Judith E French (16 page)

He wanted her so bad that he couldn’t get her out of his mind long enough to get through an ordinary day’s chores. He watched her when she walked across the kitchen and when she tended her roses. He followed her with his gaze when she bent to wipe honey off Derry’s chin or swept the front porch. And when she was out of sight, it drove him crazy until he set eyes on her again.

He wanted her, but had he done the right thing in bringing her here?

He’d told Caity the truth when he’d said they were two different people. When he’d wed her, she’d been a lovely girl; now she was a woman.

“With a woman’s lying tongue and a woman’s deceits.” His father’s bitter words haunted him.

It was no secret that Patrick McKenna had wed his sweetheart Aingeal O’More unaware that she was four month’s gone with another man’s child. And it was even less of a secret that he’d made her life hell because of it.

The grave and sixteen years weren’t deep enough to silence Patrick McKenna’s drunken rages. Damn him to a pitiless hell! Shane had heard his father shout those curses a hundred times at his wife, Shane’s mother.

Despite what his mother had done, Shane had hated the old man then, and he hated him still. But Patrick McKenna had planted the seeds of distrust deep in his children.

He loved Caity. But could he ever forgive what she’d done? Was there too much of his father in him to forget that Caity had betrayed him as much as Cerise?

Every day of their marriage, he’d have to look into sweet little Derry’s face—the living proof of Caity’s adultery. As his father had done with Shane’s brother Kevin.

Could he trust himself not to throw it in Caity’s face or to find solace in a bottle as Patrick McKenna had done?

He’d never wanted to be like his father—to let temper or drink cloud his reason. Shane had sworn he’d never loose the black McKenna fury on any woman, and he never had but that once. Patrick’s ghost had raged the night Cerise died. And if it happened once, could it happen again with Caity?

Was he putting her life in danger by letting her stay?

The damp, twisted sheet under him dug into his flesh, and he tore it off the bed and hurled it onto the floor. Why torment himself because his wife was human? Why couldn’t he accept Caity taking comfort with a lover the same way he’d done himself?

Derry was a beautiful child. Even a man with a heart of stone would be enchanted by her. So what if she was fathered by another man? He could be her real father if he wanted to.

He reminded himself that Caity had carried the baby and given it life in spite of her shame. Not like Cerise, demanding money to do away with the child she’d sworn he’d fathered on her.

So why was it so hard for Caity to be honest with him?

Even if he could overlook Derry’s birth and Caity not coming when he’d sent money the first time, reason should tell him to be cautious.

He should wait and see how long she lasted out here
before he handed her his heart on a china plate. Even a thick-headed Irish laborer should have sense enough to do that.

Wanting her in bed wasn’t enough. This time when he made a commitment it would be forever. He knew he couldn’t make another mistake with his heart and survive.

Shane threw a clean blanket over the mattress and stretched out on the bed again. It was his way to sleep naked, and tonight was no different. The cool air felt good on his bare skin, but it did nothing to ease his troubled mood.

“At this rate, I’ll be awake when the sun comes up,” he grumbled.

Again, in spite of himself, Caity’s image rose in his mind’s eye, and he remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

Patrick McKenna had gone off on another two-week drunk, and Shane’s mother was left without a copper penny to buy food for her children.

Ragged as a gypsy’s brat and barefoot in the winter’s cold, he’d sneaked onto Caity’s father’s land with a gnawing hunger in his belly and enough twine to make a rabbit snare.

Caity had caught him red-handed. She could have called the gamekeeper and had him arrested; instead, she’d befriended him. He’d gone home to his mother with two loaves of bread, a round of cheese, and a slab of bacon as well as the fat rabbit.

Caity had invited him to trap rabbits whenever he wanted. She’d even helped him to evade her father’s foresters.

And in less time than he could have believed, she became his reason for living.

Shane’s breathing slowed as he let his mind drift back to the days when they were both children … when his greatest joys were smelling meat browning on a spit and hearing Caity’s bright laughter.

Gradually the tenseness drained from his muscles, and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Caitlin thought that what was left of Shane’s crushed and soggy bouquet made a cheerful addition to the next morning’s breakfast table, even if they were eating in the kitchen.

The day had dawned clear, and the few clouds that remained from the previous night’s storm were swiftly dissolving in the bright sunlight. For once, Caitlin had risen before Shane. She had already rolled her biscuit dough when he came into the kitchen.

She could tell by the way he walked that he was still in pain. “How do you feel?”

He scowled. “Don’t ask.” He started to take his customary place on the bench and then noticed the oversize armchair that Caitlin had dragged down from the attic. “What’s this?”

She smiled at him. “It’s only proper. After all, Mister McKenna, you are the head of the family.”

He stared at the old-fashioned walnut chair with the elaborately carved arms and legs and the lion’s-claw feet. Then he slowly rubbed his fingertips over one of the star-shaped brass nail heads that adorned the high back. “I’d all but forgotten this,” he said. “It must have belonged to that Spanish grandee we bought Kilronan from.”

Long ago someone had replaced the original back and seat coverings with red-and-white-spotted steerhide. The leather was worn and the scarred wood so dark that it
looked almost black. “It does look Spanish,” she agreed, “but it suits you, and it suits this kitchen.”

“This and a little table with the same claw feet were in the cabin Mary lives in now when we bought Kilronan,” he said as he eased himself into the chair. “There’s an ironbound chest, too. Lots of fancy carving on it. Gabe’s been using it to store horse liniment and blankets.”

“Where is it?” Caitlin asked.

“In the barn. I think the table’s out there, too. You can have them if you want.”

“Not if they belong to Gabriel or Mary.” She did want the pieces. She had always loved old things, and if the furniture was sound, it would help to fill the empty rooms in this house.

He shrugged. “Mary wouldn’t have the stuff in her cabin. She’s afraid of the lion feet, says the furniture has a fierce spirit, or some craziness. Besides, they all belong to Kilronan. Anything here you can have—except my best horse.”

“I don’t want your horse.” She poured him a strong cup of tea and carried it to the table. “But I would like to see more of your land. I want to see every foot of it.”

Expressionless, he blew on the tea and took a sip.

Caitlin returned to her biscuit making, and tried not to let him see how anxious she was. She’d done a lot of thinking in the night. Shane’s bringing her the flowers and apologizing to her were a big step. She didn’t intend to let that advantage slip away, even though he seemed as remote as ever this morning. If this marriage failed, it wouldn’t be for her lack of trying.

“Please, take me with you today,” she finally pleaded.

“If you’re serious about seeing Kilronan, you’ll have to ride. I can’t drive the wagon over rough country without riskin’ an axle.”

“I can ride.”

“Astride.” His gray eyes took on a steely glint. “I don’t own a sidesaddle.”

“I can learn,” she promised.

“Derry stays here. Mary will look after her.”

Caitlin nodded. “If you’re sure she’ll be safe.”

“The child will come to no harm. Mary’s odd, but she has a good heart.”

Caitlin slipped onto the bench across from him. His face was still swollen and bruised, and she remembered how terrified she’d been when he went into the pen with the bull. She suddenly wanted to put her arms around him and hold him. “Do you think that whoever tried to kill you is gone?”

He shook his head. “Nope, but I think the shooter is after me personal. I’ll leave Gabe here to keep an eye on Mary and the kids.”

“If you think it’s safe.”

“I wouldn’t ride out if I didn’t believe it was.”

Caitlin was surprised when neither Mary nor Derry protested the arrangement. “We’ll be several hours,” Caitlin said. “I don’t know when—”

“Mary do,” the Indian woman assured her before leaning down and whispering something in Derry’s ear.

Derry laughed and clapped her hands. “Secret!” she cried. “I’m gonna feed Blank-flour!”

“Feed Mary’s duck,” Mary clarified as she started for the door.

“My klicken!” Derry corrected, dashing after her. “Mine!”

“Be a good girl,” Caitlin said.

Derry didn’t wait long enough to reply.

Caitlin hurried upstairs to change. She was a little nervous about attempting a man’s saddle, but she chose her
plainest riding habit, a sensible russet wool with a very full skirt that had once been her mother’s. She had always worn pantaloons under her riding clothes, following French fashion. Today she picked out a sturdy linen pair to wear under her shift and petticoats.

The matching russet hat to the riding habit was long gone, but Mama’s Italian leather boots were nearly as lovely as they had been when Caitlin was a child. They were long enough, but a trifle narrow on Caitlin’s feet.

“Caity!” Shane called from below in the yard. “Comin’ or not?”

“Coming.” Caitlin pulled on a black felt hat adorned with a pheasant feather, pinned the tricorn securely in place, and tied her stock as she hurried down the steps. She tugged on her gloves as she stepped out onto the porch.

Shane sat astride the buckskin he’d ridden when he’d met her in Jefferson. He was, she decided instantly, a bold sight, this Missouri husband of hers. His fringed leather vest stretched across a brawny chest; his long, muscular legs were thrust into high boots, and his hat was pulled low over his tanned face. A sheathed knife hung from a beaded Indian belt around his lean waist, and a shot bag and powder horn were slung carelessly over one shoulder.

Wouldn’t he set the ladies aflutter in the streets of Dublin, she thought. … At least he would have before the bad times came, before the hunger started.

She sighed and smiled up at him, suddenly very proud that he was hers in spite of her doubts.

Shane held the reins of a second mount in one hand. The animal was tall and thin with a backbone sharp enough to cut peat. Her hair was short and shiny black,
except for one hind leg that was spotted white. Her tail was rope thin and the mane cropped short. And worst of all were the ridiculously long ears, above two bulging white-rimmed eyes.

“A mule?” she cried. “You expect me to ride a mule?”

The hint of a smile flashed across his face before his mood became serious again. “Guess you are pretty gussied up to be ridin’ ole Bessie here.”

Caitlin looked from Shane to the mule. Was this his idea of a joke? The animal was absurd. The idea that she could ride such a creature was even more ridiculous.

As if prompted, Bessie laid back her ears, showed long, yellow teeth, and brayed.

“No,” Caitlin declared. “Absolutely not.” Behind her, she heard Justice giggling. “Why do you want to make me look the fool?” she asked.

“It appears to me you need no help. That getup might do for Dublin’s park, but here? You’ll die of heat, woman. You’d be better garbed in a pair of Gabriel’s britches and a linen shirt.”

Caitlin felt her cheeks grow hot. “There’s nothing wrong with my attire, Shane McKenna. ’Tis proper for a lady. It’s you and your stupid mule that make a jest.”

“You don’t like Bessie?”

“Are you addlepated? I’m not a gypsy to ride an abomination such as this.”

“She’s the safest animal on—”

“If you fancy Bessie so, you ride her!”

“Must everything be a battle with you?”

Caitlin’s heart pounded, but she stood her ground. If she was wed to a monster, as the Thompsons had insinuated, it was better to learn it now. “Shane,” she warned him. “Don’t—”

“Get on the damned mule, Caity.”

“I won’t.” She backed up a step as the first shiver of doubt seized her. “I won’t be bullied by you or any other man,” she began. “I—” Her words died in her throat as Shane swung down out of the saddle and started toward her with the devil’s own look in his eye.

Caity held her breath as Shane’s long legs covered the distance between them, but she didn’t budge. She stood there, hands on her hips, heart pounding, silently daring him to put her on that mule.

“Suit yourself, woman,” Shane said as he dropped to one knee and whipped out his scalping knife.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Her anger turned to shock as he slashed off the trailing train of her riding skirt.

“Stand still,” he ordered as he gathered a section of her habit in one hand. The razor-sharp blade parted the soft cloth and the petticoats beneath it. Stunned, she watched as Shane sliced the material from midthigh to the hem, both back and front.

“You … you pratie-digging blackard!” she cried. “You’ve ruined my mother’s riding habit.”

“I’ve ruined nothin’. I’ve made it useful.” He turned to Justice. “Saddle Ladybug for her.”

“You’ve destroyed my skirt. Do you even know the cost of such material?”

Shane shook his head. “Make up your mind. If you’re too high and mighty to ride Bessie, you can ride the bay mare. I’ll not have it said that I bully my wife.” He slid the knife back into its sheath. “And I’m not going to let you ride a spirited horse with your legs all tangled in twenty yards of skirt.”

“My legs are my affair,” she retorted.

“Some would say otherwise, darlin’, seein’ as how I am your lawful husband.”

“Are you? You seem to forget that more than I do,” she flung back at him. She was so mad that she wanted to punch him. She’d never been a violent person, but it was all she could do to pin her clenched hands at her sides.