Mountain Angel

by Patricia McAllister

  Angel nodded. “You know we ladies can’t appear in public until every last hair has been pasted in place.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. But it’s important I speak with her.”

  “Something I can help with?”

  Neal considered her offer. “Actually, I suppose you could. I heard about a last-minute cancellation before I left Oro. You’ll be short a male guest on the dance floor.”

  Angel sighed. “Let me guess. Mr. Brindle?”

  Neal looked surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Because the elusive Mr. Brindle has successfully managed to evade every party, social, or holiday season event since he arrived. Heaven only knows how he ever managed to meet Rachel’s mother in the first place. The man has never so much as darkened a doorway in my presence.”

  “You’ve never seen him at all?”

  “No, nor am I certain I wish to after the way he treats Mrs. Maxwell. He rudely cuts her at every opportunity. I can’t imagine why she puts up with him.”

  “From what I hear he’s generous with his money,” Neal said. “Poor Prudence has been alone a long time.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t excuse his behavior. Now Mrs. Maxwell will be overset, and everyone’s evening will likely be ruined.”

  “That’s why I wanted you to know what had happened. Maybe it’s not too late to find another gentleman to round out the numbers.”

  “Whom do you suggest?” Angel asked wryly. “Blackjack Tate or Willy Benson?” Both were notorious town drunks. Those two were likely the only men left, as she and Rachel had already snatched every last marginally eligible male from both the streets of Clear Creek and Oro.

  Neal choked and turned it into a cough. “Surely it’s not that bad?”

  “Neal, there are far more single ladies than men here. Most of the decent men are either up at the mines or already dead. I can safely say were you not engaged to Rachel, you would be considered fair game tonight, by young girls and widows alike.”

  He blanched and mumbled about something he had forgotten back at the parsonage, then scurried out of the conservatory.

  Angel shook her head and smiled after him. Neal was an innocent. He seemed embarrassed by the notion of marriage, and half the time he didn’t seem to know what to do with a woman. She remembered Holt once calling his brother a womanizer, and she laughed aloud now. Neal Murphy was as far from that particular animal as they came.

  AUNT CLARA’S HUGE DRAWING room was rendered into an acceptable ballroom for the evening of the ball, and everything from the mahogany sideboard to the polished wood floor shone with a high gloss from the attention it had received. Dulcibel and the two hired girls had kept up with the demands of the guests comfortably at first, but after everyone had arrived they were hard-pressed to keep the glasses and the pastry trays full.

  Angel volunteered to help out at the refreshment table, doling out the punch, since she was not interested in dancing or socializing. Her position was that of a married woman without an escort, and so she stayed in the background, content to watch Rachel shine.

  The dancing opened to the tinny strains of a lively quadrille. When Angel looked up from serving one of the church ladies, a polite smile still pasted on her lips, her gaze met Holt’s in the doorway across the room.

  An intake of breath was the only sign Angel gave of being surprised when Holt entered the room. She busied herself, turning away to serve another person in line. With him she always faced a wild card, and things were never simple.

  Angel wished she could keep her gaze from straying to Holt, but she was too surprised by the sight of him in a suit to feign indifference. She had seen him well-dressed before, but the transition never ceased to amaze her. She had to admit the trim cut of Holt’s black evening coat and wool trousers showed his lean, muscular frame to advantage.

  Tonight he wore a waistcoat of cream-figured silk, which was so similar to the silk in her gown she might have accused Dulcibel of having cut both from the same swatch of cloth. The loosely knotted tie Holt wore gave him an air of casual elegance, and with his longish black hair combed back he might have passed for a gentleman. Which was about as far from reality as it came, Angel thought, watching him approach a knot of young ladies and dazzle them with his easy charm.

  To her annoyance, she saw several of the younger, single women eyeing her husband speculatively as he talked to them. Little wonder, though. Holt evidenced a blend of sophistication and barely concealed savagery obvious to even the most puritanical of women. This was brought home when Prudence Maxwell glided up to the refreshment table in a crackle of brown bombazine and hissed at Angel, “What a scoundrel he is, my dear. You must bring him to heel at once.”

  Prudence’s present outrage was only outdone by the scandalized look on her face when she had first seen Rachel’s gown. Now, however, she was apparently content to find fault with others.

  Angel forced a smile and said evenly, “I don’t presume to order my husband about, Mrs. Maxwell.”

  “Well, I should hope not. What I meant, dear, was merely that you should ah — discourage his obvious interest in the innocent young women of the town.”

  “Innocent” was hardly the word Angel would have used to describe Josie Baxter’s coy smiles and coquettish giggles as she chatted with Holt, or Emma Drake’s love-struck expression, but she set her jaw and departed from the table to interrupt the cozy scene across the room.

  “If you please, ladies, I would like a word with my husband,” Angel said, unconsciously stressing the last two words, and when Holt glanced at her with those silvery gray eyes she realized he heard the possessive note in her voice and was amused by it.

  The cluster of disappointed females drifted away, and Angel was left alone with Holt. She felt her cheeks burning.

  “What an unexpected surprise,” she said calmly as she could over her own pounding heart. “I assumed the endless fascination of the mine would pale in comparison to what we mere mortals do down here.”

  “Are you implying I’m a god of some sort?” he lazily inquired. “Like Zeus upon Olympus perhaps, gazing down on his subjects and forever finding fault?”

  She looked at him with surprise.

  “Don’t act so shocked, Angel. Did I forget to mention I’m a relatively educated man among my other talents?” Holt continued to regard her with a cool gaze. “Arthur sent me back east for a couple years, hoping to pound some brains into my head.”

  “Did it work?” Angel asked, but he only laughed and gave her a disarming smile.

  “I heard you were organizing a dance for the Maxwells. You’ve done well.”

  “Thank you,” she gritted out.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry. In fact, I’d forgotten how beautiful.”

  “Don’t waste my time with meaningless flattery, Holt. Why are you really here?”

  Angel hadn’t intended to sound so curt, but his presence made her quiver inwardly with feelings she was afraid to identify. Far better to chase him off, before further words were exchanged or her heart was hopelessly entangled in her common sense. But she sensed he was intent on staying, like a barnacle cleaved to a rock.

  He drew something from his coat pocket, wrapped in a fine linen handkerchief. “Hold out your hands.” As he unrolled it onto her cupped palms, Angel gasped. Tears rushed to her eyes. Her precious wooden horse was whole again, and not a crack nor a dent could she spy. She whispered a thank-you and went to place it upon the mantel again. She returned just as Aunt Clara drifted up to them in a cloud of patchouli scent.

  “My dear Mr. Murphy, I’m so glad you could come after all,” the old lady said with real pleasure. Clara looked fragile but beautiful in a blue brocade gown, and she glittered with the sapphires her husband had given her on their tenth anniversary.

  Angel saw the two exchange conspiratorial looks, and she understood Clara was behind Holt’s appearance and, no doubt, his finery, as well. But, however she felt about Holt, Angel couldn’t be angry wi
th Rachel’s aunt. She gave Clara a warm smile when the little old lady held out her hands.

  “We’ve had such fun, haven’t we, my dear?” Clara asked as she squeezed Angel’s fingers in her own. “You’ve become like my own daughter to me in the past few weeks. Do you realize what a lucky man you are, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Of course,” Holt said, but his eyes were hooded and unreadable as he looked at Angel.

  “There’s the ‘Missouri Waltz’ now,” Clara said with satisfaction as the dreamy strains wafted across the room. “I insist you two young people entertain an old lady’s whims and open the floor. Go on with you, now.”

  The couple looked at each other uncertainly, but Clara was not to be brooked. She shoved Angel into Holt’s arms, and as his strong hand settled possessively into the small of Angel’s back, the younger woman felt a traitorous tingle of pleasure too powerful to ignore.

  “Shall we?” Holt asked, tilting his head toward the space cleared for dancing. Without waiting for a reply, he turned around with Angel in his arms, spinning carefully through the crowd, rendering her breathless with excitement and anticipation.

  Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Holt could dance. Not just dance, but waltz as if he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and practiced nothing more strenuous than the three-step turn with a woman in his arms. And not just any woman — her.

  Angel wondered why she felt so giddy and school-missish simply because her husband was paying attention to her. But one glance at a beaming Clara and the group of disgruntled young women Holt had greeted earlier told Angel she was indeed a lucky woman.

  “I’ve missed you, Angel,” Holt said, and her gaze flew up to his face to test the sincerity of his words by his expression. “It gets pretty lonesome up there on the mountain. Pretty darn cold, too.”

  His gray eyes were sober. Angel sensed he was sincere. “Come down to the valley more often,” she suggested, with a hint of warm promise in her voice.

  “I’ll do that. If you’ll have me.”

  He sounded hesitant, unsure. Angel said with a genuine smile, “You know you’re always welcome in my arms.”

  The carnival tempo of the waltz quickened, as did Angel’s heart, when Holt lowered his head and discreetly nuzzled her neck in full view of everyone there. They were spinning faster and faster, the room a blur of faces and colorful fabrics, but all Angel could feel was the warmth of his lips on her skin, his wonderfully possessive grip on her waist. Around and around the room they spun, the other dancers making way for the distracted couple.

  “Shocking,” Prudence declared behind her fan to whomever would listen. “Absolutely scandalous.”

  Rachel appeared beside her mother in a rustle of pink and white taffeta. “And absolutely romantic,” she happily agreed.

  The waltz came to an abrupt halt, and for a moment Holt and Angel stood in the center of the floor, looking at each other in a mixture of surprise and fascination. For a long moment they didn’t move.

  Holt took her by the hand. “Have you had enough dancing yet, Mrs. Murphy?” he inquired with a twinkle in his eye as he raised her hand to his lips and gently showered her knuckles with kisses.

  “Quite, Mr. Murphy,” Angel agreed, and eyes locked to each other, they left the room together, completely oblivious to the envious stares and whispers that trailed them down the hall.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “WE WERE RUDE, YOU know.”

  Angel spoke softly as Holt shut the bedroom door behind them, loosening his tie with his other hand.

  “I don’t care,” he rasped. “I’ve waited too damn long to see you again.”

  He shrugged off his jacket and took her in his arms, drinking long and deeply of the sweetness of her lips. Pins rained to the floor as Holt unfastened her hair, spreading her golden tresses down around her shoulders in a shimmering veil. His long fingers moved to unfasten the buttons and ties on her bodice, and when he gave up with a soft oath Angel chuckled and nimbly finished the job.

  The creamy silk of her gown parted to reveal skin of the same color and texture. Holt sighed with longing as he cupped her full breasts in his hands, worrying the dusky pink nipples with the callused pads of his thumbs.

  “Lord, woman,” he said in a low voice, “Every time I see you, I still can’t believe how beautiful you are.”

  Angel tilted back her head and smiled up at him. “Does that mean you’ve missed me these past few weeks?”

  “Do you have to ask?” He bent his head and captured the bud of a breast between his teeth, nipping gently and then soothing the inflamed peak with his tongue. Like an artist, he slowly painted every inch of her exposed flesh, pausing only to tug impatiently at the waistband of her skirt.

  “Off,” Holt ordered, then resumed kissing Angel until she was gasping for breath, her fingers shaking as she fumbled with the ties of her gown. Moments later he stopped and spun her around, and the lace and silk slid to a heap at her feet as he tore the tapes with brute force.

  Angel clung to Holt’s broad shoulders as he carried her to the bed and deposited her upon the counterpane. Her eyes widened as he divested himself of his snowy white shirt and dark trousers. By the single lamp burning in her room, his shadowed body gleamed with occasional bronze lights. She raised her hand to stroke his smooth, hairless chest and arms, and Holt murmured encouragement as he joined her on the bed.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, carrying Angel with him back against the bolsters. He parted the golden curtain of the hair hiding her breasts, and gazed hungrily upon her luscious form as she snuggled close against him.

  As if by instinct his big hand moved to cover her belly, and Angel froze. Could he feel the flutter of life there? Of course not, she chided herself. She hadn’t felt it yet herself. But her breasts were visibly fuller and her figure was changing. Surely Holt could not be blind to all of the signs. She parted her lips to speak, but he swept his down like a hawk to silence her.

  “Tonight,” he whispered, “no talk … just love. Just the two of us.”

  Angel couldn’t catch her breath long enough to challenge him. She ached with the force and depth of her need. It had been so long that when he rose above her and sank deeply into her willing warmth, she released a sob of pure relief.

  He moved slowly at first, then harder and faster as he coaxed her to respond. Angel clung to Holt’s shoulders, absorbing the impact of their mutual need. She cried out with quiet joy at what she had lost and found again.

  Don’t ever leave me, she wanted to say, but though her inner voice shouted, her lips remained still. He said it all in his touch, his kiss. She didn’t need promises. She would trust in love, and pray it was enough.

  LATER, THEY LAY SNUGGLED together beneath the counterpane after the sounds of merrymaking below had faded to silence. Angel slept a little, but her mind was too lively, her hopes too intense for her to rest quietly.

  For a while she lay, fingering the garnet necklace she still wore, remembering what it meant to Clara, and hoping it would have the same precious significance to her one day.

  “Holt?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “Hmm?” he murmured, half asleep.

  She reached over to stroke the black silk of his hair. “Holt, I have something to tell you, it’s —”

  A soft snore cut her off in midsentence. With an exasperated sigh, she threw herself back against the pillows, telling herself she would have to be content with the moment at hand, and let tomorrow take care of itself.

  SUNLIGHT SPRINKLED THROUGH THE lace curtains at the window, highlighting Angel’s face. Holt sat propped up on one elbow, studying his young wife as she slept. She was too beautiful to be real, he thought for the hundredth time. It was hard to believe he was deserving of this woman.

  He bent and kissed her cheek. Her sleepy blue eyes opened on him, and she stretched with catlike pleasure.

  “Good morning,” she said, but Holt’s only reply was to kiss her until she was
fully awake and warm with passion.

  After they made love, Angel reluctantly moved to get dressed, realizing the day was stealthily intruding on them. It was hard not to resent every moment lost while she was getting dressed and smoothing her hair. Holt watched her the entire time, his gray eyes slitted against the sunlight dappling the bed.

  Angel put on the first thing she grabbed, a yellow cashmere gown trimmed with blond lace. When she finished her morning toilette she turned to discover Holt had dressed as well. For some reason she was disappointed. His magnificent body was completely hidden from view.

  Holt finished lacing his boots, rose, and approached her. “How do you feel this morning, Mrs. Murphy?” he inquired with a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “Perfectly restored, thank you,” Angel said primly. “I must admit you dance divinely, Mr. Murphy.”

  Holt threw back his head and laughed. “I’d give anything to see you dishing out those ditties to the love-struck fellows back in Independence.”

  “Well, that will never happen, will it?”

  He sobered. “No, I suppose not. I’m going to miss you, Angel.”

  Her startled gaze met his. “I meant it would never happen because I’m not going back to Missouri.” She tried to quell the queasy knot seizing her insides.

  “Not going back?” He frowned down at her. “What about your promise?”

  Angel’s hands clenched together as she fought the threat of tears. “I thought last night might have changed things,” she whispered, stricken.

  Holt swore, loud and long, staring at her with outright amazement. “Then it was only a ploy so I would let you stay here?”

  “No, of course not. Holt, you don’t understand —”

  “Oh, I understand plenty. I understand you can’t keep your word, and one thing I can’t abide is a liar.” Holt raked a hand furiously through his hair, turning to pace the bedroom. “You continue to amaze me, Angel. A man could come to believe anything in your arms.”