Fletcher's Woman Read Free Page A

bird.
    Rachel’s chagrin gave way to righteous wrath. Surely such a modest infraction as not knowing where to discard one’s dinner plate didn’t justify the creation of such a terrible scene!
    Before she could frame a retort, however, a chill draft swept into the tent, stinging Rachel’s flesh through her thin dress and shawl. The silence among the women and children still sitting at the tables deepened, and the cook swallowed his invective in one convulsive gulp.
    â€œIs there some sort of problem here, Chang?” asked a wry, gentlemanly voice.
    Rachel turned to see a lithe, good-looking man standing just behind her. He had cherubic brown eyes, she noticed, and a boyish, clean-shaven face. His tailored suit, somehow very much out of place among so much calico and poplin, was made of a fine, dark woolen and was beaded with little sparkling droplets of rain.
    â€œWell?” pressed the man, in even, ominous tones.
    The Chinaman swallowed again, and his slanted eyes were downcast.
    Rachel felt both empathy and remorse; there were many who enjoyed baiting the Chinese, and she wondered if this finely dressed man numbered among them. “There is no problem,” she dared to say.
    The gentleman assessed her, an unsettling mixture of appreciation and suppressed amusement flashing in his velvety eyes. “Is that so? Considering the fact that I could hear Chang raving even before I got out of my carriage, I find that difficult to accept.”
    The hapless Chang was visibly shaken now, and he abandoned his dialect for a halting, awkward form of English. “Missy not put dish!” he cried, trembling in his shapeless black trousers and shirt. “Please, Mr. Wilkes, Missy not put dish!”
    Mr. Wilkes. Jonas Wilkes? Rachel bit her lower lip, surprised and a little awed. From the things her father had told her about Mr. Wilkes—how he had sweeping power and almost unlimited wealth—she had expected him to be much older.
    Instead, he appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties. He had soft, glossy hair the color of new wheat, and his wide eyes and small, straight nose gave him an innocent look.
    Rachel had already surmised that he was no angel.
    â€œMr. Chang is quite correct,” she said, squaring her shoulders and meeting Mr. Wilkes’s amused gaze directly. “I did not put my plate in the proper place.”
    Mr. Wilkes drew in a sharp breath and an expression of mock stupefaction played in his face. “That, my dear, is an abominable sin if I’ve ever heard one. What is your name?”
    She hesitated, finally said, “Miss Rachel McKinnon.”
    The mischievous eyes swept over her, lingering almost imperceptibly at her breasts and her narrow waist. But when they came back to her face, there was a disconcerting look ofrecognition in them. “Rachel McKinnon,” he repeated, thoughtfully.
    Rachel felt swift, fierce color surge into her face, though she couldn’t have said why. “I’m sorry that I’ve caused so much trouble,” she said.
    To her utter amazement, Mr. Wilkes cupped his right hand under her chin and made her look at him. His skin was smooth and fragrant from some spicy cologne, but his touch was not gentle. “I’m sure you cause a great deal of excitement wherever you go, Urchin. Those violet eyes insure it.”
    Rachel was stung by the word “urchin,” even though Mr. Wilkes had spoken it with a peculiar note of affection in his voice. She was proud, and this obvious reference to her tattered clothing rankled. She turned her head, pulling free of his touch. “I’m very sorry that you don’t find me presentable, Mr. Wilkes.”
    Jonas Wilkes laughed softly. “Oh, Urchin, you are more than presentable. Why, with a hot bath and some decent clothing—”
    She reacted without thinking, without considering the possible consequences, without considering anything beyond the fact that she