by Pamela Clare
“They’ve made a nest in the mortar.” He closed the door behind them. “We’ll need to smoke them out before we can seal the crack.” Cassie sat Jamie on the table and searched his skin for welts.
“Did they sting you, love?”
Jamie shook his head, sniffing back tears.
But more than a dozen angry red blotches stood out against the skin of Cole’s chest, with more on his arms and belly.
“I’ll go find some mud.” He moved toward the back door.
“Nonsense.” Cassie took a jar of soda from the shelf. “What good will mud do? Sit down.”
“Yes, mistress.” Cole grinned.
“Should I fetch Takotah?” Nan asked.
“No need.” Cassie ignored Nan’s curious expression. “Find Zach and tell him about the nest. I don’t want anyone else to get stung.”
“Aye, Missy. Come along, lad.” Nan picked Jamie up, settling him on her ample hip. “I’ll nae be lettin’ ye out of me sight again. Gave me old heart the fright of my life, ye did. I’ve a notion to tan yer backside.”
* * *
What felt like a hundred white-hot needles pierced Alec’s skin, burning and itching. He watched as Cassie poured a small amount of the white powder into a bowl and added water from the nearby pitcher, making a thick paste. She scooped the paste onto her fingertips, stood before him, and dabbed it onto the swellings. The paste was cool against his skin, her light touch soothing.
“Don’t they hurt?” Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheek, and her forehead was knitted with concentration.
He reached out to touch a wayward curl, but caught himself and pulled his hand back. “Aye, they sting.”
She stopped and looked up at him, her green eyes wide. Tears had left tracks on her cheeks. “How did you manage to hold on?”
Alec remembered Jamie’s terrified little face as he fell, Cassie’s heartrending scream. “I wouldn’t have let go for anything.”
He brushed his fingertips over the smoothness of her cheek. It was a mistake.
She moved away from his touch as if scorched. Finished with his chest, she walked behind him. She worked quickly now, smoothing paste over the welts on his back and shoulders as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
“There.” She stepped back. “That should calm the itching and bring the swelling down.”
Remarkably, it already had. Only the welts on his thighs bothered him now.
“I believe I’ve some on my legs.”
Cassie looked down at his thighs, her eyes resting for a moment on his groin. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked up at him with something akin to horror in her eyes.
Alec couldn’t help but laugh. “I can handle that part myself.” He took the small bowl from her. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll tend to myself and then find Aldebaran.”
He had reached the back steps and was about to leave when she spoke.
“ I . . . don’t know how to thank you. What you did was—”
He turned to find her watching him, her hands twisting nervously in the folds of her skirts. “We were lucky.”
He stepped outside and walked toward his cabin, certain she was still watching him.
* * *
The hornet’s nest was the object of much curiosity for the rest of the afternoon. Children watched from a distance as the men examined it, built a fire beneath it, and flushed the bothersome insects from their hiding place.
The acrid scent of smoke still hung in the air when Cassie stepped from the cookhouse, where she had been chopping carrots and leeks for their dinner of turtle soup. She needed to find Cole. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left this afternoon, and she needed to see how he was faring. That was what she told herself.
She’d mixed up more soda paste for his welts in case he needed it. But truth was, she needed to talk to him properly. He had saved Jamie’s life, and he hadn’t let her thank him.
When she caught up with him, he was settling the horses with their evening oats.
“Mr. Braden.” She had no notion of how to begin. Her feelings became jumbled when he was near. She breathed in the scent of horses and sweet, fresh hay, willing herself to be calm. She was no silly girl who lost her wits whenever she saw a handsome face.
He turned his head, glanced at her, then started brushing Aldebaran without so much as saying good day.
She frowned, smoothed her skirts. “ I . . . I wanted to thank you.”
He stopped brushing and at last faced her.
“Jamie is very fond of you.” She tried not to notice that the ties of his shirt had come undone, revealing his throat and a good portion of his chest. Or that the scent of the forest still clung to his skin. Or that her heart began to pound when he looked directly at her.
“As I am of him. It must be very frightening for you to be raising the boy alone.”
“Aye.” Her throat was suddenly tight.
“You’ve done an admirable job.”
His compliment surprised her. “Thank you. When he was born, I was sure he would die. And when he didn’t... I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”
Those had been lonely days, and hard, but she wasn’t sure why she now felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. Nor did she want to consider why she had just shared her feelings on such a private matter with a man who was practically a stranger. She had not been herself lately.
She felt the first hot tear slide down her cheek. He stepped closer, caught it, and gently wiped it away, his thumb leaving a trail of heat on her cheek. His gaze caught and held hers.
“You must know,” he said softly, “I’d never let anything happen to your son.”
“My son? Jamie?” Cassie laughed after a moment, her sorrow forgotten. “Jamie is my brother.”
“Your brother? But…” Cole looked genuinely confused.
“Aye, my brother. My mother died four days after his birth. And my father ... my father has not been himself since. I’ve raised Jamie since then.”
“I see.” Cole shifted awkwardly. “I misunderstood.”
“You thought he was my child?” The idea was amusing, if a bit embarrassing. Cassie smiled, and found that Cole, too, was smiling—a silly, sheepish sort of smile. Then it hit her.
Fury replaced mirth. Before she realized what she was doing, she slapped Cole soundly across the face and stomped toward the door, swearing.
“Whoreson! Lecher!” She hadn’t taken three steps when strong arms gripped her from behind and spun her around.
“Will you please explain yourself, Mistress?” He glared down at her, a bright red palm print on his left cheek.
“You thought me a fallen woman, and so ripe to your use! Admit it!” The toe of her shoe connected sharply with Cole’s shin.
“Ouch! Blast it, woman!”
As he bent to massage his shin, Cassie saw her chance and dashed toward the door. But he was quicker. He pinned her arms to her sides and drew her so closely against him she could barely move.
“If you would but calm yourself, and give a wounded man the chance to speak in his own defense . . . or shall I hold you thus?” His voice became husky. His thumbs made tantalizing, slow circles on her flesh.
She felt the muscular length of his body pressed intimately against hers and ceased struggling. This was certainly not the position she wanted to find herself in.
He released her slowly. “You are correct that I thought you no longer a virgin—”
“Then you confess, you bast—”
Before she could say another word, he had pulled her against him again and had covered her mouth with his hand. “—as a woman can hardly bear a child and remain so. But you imply that my attraction is based solely on my mistaken belief that you had been bedded before. You underestimate your beauty, sweet mistress. Had I wished for someone truly experienced, I would have lost all interest in you the first moment we kissed.”
Cassie began struggling furiously, her shouts muted behind his hand. How dared he insult her!
“My interest in you has little to do with the status of your maidenhead and everything to do with your charms, which, if I may say so, are sorely lacking at the moment.” With this, he released her.
Carried forward by her own struggling, she pitched face-first into the straw. For a moment she lay facedown and motionless, too mortified to move. Then, slowly, she rose, brushing away straw that clung to her clothes and hair and smoothing her skirts. Her hair had come loose and hung in a disorderly mass. Her apron was soiled where her knees had pressed into the dirt, and her gown hung crookedly from her shoulders.
He had admitted to thinking her loose. He’d treated her roughly and had even criticized her kisses. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She turned to face him, adjusting her gown as best she could and hiding her trembling hands in her apron.
She lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eye. “I came only to thank you, Mr. Braden. You may return to your work.”
“As you wish, Mistress.”
Alec watched her walk away, cloaked with all the dignity she could muster, and fought the pricking of his conscience. She looked like she’d just been attacked. But, by God, she was the one who’d attacked him! He’d had to use strength to make her listen. It was her own damned fault. He wasn’t the one who’d suddenly gone insane. She’d slapped him, scratched him, kicked him. All he had done was to protect himself. Why should he feel so blasted guilty for that?
Then something else crossed his mind.
Miss Blakewell was a virgin, after all. Not that he cared. Unlike those men who found excitement in deflowering maids, he had carefully avoided them no matter how alluring they might have been, preferring widows and wayward wives, who were more mature, more experienced, and less likely to make demands on his already sparse time. No demands. No expectations. No bonds beyond the bedroom.
But then he remembered the look in Cassie’s eyes when he’d bandaged her hand, the way her body had come alive when they’d kissed. To fan the flames of passion and awaken her desire might well be worth it.
But whom had she met in the forest this morning? What did it matter? He would be leaving this land before long. In truth, the sooner the better. He had obligations. There was work to be done—ending the sale of Kenleigh ships to slave traders, for one, something he’d vowed to do as soon as he returned. His life was waiting for him far from this place, far from Miss Blakewell’s charms—and her temper. God only knew what was happening back home. Had Philip bankrupted the firm yet? Had his family given him up for dead? He retrieved the curry comb from where he’d dropped it in the hay and immediately went back to brushing Aldebaran with a sense of urgency, determined to put Miss Blackwell from his mind.
Alec did not see her again that afternoon. It was a good thing, too, as he was in no mood to put up with another display of temper. He secured the stable doors for the night and began walking toward his cabin. The evening air was cool and carried the chirping and buzzing of insects, the smells of a dozen cookfires. Candlelight and the high-pitched giggle of a child spilled from the open windows of the cookhouse off to his right. It was not on his path, but he found himself walking toward the window anyway.
Inside, Cassie was giving a wriggling, splashing Jamie a bath. A fleet of wooden ships floated on the water before the boy, and, like an all-seeing lord high admiral, Jamie pitted them one against the other in a very wet and decisive battle. His sister finished rinsing lather from his hair, careful not to get the soapy water in his eyes, then sat back on her heels and listened with rapt attention to his accounts of mayhem and victory. She might be the child’s sister, but she made a wonderful mother.
“Time to come out and dry off, little one,” she said. “You’re turning into a fish, I’m afraid.”
“Can’t I play just a while longer?”
“Nay. Look. You’re growing scales.” She lifted one of Jamie’s feet from the water and pointed to his wrinkled toes.
“Those aren’t scales!” He paused, looking uncertain. “Are they?”
“That’s what Takotah always told me.”
Despite Jamie’s protests, she drew him from the water, quickly dried him, and pulled a nightshirt over his head. The boy rubbed his eyes sleepily and, rescuing a toy ship from the water, climbed into Cassie’s lap, where she sat next to the hearth in a rough-hewn rocking chair.
“The drowsy Night her wings has spread, like sable curtains ’bout each head and born ye weary limbs to bed…” she sang as she rocked, her voice soft and sweet.
Something twisted in Alec’s gut. It was a common English lullaby. Why should the sound of it make him feel so desolate?
“And she her pretty Faeries bring, and in your fancy dance their ring...”
Perhaps he missed his nieces and nephew even more than he’d realized. Certainly he had never longed for children of his own. Being an uncle had always been enough for him. Owning a thriving concern meant a life consumed by work and political matters. He’d seen his mother suffer the inattention of her husband and did not want to marry and beget offspring, only to leave his wife and children alone for days and nights on end. Besides, he’d no desire to brave the scheming mothers of London and endure the guile of their daughters. They cared only for the size of a man’s estates.
As for true love, he gave no credence to such foolishness. His father and mother had rarely spoken, much less cared for each other. How they’d managed to have three children was something of a mystery to Alec, since his father had seemed to spend his seed solely on his mistresses. He would have thought the lot of them bastards had they not all resembled their father so closely. Elizabeth and Matthew were the only husband and wife Alec knew whose affection for each other seemed to grow each year rather than diminish. He’d leave matters of marriage and children to them.
* * *
Zach gave Nan a big kiss on the lips, deftly sneaking a handful of tarts off the table and hiding them behind his back.
“Don’t think ye can charm me, Zachariah Bowers.” The cook glowered sternly, but her round face flushing with color nonetheless. “I know well enough ’tis my tarts ye favor and not me, so save yer kisses for someone who wants ’em.”
“Ah, come, Nan. Don’t tell me ye don’t like it when a handsome man steals a kiss,” He stealthily handed the treats out the door to Jamie, who scampered away, giggling, Daniel in tow.
“A handsome man? Nay,” she teased. “But stealin’ a kiss is one thing. Stealin’ me tarts — that’s somethin’ else, mind. Ye might as well take one for yerself. Ye must be hungry after all that thievin’.” She pointed with plump flour-coated fingers toward the remaining tarts on the serving tray.
“Have you seen Elly?” He sat on a nearby stool and sank his teeth into the tart’s strawberry sweetness.
“Aye, I have.” Nan nodded with her head toward the great house while her hands busily shaped dough. “She’s inside servin’ tarts and cider to young Master Crichton.”
“Fancy-Pants? Hell!”
Zach’s good humor vanished. He had no doubt Elly was doing her best to catch the fop’s eye. If she wasn’t careful she’d find herself on her backside playing the trollop for him while he took some rich planter’s daughter to wife. He’d use her, and when her belly started to grow big and round, he’d pretend he’d never seen her before. Zach had seen plenty of men like Geoffrey Crichton back in England. None of them could be trusted.
“He’s been waitin’ here for Miss Cassie for an hour now.”
“An hour! Has Elly been in there with him the whole bloody time?” He rose so abruptly he knocked over the stool. In an hour, Fancy-Pants could have shagged Elly four times over and still have time to spare. Zach fought the urge to barge into the house and drag her out, kicking and screaming if need be.
“Aye, Zachariah, but not alone. Calm yerself, lad. She might not know it yet, but ’tis ye she loves, though what she sees in ye I don’t know.”
He snorted in disgust and paced across the room. The
y’d not been together since the night by the woodpile. She’d smiled at him, even said a few sweet things since then, but Zach knew she felt bad about how she’d treated him that night. He didn’t want her pity.
“Master Geoffrey has got a convict with ’im, he has. A woman. And Sheriff Hollingsworth should be here with another any moment now.”
“Does Braden know?”
“Nay, he’s taken one of the horses out for a ride.”
“Where’s Miss Cassie?”
“Out to visit the master.”
At the sound of a closing door he looked up to see Elly walking, serving tray in hand, down the porch stairs and toward the cookhouse. Even from ten paces he could tell her cheeks wore an excited glow. If he’d been a free man and she no longer a bondsmaid, he would have knocked the tray from her hands, kissed her so hard she wouldn’t have been able to argue with him, and carried her off to the nearest church. There’d be no more of these Fancy-Pants shenanigans. But they were neither of them free to do as they pleased, so he stood in the doorway, watched her approach, and said nothing.
She spotted him. “If you were a gentleman, you’d offer to help me, Zachariah.”
If she expected him to tend to her like some lovesick puppy while she flirted with another man, she was daft.
“Aye. And if you were a gentlewoman, you’d not trifle with the first fop to sniff at your tail, Elly, my sweet.” Gratified by the stunned expression on her face, he walked back toward the sawyer’s shed, whistling.
* * *
Cassie rode along the river after bidding her father farewell for the day, stopping when she came to her favorite spot. She often came to this small, hidden cove when she needed to think. Giving Andromeda a chance to drink, she secured the mare to a nearby evergreen, slid off her shoes and stockings, and, holding up her skirts so as not to get them wet, stepped into the cold water. Though the day was hot and humid, the wind coming off the river was cool, and the chilly water licked at her calves, bringing at least some relief from the heat, bolstering her sinking spirits.
Her father had not improved. Not that she’d really expected to find that he had. More than two months had gone by since he’d recognized her, and she had to face the possibility that he would never be himself again. While it terrified her to know that sooner or later the truth would come out and life at Blakewell’s Neck would change forever, no fear or sorrow matched that of watching her father slowly fade away. The man who had been Abraham Blakewell was gone. What remained was merely his body. Battling a growing sense of gloom, she kicked up a spray of water, watching the drops fall. There was nothing she could do for her father now but pray.