To Whisper Her Name (5 page)

“No one’s going to see.”

“I don’t care who sees, it’s the —”

“Suit yourself then.” He took a step back. “After all, this seems like a safe enough road, and you
are
locked inside a carriage. By my calculation, we can’t be more than a couple of miles from Belle Meade, so it shouldn’t be long before your driver returns.”

Olivia eyed him. “So … you
know
where you’re going then?”

He looked at her as though she were daft. “Generally I try to make that the case, yes, ma’am. Don’t you?”

She suppressed a sigh. “What I meant was … you’re aware that this road leads to the Belle Meade Plantation?”

“I am.”

“Well.” Feeling as though she had the upper hand and enjoying it, Olivia smoothed her skirt. “If it saves you any trouble, I can tell you that General Harding isn’t hiring right now. He has all the help he needs.”

“Is that right? So you’re privy to General Harding’s business, are you? You must be close to the family.”

Olivia read bemusement, rather than disappointment, in his expression and found it irritating. Same as she found him. Yet she hesitated, not wanting to overstate her relationship with the Harding
family, especially considering the conditions of her coming to live with them. “I’m acquainted with the general, sir. But I enjoy a much closer friendship with his wife. It’s through her knowledge of her husband’s dealings that I’m privy to this fact.”

He nodded, obviously weighing the information. “I thank you for your counsel, ma’am. But with all due respect, I’ve come a long way to get here. I think I’ll take my chances.”

Olivia bristled at her advice being so summarily dismissed. And by someone like him. “I was simply trying to spare you further wasted effort. It seems such a shame” — she peered over the window’s edge and down at his mud-covered trousers —”considering how far you’ve apparently traveled.”

He smiled even as the bluish hazel of his eyes darkened. “Your
kindness
is duly noted. And while I may not get what I’ve come for, ma’am, I won’t consider my effort in getting here wasted.” He looked up the road toward Belle Meade, then back again. “If I’d never tried to get here … now
that
would have been the real waste.”

Reaching up, he tipped an imaginary hat and strode on without a backward glance. She followed him with her gaze as he rounded the bend and disappeared from sight. But his words resonated inside her.

I may not get what I’ve come for …

She hadn’t wanted him to stay with her. She preferred him gone. So why this unexpected interest in knowing what had brought the man to Belle Meade? She couldn’t account for it, but one thing she knew. She wasn’t waiting for Jedediah to return. She wanted out of this carriage.

Spotting Aunt Elizabeth’s letter below her on the seat, she retrieved it, stuffed it in her skirt pocket, then hiked up her skirts. Gripping the door, she maneuvered her leg through the window, more smoothly this time than before. She smiled. This wasn’t going to be as hard as she’d thought. But the trick was … how did she get the rest of her through without falling?

The mounds of fabric only served to slow her progress, bunching around her waist and making it hard to get a good hold. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, she tucked her chin against her chest and tried to make herself as small as she could. Then she forced her head through the narrow space and was almost through when her shoulder caught.

She tugged and pulled, but it was no use. The opening was too
small. She groaned, the muscles in the back of her neck burning. She was loathe to admit it, but her plan of escape was ill-concocted.

Tucking her chin again, she ducked her head to push it back through — but her hair caught. She huffed a breath, wishing she’d never started this. She managed to free her hair only to discover she was hung on something else from behind. She reached around, feeling for where she was snagged when she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

One of the horses.

It broke through the pine trees lining the opposite side of the road and limped toward her. Blood ran down its leg from a gash, ugly and deep, and another line trickled down the side of its neck. The horse paused near the middle of the road, lowered its head, and exhaled a blast of air that sent dust and dirt flying. Olivia went weak inside. Scarcely able to breathe, she made herself go perfectly still. If she didn’t move, maybe the animal wouldn’t see her.

As if reading her thoughts, the horse raised its head and looked directly at her, then snorted and pawed the ground. All Olivia could think about was that stallion nearly trampling her. And though the thought was absurd, she knew, she sensed accusation in the mare’s actions and recalled what Jedediah had said about the horse …
Tried to take a chunk outta my arm when I cut her reins loose. She can be downright mean when she puts her mind to it
.

It started toward her again, limping, and Olivia fought to free herself. With every step the horse took, Olivia’s efforts grew more frantic. “It’s just a horse, Olivia. Just a horse,” she repeated, words her father had said to her years ago, the day following the accident, her tiny arm throbbing and bandaged. “It won’t hurt you if you treat it right,” he’d said.

But her father had been wrong. She had treated that horse right, and it had thrown her. She’d treated Charles as best she could too. And he’d hurt her. Over and over and over again. And no amount of bandages or salve was going to heal the wounds he’d left behind.

Not wanting to, Olivia forced herself to look back, and the painful knot at the base of her throat twisted tighter. The horse was close now — too close — and was sniffing the air, chomping at the bit. No doubt wanting to chomp into her, just like Jedediah had said.

Tears burning, the scar on her arm aching, Olivia tossed pride and propriety to the wind and screamed for all she was worth.

R
idley shook his head again, smiling. It’d been a long time since he’d met a woman so hard bent on being proper. The years of war and loss had taken their toll on everyone, himself included. And getting by on little to nothing had thinned the starch of even the most properly bred of Southern society.

Or so he’d thought.

After all, who gave a horse’s tail about how the woman got out of that carriage? He certainly didn’t. But her expression when he’d suggested she crawl through the window had said it all. And when he’d intentionally asked for her name, able to guess at the kind of reaction that would draw …

He laughed, recalling how those eyes of hers had flashed. That pert look on her pretty face was enough to make a man —

He paused, hearing something. He turned back in the direction he’d come and waited, head cocked, listening again.

But … nothing. So he continued on.

If he ever had the pleasure of crossing paths with the young widow again, he promised himself he would —

There it was again. A scream. No mistaking it this time.
Or
the direction from which it came. He reeled and broke into a run. An image flashed into his mind of someone forcing his way into the young woman’s carriage, and Ridley fully blamed himself for leaving her unattended. No matter that she’d made it clear she wanted him to leave.

He rounded the corner he’d passed just moments earlier and wasn’t prepared for what he saw. And heard.

The prim and proper young widow was hanging half out the window of the carriage, her skirts hitched high and her petticoats — and
other frilly unmentionables — on view for all the world to see. But it was hearing what she was saying and who she was saying it to that made him slow his steps.

“Shoo! Go away!
Shoo!
” she half-screamed, half-cried at a pretty little bay mare he remembered seeing earlier.

The mare inched closer, and when Ridley spotted a few apples beneath the carriage, he soon guessed the animal’s motivation. Still, the mare watched the woman with a curiosity Ridley understood and, frankly, shared. The woman continued to give the mare a good goin’ over, as his grandfather used to say. But the only question in Ridley’s mind was why.

He made a quiet approach. “Ma’am, is everything —”

No sooner had he spoken than the mare bolted. Ridley tried to grab the horse’s harness as she passed, but she veered away, favoring her right leg as she went. And he soon glimpsed why. Her leg was busted up. But still, she ran. Knowing he’d never catch her now, Ridley turned back.

The young widow looked up at him, blinked, then quickly ducked her head. Her breath came in staggered sobs. Not knowing what to make of the situation, Ridley stayed his ground, uncertain if she’d welcome his presence after dismissing him so soundly. Not to mention the embarrassment of being caught in such a predicament. From the look of things, he guessed she’d tried climbing out the window after all. Now she’d gotten herself good and stuck.

But one thing was certain, that was one shapely calf attached to one very shapely thigh.

He still couldn’t see her face — her intention, no doubt — but he couldn’t hide his smile. Not that she was looking. “Ma’am … may I be of assistance to you?”

A few thready breaths, a sniff, then finally she nodded, her head still down. “Yes …” Her voice came out small, muffled, the folds of her dress all bunched up around her. “Would you —” She took a quick breath and he saw her grip tighten where she held on to the window. “Would you please help me get out of here? I’m stuck … as you can clearly see.”

Ridley stepped closer. The halting lilt of her voice told him her fear was — or had been — real, but the edge to it let him know she hadn’t completely swallowed her pride. Choked on it was probably more accurate.

He dumped his pack and assessed the situation. “It’d be my pleasure, ma’am. Where’re you hung up?”

“My hair and then … somewhere along here.” She gestured toward her back end, her gaze still averted.

“All right then, let me take a look.” He put a foot on the carriage step and pulled himself up. He untangled a strand of dark brown hair from the rivets along the window then ran his hand around the top side, pushing aside the obstinate hoop skirt and pressing down yards of fabric as he went. His exploration extended the length of her back, though he took care not to touch her any more than he had to. He had to admit, however … this task wasn’t too terribly unpleasant.

He quickly ascertained the problem. “It’s your bustle, ma’am. But I’m afraid I’m going to tear it if I try to —”

“Do it,
please
. Just get me out of here.”

“All right.” It was dark inside the carriage which made it more difficult to see. He quickly realized what he had to do and grinned, but tried not to let it show in his voice. “Ma’am, I’m going to need to …
feel around
a little to find where you’re hung up.”

She nodded, but he felt her tense.

He reached inside the window, much closer to her now, and caught a whiff of lilac and something else sweet and womanly. He located the bustle — not hard to do on a woman — and gingerly felt through the folds of dense fabric, a somewhat trickier task to manage without being able to see well. But harder for her than him, he realized.

“You headed to Belle Meade too?” he said, feeling a need, for her sake, to make conversation.

“Yes … I’m the Hardings’ new head housekeeper.”

“Oh … well, that’s good.” Though it wasn’t what he had expected her to say. From the look of her — her fine clothes and the highfalutin way she conducted herself and from what she’d said earlier — he’d have figured her for a rich friend of the family, not an employee.

But then, the war had changed things for everyone.

If anyone had ever told him he’d be in such a predicament — feeling his way around a woman’s bustle — he would’ve guessed he might have enjoyed it a little more. As it was, he sensed the young woman’s discomfort and hurried to finish the task. But it took longer than he thought. It was a right fancy bustle. He cleared his throat, needing a diversion.

“May I ask you a question, ma’am?”

Seconds passed.

“Yes.”

“Why were you screaming like that just now? At the mare, I mean.”

She exhaled. “I don’t care for horses.”

Thinking back on the scene he’d come upon moments earlier, the pieces slowly fell together for him.
I don’t care for horses
. So much said in so few words, and the truth being understated, if the fear he’d witnessed from her was any clue.

He found where the material was snagged and pulled. The fabric ripped in his hand. “Now …” He stepped back down. “If you’ll crawl back inside there then come out head first, we’ll have you out of there in no time.”

She finally looked at him then, her eyes red-rimmed, clouded with embarrassment. Wordless, she maneuvered her body back inside, then her leg. Ridley helped push the voluminous folds of her skirts back behind her, glad now that she hadn’t seen him smiling.

Wasting no time, she stuck her arms and head through the window. Ridley guided her hands to his shoulders, then gripped her about her waist and pulled. She didn’t weigh much, not when considering the shapeliness of the curves beneath his hands — and the curves at eye level, which he couldn’t help but notice and tried not to stare at.

Her skirt got hung up again, but he didn’t wait for her instruction. He just pulled. Her feet cleared the window and gravity did its work. Her body fell against his and there was a moment — when he was holding her eye-level with him, his hands about her waist, hers on his shoulders — when he became aware of just how long it’d been since he’d touched a woman. Much less held one. Her eyes were so deep a blue they looked almost violet in the afternoon sun. Her dark lashes lay soft and pretty against her skin, and her hair — a glossy dark brown, like the finest aged whiskey swirling in the glass — was piled atop her head, but for a few strands that had come unhitched in the struggle. Ridley swallowed hard. Widow or not, she was one beautiful wom —

“
Please
… put me down.”

The simple command snapped him back to attention. He felt heat rushing through his body, most of it ending up in his face. He cleared his throat and promptly set her on the ground, where she took two hasty steps backward and wobbled. He reached out to steady her,
seeing her boot caught in a rut, but she yanked her arm away — and went squarely down on her bottom.

This time he didn’t even try to curb his grin. Not even with the dark look she threw him. He tried to help her up, but she batted his hand away.

“I can do it myself.”

He laughed, seeing a storm gather behind those violet eyes. “Yes, ma’am. I can see that.”

She dusted off her skirt, then started poking her hair back into place. She was taller than he’d first judged. Still a good few inches shorter than him, but the height looked good on her. Her expression was guarded. Not that he blamed her. And color heightened her cheeks. Whether from crying or embarrassment, he didn’t know. Probably both.

“I’m sorry I had to tear your dress, ma’am.”

“I don’t care about that. I —” She took a breath, her hand hovering at her midsection. She looked up at him. “I’m indebted to you, sir.” Her voice was just above a whisper. “I thank you for helping me get out of there.”

Well able to imagine what nick her pride had taken with that admission, Ridley nodded once. “You’re welcome, ma’am. It was my pleasure.” He caught the quick rise of her brow but didn’t respond, not having intended anything by that last comment. But he could clearly see that she thought he had. This woman …

Remembering the promise he’d made to himself earlier about her, he decided to keep it. “No one’s here to introduce us properly, ma’am, but it seems to me that — under the circumstances — we should know each other’s names. Don’t you agree?”

She stared up at him.

Not hearing a protest, he proceeded. “I’m Ridley Cooper, ma’am. Mr. Ridley Adam Cooper, if we want to be formal about it.” He waited, half hoping she would offer him her hand, so he could greet her properly — with a kiss — like a gentleman. But she didn’t.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then took a quick breath. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cooper. I’m Mrs. Charl —” She stopped as if catching herself. Her features tensed. “I’m … Mrs.
Olivia
Aberdeen.”

Ridley did his best not to react to her correction and to what it revealed. She was a widow, after all, like scores of other women in this town and a hundred others like it, still missing their men and trying
their best to carry on without them. He could tell by the way she firmed her mouth and looked away that she was carrying a load of grief. Understandably so.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Aberdeen. And for what it’s worth, ma’am, I don’t think one bit less of you for coming through that window. In fact, I’m impressed.”

He was pretty sure she tried to smile, but the gesture couldn’t seem to take hold. She lowered her gaze again. A rustle in the trees drew their attention, and he saw the mare peering through the branches.

Olivia Aberdeen stiffened.

“It’s all right.” He held up a hand. “She’s just hurt, that’s all. And a little scared.” He walked over and grabbed his pack, dismissing the idea of trying to catch the thoroughbred. “Is there anything you need before we start walking?”

Ridley caught her staring at the trunk still strapped up top. “You want your trunk?”

“No, it’s all right. Jedediah will get it when he comes back.”

But the way she said it — same as his mother used to when she wanted something but didn’t want to be a bother — told him otherwise. He retrieved the trunk and got a closer look at the damage to the other side of the carriage. Imagination kicked in, and he sighed. It was a wonder the woman hadn’t been seriously injured. Or worse.

He shouldered his pack, then the trunk, which wasn’t as heavy as he’d thought, and they fell into step together.

Neither spoke, and he left it that way, figuring she preferred it.

After almost a mile, he shifted the trunk and looked over at her. Traces of sweat beaded her brow. “Why don’t you take off that jacket, ma’am? It’d be a lot cooler for you.”

“I’m fine.” She tugged on her left sleeve. “I’m not warm at all.”

Ridley nodded, deciding to leave it alone. “Where are you from, Mrs. Aberdeen? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m from here.” She walked on, face forward. “From Nashville. I’ve lived here all my life.”

He waited, giving her time to pursue the conversation if she wanted to. Though he didn’t mind the silence either. After all he’d been through, he didn’t think he’d ever tire of quiet again.

“What about you, Mr. Cooper?” she finally reciprocated, more out of politeness than interest, he suspected. She didn’t look at him. “Where’s your home?”

“South Carolina. On the coast.”

“The coast?” She turned, slowing. “So … you’ve seen the ocean?”

He laughed, liking the way her eyes lit up. “Yes, ma’am. Many times. I’ve swam in it too.”

“What’s it like?”

“Wet. And salty.”

She laughed — a light, musical sound — and he sneaked another look at her. “Maybe you’ll see it for yourself someday.”

“Oh no. I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Tennessee is my home. I don’t expect I’ll ever leave. And I don’t wish to … I love it here.”

Something about the way she said it made him wonder if she really felt that way, or if she was trying to convince herself it was true.

On impulse, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the seashell. “I’ve carried this with me for a while now. I picked it up along a stretch of beach not far from my home.”

She slowed, looking at it like it was a rare jewel. “May I hold it?”

Liking the way she asked, he nodded. “Sure.”

She paused and turned the shell this way and that in her palm. “It’s so pretty.” She held it up it to the light then waved her forefinger behind it. “You can see through it.” She rubbed her thumb along the smooth inside.