Karen Kirst - His Mountain Miss

To her surprise, Lucian crouched beside her, his tanned hands deftly assisting her. “Children? Here?” They reached for the last one at the same time, his fingers closing over hers. A frisson of awareness shot through her, and she was suddenly conscious of his knee brushing hers, his bold, sweet-smelling cologne awakening her senses. Megan had the absurd notion to lean closer and sniff his clothes. Instead, she snatched her hand back. His eyes as black as midnight, he held the book out to her, waiting.

Flustered, she took it from him and pointed to the cover. “The Princess and the Goblin is our story for today. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the princess.” She touched a finger to her crown of daisies.

“I noticed.” He held her gaze a moment longer. Then, with a fleeting touch on her arm, he assisted her to her feet. “How long has this been going on?”

“About a year,” she said, hugging the books to her chest. “Your grandfather wholeheartedly approved.”

“So this was your idea?”

“Yes.”

His open assessment put her on guard. He didn’t know her, yet he regarded her with a healthy dose of distrust.

“Here are the refreshments, Miss Megan.” Mrs. Calhoun entered the room with an oval tray piled high with strawberry tarts, stopping short when she spotted Lucian. Her mouth fell open. “Oh my!” Her gray brows shot to her hairline. “You look so much like Charles did when he was younger that I was momentarily taken back in time. Mr. Lucian, I presume?”

Setting the books aside, Megan took the tray from the older woman’s hands and placed it on the credenza beside a crystal pitcher of lemonade. Turning, she caught Lucian’s arrested expression before he smoothed all emotion from his face.

He regally dipped his head. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, madame. I—”

“Of course you wouldn’t know me.” She chuckled as she mopped her brow with a handkerchief. “I’m Madge Calhoun. My husband, Fred, and I came to work for your grandparents when your mother was just a baby. We live in the little house on the back side of the property. I do the cooking and cleaning, and Fred maintains the grounds.”

“I see.”

Her expression clouded, the lines about her eyes becoming more pronounced. “I sure was sorry to hear of Lucinda’s passing. And now Charles... I keep expecting to hear him coming down the stairs asking me what’s for dinner. Hard to believe he’s gone.”

At his low hiss, Megan’s gaze darted to Lucian. A flash of regret on his face, of deep-seated pain, mirrored what was in her own heart. Was his grief entirely for his mother? Or did he—too late—understand what he’d given up by refusing to mend things with his grandfather?

The doorbell chimed. “Oh, our first visitor.” Mrs. Calhoun stuffed the handkerchief back into her apron pocket. “It’s probably Ollie Stevenson. He comes early in hopes I’ll relent and give him a treat before all the others get here. Of course, I never do, but he’s a persistent little fellow.”

As soon as she’d gone, Lucian turned to Megan, his voice low and urgent. “How many children are coming?”

“On a good night, we have about twenty.”

“Twenty.” He visibly swallowed. “And how long will they stay?”

“About an hour. Why do I get the feeling you don’t like children, Mr. Beaumont?”

“In my world, children do not normally mingle with adults. I’ve little experience with them.”

“And yet—” she smiled sweetly “—you were once one yourself.”

His lips didn’t so much as twitch. “Miss O’Malley, I will absent myself for the duration of your...story time. It’s obviously too late to cancel. However, I’d like a word with you immediately afterward. There are matters we need to discuss.”

He pivoted on his heel and strode out of the parlor before she could respond. Cancel? Matters to discuss? Somehow, Megan sensed she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

* * *

The children’s excited chatter, punctuated by Megan O’Malley’s lilting voice, ultimately drove Lucian out the back door and into the flower gardens. He strode along the winding stone path, past gurgling fountains and whimsical marble statues and wildflowers in every imaginable shape and hue, unmindful of his destination. His chest felt too tight. He needed air. Distance. In that house, unwanted emotions crowded in without his consent, nipping like rabid dogs at his tenuous hold on his composure.

He abruptly swung about to glare at the two-story, gabled Victorian, the late-afternoon sun bathing its yellow exterior in soft, buttery light. The stained-glass windows glowed like fine jewels. White wicker chairs situated along the porch invited a person to sit back and relax, to enjoy the view of the blue-toned mountains rising above the valley.

Had his mother sat and rocked on that very porch? Explored these gardens?

Reaching out, he fingered the velvet bloom of a purple hyacinth. Of course she had. Lucinda had been born in one of the upstairs rooms, had spent the first eighteen years of her life here. Until his father had happened into town and turned her life upside down. He frowned. No good would come of revisiting his mother’s unhappiness and regrets. Releasing the petals, he turned and continued walking in the opposite direction of the house, purposefully moderating his steps.

He concentrated on his breathing. Blanking his mind, the heavy feeling in his chest slowly began to recede. The air here was fresh and clean. Pleasant, even. A far cry from the humid, salty tang of New Orleans, the rush of the mighty Mississippi and steamboat blasts and lusty cries of the dock workers. His home.

Over the course of the past year, Lucian had learned to avoid his darker emotions, to push aside grief and loss instead of dealing with it. A coward’s way, he admitted. But it meant survival. And right now, that was his only goal. To keep his head above the waters of disappointment and disillusionment that was his life.

This house and all it represented threatened to suck him under. He could not—would not—allow that to happen. He would sell it to the first reasonable bidder, no matter if it was at a loss. Money was not the issue here. Ridding himself of this burden was. The sooner the better.

Quiet footfalls against the stones registered behind him. Megan O’Malley.

Wearing that filmy, bridal-like gown, with flowers intertwined in the white-blond curls hanging nearly to her waist, she seemed to him a sort of woodland fairy, as insubstantial as a dream or a figment of his imagination. He blinked, wishing her far from here. But she kept coming, her movements graceful and fluid. She was beautiful, radiant even, with dewy-fresh skin that invited a man’s touch. Inquisitive eyebrows arched above large, expressive eyes the color of the sea. Straight, flawless nose. Lips full and sweet like a ripe peach.

In New Orleans high society, Megan O’Malley would be a much sought-after prize. Thankfully, he’d learned his lesson where innocent-seeming beauties were concerned. He was immune.

The determined jut of her chin gave him pause. Made him wonder if she was going to prove an obstacle to his plans.

Boots planted wide, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Story time over already?”

“I cut it short today. I saw the last child out myself, so there’s no need to worry you might bump into one later.” Amusement hovered about her mouth, but her eyes were watchful. “So, what do you wish to speak to me about?”

He gestured to the metal bench to his right. “Would you like to have a seat?”

“No, thank you. I’d rather stand.”

“As you wish. Miss O’Malley, I’m not sure exactly what sort of arrangement you had with my grandfather, but I’m afraid it must come to an end. You see, I’m here to oversee the sale of this property, and in order to do that, the house must be kept in excellent condition for potential buyers. I can’t have strangers, especially children, traipsing in and out doing who knows what sort of damage. I’m sure you understand my predicament.”