Petals on the River (22 page)

a pair of shoes."

"You needn't worry about buying me any shoes, Mr.
 
Thornton," Shemaine

replied softly.
 
"I'm grateful to have the ones you gave me to wear.
 
As

you accurately surmised, they are a bit long, but twill not be hard for

me to get used to them.
 
I know well what it's like to go without, and

I'm thankful to have a pair, whatever their condition or fit.

Truthfully, tis far more comfortable to have my feet shod than feel

every pebble or splinter I come upon."

"It took no great insight on my part to determine that Victoria's shoes

would be too large for you," Gage pointed out.
 
"Though fineboned, my

wife was nearly half a head taller than you."

"Andrew will be tall too, I think," Shemaine predicted, glancing down at

his father's hands.
 
Gage's fingers were long, slender, and rather

squarish at the tips, as handsome as the man himself.
 
"How can the boy

not be when you're so tall yourselM I'm sure he'll be the very image of

you when he grows up."

"Victoria said as much soon after Andrew was born," Gage recalled.

"And perhaps that will be true, since she was so fair.
 
Her hair was as

pale as cornsilk and had a sheen that matched.
 
I used to watch it

blowing in the wind and was always amazed by the fact that the strands

never seemed to get tangled."

Self-consciously Shemaine smoothed a wispy curl back from her face.
 
Her

hair was far from finely textured.
 
It was so thick and rebellious, the

heavy curls had to be restrained by braids or upswept creations that

could test the patience of the most ingenious coiffeur. Her lady's maid

in England had enjoyed the challenge of combing her hair into beautiful

styles and bragging about the golden highlights in it.
 
But the woman

had brushed and tended her hair since her tenth birthday and naturally

was a bit prejudiced.
 
In lauding her own praises, Nola had often

claimed that no aristocrat's pampered darling would ever be as

exquisitely coifed as her Shemaine.

"I fear my hair is as ornery as it looks," Shemaine complained, wishing

she had but a small measure of Nola's talent.
 
"I came nigh to cutting

it off this afternoon, just to be free of the snarls."

Gage watched an obstinate tendril readily rebound as soon as her hand

dropped away.
 
He wanted to reach out and rub the curl between his

fingers just to feel its silky texture, but he checked the urge,

guessing his bondslave would bolt like a frightened deer.
 
He was

already familiar with a variety of her qualms and considered it a rare

accomplishment indeed to have massaged those shapely limbs as long as he

had.

 
"I like your hair, Shemaine, and I would not take it kindly if you were

to cut it off."

Suddenly apprehensive of the areas where she might unwittingly offend

him, Shemaine began to fret about what she had already done and decided

it was far better to admit the truth than have him learn of her deed in

some other fashion.
 
"I hope you won't be too angry with me, Mr.

Thornton .
 
.
 
." she said in an anxious rush.
 
"After using it, I was

careful to wash it and put it back where I found it...."

"It?" Gage's brow lifted warily.
 
"What are you trying to tell me,

Shemaine?
 
What is it?"

"Your brush," she answered simply.
 
"I had to use it to get the snarls

out of my hair."

Behind an abbreviated smile, Gage breathed a sigh of relief.
 
"Is that

all?
 
The way you acted, I was sure you had committed some grievous

mayhem."

"You don't mind that I used it?" Shemaine asked in amazement. "You're

not angry?"

"Should I be?" he questioned with a devilish gleam in his eyes. "Do you

have something I'd rather not have?"

Laughing, Shemaine shook her head.
 
"I'm not aware of any infestation,

sir."

Gage rubbed his chin reflectively, squelching the desire to grin as he

teased.
 
"Perhaps you should be afraid of what I may have given you,

Shemaine You did say you washed the brush afterwards and not Bracing her

hands upon her knees, Shemaine settled an impishly quizzical glare upon

him.
 
"Are you sure you're English, Mr.
 
Thornton .

He responded with a casual shrug.
 
"If I'm my father's son, then I'm

from a long line of Englishmen.
 
If not, my mother was ravished in her

sleep, for she laid all the credit for my birth, looks, and stubbornness

to William Thornton."' "Daddee?" Andrew called sleepily from the

bedroom.

"Coming, Andy," Gage replied, and rose to his feet in one swift

effortless movement that fairly bedazzled Shemaine with his strength and

manly grace.
 
Striding across the parlor to the bedroom, Gage was

unaware of the emerald eyes that followed him across the room.
 
He

disappeared within, and Shemaine leaned back in her chair to listen as

his muted voice blended with his son's sleepy tones.
 
Though the words

Gage spoke were of no great import, his tone was gentle and comforting,

warming Shemaine's heart perhaps as much as the boy's Evening descended

upon the land, and with it came thickening mists that rolled up around

the cabin, making it an island unto itself.
 
Outside an owl could be

heard hooting in a tree somewhere in the woods to the west.

With the darkness, the interior of the cabin had grown quiet except for

the crackling and hissing of the fire and the scratching of a quill on

parchment as Gage made notations in a ledger in the back corridor.

Engrossed in his accounting, he seemed oblivious to the woman whom he

had purchased earlier that day, but whenever Shemaine glanced up from

her sewing in the kitchen, she could see him through the open doorway.

She sat in the rocking chair on the far right of the hearth, with a

clear view of half the hallway.
 
After sharing the food Hannah Fields

had sent over for supper with the Thorntons, she had readied the morning

fare for an early rising and tidied the kitchen Later, Gage had put

Andrew to bed in his small nook just off the main n u / PET2NLS ON THE

RIVER 8l bedroom, and then had settled down to work at his drafting

table while she hemmed the blue gown and the second chemise she had

chosen for herself.

It had certainly not been her intention to compare her master with her

fiance, but as her fingers plied the needle through the cloth,

Shemaine's mind drifted far afield and the inevitable happened.
 
In many

ways the two were similar.
 
Both men had hair as black as a raven s

wing.

Gage Thornton kept his clipped short and close against his nape, whereas

Maurice tied his thick locks in a neat queue behind his head, shunning

both powder and wigs.
 
If there was a difference in the height of the

two men, then it was too minuscule to even notice.
 
Both were tall,

broad-shouldered, lean but muscular, complementing whatever garments

they wore, whether it was the deerhide breeches and homespun shirts that

Gage favored or Maurice's more elegant garb.
 
A1though her betrothed

Susually preferred the dignity of black silk over other colors and

fabrics for more formal attire, it came to her mind that the Marquess,

as handsome as he was, had looked no more impressive in his courtly

finery than Gage Thornton in his more durable clothes.
 
Her master's

waist and hips were narrow enough to be envied by the most conceited

dandy, and the long buckskin trousers were slim enough to cling to every

muscular contour, readily revealing the taut sinews that flexed through

his thighs, clearly evidencing the athletic vigor of the man.

Maurice du Mercer was certainly not- without strength, Shemaine mentally

argued in an effort to keep her comparisons clearly in perspective.
 
He

was, in fact, a formidable swordsman and an accomplished equestrian.
 
He

was adept at all the courtly dances and moved through them with as much

grace as he rode a horse.
 
Yet the difference in the two men could have

been summed up simply by the contrast between their hands.
 
Gage's

fingers were lean and hard.
 
In the grip of such a steely vise, the

pale, beautiful, uncallused hands of the Marquess du Mercer might have

been severely broken.

At one time, perhaps a century or two ago, Shemaine had been convinced

that the handsomeness of her betrothed was unequaled. Certainly none

could have denied the aristocratic refinement of Maurice s features and

the beauty of his darkly lashed black eyes.
 
Upon hearing of his

marriage proposal, her mother, who had previously demonstrated a firm

confidence in her daughter's good sense, had expressed concern that

Maurice and Shemaine had been influenced by a strong physical attraction

for one another rather than a deep, unswerving devotion.

Some time later Camille had again posed the conjecture that She maine

had been swept off her feet by the grandeur of her fiance's appearance

and his station in life.
 
Shemus O'Hearn may have had a temper to

battle, but he was usually wise enough to take his wife's counsel to

heart.
 
Together they had concurred and refrained from giving their

consent, begging her suitor to understand that they only wanted Shemaine

to be aware of the life she would be committing herself to as a

marchioness.
 
Understanding their concern, Maurice had ardently declared

his love for their daughter and had promised that she would want for

nothing.
 
At least a month had passed before the O'Hearns had finally

relented, acquiescing to Shemaine's quietly spoken assurances that no

other man whom she had ever met or possibly would ever meet could

measure up to the man she had come to know Maurice to be.

That was eight months ago in England!

And this was a different continent and a different timel And much had

happened since that balmy day in London when Maurice had asked her to be