The Redhead and the Preacher: A Loveswept Historical Romance (17 page)

That made him angry. It was one thing for her to disguise her beauty if she were hiding. But for her own mother to convince her that she was incapable of attracting a man … He lifted her chin with his fingertips and forced her to look at him.

“Macky, don’t you have any idea how appealing you are? How much you stir a man’s needs?”

“Me?” She shook her head and looked away.

“Damn it, woman, look at me. You do know what happens to a man when he wants to make love to a woman?”

He could tell that she didn’t or couldn’t believe him.

Bran didn’t know who he wanted to strangle first, her mother, who’d made her feel so inferior, the men in her family who’d apparently reinforced that kind of thinking, or the man who’d used her and left her with a child.

He watched as she allowed a faint hope to shine in her eyes. His hands left her shoulders and slid down her back, drawing her close.

“Macky,” he whispered, his breath catching in her hair. “Macky.” He liked saying her name. “If you never believe anyone else in your life, believe me when I tell you that you are very special. I don’t know who hurt you, but being with a man can be very good. Being with the right man can be a beautiful, loving experience.”

“I don’t—I mean …” She tried to step backward and found herself being held even tighter.

Bran felt her confusion. He ought to let her go. But he couldn’t. He felt her unspoken pain that reached out and joined his own. “Under other circumstances, Macky, I’d show you. But it wouldn’t be right. Just relax. Let me hold you.”

Macky resisted at first, then gave in to the need to be held and hid her face against Bran’s shoulder. The touch of his whiskers against her forehead felt like sand rubbing against her skin. Her heart was pounding. Their thighs touched, breasts and chest pressed together. Heat flared, leaving her trembling and weak. “You would?”

“I would,” he murmured as he nuzzled her hair, feathering her cheek with soft kisses, claiming her lips at last.

Bran’s mouth was soft, like velvet. She hadn’t expected that. New sensations bombarded her, heating her skin to fire.

Bran groaned, and deepened the kiss. She’d never allowed herself to think about being kissed by a man, not consciously, but suddenly she was leaning against him, inviting him to show her the way.

He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t reveal the incredible yearning that sent his heart slamming against his rib cage. He tightened his muscles, growing rigid against her. Finally, he broke the kiss and stepped back.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said, his voice hoarse as he backed toward the door. Damn her eyes, why
had she been so cooperative? What was it about this woman that made him want to take care of her? He didn’t want to think how close he’d been to stripping away that sheet of cotton and taking her, then wondered why he’d stopped when she was willing. She seemed incredibly innocent and that pretense angered him unreasonably.

“You’re right, Bran. Tomorrow morning, I intend to buy a pistol. To protect myself from men like you.”

Macky knew that was a feeble threat. There was no other man like Reverend Brandon Adams. He was a man who knew how to make a woman forget her own mind. “I hope you don’t plan to touch me again.”

“I don’t. In fact, maybe I’d better leave. I’ll speak to Lorraine. I expect she’ll find another room for me.”

“No!” Macky shouted. “I mean, you can’t. Someone would know and—well, it wouldn’t look right.”

Bran couldn’t ignore the stricken look on her face. She was afraid, not of him, but of being left alone.

He let out a deep breath. He’d done a lot of bad things in his life, but this time he had to draw the line. Macky was right; he couldn’t walk out on her now. He had sworn by whatever good was left in him to protect her. But protecting her didn’t mean sleeping with her. Whatever the truth was, he wouldn’t take a chance on bringing harm to a woman who was carrying a child. He’d have to continue the charade. “You’re right,” he said. “We have to go on as planned, no matter how difficult it is.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “What does that mean?”

“Put on your new dress, Mrs. Adams. I’ll be back for you in an hour. The preacher and the redhead are going to supper with the queen of Heaven.”

As Macky pulled on the pristine white undergarments, she alternated between fuming over Bran’s actions and fury at herself for giving in to him. She didn’t know any more about
handling a man than she knew about the women’s drawers Lorraine had selected for her.

She managed to get the chemise and the drawers tied properly, but there were stockings, a petticoat, and her corset. Letty had strapped her into the harness at her shop, but now with its laces and cords it seemed to lie there and mock her.

A knock on the door brought her to a state of panic. Surely Bran hadn’t returned so quickly. “Yes?”

“It’s Polly, ma’am. The preacher said you was ready to get dressed.”

“Come in, Polly, and—” Macky jerked the door open. “Show me how in tarnation you wear this—this thing.”

Polly couldn’t hide her smile. “Let me just put this curling iron on the fire to stay warm and I’ll lace up.”

Moments later Macky felt like a chicken, gutted and tied up to be roasted. All she needed was a larger fireplace and a spit on which to be skewered. “How’s a person supposed to breathe?”

Polly giggled. “You take quick little breaths.”

“Like when I’ve been running?”

“Or like you feel when a man …” Her voice trailed off and she turned to fetch the stockings and ties to hold them up. “Sit down, ma’am, and I’ll put ’em on.”

“That’s all right, I think I can do that myself.”

Macky sank down on the stool. She knew what Polly meant when she said a woman couldn’t breathe around a man. She still felt like her lungs were suddenly too small. And that was before Polly had laced the corset.

Polly untied the ribbons at the bottom of the drawers and threaded the stockings up each leg and tied them above her knees with the matching ribbons.

Next, Polly placed the impractical leather boots with the tiny spool heels on her feet and began to fasten the laces. “We’ll move the stool over here to the table and I’ll do your hair before you put on your dress. I thought we could use the green ribbon in your hair.”

“I don’t know …” Macky said uneasily.

Polly began to brush out Macky’s braid. Parting her hair in the middle, Polly pulled a heavy swatch of hair up on top of her head and anchored it there. Then she reached for the curling iron and fashioned a cascade of sausage curls that rippled down her neck.

Macky began to fidget. She was fooling herself with her expectations. Nothing Polly could do would tame the mass of hair she normally stuffed under a hat.

“Now, let me add the ribbons.”

Moments later Polly gave Macky a hand mirror.

“It’s—I look—I mean I never expected,” Macky said in amazement.

“Now, stand up.”

Then came the white ruffled petticoat, followed by the crinoline with the steel frame.

“You mean I wear all this under my skirt? No wonder you have to draw a body up to fit into it.”

Feeling more uncertain, Macky raised her arms and allowed Polly to slip the dress over her head, and it fell softly over her shoulders.

Polly fastened the buttons up the front and stood back to look.

“The preacher is going to be very pleased. He ought to be back anytime now. I’ll wait until after you leave to have the tub taken away.”

“Thank you, Polly,” Macky said, and turned back toward the mirror, still thunderstruck at what she saw.

After Polly left, Bran knocked on the door and identified himself. Macky hesitated, nervous about his reaction, then berated herself for caring what he thought. “Come in, Bran.”

Bran opened the door and stopped dead still, unable to cover his shock.

The uncertain girl he’d spent the last hour trying to erase from his memory had been replaced by a woman who was absolutely breathtaking, as fresh as a copper coin and as
vibrant as a desert sunset. He couldn’t speak, and stood there like a man who’d never seen a woman before.

“Well?” she said, her voice trembling with barely hidden uncertainty. “Am I Macky or am I Kate?”

“Your papa was right. You’re Trouble and I’m in the thick of it.”

“A
m I properly attired?”

“You’re very properly attired, Macky.”

Macky’s simple green checked dress with the high neckline and long sleeves was the exact color of her eyes. There was nothing provocative about it, except the way it hugged her breasts and nipped a waist much tinier than he remembered. The short cream-colored shawl draped across her shoulders formed an outer shell much like an opening rose revealing its loveliness.

But it was her hair that astounded him. It was caught up at the crown with matching green ribbons and fell down her back like ripples of fire. Her mouth quivered for a moment before she straightened and took on a look that dared him not to disapprove.

Macky felt as if Polly were lacing her corset again, her breath coming in little pants. But this time, it was definitely the man, not the corset, that caused her consternation.

While she’d been dressing, Bran had bathed, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes so new that she could smell the dye. He’d exchanged the dusty black clothes for a frock coat and trousers in a soft gray color. A pale green tie at his neck matched the green in her new dress, giving the impression that they were joined. Where he’d been dangerous before, now he was … delicious.

“ ‘Truly, to tell lies is not honorable,’ Bran.”

“Believe me, Macky, ‘as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.’ And my heart is saying that the lady I’ll be escorting this evening is more lovely than Solomon in all his splendor.”

“Don’t use those pretty words on me, Bran Adams, and don’t quote Scripture, either. Aren’t you afraid that God will strike you down for blasphemy?”

He considered her words before he answered. “No, I’d like to think He and I are on the same mission.”

“Just the same, I’d rather you not flatter me. Just act like the preacher you’re supposed to be and don’t try to play up to me.”

He held out a single white wildflower, slightly drooped, but still alive. “Does that mean I ought to throw this away?”

“For me?” she whispered, completely unsettled by the look in his eyes. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it behind the bathhouse where they empty the dirty water. It was growing amongst a stand of weeds, holding its head so high and proud, I thought of you.”

“Me? Oh, for goodness sake. I’m not. You don’t think …” But she let her words die as she saw the look in his eyes. He’d done a lovely thing and she couldn’t spoil it.

“Thank you, Bran. It’s beautiful. Nobody ever gave me a flower before.” She stuck the blossom through the ribbons in her hair, lifted her head and gave him a smile.

“Tonight, you’re Mrs. Adams, whose husband is very proud.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “You are very beautiful.”

Macky blushed. At the touch of his lips, a shiver rippled up her backbone.

She wished she could hold on to the moment, but the longer he held her hand, the more uncertain she felt. “Hadn’t we better go?” she finally asked, trying to pull some sense of reality back to the moment.

“Yes. Though, if it were up to me …”

Quickly, she removed her hand and swept past him out the door. For a moment Bran’s flower took the edge off her worry that people would laugh at her clumsy attempt to look like a minister’s wife. For a moment she forgot the uncertainty of the coming evening, of facing total embarrassment. And for that moment she held her head high and smiled.

Bran followed her down the hall to the steps that led to the saloon, his hand resting possessively against the small of her back. As they reached the bottom, the cacophony of sounds hushed and every eye turned toward Macky.

“Well, now, don’t you look nice.” Lorraine stepped forward and studied the couple. “Polly did a good job with your hair. Sylvia will be impressed.”

Across the saloon, Macky caught sight of Pratt leaning against the bar. He nodded at her and her confidence vanished in a heartbeat. What on earth had made her think she could be something she wasn’t? Only a few days before she’d been a farm girl. Then with no intent to do so, she became a bank robber. Now she was pretending to be a preacher’s wife and the man who could expose her was looking at her with a cunning leer on his face.

Bran, almost as if he understood her fears, slid his arm around her waist and nodded to the saloon owner. “Thank you, Miss Lake. And I appreciate very much your taking my—” he swallowed hard and forced himself to say the words—“my wife under your wing this morning.”

“Yes, thank you, Lorraine,” Macky said, then bolted toward the door, surprising Bran with her sudden departure.

Bran said a quick goodbye and hurried after Macky. He
had the feeling that she might climb on one of the horses tied outside the saloon and ride blindly off into the night.

“Macky, what’s wrong?”

“Stop trying to make me into something I’m not. I just look
nice
, like a minister’s wife ought to look, nothing more.”

“You do look nice,” Bran said. “Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“Because you’re too good at lying. You know what I really am. You don’t have to pretend with me you—you two-faced, smooth-talking gambler.”

Angry words just tumbled out and Macky didn’t know why. He didn’t owe her any explanations. She’d forced herself on him, and if he behaved as a normal man, what right did she have to complain? Men kissed their wives. It didn’t mean anything to Bran. He’d just been trying to convince her that she was something she wasn’t. And she wanted to believe him. Until she saw Pratt and it all came tumbling back. She was a Calhoun and they were always failures.

She couldn’t blame Bran for her foolishness. But in that one moment she had really felt like a woman, and those thoughts were nothing more than silly dreams.

If there was one thing Macky had learned from her father, it was that dreams only brought pain. Now, for a reason that she still couldn’t understand, Bran was pretending that they were husband and wife.