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Chapter Two
Braxton noted the hostility in the eyes of Raven Moreau. She was as beautiful as she was fiery, and he’d be drawn to her like a moth to a flame were she not a thief. That she’d not backed down or shown fear even in the face of Welch’s threats was impressive. His anger at Welch’s dastardly assignment equaled hers, but their families needed them to work together to get this mess resolved. Being civil was a good place to start.
“So, Lovey. How do we go about learning about each other?”
“First of all, I’d prefer not to be addressed by that name until we reach Charleston and the game begins. Secondly, I’ve been doing wash all day. My clothes are wet and I need to change. We can address our so-called marriage when I return.”
Without waiting for a response, she left the parlor.
He watched her exit. So much for civility. This game, as she termed it, seemed destined to challenge not only his personal freedom, but, due to her tartness, his temper as well. He took a seat on the sofa and thought back on Welch’s revelations about his soon-to-be pretend wife. Had she really enticed men with promises of her charms only to abscond with their money? What kind of family raised their daughters to play such a role? Now he’d be temporarily attached to this family of schemers, and he wasn’t sure how he could overlook their attraction to crime. He’d lived within the law his entire life. That his father had once been in the confidence game, too, was something else he was still trying to make peace with. His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the thin little brown-skinned girl he’d seen earlier with Raven. She walked over and looked him in the eyes for a silent moment before saying, “My name is Dorcas. Everyone calls me Dorrie.” A blue ribbon tied around her short soft curls matched the blue dress that looked to be a school uniform.
“Hello, Dorrie. Pleased to meet you. My name is Braxton.”
“Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Braxton. When you make my dress for the wedding, please don’t forget to put red roses around the middle.”
“Wedding?”
“The wedding you and Raven are having.”
Did she know about Welch’s plan? “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
“Yes, there is. I already told Mama Hazel and the aunties, too, so please don’t forget.” She gave him a big smile and left the room.
Caught off guard, he wondered again if she was in on the plan. Would the Moreaux give a small child a role in this? He set his confusion and questions aside as Raven returned, wearing a simple black skirt and a short-sleeved oyster gray blouse. The collar and edges of the blouse’s sleeves were frayed from wear, as was the hem of the skirt. She certainly didn’t dress like a wealthy schemer, which gave rise to more questions. “Is the little girl Dorrie going to be involved with our trip to Charleston?”
“What do you mean?”
“She just told me not to forget to add roses to the middle of the dress I’ll be making her for the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“My question exactly. She said you and I will be getting married.”
Raven went still, then slowly drew her hands down her face and whispered, “Mary, Mother of Jesus.”
“Problem?”
“No. It’s nothing.”
He was certain there was more to this than she was admitting, but he didn’t know how toget at the truth. Further speculation was overridden by the entrance of two older women whose bright gold skin and green eyes bore a strong resemblance to Hazel Moreau. One was seated in a cane chair that moved on wheels, and the other woman pushed the chair from behind. Dorrie was with them.
Raven did the introductions. “Mr. Steele, these are my mother’s sisters. My aunts Eden and Havana. We call her Vana for short. Aunts, this is Braxton Steele.”
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
From her chair, Havana said, “Hello. Lord Jesus, you’re as handsome as your daddy was at your age.”
“Vana,” Raven said warningly.
“Hush. He is, isn’t he, Eden?”
Eden responded. “Yes. He looks just like Harrison. Good thing Hazel decided she wanted that little Creole beignet from Mississippi instead of Harrison, otherwise Braxton would be your brother instead of your husband, Raven. We Moreaux don’t marry kin.”
“He isn’t going to be my husband,” she gritted out.
A Creole beignet?Brax was even more confused.
The aunts paid no attention to their niece’s protestations. “Hazel told us a bit about what’s happening with the Pinkerton. Once this is over, that woman needs to be taught a lesson.”
