The Barefoot Bride (23 page)

"Uh, Keely, I'm going to take you to the city today," he said a bit too hastily. "We'll visit a seamstress so you may be measured for new clothes. After that, I'll take you on a tour of Boston, and maybe tomorrow I'll take you to Cambridge and show you Harvard, where I went to school."

The abrupt change of subject disappointed her. Well, years of hatred couldn't be erased in one day. "But ain't you got to go to yore office?"

"I've been gone for months. A few more days aren't going to make any difference. You need to become familiar with Boston."

She followed him to the tub and handed him a bar of soap. "Saxon, I don't need no clothes. I brung lots o'—"

"You may wear your breeches around the house, but they won't be acceptable at socials. There'll be teas and—"

"Why do I got to dress up to drank tea?" she asked, kneeling to lather his back.

Her fingers warmed him as the heated water never could. "It's not only teatime. The ladies go to poetry readings, gather to paint or sew, to discuss balls—"

"I cain't listen to somebody read iffen I got on breeches? I ain't shore I
want
to go to any o' them git-togethers."

"Keely, I once asked you to put your mother's dress on, and you were lovely in it. I want the pleasure of buying you more pretty things. You're a beautiful woman, little one, and you should dress beautifully."

"But—"

"When I was in the Blue Ridge, I did my best to conform to your way of life," he reminded her with a twinkle in his eye. "Surely you'll do me the same favor."

Chickadee felt captivated by the mesmerizing blue of his devilish gaze.
Actually, I'd do anythang fer you, Saxon.

"Well?" he pressed, reaching for her.

"Saxon!" she shouted when he pulled her into the tub with him. "I still got my clothes on!"

"So you do," he said, his fingers already unfastening the buttons on her shirt. "We'll have to do something about that, won't we?" He tossed her shirt to the floor, and her breeches soon followed.

"Law, Saxon, we ain't never done this in the tub afore," she murmured, her lips at his ear, her legs wrapped around his waist.

"No, but that doesn't mean it can't be done." He lifted her and then slowly lowered her, impaling her so deeply, sensuously, she let out a moan.

"Why, Keely Blackwell! Was that a
holler
I heard?"

"'Pears so," she admitted. "See iffen you can make me let out another one."

He smiled. "With pleasure, mountain girl."

Chapter 12

Saxon ignored Araminta's summons, and he and Chickadee were soon in the carriage heading toward the city. Not having had much rest during the night, Chickadee drifted to sleep almost immediately. He maneuvered her so she rested against his shoulder, and he caught the fresh scent of her hair. Unable to resist picking up a soft lock, he brushed it across his lips and watched the scenery outside, the riotous splash of autumn catching his attention.

"Sort of red, sort of orange, sort of gold," he whispered, still twining Chickadee's hair between his fingers. "Just like this wild mane of yours."

"What? Are we thar?"

Her voice was as soft as mountain drizzle, that silent haze he'd so often watched blanket her precious hills on cool Appalachian mornings.
Hell!
he chided himself, cooing her back to sleep.
I'm getting sentimental!

Absently stroking Chickadee's cheek, he pondered that new emotion. He'd never taken a second's worth of time to examine the colors of autumn, nor had he cared a whit about wet fog covering wild hills.

He was becoming maudlin, and all because of the vivacious vixen in his arms. Who the hell cared if leaves were green, red, or purple?

Squeezing his eyes closed, he shut out both the landscape and his soppy thoughts. He was acting as if Chickadee had stolen his heart.

He laughed quietly at that ridiculous notion.

No one could steal a heart that didn't exist.

*

"You have an eye for color, Mr. Blackwell," the seamstress said, looking over the dozens of bolts of fabric Saxon had selected for Chickadee's gowns. Everything complemented Chickadee's coloring to perfection.

"If I do, I most likely attained it from my years of doing business with you, Mrs. Tidd," he replied with a wink, and added a length of teal crepe to the heap.

Mrs. Tidd blushed. "Your business with me has been a joy, but I never believed you'd bring a
wife
to me. She's a lovely girl who really has no need for the corsets. My, but she's a tiny person."

Saxon smiled, recalling the fit Chickadee had thrown over the corsets. Nor had she wanted parasols or bonnets. He walked over to the display of furs and laces, where Mrs. Tidd lengthened his list of purchases with capes, pelisses, mantles, and jackets. He also added fans, reticules, gloves, and muffs to the list, delighting the seamstress with his large order. She started to suggest he buy an assortment of nightwear but then blushed again. The virile Saxon Blackwell and his beautiful wife would only find nightgowns hindersome. Still flushed, she promised to have the order completed and delivered as soon as possible.

The next stop was the shoemaker's. There he bought his mountain girl kid, leather, and satin slippers as well as boots that laced up her instep. Though Chickadee was hesitant to give up her breeches and brogans, she was fascinated by all the new things that would soon be delivered to her. Her rustic upbringing hadn't squelched her inborn and typically feminine love of beautiful things.

But when Saxon took her to Cromwell's jewelry store, she protested loudly. The sight of the glittering gems was enticing, but her strong sense of fairness refused to allow her to let Saxon spend any more money on her.

"I don't need any o' them jewries in that thar winder, Saxon. I let you buy them other thangs on account o' you said I cain't wear breeches to them socials that I ain't even decided I'll go to yet. But I ain't got no need fer—"

"Keely, jewelry completes an outfit. But most importantly, little one," he said, pulling her into his embrace, "I've yet to give you a wedding ring. Surely you don't want Grandmother to think I don't... uh,
love
you enough to give you a ring, do you?"

She mulled this over. If only he meant what he said, she thought sadly. "Will this here store buy the jewries back? I won't never wear it in the hills."

His chest constricted at her question, an odd emptiness replacing the pleasure he'd had buying her a wardrobe. "I'm sure it will," he said softly. "But if it won't, we can always sell the jewelry privately."

When they left the store, the jeweler was much richer, and on Chickadee's left hand there sparkled a gold band encrusted with emeralds. The rest of the jewelry Saxon had purchased would be delivered the next day. Chickadee was overwhelmed, freely admitting the various pieces of jewelry he'd bought were the prettiest things she'd ever seen. But they made her sad too. They symbolized Saxon's wealth.

The thing he seemed to need most in the world.

Though there were street railways, Chickadee preferred to walk and thoroughly enjoyed the stroll through the Common, a large park full of stately elms. Saxon took her to Frog Pond, an old watering place where cows and sheep had once quenched their thirst, and told her he would take her ice-skating there when the water froze.

They spent the next four days sight-seeing. Chickadee saw Parker House, the oldest hotel in Boston, the handsome, medievallike King's Chapel, and the Tremont Temple. Saxon pointed out Old Granary Burying Ground and told her who Paul Revere, John Hancock, Samuel Adams and Robert Treat Paine were, explaining their bodies were laid to rest there.

They ventured past the Old North Church, where Paul Revere's signal lanterns had been hung. The State House, where the Boston Massacre had taken place, was next on the agenda, and there Saxon showed Chickadee the balcony from which the Declaration of Independence had been read. She saw the Old Corner Bookstore and learned that leading writers such as Dickens, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Thoreau and Whittier once congregated there.

Chickadee studied it all with great interest, but her fascination with New England increased the day Saxon took her into Cambridge and showed her Harvard. They walked through the Yard, and when they reached Hollis Hall, Saxon told her the story behind all the cracks in the pavement around the old building.

"In 1776, after the Continental Army left Cambridge, the college students were able to return from Concord, where they'd fled," he explained. "When they arrived back here, they found iron cannonballs lying around the Yard. The students who lived here at Hollis Hall were obviously inventive souls and thought of a clever way to put the balls to good use during that very cold winter. They placed the balls into fireplaces and left them there until they were red-hot. Then, in braziers, they carried them into the chambers, where the heated balls would give off heat, thus warming the chilly rooms."

He stooped and pointed to the broken pavement. "When spring came, and the students had no more use for the balls, they threw them from their windows. When the balls landed, they made these cracks you see here."

Chickadee reached out and ran her finger over one large fissure in the stone. "Whar's them balls now? I'd shore like to have one fer my collection o' thangs. Y'know I got to start a whole new one since my ole one burnt up."

He smiled and gently tugged at her red curls. Most people he knew collected priceless objects of great beauty. But Chickadee looked beyond outward appearances and saw the simple significance others rarely noticed. Her idea of a treasure, whether it be broken or ugly, was a thing that in some way held unique meaning for her.

"Keely, I've no idea where the balls are now. That tale I told you happened nearly a hundred years ago."

"Well, I reckon I can find other thangs. Ain't nothin' gwine replace that gun stock I showed you though. I tuck real good keer of it. Now it ain't nothin' but ashes."

"A real shame it was destroyed," Saxon said sadly, inwardly smiling because the stock she so prized was safely hidden away in his personal things at home.

It was well after nightfall before they returned to Boston from Cambridge, and Chickadee's stomach was rumbling. "Saxon, I'm so hungry, I could eat a bull and it be a-bellerin'. Cain't we stop somewhars and eat?"

"I'm sure our chefs will have dinner waiting for us. It wouldn't do at all for us not to eat it."

"But I ain't never et in a restaurant afore, Saxon," she said longingly. "I'll eat jist a little bit, and then when we git home I'll finish off whatever them chefs made fer us."

"You'll get fat eating like that."

She turned her grass-green eyes on him, the soft shine of the streetlamps reflected in them. "Please? Purty please with molasses on top?"

The sweet plea on her freckled face would have melted a glacier. He signaled for the carriage to stop in front of a quaint eatery. It was in no way elegant, but to the mountain girl, it was fancy indeed.

When they'd finished their meal of fresh fish, Saxon began to study the dessert menu, but a familiar face a short distance away stole his attention.

Dammit, it was Wesley Melville, a notorious womanizer! Though Saxon himself had a reputation with the ladies, he'd never set his sights on the ones who wore wedding bands. Wesley did not possess such scruples, and there was no way in hell Saxon was going to let his old rival turn on the charm for Chickadee. The thought irritated him greatly, and his irritation turned into full-blown fury when he remembered how very well Chickadee's clothes fit her. She might as well have been poured into both her breeches and her shirt! Dammit, why hadn't he thought to buy at least one ready-made frock for her?

Quickly, he signaled for the check, but the waiter was occupied. Chickadee saw Saxon's impatience and followed his line of vision to the waiter. When the man failed to come, she stood, put two fingers to her lips, and blew a deafening whistle.

Rattled to the marrow of his bones, Saxon yanked her back into her chair, his eyes narrowed. "That isn't the way to get anyone's attention, Keely."

She jerked her hand away from him. "I was only a-tryin' to hep. That thar waiter man's so busy, he didn't never see you a-wavin' to him. And what with all the loud gwines-on in here, he didn't never hear you a-callin' him neither."

"He would have come as soon as he—"

"Saxon!" Wesley removed his leather gloves, slapped them across his hand a few times, and then draped them over his lower arm.

Beneath the table, Saxon's fists clenched. "Wesley, it's been a long time." He forced himself to be polite. "Nice to see you again." He stood and held out his hand, which his foe touched lightly.

"Too long," Wesley returned, his gaze settling on Chickadee. "Last I heard, you were seeing Cynthia Hamilton, and now I find you out with another enchanting lady."

His smile was a snarl. "Whatever relationship I had with Cynthia ended when I married Keely."

Wesley raised a mahogany eyebrow. "Married?" He looked back at Chickadee, taking in her homespun shirt, her buckskin breeches, and the raccoon tails at her waist. "This girl is your
wife?"