She was proud of Kiernan too.
He hesitated. “Liam told me earlier today that the city council is still planning to require bricks for the rebuilding of St. Louis.”
“So ’tis possible the need for bricks will resume. When it does, the demand will be incredibly high, and you’ll be ready to meet the demand.”
Kiernan didn’t respond but instead examined the machine for another long moment. When he straightened, that familiar determination she loved was back in his eyes. “Torin never stopped believing in the brickyard. Liam hasn’t. You haven’t. I guess I shouldn’t either.”
She smiled. “I always knew you were a smart man.”
“Do you know what else I am?” He reached for her, wrapped his arms behind her, and drew her against him.
“What else?” She peered up at him, loving the feel of his body, the beat of his heart against hers, and the solidness of his presence.
“I am also the luckiest man.” He bent and rested his forehead against hers. “Because I have you.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” she whispered. “It has everything to do with my wager with the matchmaker.”
“Yourwager?” A grin quirked up the corners of Kiernan’s lips. “What if it wasmywager with the matchmaker that brought us together?”
She laughed lightly. “He made one with you too?”
“The wagers got us both exactly where he wanted us.”
“Oh aye.” Bellamy had somehow managed to bring them together against all odds. How had he done it?
Kiernan’s grin cocked higher on one side. “And now, I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”
“Is that so?” She nuzzled in closer. “Since you have me as your captive, whatever will you do with me?”
He swept down, captured her lips, and showed her what he intended to do all night and forever.
34
Another unsold painting.
Bellamy McKenna shoved the canvas back onto the shelf on top of the half dozen other landscapes no one wanted.
He had to remember he wasn’t to blame for the lack of interest, and he couldn’t take the rejection personally, not after how well he’d been doing all spring.
No, it was the cholera’s fault. With the epidemic getting worse, more families were leaving St. Louis to escape the growing death toll. That meant fewer people were left to visit the art galleries and shops. Those who remained behind had other more pressing matters on their minds than purchasing paintings.
“It will pass.” His whisper echoed in the shadowed shed that served as his art studio. But even as the words settled around him, so did a cloud of despair. If W. B. M.—William Bennett Moore—eventually began to sell art again, William Bellamy McKenna would still be just a nobody in Oscar’s Pub.
Maybe Bellamy had been wrong to take a secret identity in order to sell his paintings. Maybe he’d been a coward. Maybe he’d relegated himself to living a lie.
“Bellamy!” Oscar’s voice boomed across the alley from the back door of the pub. “Stop your dawdling and bring in more Guinness.”
Bellamy exhaled a tight breath into the shed’s stifling air. With the arrival of July, a fresh wave of heat and humidity had descended upon the city like a sticky, damp blanket. He could hardly move without sweat trickling down his back, plastering his shirt and vest to his body.
He ran a hand across the large trunk where he kept all his supplies. Maybe for the time being he needed to keep things locked up, give his painting a rest, focus on other things—like his matchmaking.
“What the wee devil are you doing in there, Bellamy?” came Oscar’s voice again. “You better not be wasting time doing you-know-what.”
Bellamy’s muscles turned rigid.
Doing you-know-what was as close to describing the act of painting that Oscar ever got because saying the wordpaintingwas equivalent to using God’s name in vain. Other than the derisive insinuations, Oscar never talked about it, never showed an interest in it, never acknowledged it.
It was almost as if by ignoring it, Oscar could make it go away. Just like he had with Mam’s painting ... And look how that had ended.
