Karen Kirst - His Mountain Miss

She smiled. “Sounds delicious.”

“They are, indeed, especially when accompanied by café au lait. We use chicory in our coffee, which makes it stronger, more bitter than what I’ve tasted here.” He angled his face to study her. “I think you’d like it there, Megan, especially the waterfront. The nonstop activity. Interesting characters. The boats and the water.”

“I’ve yet to leave these mountains. Not sure I ever will.”

He shifted so that his stance mirrored hers, his back against the support. “You surprise me. I would’ve guessed that a young lady such as yourself yearned for adventure, hungered to see the world you read about in all those books.”

“I’ll admit I’ve often wondered what other places are like. I’m realistic enough to know, however, the opportunity will probably never arise.” She shrugged. “That’s all right with me. I’m content right where I am.”

“The mountains are all right,” he agreed offhandedly.

“Just all right?” She dropped her arms, indignation pushing upward. “How can you say that—”

“There’s no need to get huffy, mon chou,” he responded, amusement deepening his accent. “I was merely teasing. While I prefer the lowlands, I can’t deny East Tennessee is lovely. In fact, it sort of reminds me of my property outside New Orleans. The landscape is vastly different, of course, but the feeling I get is the same. A feeling of freedom. Free of constraints, of expectations. I can let down my guard there.”

During supper, she’d found his descriptions of his life in the Crescent City fascinating, if somewhat confining. The thought of all those strict social rules and expectations, not to mention the head-spinning whirl of parties and engagements, made her break out in a cold sweat. Made her grateful she wasn’t part of a prominent, wealthy family like the Beaumonts.

No wonder he was coiled tighter than a copperhead about to strike. How much time would it take for him to let his guard down here?

“Do you go there often?”

He paused. “Not nearly as often as I’d like.”

“Have you ever considered leaving the city behind?”

“I have.” He heaved a sigh. “This last year, especially.”

Because his mother was gone.

Lying in bed last evening, she’d prayed for him, asked God to comfort him as he sorted through the truth. His instinctive denial, his difficulty in accepting that his mother might’ve deceived him in this matter, revealed how deeply he’d loved her. Treasured her, even. Recalling his pained denial, outrage had bloomed inside Megan. How could Lucinda betray him that way? Deny both men a chance at a close relationship? She couldn’t begin to understand the woman’s reasoning or motivations.

With tears wetting her pillow, it had dawned on her that she no longer blamed Lucian for not visiting Charles. Lucinda had led him to believe his grandfather was apathetic. And perhaps worse. Her actions had inflicted deep hurt on two men. Charles, her friend and substitute grandfather. And Lucian, someone who, if the circumstances were different, she could come to care a great deal about.

But they’re not. Remember that. He’s not the hero you’ve been dreaming about your whole life.

Needing to divert her treacherous thoughts, she grasped blindly for a change in subject.

“Did your house sustain any damages last night? I trust you didn’t discover any handprints on the furniture.” She hoped he didn’t detect the breathless strain in her voice.

“I didn’t find any when I inspected the parlor in the morning light.”

Oh, why did the man have to have a sense of humor beneath that brooding reserve? Where was the haughty arrogance she despised?

“No misplaced children after I left?”

“No,” he said with mock sternness. “I can assure you that if I had, I would’ve brought them straight here for you to deal with.”

“Aw, but look at how well you handled Ollie and Sarah.”

“If you dare to leave me alone with that boy again, there will be dire consequences.”

She couldn’t hold back her laughter, the thrill his subtle teasing sent rushing through her.

“Go ahead. Laugh. You think I’m jesting when in fact I’m completely serious.”

“Right.” The tremor of humor belied his words. Holding her stomach, she laughed harder, recalling his look of strained patience when dealing with the boy.

When Lucian pushed away from the post and stalked towards her, black eyes burning, the laughter died in her throat. Uh-oh. Every nerve ending stood to attention. What were his intentions?

He came very close, clasped his hands behind his back even as his upper body bent towards her. A good three to four inches taller than her, his broad, muscled chest and capable shoulders blocked the moonlight. His nearness didn’t trouble her in the least. She welcomed it, felt sheltered by him. She pressed her arms tighter around her middle to keep from reaching up and weaving her fingers through his brown locks, from pulling him to her. That would be unwise. Extremely unwise.

That didn’t mean she didn’t long to do so. This enigmatic man tugged at her heart, her soul, like the pull of the moon on the ocean’s waves.

“Has anyone ever told you that your laugh is like a song? A merry tune brimming with unbridled enthusiasm?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve a heart of a poet?”

Surprise flashed across his face. “No. Never. It must be your influence.” His gaze roaming her face was like a physical touch. “You are so incredibly beautiful.” His warm breath fanned her mouth.

Her lungs hung suspended. Was he going to kiss her?

The door opened then, and Nicole appeared, interrupting them a second time. Megan didn’t know whether to be irritated or relieved.

He straightened, his eyes hooded. Unreadable. The air whooshed from her lungs. Why did she feel as if she’d just missed something special?

“Dessert’s on the table,” Nicole announced brightly, unaware of what she’d interrupted.

“I, ah, am sorry to have to decline, after all.” Lucian backed towards the steps. “But it’s later than I realized. I need to be going.”

“Oh.” She blinked, glanced between them. “Next time, then.”

“Good evening.”

“Wait!” Megan ducked inside for a kerosene lamp. Their fingers brushed as she handed it to him and an unexpected pang shot through her. There was such strength and warmth in those hands. Gentleness, too. “To light your way,” she said.

His features tightened briefly. “Thanks.”

Then he turned and walked away. And Megan was glad she was smart enough to know not to fall in love with the man. Something deep inside warned that it wouldn’t be the happy-ever-after kind of love. More like the Romeo and Juliet, tragic kind of love. For them, there could be no happy ending.

Chapter Seven

Standing in the flower garden Monday afternoon, Lucian turned at the sound of angry footsteps.

“Cabbage?” Megan marched his direction, her pastel-pink skirts skimming the stone path and swiping the blooms unfortunate enough to be too near the edge. “That’s what you’ve been calling me?”

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