Leslie LaFoy (14 page)

And then, aside from the people, there was the house itself. It might well be grand and stately on the
outside, but the inside was in a sorry state. Dust covered the surfaces of all the furnishings, clung to the folds of the draperies, and rose up in little clouds from the small rugs when anyone walked across them. Smudges of soot discolored the windowpanes. The silver, brass, and copper appointments were all tarnished. And it had been so long since the wood floors had been waxed that you could easily see the paths everyone had worn in their coming and going.

Devon Rivard was concerned that she might do something that would crack his facade of wealth and privilege? Claire snorted in a most unladylike way and shook her head. There wasn't any damage she could do that hadn't already been done. The man was the captain of a foundering ship. It was only a matter of time before it went down. With all hands on deck. And, Claire thought darkly, considering the way her luck had been running for the last four years, she was going to be the one blamed for the disaster. Never mind that the ship had been taking on water for years before she'd been forced to join the crew.

Life had been so much simpler at Crossbridge, she mused sadly, staring through the window and into the night. It had been a marginal existence, yes, but an ever so much more simple one. Her days had been her own to do with as she thought best. Her father had respected her decisions and her ability to make them. No one had snapped their fingers and expected her to heel, to sit, to obey, or to beg. She hadn't had to pretend to be something she wasn't, hadn't had to endure being anyone's pawn. The people at Crossbridge were what they were: unpretentious, honest, and hardworking. She had belonged there, was one of them. And she wanted to go home. It was all she'd wanted for four long years.

Tears tightened her throat and welled in her eyes. Claire swallowed and reminded herself that, despite the vast distance between Crossbridge and Rosewind, she
was closer to attaining her dream than she ever had been. She'd seen the letter sent to her uncle. She'd read for herself the demand that Crossbridge be titled to her as a dowry. That her uncle would actually capitulate was a slim hope, but it was the only hope she'd ever been given.

If he refused… Claire sighed and pursed her lips.
If
? She knew better than to dream. She knew her uncle. To give her Crossbridge would be an act of compassion and decency. Neither quality was among those George Seaton-Smythe possessed. Greed he had aplenty. And ruthless determination. Cunning, too. But a conscience … What sliver of conscience he might have ever had had withered and died from disuse years ago.

No, there was no
if
It was a matter of
when
he refused. And what she was going to do after that, after Wyndom's debt had been forgiven and Devon didn't need to pretend he had a wife.

Claire resolutely pushed herself to her feet, crossed to the washstand in the corner, picked up the pitcher, and carried it to the window. Pushing up the lower panel of glass, she filled the porcelain container with some of the snow piled on the sill. The cold blast of air and the icy sting on her hands cleared the darkest shadows from her thoughts. Closing the window, she carried the pitcher to the hearth and set it down. She stood there, watching the snow slowly turn to water and knowing that, come what may, she'd survive. She always had.

H
ER EVENING ABLUTIONS
, had been completed, but they hadn't brought her the sense of calm they normally did. Claire leaned her shoulder against the window jamb and surveyed the yard visible below. There was what looked to be a stone smokehouse along with several small wooden buildings whose purpose she couldn't readily identify. A relatively large garden area surrounded what
had to be the kitchen. The latter was a rectangular structure made of brick with twin brick chimneys rising from the back side. A pair of windows balanced the plain door in the front wall. No light shone through them and no smoke rose from either of the chimneys.

Claire frowned. Apparently the fires had been allowed to go out, an unwise decision considering the time it would take to rebuild them tomorrow morning. Either Mary Margaret would have to rise early to see to the task or breakfast would be served late. Or cold.

Perhaps, Claire mused, she ought to go out to the kitchen, restart the fires now, then bank them for the morning. She wasn't tired. And the sooner she understood the situation with Mary Margaret, the sooner she'd know how to fix it. Perhaps—for whatever reason—Mary Margaret didn't know that the fires should be banked in the evening. It would be a good first lesson, a relatively simple one. They could progress from there.

Claire was relighting the candle lamp to carry down the stairs with her when she heard footsteps in the hall. She paused and listened to them draw near, pass her door, and then enter the room next door. Devon, she knew, eyeing the connecting door.

Had he done anything to treat the burn on his hand? She rather doubted it. He'd been surprised by her concern for its care, and he hadn't protested when she'd asked Wyndom to go gather some snow. But when his brother had had to choose between the kindness and eating—when insisting on treating his hand would have been an overt admission that it pained him—Devon had pulled his hand back and declared it not worth the bother. Yes, Devon Rivard definitely struck her as the kind of man who would refuse to treat himself purely on the principle that it was unmanly to admit that you were hurting.

She picked up the porcelain washbasin, crossed to the window, and gathered more snow off the windowsill.
Then she stood there for a moment, considering the door between them. She'd prefer not to remind him that it was there. They had an agreement: Their marriage was to be in name only. But she remembered the passion of his kiss in the rectory, how easily she'd succumbed to it, and the thrill that had shot through her when he'd suggested that they might have to explore the avenue further. She'd known that he was only trying to rile her, but… The truth was, she'd masqueraded as a man frequently enough to know that men weren't very good at keeping their pledges of celibacy. Only a fool would open a door and plant the seeds of temptation. At the same time, only a callous heart would let reason prevent the offering of compassion.

She went to the hallway door, opened it, then walked the few steps down to his door. Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, she quietly knocked. After a long moment, it opened and he stood before her, his frock coat removed and his white shirt not only untucked, but mostly undone as well.

Pretending to be male had put her in many an awkward situation through the years, and although she'd always managed to keep from participating in male rituals, she'd seen more than her fair share of masculine chests. Devon's Rivard's was—without doubt or argument—the most spectacular of them all. It was broad and bronzed and darkly furred. And breathtakingly well sculpted. Italian artisans would kill for the privilege to immortalize him in marble.

“Yes? Is there something you need?”

Startled, she glanced up to find one corner of his mouth quirked up and a devilish light in his eyes. Oh, dear God. She'd been staring! Mortified, she dropped her gaze to the snow in the basin. “I thought you could use some snow for your hand,” she offered hastily, desperately hoping that he was gentleman enough not to mention her unseemly behavior.

“You shouldn't go out of the house alone. Especially at night.”

His words were soft and easy. And for some reason the gentleness of them added to her discomfort. “I didn't,” she assured him. Without looking up, she abruptly pushed the edge of the basin into his midriff, making him flinch in surprise and giving him little choice except to take it. As he did, she added, “I gathered it off my windowsill.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

She heard the notes of gentle amusement in his voice. She wanted to look up, to see what he looked like when smiling broadly. She didn't dare. She'd already embarrassed herself once. “You will pack your hand in it, won't you?” she asked, taking a step back.

He shifted his hold on the basin to free his injured hand and then stuffed it into the snow. “It feels better already.”

It couldn't. Not that quickly. But she wasn't willing to stand there and disagree with him. Her cheeks were on fire and her heart was beating entirely too fast. “I'm glad. Good night,” she said, turning away without looking at him.

“Claire?”

She winced and stopped, then took a deep breath and raised her chin. Before she could actually force herself to turn around and face him, he said kindly, “I'm sorry for the unpleasantness at the table. It will never happen again. I meant what I said: You'll be treated respectfully for as long as you reside in this house.”

What had happened to the ill-tempered man she had married earlier in the day? Not that it mattered to her all that much. This Devon Rivard was much more likable. She turned around. His gaze was solemn now, dark and unreadable, as he studied her.

“Elsbeth's behavior isn't at all unusual,” she observed. “My aunt and cousins reacted in much the same
way when I was thrust so unexpectedly into the Seaton-Smythe household. But I do thank you for the defense. It was far more than my uncle George ever offered in my behalf.”

He tilted his head to the side in the way that she'd already come to recognize as his habit when puzzled by something. For a moment he looked as though he was framing a question, then he straightened and said, “I'll see that you're brought several gowns in the morning.”

Claire couldn't keep from smiling. “Our earlier disagreement over the necessity of one does appear to be moot at this point, doesn't it?”

He nodded, slowly, contemplatively. “Had you not been wearing leather boots and breeches under your skirt, you might have been seriously injured this evening. Given that, I can see a bit of wisdom in your refusal to give up such practical articles.”

He could see a bit of wisdom? Hell had to have frozen. “How far are you willing to extend your spirit of accommodation?” she asked, wary.

“I withdraw my demand that you surrender them.”

He'd yielded too easily; there had to be a reason and she was willing to play along to see what it might be. “Thank you.”

“But only,” he added, “if you'll agree to withdraw your refusal to respect my authority over you.”

Ah, there it was. She had to admit that he was very good at maneuvering people, and he hadn't made her wait days for the gambit like her uncle always did. Claire tamped down her impulse to smile and waited, letting him think that she was giving the matter serious consideration. When he cocked his brow, she sighed and said, “I don't suppose it would be fair to expect you to wage the promised battle for my breeches with an injured hand, would it?”

“No, it wouldn't.”

So confident. So sure of his victory. Claire smiled.

“Then I'll allow you time for it to heal.” He blinked and rocked back on his heels. While he was still off balance, she gave him a brief curtsy and turned away, saying, “Good night again, sir. I'm off to earn my keep.”

“What?”

“I'm going down to the kitchen,” she answered without looking back. “I can see from my bedroom window that the fires have been allowed to go out. I thought I'd restart and then bank them so they'd be ready tomorrow morning.”

“That's Mary Margaret's responsibility.”

She could tell by his voice that he'd followed her into the hall. Claire paused in her open doorway and met his gaze over her shoulder. He was puzzled again. For some unfathomable reason his confusion delighted her. “Agreed, but whether out of ignorance or neglect, she apparently hasn't seen to it. I thought I'd make fire-tending her first lesson.”

“I distinctly recall you sitting at the dining room table and saying that you wanted to retire. That you were exhausted.”

“I was at the time. But once I was alone, I discovered that I had deeper reserves than I'd imagined.”

Her heartbeat quickened as he gave her another of his quirked smiles. “A most tactful way, madam, of saying you found your dinner companions taxing.”

“To a certain degree,” she admitted. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“You don't have to lie,” he chided, his smile fading. “I know that I'm a beast to get along with. It's my natural tendency.” He paused and then shrugged. “If you're determined to go down to the kitchen now, I'll accompany you.”

She didn't need an escort. The kitchen was close to the house; she wasn't going to get lost. “I appreciate the offer,” Claire said politely, “but, truly, it's not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.” With two long strides he was beside her and handing back the snow-filled basin. “As I said a few moments ago, you shouldn't go out of the house alone and especially not at night.”

“Why ever not?”

“Our slaves are loyal and honest,” he answered while pulling tight the laces of his shirt. “The same can't be said for those of other owners. When the sun goes down and work ceases, their slaves have been known to slip off into the night and cause trouble. And you can rest assured that slaves have no exclusive claim to wrongdoing. There are just as many freemen and indentured servants around who are likely to commit mayhem. It's better to be cautious and safe rather than rash and sorry. I'll accompany you to the kitchen or you won't go.”

She understood his reasoning, but his presumption to rule her actions rankled. Couldn't he have asked if she would mind if he went along? It would have accomplished the same end and allowed her to accede to common sense rather than surrender to a command. She was about to suggest that he try to be a bit more diplomatic, when he began to stuff his shirttail into the waistband of his breeches.

The movement captured her attention and scattered any thoughts of the kitchen. He'd been wearing his frock coat earlier in the day. His shirt had hung loosely from his shoulders when he'd opened the door at her knock. Now… it wasn't just Devon Rivard's chest the sculptors would want to immortalize. The man had a magnificently trim waist and narrow hips. And exceedingly well defined muscles in his thighs. His breeches were tight enough that she could see them ripple and flex at his smallest movement. What would they feel like? she wondered. Higher up, there was a single, large—