The Scoundrel's Bride (9 page)

“You promise?” She trembled beneath his touch.

“I give you my word.” Zach swayed with the music and smiled. The last time he’d seen such a look of longing, he’d ended up buying the kid a peppermint stick.

Zach stepped into a waltz. “Dance with me,” he coaxed, dropping his voice low. “For just a few minutes, forget what you’ve been taught and let me remember. Dance with me, darlin’.”

She stumbled, but at least she was moving. Zach pulled her closer, showing her with a touch, a tightening, which way to turn. He relished the softness beneath his fingertips, savored the floral fragrance that clung to her hair. “Roses,” he murmured into her ear as he identified the scent.

“Aren’t you awfully close, Mr. Burkett?”

“I really like roses.”

“My soap. I have to stop putting fragrance in the soap. It’s another of my vices.”

Damn but that preacher had sold her a tale. “Don’t,” Zach murmured. “Put the trough of guilt aside for a few moments. You can wallow in it later.”

Four times he led her around the small room, before she pulled from his arms, saying, “Oh, Mr. Burkett, this is wrong.”

“Zach, my name is Zach,” he insisted. “And there’s not a blessed thing wrong with what we’re doing.”

“Yes there is.” The music box continued to play as she shut her eyes and added, “It’s just so difficult to be good when I’ve always dreamed of dancing.”

Zach heard the wistfulness—and shame—in her voice, and he felt a sudden, fierce desire to free her from the influence of the religious hogwash she’d been taught. Morality Brown appealed to a side of himself long forgotten. Maybe it was the similarities in their backgrounds. He’d spent a span of time on the revival circuit himself and knew what it was like to be surrounded by religious poppycock.

But Zach recognized the differences between them, too. Morality believed. He never had and never would. “Don’t fight, Morality. There’s nothing wrong in a little dance. Listen to the music, doesn’t it lift you up, make your soul soar? You were saying we needed beauty in our lives. Add some to mine.” Gathering her close, Zach led Morality back into the dance.

She was floating. Tripping and stumbling and stepping on his boots, Morality felt as though she hovered two feet off the ground. No, ten feet. Twenty feet. Her blood hummed, her heart pounded. She had to think to take a breath. One hand at her waist, the other clutching her hand, Zach Burkett whirled her and twirled her right into sin.

She loved every minute of it.

In her mind, she wore a green satin ball gown. The music box was an orchestra, and the cabin was a ballroom with glittering chandeliers and a marble floor. Zach wore black evening dress. He whispered in her ear as they danced, telling her she was pretty, that he was entranced, that—

Both the music and the motion stopped abruptly, and Morality came back to earth.

She didn’t move a muscle—she couldn’t—as Zach’s gaze bore relentlessly into hers. She felt the tension in him. The power. Blood thundered in her ears as he let loose of her hand, bringing his own to cradle the back of her head. A warm, sweet honey pooled low in her body as she watched his eyelids drift shut, his head lower.

Morality melted as his lips touched hers. Zach Burkett’s kiss was nothing like she’d imagined a kiss would be. Open-mouthed and seeking, it drained something from her she didn’t know she possessed. Assaulted by a need beyond understanding, she whimpered softly.

Zach lifted his head. “Ah, sweet Morality.” Drawing a ragged breath, he added, “Damn, angel, you’re pure temptation.”

Stunned, she gazed up at him, her eyes wide with wonder and amazement. Her voice emerged in a squeak as she said, “You shouldn’t swear, Zach Burkett.”

He answered her with a wry grin. “I like to do what I shouldn’t. I’ve never been worth a damn at resisting temptation.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. He pulled her even closer. His breath fanned her lips, and in a voice that was liquid sin, he added, “I’m telling you, angel, I’m bad to the bone.”

Zach seized her mouth with his. He stole her breath, giving his in return. His body was pressed tightly against hers, and she wanted him even closer.

Then his hands began to move.

Sweeping up and down her back. Dropping lower. Cupping her behind and lifting her to press against him. When she felt him gathering handfuls of her skirt, sanity returned.

Morality wrenched from his arms. “No! Don’t do this. Why are you doing this! It’s wicked, and you said you wouldn’t. You promised!”

He stared at her, twin blue flames burning in his eyes. “I lied.”

Seconds drummed by, punctuated by silence. Zach watched the color drain from her face and knew he’d made a mistake.
It was the lie that made me so angry,
she’d said to the boy.
I absolutely hate lies
.

Well, hell. Guess she really meant it.

You’d have thought he’d hit her. She looked…stricken. Hurt, disappointed, despairing. Zach’s normally facile tongue failed him, and as he groped for something to say, the purring kitten he’d held in his arms transformed into a spitting hellcat.

“You evil, corrupt, conniving man. How dare you attempt to take advantage of me!” Hands on hips, she advanced, chin lifted and emerald eyes snapping with hostility. “I’ve been warned about men like you, Mr. Burkett. Spellbinders. Word-weavers. Fast-talking devils with glints in their eyes and grins on their faces, making indecent overtures to any and every decent woman who has the misfortune to cross your paths.”

God, she was magnificent. She stood tall and proud and righteous, and the air around her seemed to vibrate with energy. She was an avenging angel, defending the honor of her sex from the entire male population. Zach had never seen a more beautiful woman.

“To think I had imagined, had hoped. You should be ashamed…” she ranted, laying both hands on his chest and giving him a shove. Zach fell back a step, so amazed, so enthralled, he wanted to see where her temper would lead her.

The location he’d prefer lay a few short paces behind him.

“… plying your devil’s charms upon innocent young women.” She pushed him again, and he made sure to take a bigger step back.

“Innocent?” he goaded, arching a querying brow. “I don’t know about that, Morality Brown. You kiss like a brazen hussy.”

She gasped in outrage, and he waited for the inevitable explosion. When her hand whipped out, Zach was ready, and he caught her wrist scant inches from his cheek. “Now, now, Morality, let’s not resort to violence. What would your dear uncle say?”

“You…you…” she sputtered.

She breathed hard with the force of her fury, which was just fine with Zach as it lifted her bosom that much closer to his chest. Good Lord, she tempted him. All that fire.

All that innocence.

Burkett, you really are a bastard
. He gentled his hold on her arm. He wanted her and he could have her if he bent his mind to seduction. Standing here filled with need, lost in the scent and sensation of this beautiful, passionate young woman, he was tempted to ignore that tiny spark of decency—a remnant of his mother’s influence—that despite his best efforts, smoldered deep down inside him.
Ah, hell. Another time, Morality Brown
.

He cleared his throat. “Now, if you’re done with trying to distract me, I believe you mentioned two reasons for this visit?”

“Distract you?” She ground out the words.

“Yes. Morning-glory seeds and…?”

She stared at him blankly.

“Dancing?” he asked, thumbing the sensitive spot on the underside of her wrist. “Target practice?” He smiled a wicked wolf grin. And then, because the devil did have a permanent spot on his shoulder, he cupped the fullness of her breast in his hand and added in a whiskey-rough voice, “Did you come out here to seduce me, angel?”

Zach never saw it coming. Pain exploded in his groin as her knee connected with that most vulnerable part of his body. He dropped to the floor like a sack of cornmeal.

The vindictive female stood over him, hands on her hips, as she shouted, “It was supper! The ladies’ auxiliary of Cottonwood Creek Baptist Church have decided to sponsor a supper after tonight’s meeting. Since you were speaking, it was only proper I invite you to join my family. I said I’d bring—”

His eyes shut against the nausea and pain that radiated through him in waves, Zach forced his lips to form the words “If you say calf fries, I swear I’ll make you pay.” Any reference to testicles of any type at this particular moment was something he’d take personally.

“Chicken!”

Good Lord, she had the nerve to call him names? He cocked open one eye to glare at her.

“Fried chicken, in fact.”

“Witch.” He laid his head back, suffering through the pain as he fought for breath. “Who taught you how to kick a man, preacher’s niece?”

She sounded as regal as the Queen of England. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my friend Patrick Callahan mentioned the value of such a move. I must say that I’m glad he did so.”

“The boy needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.” Groaning, Zach rolled to a seated position, debating whether he wanted to kill her or kiss her.
Be fair, Burkett. You asked for everything you got
.

He just hadn’t realized she’d be spunky enough to give it to him. “Hightail it back to town, Morality. I don’t think you’ll want to be here when I can get back on my feet.”

The look on her face told him he didn’t threaten her in the least. “I’ll be more than happy to leave.” She swept up her basket and turned toward the door. At the threshold, she paused. Offering him a positively snooty smile, she said, “Good day, Mr. Burkett.”

“Good day, my…” He spat out a string of curses, climbed to his feet, and walked tenderly toward the window. Gazing outside, he watched Morality Brown hurry toward town in a froth of white petticoats. He couldn’t help but admire the narrow ankles she inadvertently displayed, and he absently licked his lips.

He wasn’t, however, thinking about fried chicken.

J. P. HARRISON’S eyes gleamed like old gold as he watched the crowd gather for the evening show. With the tent already filled to capacity, he’d ordered the canvas rolled up to allow late arrivals a view of the pulpit. And access to the collection plate.

He’d been informed that tonight’s gathering promised to be the biggest since Sam Houston, himself, had visited Cottonwood Creek for a distant relative’s wedding. High praise, the man had added, since Sam Houston stood second only to God in the eyes of most Texans.

As darkness descended, Harrison instructed Patrick to light the lanterns beside the lectern. With a nod, he signaled Morality to stand and lead the congregation in prayer. A hymn followed the invocation, and as the final notes of the chorus faded on the breeze, Harrison cleared his throat, straightened his lapels, and prepared to go to work. Ninety minutes and three collections later, he began a long-winded introduction of the evening’s unexpected drawing card, Mr. Zachary Burkett.

Behind the pulpit on the other side of the canvas, Zach extended a hand toward the smallest of five platters of bread. He was hungry. Ordinarily he’d have eaten a full meal before going onstage, experience having taught him he performed better on a full stomach. But tonight he’d waited to eat, having decided he wanted a good appetite for Morality Brown’s chicken—stewed or fried.

“Wait!” Patrick Callahan insisted, his eyes wide with alarm. “Don’t take that bread.”

Zach scowled at him, but stilled his hand. “Why not?”

“Those are Reverend Harrison’s miracle loaves, and he’s real particular about ‘em.” He took a loaf from one of the other platters and offered it to Zach, saying, “Have some of this. There’s plenty, and you’re welcome to all of it you’d like.”

Zach eyed the small platter. “Miracle loaves?”

Patrick nodded. “A concrete reminder of loaves and fishes.”

Ah, props. Zach accepted the boy’s offering. Tearing off a hunk, he popped it into his mouth. He’d been surprised to see food and drink available for the crowd—not the usual thing at a tent revival in his experience. No matter what he personally thought of the man, there was no denying Reverend J. P. Harrison ran a first-class scam.

“ ‘Concrete’ seems a good word choice,” he observed, weighing the bread in his hand.

“Don’t let Morality hear you say that, Mr. Burkett,” Patrick advised with a grin. “She can be right prickly about her baking.”

“Among other things,” Zach muttered. Peeking through a seam in the canvas, he watched the Bible Belcher work his crowd. Quite a crowd there was, too. He smiled with satisfaction.

The old energy hummed in his veins as he waited to hear his name. Although he’d gone on to bigger and better cons, he had a soft spot for the healing circuit. A tent revival was like a woman—a man never forgot his first. Now, as the curtain was about to rise on his only revival appearance in fifteen years, he found he looked forward to the show.

Harrison proclaimed, “Brothers and sisters of Cottonwood Creek, I give you one of your own, Mr. Zach Burkett.”

Not a hand among them applauded. Instead, the crowd leaned forward in their seats, their expressions reserved, some downright hostile. Zach popped the last of his bread in his mouth, swallowed, and stepped into the tent.

Maintaining a solemn expression, his gaze roamed the collection of suspicious faces aimed his way. Not a Marston among ‘em. He hadn’t figured any of them would attend, but as he took his spot on one side of the lectern, Zach admitted to a small amount of disappointment.

It would’ve been fun to perform for the family.

Nevertheless, it was time to begin. In a booming voice, he proclaimed, “I am the blackest sinner in this crowd tonight.”

He moved, twisting his body so that the jet-colored duster he wore swirled like Satan’s cape. He positioned himself where the light spread upward by lanterns placed on either side of the pulpit cast his features in devilish shadows. “You all know who I am,” he continued matter-of-factly.

“It wouldn’t do me a lick of good to pretend to be what I’m not.”

Leaning to the left he pointed a finger and said, “You, Peter Norris.” To the right. “And you Permelia Scott.” He stepped forward. “All of you know who I am. You all know the mischief I made in the misspent years of my youth. Devilment that gave you cause to consider me a hell-born brat.”