He frowned, looked down at the grapevines silvered by the moonlight, turned and headed for his dressing room. He was a young, healthy man. Miss Bradley was a beautiful young woman. His was a simple physical reaction, easily explained by science. He had no reason, time or inclination to examine his response to her more fully than that. He had a busy day tomorrow with the coming harvest to prepare for. The matter of Miss Marissa Bradley would straighten itself out. The odd feeling was, no doubt, because of the circumstances of their meeting—a chance encounter in highly unlikely circumstances was intriguing. That’s all it was. The attraction of mystery. He was a man who liked to find answers. The feeling would go away after his planned meeting with Marissa tomorrow night.
“Marissa...” He turned on the tap, shrugged out of his shirt and splashed water on his face. The name suited her. It was soft and beautiful and...haunting. He toweled off, tugged on his nightshirt, turned down the wick in the oil lamp and headed for bed, Marissa Bradley’s name and beautiful face lingering in his mind.
* * *
Marissa tugged the quilt up closer around her chin and stared at the sloping canvas roof over her cot.
I took a chance that it was you.
A tingle ran up her spine. Grant had come to walk with her. The other meetings might have been accidental, but tonight, he’d chosen to come and spend time with her. And he wanted to see her tomorrow night. Her pulse quickened, shot energy through her. She turned onto her side, winced at the crackle of the corn husks in the mattress and glanced over at Clarice. Her tent mate was sound asleep in spite of the snores and snorts issuing from the tents around them. Nothing seemed to disturb her.
She edged closer to the side of her cot and slipped her legs out from under the covers, froze at the sound of footsteps outside their tent. She drew her legs back under the covers and waited. Moonlight threw a misshapen shadow on the canvas. She watched it float across the wall and disappear, then quickly climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown and slippers. A quick flick of her wrist freed the mass of long curls she’d secured with a ribbon at the nape of her neck from beneath the collar so she could close and button the quilted gown.
Six steps took her from one side of the tent to the other. She turned, careful not to bump against the small writing desk, and walked back again. It was not very satisfactory pacing, but she couldn’t stay in bed. She had to move. At least with the moonlight shining on the canvas she could see well enough.
Would you do me the honor of addressing me by my given name?
She frowned, fiddled with the top button on her dressing gown. Had she done the right thing when she agreed to Grant’s request? And to meet him at the hotel at dusk tomorrow? Oh, what had she been thinking! She did not want to demean herself in Grant Winston’s eyes. She wanted him to respect her. To hold her in high regard. To—her breath caught—to be attracted to her as she was to him.
She stopped, clasped her face in her hands and blew out a breath. Had she lost all common sense? She knew nothing about Grant Winston except that he was handsome and charming, polite and thoughtful and kind...And that he lived in Mayville and knew how to swim.
What if he indulged in wine or other strong drink?
The thought wouldn’t be denied. It hung there in her mind. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms about herself and endured the pain of the memories that swarmed in silence. There was no room in the tent for tears.
The sadness and grief drove her back to her cot. She curled up under the covers and stared at the canvas wall. How could she have allowed herself to become so besotted by the beauty of the warm August night and her foolish, romantic dream—so enraptured by Grant’s sudden appearance and charm that she forgot the promise she’d made herself—that she’d never fall in love, never marry? She knew what could happen. Her father was charming, too. Until he drank wine. And Lincoln—
She curled tighter, pressed her hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs pushing up her throat. She would meet Grant Winston at the hotel tomorrow night as she promised. And she would tell him that her lectures were to begin the following day and she would not have time to see him again. It was better...safer for her that way. And nothing, not even Grant Winston, must be allowed to interfere with her work, to dilute her concentration on her message.
* * *
“Good afternoon, Miss...Bradley, is it?”
Marissa looked up from the paper she held and gave the older woman coming into the small, shaded clearing a polite smile. How did the woman know her name? Her memory clicked. Ah, the teachers meeting. “Yes, Bradley is correct. How may I help you, Mrs. Austin?”
“If you wouldn’t mind sharing your bench for a brief spell, my dear? The woman smiled and leaned on an ebony walking stick. “I’m afraid this hill is a little too much for me to manage in one try. I find I must pause and let my breath catch up to me every so often.”
“It is a bit steep in places. I’m sure that’s the reason for these strategically placed benches.” She moved toward the end of the wood bench and pulled her skirt close. “Please sit down and rest yourself.”
Mrs. Austin sat, leaned back and sighed. “My weary body and sore feet thank you.” She gestured toward the paper with the knob of her walking stick. “I’m sorry to disturb your reading, Miss Bradley. Do go on with it. I shall remain silent.”
“No please, that’s not necessary, Mrs. Austin. I will be glad of your company.” She folded the paper, looked up and smiled. “I have been studying these lecture notes all day. A break from them will be very welcome, I assure you.”
The woman nodded, leaned her walking stick against her knees and reached up to adjust the pin in her flower-bedecked hat. “There is keen interest in your lecture tomorrow afternoon, Miss Bradley. Temperance is an issue that touches us all. And people have strong opinions about it—both for and against.”
And have no trouble expressing them. “That’s certainly true.” She straightened, stared at the woman. “If I may ask, how did you know I am lecturing on temperance, Mrs. Austin? The lecturers’ names are not printed on the schedules.”
“I recognized your name when you introduced yourself to me yesterday. My daughter attended a lecture you gave in Dunkirk. She wrote me all about you. She’s here with me.” Mrs. Austin’s blue-gray eyes focused a kindly gaze on her. “As we learned during the teachers’ meeting, debate is to be encouraged after a lecture is concluded. Are you prepared for that, my dear? Your speaking engagements thus far have been to small welcoming women’s church groups. That will not be the case here. These lectures are open to all, men and women. And temperance is such a volatile subject.”
“Yes...” What if the debate got out of hand? What if she couldn’t handle it? She drew a breath, opened the drawstring on her purse and slipped her notes inside.
Mrs. Austin reached over and rested her gloved hand on hers. “It was not my intent to discomfort you when I proposed your name to John as a worthy speaker on temperance, my dear. But now, since I’ve met you, well...you look so young, close to my daughter’s age. Please forgive this meddlesome old woman for putting you in a position that may be...upsetting.”
So it was Mrs. Austin who had recommended her. “There’s no need, Mrs. Austin.” She tamped down her nerves and pulled up a smile. “I thank you for telling Dr. Austin about me—for gaining me the opportunity to spread the temperance message to so many people. And I appreciate your thoughtfulness in warning me of possible unpleasantness during a debate. But I have faced irate saloon owners and their equally angry patrons and survived. I am sure I will survive the lectures and debates here at Chautauqua, as well.” And the protest she was to lead?
“Here