Читать книгу The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 10

Giving the man run of her house was not wise. Even as Jenny heard his boots on the curving staircase, she knew she’d probably made a mistake. True, his chosen room was on the second floor, and her own was the old library near the front door. Also true was the fact he’d offered to sleep in the barn.

To which she’d demurred. It was not proper to send a gentleman to sleep in the hayloft when perfectly good rooms were standing empty in the house. Even if those rooms were stripped bare of furnishings and cold during the short months of winter. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway, she comforted herself.

Standing at the foot of the curved staircase, she cocked her head to listen as his footsteps moved on down the uncarpeted hallway upstairs, and stopped. Not the master suite, she decided, with a sitting room attached. She backed up a bit, peering past the balcony, seeking a glimpse of his tall figure. The only rooms that far down the corridor were the smaller bedchambers, designed for children, yet it seemed he’d chosen one of them for his own.

“Miss Jenny? What’re you doing?” Isabelle’s soft voice from behind her had Jenny rounding about quickly, her cheeks flaming.

“Just looking after our guest,” she muttered.

“Looking at him, is more like it,” Isabelle said, her own gaze following the path Jenny’s had taken. “And ain’t he a fine one to watch.”

“He’s chosen to stay in one of the smaller rooms, I believe. I can’t think that he’ll be comfortable with just a bedroll, but he insisted.”

“There’s a couple of mattresses in the attic, if you want Noah to bring one down for him,” Isabelle offered. “He’d might as well be as comfortable as we can make him.”

Jenny nodded, walking toward the back of the house. The kitchen was warm, the stove throwing off an abundance of heat, and she opened the back door, allowing air to flow through the room. “For someone who didn’t take to him…” Her words slowed, and then she turned to face her friend. “I thought you didn’t like him,” she said quietly.

“Haven’t decided about that yet,” Isabelle told her. “But I decreed right off the bat he was a prime specimen.”

“He looks a bit the worse for wear, I think,” Jenny said, her words mumbled into the apron she pulled over her head. “And he probably won’t be here long enough for me to change my mind.”

Isabelle nodded wisely. “We’ll see.” She handed Jenny plates and silverware, then turned back to the stove. “Noah says the man’s a hard worker.”

Finished with setting the table, Jenny walked to the back door. Her hands lifted to her forehead, brushing back tendrils of hair that defied her best efforts at tidiness. “He’ll soon tire of working long hours and getting nothing in return.”

“Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I think you’ve got it all wrong.” From behind her, Shay’s deep tones denied her theory, and she spun to face him, one hand rising to cover her mouth.

“I didn’t hear you, sir. You startled me.” It seemed the man called Shay could move silently when the mood struck him.

He was quiet for a moment, watching her from beneath lowered brows. “Maybe I should have knocked. But then, the door wasn’t shut,” he said finally. “As to what I overheard, I beg to differ with you.” His hands folded into fists, then rose to rest against his hips. “I’m here to fulfill an obligation to a friend. Receiving a reward doesn’t enter into it.”

“It’s a good thing,” Jenny returned starkly. “A floor to sleep on and three meals a day will be the limit of your pay.” Her words sounded harsh to her ears and she bit at her lip, ashamed of herself.

“Miss Jenny, don’t forget the mattress,” Isabelle reminded helpfully.

Jenny cast her a grateful look, softening her tone. “I’ll have Noah help you bring a mattress out of the attic for your room,” she said. “Isabelle reminded me that we put a couple of them up there.”

Shay nodded, relaxing his stance, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other flexing open against his thigh. “I’ll take care of it later on. For now, I’ll just need a container for water, so I can wash in the morning, ma’am.”

Buckets were in short supply, the two in best condition being used for milking the cow. Jenny thought of the rough wooden ones in the barn and dismissed the idea. There was no choice, she decided. A guest must receive preference.

“I’ll give you the pitcher from my room,” she told him. “There’s a basin with it.”

“I won’t take yours,” he said sharply. “Surely you have a kettle I can use.”

She shook her head. “Most everything is gone, sold piece by piece. We only have enough to cook in, nothing extra.”

His eyes narrowed, taking in her dress, the scuffed toes of her shoes and the worn apron she’d slipped into only moments past. “You haven’t spent much on yourself, have you?”

A flush climbed her cheeks and she felt her jaw tauten as he took inventory of her clothing. “I’m not complaining. We’re getting along.”

“For how long?” he asked bluntly. “You need something besides a field of corn and a couple of cuttings of hay to get you through the year. Where’s your cash crop?”

“They’re still buying cotton,” she told him proudly. “And ours has always been some of the best in the parish. We’ll be planting ten acres pretty soon.”

“Not enough of it to support you,” he said, and the truth of his judgment pierced her to the quick.

“There’s no sense in planting more than we can harvest,” she told him. “And with only the five of us to pick…”

“There’ll be four men this year, and the boy can help out,” he told her, amending her words.

Jenny’s lips compressed, holding back words better unspoken, given her tendency to allow her temper full rein. Marshall was a baby, not fit yet for field work. And the son of a gentleman, to boot.

“He’s not too young to carry sacks out to us and help dump them in the wagon,” Shay told her, his words gentle, as if he sensed her thoughts. “He shouldn’t stand by and watch his mother work. He’ll learn to do his share, and probably feel better for it.”

“You haven’t the right,” she said, her words stiff with anger.

“Carl gave me the right. He asked me to come here, and part of my duty to him is to teach his son how to deal with whatever life sends his way.”

There was no rebuttal to that argument, Jenny decided, for if Shay told the truth, Carl had indeed bestowed upon him that duty. And Shay gave every indication of being a gentleman, no matter his appearance. His speech, his bearing, even the tilt of his head and the calm arrogance of his manner, gave testimony to his claim. Whoever his family, they had reared him well.

“I can’t turn down your help. I can’t afford to be proud,” she said quietly. “If Carl sent you, I’ll give you leave to do as he asked.”

Shay bowed his head, a movement she sensed signified his acknowledgment of her words. She’d accepted his help. Now to learn compliance. For six years she’d been in charge, controlled the work done on Pennington Plantation. A sense of relief washed over her as she looked at the man who’d offered—perhaps insisted—on taking that control from her.

For the life of him Shay didn’t understand how she’d talked him out of sleeping in the hayloft. Yet, here he was, in the house this morning. He stirred, then rolled over, thankful for the mattress he’d hauled from the attic by candlelight last night. It surely beat sleeping on the hard floor, and was a far cry from the burned-out house he’d slept in the past couple of days.

He rolled to his feet and listened to a rooster in the chicken yard. “At least one of us has something to crow about,” he muttered beneath his breath, pouring water from the flowered pitcher Jenny had pressed into his hands. He’d carried it, and the matching bowl up the stairs, unwillingly to be sure, but unable to deny her the right to do as she pleased in her own home. One way or another, he’d see to it that a bucket became available for his use today, and return the china to her bedroom, where it belonged.

In the meantime, he could enjoy the image floating through his mind, that of Jenny’s hand pouring water for her use. Of Jenny’s skin being cleansed by some floral scented soap. He lifted a towel to his face, inhaling the fresh aroma of sunshine clinging to its fibers. Maybe he’d settle for that, he decided. She didn’t need some fancy milled bar to make her smell good. Whatever she used to wash with reminded him of meadow grass and spring flowers.

His mouth tightened as he sensed the direction of his thoughts. Water splashed over his hair as he doused himself in the china basin, and he closed his eyes against the blue flowers that reminded him of violets and forget-me-nots. It was time to fill his belly with food and get out to the barn. The men would be waiting and he wouldn’t be deemed a laggard by anyone. Especially not three men whose cooperation he needed if he was to make any sort of a success of this venture.

They were waiting anyway, he discovered, stepping out onto the back porch. Isabelle had fed them earlier, before setting the table for Jenny and the boy. Whether he was to have eaten with the men or with Jenny, he didn’t know. But, she’d offered him coffee and a full plate once he’d made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They weren’t using the dining room these days, having turned it into a bedroom for the boy, and Jenny seemed to have taken over the smaller parlor as her own.

The furnishings in the big parlor were sparse, but comfortable, he’d noted yesterday. She’d obviously sold off most of her belongings. Probably to buy food and seed and whatever else they needed for survival.

Noah greeted him with a wave and led the way to the barn, where the mules were already harnessed and waiting. “My boys’ll rake up the hay and turn it so’s it’ll dry,” he told Shay. “You and me’ll finish the cuttin’.” Placing two scythes on the wagon, he reached for rakes, then looked over at Shay. “Unless Miss Jenny wants it done different.”

Shay shook his head. “Makes sense to me. We can’t put it up till it’s dry, and it can’t get dry till it’s cut. Let’s get at it.” He hopped on the back of the wagon, lifting one foot to the bed, and propping his arm across his knee. Noah’s sons were crossing the yard as the wagon rolled from the big, double, barn doors and they eased their way onto the lumbering vehicle, one on either side of Shay.

His greeting was met by identical nods, and he grinned. Aside from the blisters he’d managed to gain yesterday from the unfamiliar motion of the scythe, he was pretty much on a par with the three men, able to work a full day in the sun. The blisters would doubtless be a different matter by day’s end, he decided. Jenny might have some salve handy. He’d probably be ready for it.

What she had was a pair of gloves, old and worn, but welcome. Offering them to him at noon, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “I thought you might need these. I didn’t know how long it’d been since you’ve done any haying.”

“Not since last fall,” he told her, slipping the gloves in place. They rubbed against a couple of raw places on his palms and he adjusted them carefully. “This will help.”

“You’ve got blisters,” she surmised, reaching to touch his wrist. “Let me see.”

“No.” He stepped back from her, uneasy with the men watching. “I’ll let you take a look after we get done for the day.” Her nod was reluctant, but the smile appeared again.

It was still in place when he entered the house just before supper time. Isabelle stood before the cookstove and Jenny turned to greet him from the pantry door. “I’m glad you’re a few minutes early,” she said brightly. “I’ll just have time to take a look at your hands before we eat.”

Snatching up a box from the shelf behind her, she motioned at the table, and he obeyed her silent instructions, easing his weary body onto a chair. She sat close by, their knees almost touching as she reached for him.

Her skin was cool against his, her fingers slender, yet strong as she turned his hand over, then slid the glove from place. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the seeping blisters, surrounded by a reddened area, and she made a small noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have told me about them this morning,” she said reprovingly. “I’d have brought the salve and bandages out to the field. It wouldn’t be nearly this bad if we’d tended to it right away.”

His nape twitched as she bent to look closely at his hand, a stray lock of her hair resting against his wrist. One slender finger brushed lint from his palm and heat rose within him. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes against the demands of his body, aware of the evidence of his desire. An anguished groan rose in his throat and he swallowed it, anxious that she not hear the faint murmur escaping his lips.

“Did I hurt you?” Jenny’s voice was troubled, and she blew softly against his hand. “There’s lint stuck to your blisters from the gloves I gave you.”

Her breath was fresh, her skin dewed with perspiration, and the scent of woman rose to his nostrils. He’d endured much at the hands of the prison guards, had watched as flesh peeled from his feet in layers, been kicked and abused without cause. All of that faded into oblivion as he sank into the sweet torture of Jenny’s gentle touch.

A soft cloth wiped carefully, cleansing his palm, then washing his hand both back and front. She dried the skin and then her fingers applied salve to the damaged flesh with feathered strokes. She murmured words beneath her breath, some of them scolding, more of them grateful, as she recounted the hours he’d spent in the hayfield. At last, the soft cloth was pressed tenderly against his oozing blisters and a wide strip of bandaging was wrapped around his hand.

He inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Her smile was teasing, her lips parted and, wonder of wonders, the woman was totally oblivious to his problem.

“You’re almost as bad as Marshall,” she said smugly. “I think all male creatures must be alike. They can cope with a broken nose easier than a blister.”

He gained his breath. “And how would you know about broken noses, Miss Jenny?” he asked. Then watched as she stripped his other glove off with care.

“Carl had a shovel fall from the barn wall once. It caught him right across the bridge of his nose, and he bled like a stuck pig.” Her hands repeated the cleaning process and he focused his thoughts on Carl’s bleeding nose.

“What did you do for him?” The salve covered his palm now and his gaze swept her profile, noting the freckles across her nose, the sweep of eyelashes against her cheek.

“It was a cold winter that year, and I made an ice pack from the horse trough.” Her hands stilled as she thought of that time, and a sad smile touched her full lips. “He wouldn’t let me pamper him.” Her eyes were bright as she blinked twice, then looked up at him.

I’d let you pamper me any day of the week. The woman was about as tempting as any female he’d ever met. No. More so, Shay decided as she rolled the remainder of her bandage, then pinned it carefully so that it would be tidy in the small box she held. Twists of paper, their contents marked with neatly printed labels filled one side. A cloth bag held an aromatic scent he could not place, though it seemed familiar. Probably herbs of one kind or another, he decided. A large tin of carbolic salve, a bottle of thick, creamy liquid and smaller bottles of camphorated oil and witch hazel made up the neat contents of her medical supplies.

“My mother used to have witch hazel,” he said. “She used it for all our bruises and cuts.” His mouth tightened, aware of Jenny’s interest, her eyes lighting at his words. Her hands paused, holding the roll of bandage suspended.

“Where did you live?”

It was a simple question, one he should have answered readily, and yet some need for anonymity clutched at his throat and he shook his head. “It’s not important.”

Her eyes dimmed, the light vanquished by his terse reply, and she bent to her task, swiftly tidying the box, then rising to replace it in the pantry. He watched, aware of the hurt he’d inflicted, and his jaw tightened. It was just as well. He was becoming too attracted to her. Attracted. What a pale word to describe the desire that even now continued to find expression beneath the covering of the oilcloth that draped across his lap.

“We’ll be eating in just a few minutes,” Jenny said brightly. “You’d might as well sit there. Isabelle is ready to dish up, I think.”

Murmuring agreeably, he glanced up to find Isabelle’s eyes fixed on his face. Her hands busy with the kettle she held, she glanced away, but not before he’d gotten the message her gimlet gaze sent flying in his direction. She was only too aware of his reaction to Jenny Pennington. And if looks could kill, Shay would be stretched out on the floor, waiting for burial.

Isabelle saw too much, Shay decided. Her next move would no doubt be to warn her friend against him. For all that she was a woman full grown, there was an air of innocence about Jenny that inspired a protective instinct in those surrounding her. Even the men in the field had watched him closely today when she’d offered the gloves for his use. Hell, he was halfway to being her champion already and he’d only known her for a couple of days. He’d protect her gladly, against any and all comers.

He’d work for her, plow his hard cash into her farm, and help her survive through another growing season. He’d stick it out until he was sure she was on her feet, safe and secure. And then what? Leave and not look back?

Not very damn likely. He’d probably be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Might as well add Jenny to the list of those he’d left behind. He had a notion she’d be haunting his dreams anyway. And then he realized something that caught him up short.

He hadn’t dreamed of the prison camp in Elmira, or of Carl’s death for the past two nights.

He’d worked, and worked hard, Jenny thought. There was no faulting the man’s ambition. And she’d gotten used to his presence here over the past weeks.

The barn was filled with the scent of hay, bits of it floating to the floor as two men worked in the loft above. Jenny covered the pail of milk she’d just coaxed from the cow and rose from the three-legged stool. Shay said there was enough hay in the loft to feed for the better part of the year. Part of the second cutting, come August, would be sold to neighbors who needed more than they raised for themselves.

For the first time in months, she felt rich. Rich with the knowledge that her animals had good pasture to feed on, that there was an abundance of hay in the loft, and there was a field of corn ready to hoe. Shay was talking about a second crop. A late planting would take them through the winter, he said, and she’d agreed, after noting Noah’s slight nod. In the meantime, the chickens were turned out to forage for themselves every morning. The pullets and young roosters were growing rapidly, and there were more hens wanting to nest, one of them determined to settle herself in the bushes near the house.

The sound of hammering caught her attention and she put the milking stool aside in haste. The man was up to something again, and it was barely past breakfast time. Sure as the world, he’d found another project to lay his hand to, and she hastened from the barn, following the noise of his labor. The remains of two old trellises lay on the back porch, Shay kneeling amid the fan-shaped designs, adding a strip of new wood. He caught sight of her and rose, watching as she walked toward him.

It made her quiver inside when he did that. Not that his perusal was intimidating or in any way worrisome. It was just that his gaze made her aware of herself. Aware of the way she walked, the way her hand dipped into her apron pocket, the way her hips swayed in rhythm with her steps. And he didn’t miss a shred of it. His lips moved just a little, the bottom one twitching a bit, and his eyes darkened, if that were possible.

She hadn’t been so studied, not ever in her life, as she had lately. Carl had paid attention to her, mostly in the bedroom, sometimes when he was feeling randy. But Shay was a different sort, more intense, more observant, and that intensity was focused on her, more often than not. As if each movement she made was unique, each word she spoke worth hearing.

It could be heady stuff, she decided, climbing the two steps to the back veranda, where he watched and waited. His hand reached for the milk pail and she gave it to him, unthinking. “I’ll take it in to Isabelle,” he said. “Wait here a minute. I want you to tell me where to put this trellis. There are roses blooming all over the ground on the east side of the house. They’d be better off with something to climb on.”

Jenny nodded. His request was reasonable, no matter what Isabelle thought. A whispered warning early this morning had brought quick color to Jenny’s cheeks. “You watch out for that man, Miss Jenny. He’s a dark one, with thoughts about you he shouldn’t be thinkin’.” Isabelle’s eyes were sparkling with indignation as she spoke. “He’s lookin’ at you like you’re an available woman.”

I am. Jenny closed her eyes as she remembered the words. Available for marriage, anyway, though I doubt that’s what Shay is thinking of. The screen door slammed as he returned, and he lifted one finger as a signal.

“Just another couple of nails and this will be ready. Have a seat, ma’am.” His words encouraged her to linger, and she perched on the edge of the veranda, arms wrapped around her knees as she watched him. Long fingers held the nail, and the hammer hit it twice, driving it firmly into the wood beneath. Another nail was pounded home and Shay set aside the hammer, lifting the trellis with him as he stood.

“I knew the roses were being neglected, but the wind kept blowing them down, and I didn’t know how to fix…” Her voice trailed off as Shay carried the trellis past her, a nod of his head urging her to follow. She stood quickly, brushing her skirts down. A movement at the door caught her eye and she waved at Isabelle, flashing a smile as she trotted behind her new handyman.

Thorny branches, profuse with roses, lay beneath the library window. “I’ll bet you can smell them at night,” Shay said, leaning the trellis against the house. The sun was climbing rapidly into the morning sky and its warmth brought forth the scent of the flowers, rising from the ground to surround them with its aroma.

“Yes,” she agreed, hands shoved into her apron pockets, watching as he lifted the heavy branches aside, making room for himself to stand. Curtains caught the breeze and billowed into the room as she watched, and past his bent form she caught sight of her bed. Covering the mattress was a pieced quilt, one her grandmother had made years ago, now the only memento she had of the elderly woman who lay in the churchyard. Her nightgown was tossed carelessly against the counterpane and Jenny wished fervently that it had been folded and put away in her chest of drawers.

Carl had told her more than once that she was always in too much of a hurry, anxious to move on to the next moment. Isabelle had called from the kitchen this morning as Jenny dressed and she’d hastened from her room, leaving an unmade bed and general disorder behind. Now it was exposed for anyone to see. For Shay to see.

“Here, hold this,” he said over his shoulder, nodding with his head toward the place where he wanted her hands to rest. She did as he asked, standing beside him, stretching to grip the wooden frame. He knelt, one knee on the ground, the other bent, and dug with a small spade he’d carried along. The hole was narrow and deep enough to hold the bottom of the trellis, the earth piled up around it as he plied the spade.

“Let’s drop it in,” he told her, grasping the frame, allowing her to balance it above his hands. And then he lifted his head, looking inside her room, his hands unmoving as the curtains billowed, revealing the unmade bed and the white gown she’d left behind. He glanced up at her once more, his expression harsh. “Ready?”

She nodded, lowering the trellis, then held it steady as he packed dirt in the hole. He stood, brushing off his hands, stomping the loose earth to hold the latticework firmly in place. “I think I’ll nail it in two places to the siding on the house,” he told her. “That way the wind won’t take it again.”

She stepped back. “I thought you wanted me to tell you where to put it.”

“You want it somewhere else?” His eyes glanced at her over his shoulder and her smile faltered. His mouth twitched. “I decided for you, ma’am. By the time I mend the other trellis and set it on the other side of the window, there won’t be enough room for anyone to climb inside without getting stuck by the thorns. Thought it might be wise.”

“Who’d want to climb in my window?” she asked incredulously. “There’s only Noah and the boys and Marshall, and they can go right in the back door. Isabelle would never make it over the sill.”

He was silent, that faint movement of his mouth turning into a slow grin. “And I’m upstairs. Reckon we don’t need to worry about keeping you safe and sound, do we?”

“I’ve never worried for a minute,” she said stoutly. “There’s no one hereabouts to fear.”

“Then why do you suppose Isabelle’s been sleeping in front of your door? She was there again this morning when I got up early.” He bent to pick up the hammer and spade and straightened to face her. His smile twisted the scar, lifting one side of his mouth, and her eyes were drawn there. With an oath that took her by surprise, he turned away.

“No. Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t turn from me. Please.”

It was the addition of that small word that halted his retreat. She’d said please, and not for a moment could he deny her the courtesy of facing her again. “I know my face is beyond ugly, ma’am. I don’t blame you for looking.” His words became softer as he attempted to placate her with a touch of humor. “I’ve had babies cry, and women scream for mercy, just looking in my direction.”

Jenny’s eyes left his and moved again to that puckered scar. As if she had reached to touch it, he felt a welcome warmth the length of its twisted ridge, and his own hand rose to tug at his hat brim, effectively hiding it from her sight.

“How did you get it?” she asked quietly. “It looks painful, but I suppose it’s not, really.”

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “You might say I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t welcome.” That he’d fought for a man’s life in the prison camp in Elmira, fought and won, was something she didn’t need to know. The Yankee guard had been buried quickly, and their captors had been too busy dealing with the water that overflowed the camp to make a fuss. They’d been in a deluge, wading in ankle-deep water in their simple shelter for three days. He’d shivered with cold and listened to men weep unashamedly.

“Was it in prison?” she asked, her eyes bleak as she probed for the answer.

“No,” he lied. “In a saloon, before the war.” He’d lied before, for lesser reasons, but this one stuck like wet feathers against the roof of his mouth. He’d lie again if he needed to protect her, he realized. And then he chuckled, a low humorless sound, to make certain she believed his tale.

“I’ll finish up the other trellis now,” he told her. “Guess my time could have been better spent on the cornfield, but my mama always liked her roses. I hated to see yours layin’ in the dirt. I’ll catch up with Noah and the boys a little later.”

“Thank you for doing the repairs,” she told him, walking beside him as they turned the corner to the back of the house. “My mama always said we all need beauty in our lives. I’ve missed seeing the roses climb the way they used to. Isabelle can find me a rag to tear up into strips, and I’ll tie the branches up off the ground later.”

She glanced up at him. “If you don’t get the hoeing done today, leave the part go that’s closest to the house. I’ll go out after supper and work at it a while, when the air’s cooler.”

His nod was abrupt. “You’re the one in charge, ma’am.” He bent to lift the tall framework he’d mended, carrying it from the porch. “You going to help me with this?”

Jenny shook her head. “You can handle it, I’m sure. I think I need to give Isabelle a hand in the house. Yesterday’s cream is ready to churn.” The door closed behind her and he retraced his steps to the library windows. She’d been embarrassed to have him see her gown on the bed. He’d sensed her squirming beside him, and deliberately taken long moments to gaze into the shadowed interior. It hadn’t taken much imagination to visualize her inside that pale gown.

The hole was dug in moments and he dropped the trellis in place, holding it with one hand as he used his boot to shove the dirt in, firming it quickly. Stepping back, he eyed his work. She’d have the roses trained in no time. And every time she crawled into bed and inhaled the rich fragrance…

He turned away. Noah was heading for the field, a hoe across his shoulder. And if Shay knew what was good for him, he’d spend his energy on digging weeds instead of making monkeyshines with the boss.