“She was in demand at the Pink Palace, I understand, and had the nicest room and all the benefits of being Mrs. Simpson’s pet, according to Honey.”
Apparently a most talented lady, he decided. Surely talent was her only attraction, for the woman was almost beyond the age of selling herself by seductively revealing her face and form to the gentlemen who sought out such an alliance. And next to Augusta, Pearl was blowsy and wore the look of a horse who’d been ridden hard and put away wet. No matter Pearl’s tricks of the trade, he’d take Augusta McBride over any amount of experience any day of the week.
Even now, Augusta’s cheeks bore a hint of embarrassment, their tone definitely rosy as she discussed the women she sheltered within the walls of her home. An almost overwhelming need to touch that fine skin arose within him, and Cleary blessed the fact that his hands were filled with the supplies he needed to complete his work this morning.
“Well, you go on ahead, ma’am,” he told Augusta. “I’ll try not to make too much noise when I work on the shutters. But I’m going to be working on all of them, and you’d do well to stay in the back of the house for your sewing class.”
“Yes, we’d planned on that. The kitchen table will do well for our needs,” she told him, lifting her skirt as she hastened toward the back door.
He watched, aware of the fine lines of her ankles, his gaze narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the lower curve of her calf as she climbed the three steps to the back porch. And then the sight of Bertha standing on the other side of the screened door drew his eyes. The look of warning she flashed in his direction made his mouth twitch with amusement. He’d be facing a veritable dragon in that one, he decided, should he lay one finger on her lone chick.
Let her do her worst. It would be more than a finger he placed on the delicate skin of Augusta McBride. Before many more days had passed, he planned on initiating a slow seduction.
Gussie. He tasted the single word on his tongue, and his smile became full-blown. Bertha be hanged. He’d faced worse adversaries in his day. And in this case, the prize was worthy of his finest efforts.
“I’m not ever going to be a seamstress,” Beth Ann announced at the end of an hour of attempting to sew on missing buttons, suffering numerous tiny wounds from the needle that refused to cooperate.
“You don’t need to be,” Janine told her, preening as she held up her own work. A dress from the missionary barrel had been remade into a garment for Honey. It would tie in the back, making allowances for her increasing girth as time passed. “I think this will do,” Janine pronounced, folding the dress and presenting it to the young woman.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Honey said, humbly accepting the gift. “My things are all but tearing out at the seams already.”
“If you can learn to do mending and sewing on buttons, it will be sufficient for now,” Janine told the two young women. “Not everyone can sew a fine seam, but with practice, you’ll do better.”
“Why didn’t you become a dressmaker?” Augusta asked her bluntly. “Surely it would have been a more—” She halted, not knowing the words to describe her thoughts.
“More acceptable occupation?” Janine supplied with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Perhaps, but not nearly so lucrative.”
“Nor so dangerous,” Augusta reminded her.
“Well, there is that,” Janine agreed. “And I have the marks to prove it.” She shuddered involuntarily as she spoke, and Augusta felt a moment’s curiosity as she wondered at the events that had driven Janine from the Pink Palace to this place. It was an unspoken rule that no one need divulge any more than they wanted to regarding their past or their reasons for being here.
And that included Augusta, thankfully.
“If you don’t get your mess out of my way, we’ll be eatin’ dinner on top of your mending,” Bertha said from her place before the stove. “You’d better ask that man if he wants to sit down with us,” she told Augusta, grudgingly offering the hospitality of her kitchen to Cleary.
Even now, his hammer rang out sharply as he put shutters in place on the front of the house. Augusta nodded and hastened toward the hallway, her heart strangely affected by the prospect of speaking to the tall gentleman. She exited through the front screened door and turned to where he labored at the furthest window. A glance at the gate proved his ability. It hung straight and was fastened with a shiny new latch.
“Mr. Cleary?” She halted six feet from him, her eyes drawn by the muscles in his upper arms, straining the material of his shirt as he swung the hammer one last time, a final blow that set the nail firmly in place. His vest lay over the porch railing and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, allowing him to work without the hindrance of fabric pulling and tugging as he used the hammer.
He was strong, not overly thick through the upper body, but muscular nonetheless. And she felt a slow flush climb her cheeks, reproving herself for noticing such a thing.
“Yes, Miss Augusta?” he answered, turning his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were warm, regarding her with a look of pleasure, as if he took delight in the sight of her there before him. His lips curved beneath his mustache, and she felt her heart beat a bit faster as his smile widened.
“We’re about ready to eat dinner, if you’d like to join us.” Her words were stilted, delivered in a breathless fashion, and his smile tweaked a corner of his wide mouth.
“I’d appreciate that, ma’am,” he told her politely. “Would you like to hold this shutter in place while I finish up the last bit of securing it to the house?”
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, stepping to his side, wondering briefly how he’d accomplished hanging the others without help.
Cleary looked down at her as she awaited his instructions. “I need to make it readily available, should you want to close it,” he said, explaining his method. “But it needs to be firmly attached when it’s opened.” Grasping her right hand, he placed it on the edge of the wide slats.
“Hold it right there,” he instructed her, speaking past several nails he held between his lips, and she obeyed.
Aware of the faint scent of masculine flesh, she breathed carefully, drawing shallow gasps of air into her suddenly inadequate lungs. It was no use. He was male, a bit warm, sweaty even, she decided. Yet it was a pleasing smell, that of soap and perhaps hair tonic, along with an undefinable aroma that teased her into edging just a bit closer.
Her hair brushed against his chest as he leaned over her to ply his hammer to the latch he imposed on the wooden siding. And then his hand touched her shoulder as he fit the hook into the latch, holding the shutter immobile and in place.
“You can let go now,” he told her, and her hand fell from the shutter as she stepped aside. His palm against her shoulder tightened its grip, and she halted in her retreat. She looked up at him, aware that, though he held her firmly, he exhibited no force, only a touch that warmed her to the tips of her fingers.
“Thank you, Miss Augusta,” he said politely. His eyes were heavy lidded, she noted, their depths dark as he took her measure. “When will you learn to call me Cleary, without the formality of a title attached?” he asked quietly. “Once you do, I’ll be able to use your name as I please.” His mouth twitched and widened to a smile that lured her.
“Cleary,” she said obediently, softly, with a whisper of anticipation, as if she waited for some momentous occasion to present itself.
“Augusta,” he replied, his gaze focused upon her lips as they spoke his name.
She held her breath, the heat from his body extending to hers, warming her from top to bottom, her spine tingling as she edged half a step closer to him. His head bent a bit and his mouth opened a fraction. As though in a trance, Augusta tilted