoyed helping with Carla’s skirt, depraved character that he was; gathering up the excess fabric and tucking it around her feet and legs so he could shut the car door, discovering in the process which part was ball gown and which was warm woman, had been pure pleasure. His hands still felt on fire from the exercise.
Doomed, he was doomed. That was a shame, since he’d looked at Carla across the old gym tonight and been hit squarely in the gut with the need to be the gentleman she expected. It figured, didn’t it, after days of trying to convince her otherwise?
It was four or five miles outside town that he saw a vehicle on the side of the road with emergency lights flashing. It was on the left, headed toward town. He slowed as he came closer, expecting to see somebody moving around it in the dark, changing a tire or else checking under the hood.
“What is it?” Carla asked as she craned to see.
“Can’t tell. I don’t see anything wrong.”
“Wait, stop. Stop! I think there’s a woman behind the wheel.”
Beau saw that, too, and was already easing off the road onto the opposite shoulder. He recognized the old, beat up Chevy Suburban now. It belonged to a friend of his ex-wife’s, one who lived with her boyfriend a few miles out of town.
Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) Page 14