His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (25 page)

Sera giggled. Eden pressed her lips together. If Michael Jones were any other man, not the fantasy she'd been longing for night after restless night, she would have told him to go choke on her picnic lunch. He was reenacting the role of her hero, but that didn't mean she had to approve of his methods.

Hiking her skirts, she swept past his insufferable hand, taking some small satisfaction in the fact that he'd now have to haul her twenty-pound hamper of fried chicken and cherry pie to some distant spot of shade.

To watch him fall into step beside her, though, the wicker swinging effortlessly from his arm, proved disconcerting.

She set her jaw, trying not to appreciate the way his tailored suitcoat accentuated the broad planes of his shoulders, or the way the late morning sun struck flinty shades of blue from his hair.

"Well, you've had your way and impressed your authority once more on Sera," she said tartly as they passed the rear entrance to the orphans' tent. "Now that she's out of sight, you can return my basket to the auction block so some serious-minded beau can offer for it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

His drawl, like Kentucky's finest bourbon, was golden smooth, intoxicating. She did her best to ignore the nuance, even though it melted her nerves.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Certain factions in this county would find a cure for Cupid cramps... inconvenient."

She stumbled at his jest.

A dimple creased his cheek, which only heightened her aggravation.

Halting, she planted her fists on her hips. Courtesy forced him to stop and face her, even though they were now the object of speculation for several gawking bystanders and at least a dozen couples who'd slowed their strolls to listen. She decided not to care. In fact, some ornery part of her refused to play the docile female to Michael's high-handed male.

"You are a pirate of hearts, Michael Jones. If my cherry pie did indeed have curative powers, every female in this town would be lined up for a slice."

"And that is precisely why your cherry pie shall never see the light of day."

She glared at him, refusing to laugh at this disarming humor. "Your diabolical plot is doomed to fail. Because while I was perfecting my recipe, I tasted plenty of cherry pie, a fact which, I assure you, has made me thoroughly immune to the charm of irksome male neighbors who prefer to mind
my
business instead of their own."

He arched a coal-black brow. "Selling kisses to outlaws, in broad daylight, does not connote a sound business sense."

"That is your opinion, sir. Contrary to your belief, I think the orphanage would be enormously grateful for any donation it receives, including one from Chance McCoy. The man can't be all bad, if he is willing to commit a charitable act."

"Charity was the farthest thing from McCoy's mind."

"So you're a mind reader now?"

"Eden." He gentled his voice. "Your willingness to see goodness in the blackest of hearts is one of your most endearing qualities. But it can also be a peculiar blindness. McCoy is a danger to you, to Sera, and to anyone else who crosses his path. Men wear guns for a reason. Don't put yourself in the crossfire."

She swallowed. The concern in his voice vibrated into her being, touching her in a dangerously romantic way. She had to remind herself he'd included Sera among the people he was trying to protect.

"Are you trying to make me crazy?"

She'd taken him by surprise. She could see his guard waver in those breathtakingly blue eyes.

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"All protestations to the contrary, you're behaving like a beau. A
jealous
beau."

Amusement curved his lips. "I'm behaving like a good neighbor."

She blew out her breath. "Fine. Call it what you like. But you are not responsible for me, Michael. Besides, Chance wasn't doing anything I didn't give him permission to do."

"Chance, is it?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're missing the point. Deliberately, I think."

He shifted her basket to his other arm. "As much as I enjoy sparring with you on a public fairground," he said evenly, glancing at the eavesdropping children who huddled, bug-eyed and mouths agape, at the rear of the orphans' tent, "might I suggest we find a cooler location?"

Eden could ignore the trickle of perspiration sliding under her whalebone to dampen her chemise. But she couldn't disregard the orphans, especially when one chubby twelve-year-old with brown, sausage-style ringlets waved to Michael.

"Hi, Doc!" she called shyly. "Is that your new sweetheart?"

The whole tent tittered. Michael weathered the giggles with aplomb. Mrs. Witherspoon appeared, tossed Eden an apologetic glance, and ushered the girls back into the shade for cookies. Eden suspected Michael the Pirate had stolen a couple of adolescent hearts, too.

"Honestly, Michael." They began strolling toward the nearest stand of trees. "You might have told the children the truth."

The glance he slid her way was veiled. "That you prefer outlaws to doctors?"

She glared back. "Must you be so difficult? I don't have to picnic with you, you know. After removing my basket from the auction and fueling a virtual prairie fire of gossip at my expense, I think I'd be well within my rights to leave you standing in the dust."

"Hmm. I suggest we drive, then."

Her lips twitched at this sally, despite her staunchest resolve. "You're impossible. Did you really pay one hundred dollars to save me from Chance McCoy?"

"I'm afraid so."

She caught her breath, uncertain whether to be elated or deflated. He'd neatly foiled her accusations that he was jealous, and he still refused to acknowledge he was behaving like a beau. Maybe he'd planned to spend the money at one of the half-dozen auctions, anyway.

"Well... thank you. I think."

"You have nothing to thank me for."

"You're not the lesser of two evils?"

"Not necessarily."

He caught her elbow, guiding her toward the carriages parked along the perimeter of the field. "While it's true your reputation will survive Chance McCoy," he said, "the question remains, will it survive me? That, my dear Eden, would be your dilemma—if you still had a choice."

He gazed fully at her then, and the heat of those blue cinders melted the protest that had bubbled to her lips. She wanted to believe Michael was making light of himself, but after that night in the parlor, she wasn't so sure. She couldn't help but remember his warning,
I'm nothing like the angel I was named after.
Then he'd proved his devilry with his kiss.

A thrill prickled her arms at the memory.

"Where do you propose to take me?" she demanded as he handed her into his phaeton.

The smile he flashed her was sinfully male.

"Somewhere we won't be disturbed."

As he climbed into the driver's seat, sweeping Eden's cream-colored skirt off his cushion, inhaling the delicate floral fragrance that drifted out to entrance him, Michael steeled himself against his pleasure. He'd paid one hundred dollars to keep her out of mischief, by God, and so he would: by removing her from the bad influences at this jamboree. Michael Jones he could trust—more or less. The rest of the male population was questionable.

Besides, Eden had proven herself susceptible to wolves. It was high time someone showed her the error of her ways. With Sera in Claudia's capable, anti-McCoy care, Michael had the freedom for once to indulge in a personal whim, namely, to educate Eden about the baser instincts of men.

A young woman couldn't go about kissing physicians
or
renegades without placing herself in peril. To think Eden was a tease at heart absolutely galled him. He realized he had no business being angry, that the very reason he'd ignored her shy greetings and sweet smiles since she'd become a resident of Blue Thunder six short weeks ago was to encourage her attraction to another beau.

But not to Chance McCoy, for God's sake! Surely
some
town gossip must have told her about his wife. And the dead Virginian!

As much as it nettled Michael's pride, he had to admit, he wasn't good at self-sacrifice. Watching Eden delight in another man's attention had made him greener than a poisoned apple. He'd thought he could step aside and let another beau woo her, marry her,
make love to her,
because in the end, she'd be better off without an invalid husband. But that was before he'd realized she took a fancy to outlaws. And that was before he'd seen, with his own eyes, some other man touching her. God help him, he would have ripped McCoy's head off if given half a chance.

Michael scowled as he gazed over his shoulder, backing the phaeton out of the shade. He knew he had to rein in his jealousy. If Eden suspected he had an ulterior motive while he was trying to talk sense into her, she'd simply laugh.

In the meantime, Eden was his private joy for an entire afternoon. It was a heady realization, since the part of him that had been longing for her company, for the cheerfulness that could coax him beyond his secret misery and help him glimpse the rosy complexion of life, was dangerously close to gaining control. He was glad Eden was Eden, because she couldn't stay mad at him for long. In truth, it amused him to watch her bounce on the cushion beside him, striving so hard to be prim and aloof. She didn't know how.

At first, she maintained a stoic silence, retreating into some polite caricature of her more amicable self if a fair-goer hailed them. But the minute they were on the road, winding through the fallow fields of wildflowers, she would gasp with the wide-eyed appreciation of a child and point to the flash of oriole wings or to the nigh-transparent masterwork of a spider that had stretched its web between two milkweed pods.

Michael chuckled to himself. Eden found wonder in the simplest things, things that, he vaguely recalled, had fascinated him once too, when he'd roamed these hills in knickers.
Funny.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd reined in his horse just to count the seconds a hawk wheeled overhead, her russet wings gliding for what seemed like forever, before she finally flapped to sail the winds.

"Michael, listen," Eden breathed, cocking her head. Her bonnet had long since spilled down her back, allowing her nose to freckle endearingly in the sun. "Do you hear it?"

"What?"

"The brook! There's one nearby. Oh, let's picnic by the water!"

She was right—sort of. He'd halted the phaeton about a stone's throw from Smitty McCann's irrigation ditch, and the recent rains had helped it bubble over its banks. The physician in him smiled at her conclusion. Certainly there was nothing wrong with Eden's hearing.

"I know a better place," he said, slapping the reins. "That is, if you don't mind a spot of shade with your wildflowers. Or sharing your crumbs with a presumptuous magpie."

She treated him to a shy smile. "I like magpies. They remind me of Colorado—and the days when it was fun to go there."

He waited curiously for an explanation, but she gave none other than a wistful sigh as she gazed at the clouds wreathing Blue Thunder Mountain. He wondered if she was thinking of the mob she'd mentioned in the parlor that night he'd been so intent on playing the bastard. He realized he had no one but himself to blame if she refused to let him heal her wounds. For some reason, the knowledge hurt. He worried his physician's pride wasn't the only source of that pain.

No doubt due to the Independence Day festivities, Blue Thunder Valley's most popular swimming hole was deserted. Michael reined in, uncertain whether to be anxious or relieved. Part of him relished the idea of strolling the grassy streambank with Eden alone, of sharing her delight over tadpoles and dragonflies, of holding her hand or combing his fingers through her wind-mussed hair.

A smaller, increasingly less vocal part of him demanded to know if he'd lost his mind. The environs of Quiller's Creek weren't as erotic as his dreamscapes, but the reeds and boulders made the lagoon secluded enough for skinny dipping. How many times had he jumped butt-naked into the water as a morally uptight youth desperate to prove to the other children that he could—and would—defy his father?

Michael tried to draw some spiritual fortitude from the rope swing that dangled from a long-suffering cottonwood, from the childhood memories of water fights and crayfish hunts and raft floats under a full moon. Unfortunately, he also remembered the stolen clothes pranks. Claudia had kept his humiliation from his parents. In private, however, she still ribbed him about the time she had gone in search of him—worried because he hadn't arrived to chop her firewood—and had found him hiding miserably in the bushes, scratching the poison-ivy welts that covered his nakedness.

To this day, Michael wondered if Rafe had filched his breeches. Although he was two years Michael's junior, Rafe had always been the popular Jones, the ringleader among the other children. Michael had been less welcome in their circle because he'd taken more seriously his father's sermons on youthful malfeasance and the road to damnation.

"Michael? Is something wrong?"

Eden's gentle query nudged him back to the present. He drew a shuddering breath. In truth, Rafe wasn't the only reason Michael had stopped coming to this swimming hole. After all these years, he'd thought he'd be able to stand on these banks with equanimity.