Karen Kirst - The Bridal Swap

Clearing his throat, he headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get your breakfast.”

While he set the water to boiling and retrieved a teacup and saucer from the cabinet, she stood gazing out the windows overlooking the front yard. He wondered what she was thinking. Why the forlorn expression? Did she miss the big city already?

At the sight of the heaping portion of eggs, bacon and biscuits, her eyes widened and she pressed a hand against her midsection. “I can’t possibly eat all that.”

Swallowing his irritation, he gripped the top rung of the chair in front of him. “You want me to make something else?” Your Royal Highness?

She looked doubtful. “I normally have a bowl of oatmeal or a slice of toast with marmalade.”

He thought back to the few weeks in March he’d spent with Francesca. “Your sister has quite the appetite.”

Hurt flashed across her face, which she quickly masked. “My sister can eat anything she likes and it doesn’t affect her figure.”

Josh stood mute. What had he said to cause her pain? His heart beat out a warning. He’d known Kate Morgan less than twenty-four hours, and already she was getting under his skin.

“Well, you certainly don’t look as if you need to worry about that,” he said brusquely. “I’ll check if we have oatmeal.”

Her eyes flared with surprise. “Wait. Please don’t go to the trouble.” Lowering herself into the chair, she indicated the plate. “This smells delicious.”

At least she wasn’t sulking. Francesca would have.

He retrieved her tea from the kitchen and set it on the table, along with a crock of honey, then sank into the chair across the table. He watched her eat, thinking he’d never seen such refined manners. She ate carefully, her jaw barely moving as she chewed, dabbing her mouth with her crisp napkin.

“What would you like to do today?”

“I’d like to scout out some possible sites for photographs. Can you suggest any particularly interesting spots?”

“First I need to know what you’re interested in photographing. What kind of book is this going to be?”

“A sort of travel guide. I’d like pictures of the mountains, of course.” Her eyes sparkled as she warmed to her topic. “Churches make interesting photos. Barns. Wagons. Everyday scenes of life on a farm. Would you show me your farm?”

“Sure.”

“I also like to take portraits of people. I noticed the one of your family on the fireplace mantel. Perhaps I can take another one and give your mother a print.”

“She’d like that, I’m sure. That was taken many years ago.” He sipped the stout, black brew. “As to possible sites, I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Thank you.”

“How long will it take you to gather all the photographs you need?” In other words, how long before you leave?

“I’m not certain. But I’m not in any hurry to go back. My parents are touring Europe for the next two months. Francesca is on her honeymoon—” She broke off, her gaze shooting to his. Flustered, she rushed ahead. “Anyway, I didn’t like the idea of rattling around the estate with only staff for company.”

“I’m curious why you didn’t go with your parents. Surely Europe is a more interesting subject than our mountains.”

“Simple. They didn’t ask. My parents prefer to take their vacations alone.”

“I see.” Taken aback by her candid response, he said, “Well, I imagine you’ll soon be bored here.”

“If that happens, then I will know it’s time to go home.”

“Don’t you have fancy parties to attend? Shopping to do? I’m sure you noticed our one and only general store.”

Her eyes dulled. “If my presence here is inconvenient, I will leave immediately.”

Now he felt like a heel. He’d been insensitive. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome.”

Lashes lowered, she sipped her tea. Her fingers were elegant, nails trim and shiny, skin like satin. One gold filigree ring adorned the fourth finger of her right hand. They were the hands of a privileged lady, unblemished by hard work.

How would he handle the strain of seeing Francesca’s sister every day? Reminding him of all he’d lost. And the gossip her presence would stir up …

Undoubtedly, he was going to be the subject of a lot of talk. That’s simply the way things worked in small towns. Wasn’t every day a man’s fiancée up and married someone else.

“Are you ready for that tour?” He pushed back his chair.

She hesitated. “If you have something you’d rather do, I can entertain myself. I brought quite a collection of books with me, as well as my harp. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“You brought your harp?” Who traveled with musical instruments? He’d never understand the whims of the wealthy.

“It’s a Celtic harp, small enough to hold on my lap. I’ve played for many years. The music soothes me.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, surprised they had something in common. “About the soothing part. I play the fiddle.”

“Oh?” Interest stirred in her expression. “I would like to hear you play sometime. Fran didn’t mention that you played an instrument.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell her.”

One pitfall of relationships conducted at a distance was that important details were often overlooked or left out entirely. In Francesca’s case, details like another suitor. Thoughts of her with another man churned up unpleasant emotions. The betrayal affected him deeply. If and when he ever decided to court another lady, he’d be certain to keep things simple.

And the lady sitting across from him was anything but.

Strolling about the O’Malley farm, Kate’s gaze was drawn repeatedly to her handsome guide. Sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead, showering patches of light on the navy cotton shirt stretched taut across his back and shoulders. Josh’s rich drawl made each word sound like a caress. Listening to him explain the names and uses of each structure lulled her into a state of contentment.

He’d spoken hesitantly at first, his expression guarded, as if he expected her to be bored. Her many questions had brought about a change in his tone and manner, however. He was clearly proud of his family’s farm. And from what she’d seen, he had reason to be.

She surveyed her surroundings with a practiced eye. People back home would enjoy seeing these rural images. The wealthy would use them as a guide to plan sojourns to the mountains. Those who couldn’t afford to visit would at least be able to glimpse the beauty of East Tennessee. She could hardly wait to get started!

Kate found the workings of a farm fascinating. Here people had to be self-sufficient, working with the land and its offerings to provide for their needs.

She would never tell him Francesca would’ve been less than thrilled with her new home. No doubt, she would’ve taken one look and hightailed it back to the city.

Pushing away from the corn crib, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “All that’s left to show you is the apple house.”

“Apple house?” Five rows deep, the orchard fanned out in both directions behind him. There wasn’t a building in sight.

“It’s where we store the apples we don’t immediately use.” He extended his arm. “The ground is uneven in places. I wouldn’t want you to stumble and fall.”

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, his muscled forearm bunching beneath her fingers. They strolled at an even pace to the orchard. A gentle breeze stirred the trees, carrying with it the fragrant, tangy scent of the fruit hanging from the branches.

“I don’t see a house.”

He pointed to the steep hillside beyond the trees. “Look there. See the door?”