Paxton's War by Kerry Newcomb Page A

only yards away, and waited for his eyes to meet hers. He was so beautiful! His face was softer than she remembered, gentler, wiser than when he had left. He had put on weight, but his body was still lean and elegant with the grace of a tiger. His charcoal gray cape was dashing, and the marvelous curls that covered his head glistened in the sunlight. His sleepy, half-closed eyes appeared more romantic than ever. And finally, when his head turned and his eyes found hers, the song returned and swelled to majestic proportions.
    Her heart hammered, his chest heaved. He felt his pulse quicken. She struggled for control, but it was no use. Suddenly losing her last link with self-restraint, she found herself running to him, throwing her arms around him and kissing him, tasting his lips, igniting memories and music …
    â€œColleen.”
    His first word was her name. He remembered! He actually remembered!
    â€œYou’re more beautiful than I remembered. More beautiful by far.”
    â€œOh, Jase,” Colleen whispered with a sigh.
    â€œSo this is the package you were expecting from London,” Buckley said, bulling his way through the crowd to their sides. The kiss had infuriated him, but he covered his fury with sarcasm. “I didn’t realize you and Paxton were such good friends. Welcome home, Jase. Everyone will be most glad to see you’ve returned. We’ve been needing a reliable piano tuner around here. A most vital job in these troubled times. In fact, you’ve arrived just in time to play at our wedding.”
    â€œOh?” Jason asked, taken aback momentarily until he caught the slight shake of Colleen’s head and read the look of denial in her eyes. A wry smile twisted his lips. Buckley was up to his old tricks, barging ahead as if he were royalty, making a fool of himself. “It appears I arrived in the nick of time, eh?” he said, extending his hand.
    Buckley’s fingers touched the dramatic break in his nose as his hand moved to accept Jason’s. The automatic, nervous gesture provoked both men to memories of a dark, narrow alleyway in Charleston, where, ten years earlier and beneath a wrought-iron balcony twisted into the shape of twin peacocks, Buckley had slurred Jason’s name by calling the Paxtons a pack of half-breeds and bastards spawned by renegades and whores. He had been shocked by Jason’s sudden response. Never for a moment had he guessed that the farmer turned musician was a fighter—and a ferocious one at that. The two men had fought viciously—fought with bloody fists, fought until their knuckles were red with blood, fought until one final blow found its target, until Buckley felt the savage pain in his shattered, ruined nose, and fell to his knees before Jason, the surprising victor. A decade had passed, but the ill will hadn’t.
    â€œWell, then,” Jason said heartily, looking over his old antagonist, “I see you’re prospering.”
    â€œBetter than even I had hoped,” Buckley said, his chest swelling. Impressed with himself, he put one arm around Colleen, whose eyes spoke only to Jason. “My fortune is on the rise. And yours?” he asked with a sarcastic bark of a laugh.
    â€œThat depends, I suppose,” Jason said, deflating Buckley’s puffery, “on how many weddings I’m asked to play at. Ah, Peter!” he said, noticing his friend, who’d appeared at his side and was debating in light of their earlier tiff, whether to interrupt. “May I present Miss Colleen McClagan and Mr. Buckley Somerset. This is my good friend and companion, Peter Tregoning.”
    Relieved that all was apparently forgiven, Peter smiled and clapped Jason on the shoulder. “So this is the ‘young girl’ you spoke of. My great honor,” he said, kissing Colleen’s hand. “Mr. Somerset. My pleasure.”
    â€œAnd mine, too, sir,” Buckley said, shaking his hand. “And a