She cleared her throat. “Mr. Chandler?”
He gave an abrupt nod, feeling no urge to put her at ease. Obviously a lady, she was prettier than most of the old bats they’d sent up here to preach at him about changing his sinful ways.
A hell of a lot prettier.
This one was young, maybe in her mid-twenties. Her hair was trapped beneath her drooping bonnet, but the beguiling tangle of eyelashes, which framed her emerald eyes, were dark gold.
“Mr. Lucas Chandler?” Her voice was soft, with a subtle drawl that brought to mind every proud Southern belle who’d cut him during the war.
“Yeah. I’m Luke Chandler.” He shoved an annoying lock of hair off his forehead. “Who are you?”
Her clear green gaze slipped from his face to his bare chest, which was visible between the gaping halves of his unbuttoned shirt. He hoped the sight wasn’t too much for her. It would be damned inconvenient if she swooned on his front porch.
The thought made him chuckle. He’d worked hard to cultivate the image of crusty old hermit. Having a virgin faint on his porch could only enhance it.
She jerked to attention, raising her chin. “I’m Sarah Montgomery.”
The name meant nothing to his alcohol-soaked brain. He raised one eyebrow in question. Lovely as she was, he wished she’d get to the point so he could send her on her way and go back to sleep.
“Sarah Montgomery,” she repeated, her voice rising.
He gave her a blank stare.
Fumbling in her reticule, she pulled out a small stack of letters and handed him the one on top. “Your last letter said July 1st at one o’clock, did it not? You hadn’t arrived at the station by four, so I hired a man to drive me out here.”
When he remained silent, she cleared her throat. “Should I have waited? Is there a problem?”
Luke glanced down at the letter she’d pressed into his hand. Stunned, he saw his name scrawled across the bottom. And the missive did indeed promise to pick her up at the train station in Milton at one o’clock, on July 1st.
“What the hell...?” He shook his head, dumbfounded. “I didn’t send you this.”
“Yes, you did.” She shoved the whole stack at him. “We’ve been corresponding for months. We’re to be married.”
Despite the girl’s obvious distress, an explosive laugh escaped Luke’s lips. “Lady, you’re out of your mind. I need a wife like I need a hole in my head.”
He’d been engaged once, before the war, but Christine had deserted him after they’d amputated his foot. She hadn’t wanted to marry a cripple.
He couldn’t say he blamed her.
The girl flushed. “This isn’t funny. I’ve come a very long way.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.” With grim determination, he examined the handwriting once again.
“Damn,” he muttered, a niggling feeling of dread taking root in the pit of his stomach. He’d recognize that distinctive slant anywhere. His older brother, Matthew, was behind this. “Perhaps you’d better come in.”
* * *
SARAH MONTGOMERY CONSIDEREDLuke Chandler’s invitation with grave apprehension.Dear God. He wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting.
His tender, funny letters had brought to mind a refined, lonely man. She’d hoped for a kind gentleman she could raise a family with. She’d thought he might need her.
This man, while obviously alone, didn’t appear to need anyone. And there was nothing refined about him. He was much younger than she’d thought, probably in his early thirties, and attractive—tall and broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair, smoky gray eyes, and striking features.
However, his hair was long and tousled, the fine line of his jaw was obscured by a scraggly growth of beard, and he smelled like a brewery.
“Come in.” He seemed irritated by her hesitation and opened the door a bit wider.
She swallowed. “May I have your word as a gentleman that you won’t harm me?”
