Karen Kirst - His Mountain Miss

The inactivity here was killing him. Too much time on his hands. Time to think.

Megan’s assertions had circled through his mind like ravenous vultures until the wee hours of the morning. The prospect that his grandfather hadn’t been indifferent, had actually yearned to meet him, weakened the grip of resentment in his soul. But it also brought heartache and disillusionment. For if Megan was right, that meant his mother had lied to him. He couldn’t bear to entertain such an idea, so he forced his thoughts elsewhere...to another tangled coil.

Tom and Megan. Megan and Tom.

He kept picturing them in his parlor, tucked together like two peas in a pod, all the while wanting to protest that he should be the one holding her—not some backwoods mountain man. Okay, that wasn’t exactly fair. Tom Leighton seemed nice enough, appeared to honestly care about her.

These feelings have nothing to do with Megan, specifically. You’re accustomed to women throwing themselves at you, and now that you’ve encountered one who doesn’t, you don’t have a clue how to react. She’s a challenge, that’s all. One he wouldn’t pursue, for both their sakes. Not only were they from disparate worlds, they had different expectations where relationships were concerned. A man would have to be blind not to know Megan O’Malley craved what many other women in the world craved—love and romance and happy-ever-after. He’d seen it in her eyes, that starry, hopeful light not yet dimmed by betrayal or misfortune. She wanted it all...adoring husband, bouncing babies and a cozy home. He wasn’t prepared to give that to anyone, especially her.

He still hadn’t made up his mind about her. Whether she was the genuine article or an exceptional counterfeit.

His fingers closed over her reticule.

He’d noticed the lacy, beribboned article lying on the entryway table this morning. Megan had left in such a hurry last evening that she’d accidentally left it behind. He’d toyed with the idea of allowing his valet to return it to her, but in the end, his curiosity about her home and family had won out. Getting directions had been a simple task. As Charles Newman’s grandson, the locals accepted him more readily than he expected they would a complete stranger.

Now on his way to the O’Malley farm, he found himself wondering what he’d find there. He knew nothing about her family, except that she had a cousin named Josh. Had her parents grown up with his mother? Did they, like Megan, think he was heartless for staying away all these years?

This lane was unfamiliar, the forests on either side thick and endless yet somehow welcoming.

Amid the sea of coarse bark and lush green leaves, splashes of vivid pink caught his eye. Phlox. The delicate flower blanketed the forest floor in this particular area, a pleasing respite from the verdant landscape. Farther on, yellow lady’s slippers decorated a mossy slope. And later, white-and-pink painted trillium. The peaceful, majestic beauty reminded him of his estate outside New Orleans. Not that these mountains could compare to his beloved lowlands, but he felt the same sense of serenity here, of freedom and completeness, that he did there. Curious.

By the time he’d reached Megan’s farm, his mind was blessedly clear.

Taking the worn path veering from the lane, he passed a fair-sized vegetable garden and a crude, open-air shelter fashioned from four sawed-off tree trunks topped with a slanting, wood-slat roof, under which sat a wagon. The barn, while sizable, had seen better days. Boards were warped or missing altogether. Beyond sat a corncrib and smokehouse in much better condition. Diagonal from the barn, its roof sheltered by the branches of a towering magnolia tree, sat a two-story, shingled-roof cabin with a long, narrow porch running the length of the dwelling. Stacked river rock formed the supports. Flowers spilled from crates on either side of the door, spots of color in the porch’s shadow. Two rocking chairs waited, still and silent, for someone to relax and enjoy the view.

Nearing the barn, Megan’s voice drifted out through the open doors, and he stopped to listen.

“Mr. Knightley,” she all but crooned, “we can’t go for another jaunt in the woods today. It’s almost time for supper.”

Lucian frowned. Who was Mr. Knightley? Another suitor? Treading silently, he edged closer to the shaded opening, craning his neck for a glimpse of her and her companion.

“How about tomorrow afternoon? If the weather cooperates, that is.”

There was no response. Seeing a flash of her blond hair, he moved into the barn itself and saw that her Mr. Knightley was in fact a beautiful bay dun.

“Bonjour.”

With a gasp of surprise, she pivoted his direction. Her eyes were huge and dark. “Lucian! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s a fine horse you have there.” He advanced farther inside, noting the neatness and order, gardening tools and pails stacked in one corner. A dairy cow shifted in her stall as he passed. Fresh hay littered the earth floor.

When he reached her side, he placed a hand on the horse’s powerful neck, inches from where hers rested. She didn’t speak at first, simply stared at him as if trying to absorb the fact that he was actually here, on her property. The air around them shimmered suddenly with energy, sharpening his senses. She was so very close. Adrift in blue eyes that reminded him of the mysterious ocean deep, Lucian found his ability to speak failed him. As did his common sense.

He covered her hand with his own. Edged closer. Inhaled the faint rose scent that clung to her. Captured a wayward curl and wrapped it around his finger.

“Lucian?” Her whisper caressed his neck.

His heart thundered inside his chest. “Has anyone ever told you that your hair is like moonlight?” he murmured, his gaze freely roaming the silken mass. “So pale it practically glows luminescent?”

Her peach-hued lips curved sweetly. “Actually, you’re the first.”

That smile nearly felled him. His gaze homed in on her lush mouth, and he bent his head a fraction. Her breathing changed. He stilled.

What was he doing?

“I’m sorry. I—” What could he say? That he’d temporarily forgotten all the reasons he mustn’t fall prey to her charms?

Uncoiling his finger, he put distance between them. Focused on the horse. Mr. Knightley. “I take it you’re an admirer of Jane Austen? Emma, in particular?” Averting his face, he grimaced when his voice sounded more riled bear than human.

Megan didn’t move. “Y-yes, I am as a matter of fact. You’re familiar with her works?”

“You sound surprised.” He dared a glance at her, watched her expression change from bemused to contemplative.

“Not surprised, exactly. Pleased would be a more apt term. Some men consider female authors inferior and, as such, unworthy of their attention.”

“And here I thought you’d be surprised that I read at all.”

Lifting a shoulder, she averted her gaze and stroked her horse’s neck. “Charles mentioned he’d passed his love of books on to Lucinda. I surmised she taught you to do the same.”

Lucian didn’t respond. She was right, of course. His earliest memories were of sitting on his mother’s lap, snug and warm, listening to bedtime stories. She’d read to him until he’d learned to do it for himself. Growing up, he’d passed countless afternoons hidden away in their estate’s library, immersed in one adventure or another.

“I have to admit, I never did warm to Emma and her matchmaking. I prefer Mansfield Park.”

“Indeed?”

“Megan—” they turned as one at the feminine intrusion barreling into the barn “—what’s taking you so...long?”

The raven-haired beauty’s momentum faltered when her wide-eyed gaze encountered him. She pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.”