Nobody's Angel (11 page)

"That's not how I remember it, sweetheart," he said softly, and smiled the wickedest smile Susannah had ever seen.

"You are a spawn of the Devil!" She was so furious that she could barely get the words out. "And I am not your sweetheart. For as long as I manage to restrain myself from selling you, you will address me as
Miss
Susannah."

Without waiting for what he might reply, she turned on her heel, clutched the remnants of her dignity around her like her quilt, and walked with head held high from the room.

10

Susannah felt as if she'd spent the best years of her life doing little but making bread. She mixed, kneaded, and baked twice a day, and never a night passed that dough was not rising in her kitchen. The rooster had crowed his good morning not a quarter of an hour before, and here she stood in the kitchen, making bread for supper. The morning's loaves were already in the small baking oven set into the side of the huge fireplace that took up most of one wall of the kitchen. Soon they would be done. The wonderful warm scent of them wafted through the kitchen.

The rest of the family would be up within the hour, expecting to eat. That was the way their day always began, and that was the way it always would begin, world without end, as long as Susannah was there to take care of them. Except that Susannah, for some reason she couldn't quite fathom, was suddenly dissatisfied with the routine. Her life was busy, and she knew it was good, but—but— but what? She should be thankful, not repining. She was blessed. What was the matter with her, that she should secretly long for something other than the plenty she had?

Gruel bubbled over the fire. With molasses dribbled

over it, and plenty of fresh bread and butter, it would make a hearty morning repast. With the girls to help, it would not take long to clean the kitchen, and then perhaps she could get out to work in the garden for a little while. Weeding was something she truly enjoyed.

"Is there anything else you need me to do, Miss Susannah?" Ben came in through the back door, his arms full of sticks so that she could feed the fire. He'd not forgotten, and she had already praised him lavishly.

"You can feed the chickens."

"Yes'm."

He dropped the sticks into the basket by the hearth and went out. Craddock should be up, too, milking the cow, but Susannah had no expectation of seeing him until she sent Ben to rouse him. He liked his sleep almost as much as he liked strong drink, which was another reason he had never been able to keep a job before.

Craddock was next to useless, and Ben was a flighty boy. They added to, rather than alleviated, the burden that rested on her shoulders. That burden had grown increasingly heavy over the past few months, until she had feared she might crumple under its weight. So what had she done? She'd bought a bound man to make her life easier. That was selfishness, pure and simple, and, as her father had always said, selfishness carried a high price tag. Now she was having to pay that price.

Connelly. She could not think of him without wanting to cringe. It was almost impossible to believe that she, who had never so much as exchanged a flirtatious glance with a man in her life, had found herself half-naked in bed with her bound man just the night before. When she remembered his hands on her breasts and his knee between her legs—to say nothing of the rapacious way he had kissed her!—she felt physically ill.

When she remembered how her body had responded, she felt sick to her soul.

What had passed between her and Connelly made her feel so guilty, angry, and ashamed that she could scarcely face herself in the mirror. How could she, her father's daughter, supposed paragon of righteousness whose virtue was admired and praised by all, harbor such dark yearnings? Her father, did he know what she had done (please God that he never learned of it!), would blame the Devil for tempting her. Susannah knew better; she blamed herself.

Almost worse than the memory was the prospect of dealing with Connelly when he should awaken. Whenever she thought of facing him again, she wavered between blushing with shame and sizzling with fury.

One thing she couldn't do was sell him. At the thought of his blabbing his version of what had happened between them to so much as another living soul, her blood ran cold.

How had she gotten into such a fix? By being mule- obstinate, that's how. Everyone from Sarah Jane to Hiram Greer had tried to tell her that she was making a mistake in buying the man, but she had been too stubborn to listen.

Were it anyone save herself, Susannah would have said that such a comeuppance was richly deserved. As she made the admission, Susannah kneaded and slapped the pasty mass that had swelled almost to her elbows as if it were her new bound man's leering face.

A sound from the parlor stiffened her spine into ramrod erectness. Or, rather, not so much a sound as the cessation of sound. She had not realized how attuned she had been to the harsh rasp of Connelly's breathing. Was he awake so early? Her stomach tightened at the thought.

Folding the dough over one last time, Susannah covered it with a cloth and left it to rise. She walked with measured steps across the wide plank floor of the kitchen through the front hall. In the open doorway that led into the parlor she stopped, wiping her hands on her apron, and then, because there was no help for it, looked toward the bed.

Connelly was raised up on one elbow, looking right back at her. The one long window was situated to catch the morning sun. Bright rays illuminated every comer of the room. Caught in a wash of shimmering daylight, Connelly looked more brutish than ever. He would have been right at home on the deck of a pirate ship or bellowing over-warm ditties in a smoky taproom while deep in his cups.

Had she lost her mind, to quicken to the touch of a man like that?

"Water," he said, the word scarcely more than a croak.

With a curt nod, Susannah forced back the jumbled images of the night before that haunted her and retraced her steps to the kitchen to fetch water from the bucket by the back door. Carrying the dipper carefully, she returned to the parlor. For no more than the merest second she hesitated in the doorway, wary about approaching him. She squared her shoulders and forced herself onward.

If she were ever to put the previous night behind her, she would have to face him down. If her stomach clenched at the very idea of going near him, she must be the only one to know it.

In her experience, the only time a dog bit was when it sensed its victim was fraid of it. She would approach Connelly with the same cautious authority that she would show a vicious dog.

To get close enough so that she might hand him the dipper, she had to put herself within grabbing range. So be it, she thought, lifting her chin, and walked right up to the side of the bed. If he was to live in their household— and thanks to her own folly, he was—she could not avoid him forever. Let him think that she was calm and in control.

"Thank you." He took the dipper from her, closing his eyes as he drank. Unable to help herself, she took a single step back away from the bed.

When he had finished, he opened his eyes to survey her from the top of her severely styled hair to as far down her apron-covered gown as he could see.

"You're prettier with your hair down," he said.

Susannah nearly choked. "My appearance is no concern of yours!"

"True." He held out the dipper. Susannah took it back, careful not to let her fingers brush his. His eyes met hers. She misliked the gleam in the gray depths. It was almost —avid. She braced herself for what he might do—or say.

"Is there anything to eat?"

It took a moment for that to sink in.

"You're a bold rogue, I'll say that for you," Susannah said through her teeth. "To behave as you have, and then calmly ask me for something to eat! What will you do should I choose not to feed you, pray?"

The shoulder that was uppermost shrugged. His eyes never left hers, though the gleam faded slightly. "I've starved before."

What could she say to that? It was not in her to let even so undeserving a creature as he was starve. Without another word she left the room. When she returned, she was carrying a tray that held a bowlful of steaming gruel sweetened with molasses, two large chunks of hot, buttered bread, and a mug of sweet tea.

"Here," she said ungraciously, plopping it down on the mattress beside him. Some of the tea sloshed out onto the tray.

"You wen t join me?" He looked up at her then, and for the first time she thought she saw a glint of genuine humor in his eyes. Was he teasing her? If so, then it was a mistake, because she didn't find even the smallest detail of what had passed between them the night before to be a matter for joking.

"No."

With that blunt reply, Susannah turned and went back into the kitchen, where she busied herself with the thousand and one chores that awaited her. A full day's housework had to be crammed into the morning so that she might spend the afternoon at the church helping to prepare for Mrs. Cooper's funeral, which was scheduled for four that afternoon when the worst of the heat would have subsided.

"Susannah!"

Susannah stiffened. Surely Connelly would not be so bold as to call her by her given name.

"Susannah!"

He would. She took a deep breath and a firm hold on her temper and walked into the parlor.

"I would have more."

"You are to address me as
Miss
Susannah, and you know it," she said frigidly.

"After the kisses we shared?" His teeth gleamed at her. He was teasing her, the dastard! Susannah saw red. A long-handled spoon was in her hand. She hurled it at his head as if the spoon were an axe and his head a chunk of wood and she would split the wood in two. He ducked, falling backward, then yelped as he landed on his back. The spoon thudded harmlessly into the wall a scant six inches above where his head had been, and then fell with a clatter to the floor. The tray, upset by Connelly's dive for safety, slid off the bed to land with a crash beside the spoon.

"Let us get one thing perfectly clear," Susannah said, unmoved by both the upended tray and Connelly's obvious discomfort as he rolled gingerly to one side. "If you push me too far, I will sell you, no matter what black lies you're prepared to tell."

So saying, she turned and stalked from the room. Her hand trembled as she added more water to the kettle over the fire. The gruel was bubbling ready, the bread taken from the oven, sliced for Connelly, and what was left waited cooling on the table. She must rouse her family— but first she had to get herself under control. It would not do to let her father or her sisters see that she was upset. They would inevitably question the cause.

Turning, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Connelly stood in the kitchen doorway, the tray with bowl and cup and spoon on it in his hands, one shoulder braced against the jamb. He was watching her, his expression inscrutable. His black hair stood out wildly around his head. His beard made him look fearsome. He was tall and lean and, except for one small detail, looked every bit as menacing as he had the previous afternoon on the block. That detail was his attire. Her father's nightshirt did not even reach his knees and fit him so snugly that she could see the outline of the bandages she had wrapped around his chest. What else she might be able to see of him she refused to put to the test. After one comprehensive, shocked glance, she lifted her eyes to his face.

"You cannot walk about the house like that!"

"I brought you the tray." His tone was almost placating.

"You should not be out of bed." Unwillingly, she put down the bucket she'd been using to fill the kettle and moved to take the tray from his hands. The bowl looked almost as if it had been licked clean, she saw as she dumped the tray and its contents into the pan by the back door for later washing. This evidence of his hunger would have touched her had she not been well beyond being touched by him.

He was still standing in the doorway watching her when she turned around.

"Are you still hungry?" The words came out grudgingly. She couldn't believe she'd said them. She didn't care if he was hungry! In fact, she liked the idea—but no, that wasn't quite the truth. The base, worldly part of her might be able to think of his hunger as a measure of revenge for her humiliation, but the part of her that was still her father's daughter must offer him food.

"I could eat."

Without another word Susannah heaped another bowl full of gruel and dribbled molasses on it, then slapped it down on the table.

"Sit and eat, then," she said shortly, pouring tea into a mug and slapping that down, too.

"You're a kind woman, Sus—
Miss
Susannah," he said, and to her fury the faintest suggestion of a grin seemed to lurk beneath the camouflage of his beard.

"No," she said very clearly, stopping what she was doing to face him, her arms folding over her chest, "I am not. For you must know that at this very moment I am battling the most awful urge to clout you over the head with my fry pan."

He paused in the act of shoveling gruel into his mouth to eye her with interest. "Are you, indeed?"

"Yes."

"Ah," he said. "A woman of spirit as well. I like that." And he commenced eating again.

Susannah sizzled. Before she could erupt, Ben entered the kitchen through the back door.

"I fed the chickens," he said, then stopped as he discovered Connelly. "You're up, then," he said to Connelly.

"As you see."

"I helped carry you in."

"Ah," Connelly said, his eyes sliding back to Susannah. "I wondered how you managed that."

"Connelly, this is Ben Travers. He'll be helping you about the farm." Susannah made the introduction in a frigid voice as she turned to lift the pot of gruel from the fire.

"Good morning, all." Her father's voice as he walked into the kitchen from the hallway made her start, and hot gruel slopped over her hand. Wincing, she set the pot down on the trivet with a grimace, then wiped her hand on a towel. It was not a bad burn, the skin was barely red, but it would not have happened had she not jumped. She would not have jumped had she not felt so guilty about the night before and about being found by her father with Connelly now. She only hoped the reddening of her cheeks would be attributed by him to the heat of the fire.