Seaswept Abandon (The McClellans Series, Book 2) Author's Cut Edition

by Jo Goodman

  Shortly after the doctor excused himself, Rahab did the same. She smiled inwardly as she shut the double doors to the dining room behind her and her father demanded of everyone at once: "Why didn't you tell me that was the way of it?"

  Rae did not wait to hear the replies and hurried instead to Jericho's room, relieving the young housemaid who cared for him while the family was at dinner. "You can go, Damali. Tildy is keeping your dinner warm in the kitchen."

  "I don't mind stayin', Miss Rae. You might need some help gettin' him to eat." She pointed to the tray on the nightstand that held a bowl of broth with some fresh chunks of bread floating in it.

  "I'm sure I can manage," Rae told her. "At least, I think I can," she added to herself once Damali was gone. Rahab had never particularly enjoyed this part of caring for a sick patient. Her brothers, on those occasions when they had been laid low, had resented their weakness and hated being spoon fed like small children. Invariably they had tried to wrest the spoon from her, and the entire affair had become a very messy business indeed. She eyed the bowl of bread and broth as if it were her enemy.

  "Reckon it'll attack, do you think?"

  Startled, Rae turned toward the bed. Jericho was looking suspiciously alert for someone who was supposed to be sleeping comfortably, according to the doctor. "Humph. How long have you been awake?"

  "Only since you came in."

  "Oh." She had not suspected she would feel ill at ease in his presence, and she was impatient with herself. The lazy regard in his bright eyes was disconcerting, and she was not certain it was appropriate in a man who had recently been at death's door. "How do you feel?" she asked briskly, ignoring the heat in her cheeks.

  "I feel like hell."

  "Please. Your language, Mr. Smith. Is there something I can get for you? Some laudanum, perhaps?"

  Jericho blinked widely and nearly choked on his surprise. His language? She was admonishing him for saying hell when she had near burned his ears with verbiage more suited to the lowlife skulking along the wharfs? How could she not remember that he had almost heated her bottom for the offense she had given?

  "Are you all right, Mr. Smith?" Rae asked, a perfect study of concern and impartial solicitude. "You looked decidedly peaked for a moment." She turned away after he assured her he was recovered and hid her satisfied smile as she bent over the tray. As long as she kept the upper hand there was no chance of his further bruising her heart. He would be gone soon enough and would never have to know the nature of her feelings for him. "Can you eat something? Or would you prefer to rest some more? You never told me if you want the laudanum."

  "No laudanum," he said quickly. "I'd like somethin' to eat, Miss McClellan, if you'd be so kind."

  "Of course." Rae helped him sit up, plumping the pillows behind him. Mindful of his leg and the poultice that rested there, she sat on the very edge of the bed while she spoon fed him the broth.

  Jericho could not help but grin as Rae concentrated on lifting the spoon from the bowl to his mouth. The tip of her pink tongue peeped out at the corner of her lips, evidence that she took this task seriously.

  "You find something amusing, Mr. Smith?" she asked tartly.

  Jericho denied it. "It may have escaped your notice, miss, but it is my leg that's injured, not my arms."

  He was still an odious man, she thought. He teased her with that unhurried smile while butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. She did not protest when he took the bowl from the tray and lifted it to his lips, sipping the broth in a mannerly fashion. Over the rim of the small bowl his eyes laughed at her.

  "There," he said after the first few sips. "D'you see how easy that is?" He returned the bowl to the tray. "That's all I have room for now."

  Rae put the tray aside. "Then you should be sleeping. You are far from well yet. If you expect to use your leg again you'll be sensible and let me give you some laudanum so the pain doesn't make you restless." She began to get up, but Jericho stayed her hand. Unfortunately he held the wrist that he had bruised the evening before, and Rae could not hide her wince.

  Jericho released her as if scalded, cursing himself for touching her at all. It was easy to forget she was a gently reared lady who would not approve of virtual strangers handling her with familiarity. "Beggin' your pardon, miss. I didn't mean to take liberties."

  Now it was Rae who nearly choked. What a hypocrite he was, playing the gentleman when he knew very well that once he had touched a lot more of her than her wrist. Her breasts swelled involuntarily in response to the drift of her thoughts. "I have a slight tenderness on my wrist," she explained coolly.

  Something clicked in Jericho's mind. "Let me see."

  "Why ever would you—"

  "Let me see."

  Implacable. That's what he was. Relentless when he was in pursuit of something. "Oh, very well. Though why it should concern you..." She pulled back the sleeve of her blouse and waved her discolored wrist in front of him.

  Though she hid it quickly again, Jericho had seen enough. He blanched. "I did that, didn't I?"

  Rae shrugged and got to her feet. "I assure you it's not worth a moment's worry. Anyway, if you hadn't, I would have doped you, and then you couldn't have given me the recipe for the poultice."

  "Still, I would rather not have hurt you, Red."

  Rae's eyes widened and her slender body tensed. It was as if her breathing had stopped, and she wondered how Jericho could help but notice the effect of his words on her. "What did you call me?" she asked when she was sure an unsteady voice would not betray her.

  Jericho had not noticed Rae's reaction because he was busy kicking himself for having let the nickname slip. "Red," he answered inadequately, wondering how he would pull his posterior from the fire this time.

  "You must have misunderstood someone," she said evenly and coldly. "My family calls me Rae. And I have not given you leave to address me so familiarly." There, that should put him squarely in his place.

  Until this moment Jericho had never considered that he might not like Rahab McClellan once he got to know her. But he had to think on it now. Red had upbraided him with spirited abandon, yet she had never made him feel as if he had just crawled out from under a rock. Rahab, however, with a flick of one dark eyebrow and a voice that would ice the Caribbean, held with more propriety than suited Jericho.

  "Your pardon again, Miss McClellan," he said stiffly. "I wasn't thinking clearly. Red doesn't suit you at all."

  But it does! It does! "Of course it doesn't," was what she said. She got up from the bed.

  "I think I'll take that laudanum now." Jericho rearranged his own pillows and slid gingerly down the bed careful not to dislodge the poultice. He pulled the sheet about his neck, and after swallowing his medicine he turned his face away from Rahab and shut his eyes.

  Rae stared at his averted head for several long minutes, then turned on her heel, a shudder rippling her shoulders, and ran from the room for the privacy of her own chamber.

  * * *

  A cool, early November breeze ruffled Rae's hair as she crossed the yard from the stables to the house. Beside her Courtney chattered amiably, stopping only to blow tunelessly on the instrument Jericho had whittled for her. Courtney was in perpetual delight since her beloved Papa and Uncle Noah had returned to the landing. Ashley said dryly that there were more men in her daughter's camp than in Washington's. Certainly the little girl had twisted every adult male's heart about her finger.

  "It's a fine thing, isn't it, Auntie Rae?" she said, holding the instrument up for Rae's inspection. "I think Uncle Jericho must be a better whistler than even ol' Jacob."

  "I don't know about that, but it is a most excellent thing," Rae said. Uncle Jericho indeed. One would think the man was a member of the family the way he was fawned over. She grimaced slightly at the unworthy thoughts she harbored. "And it has a name. It's called a pipe."

  Courtney's steps halted as she examined the instrument again. "Does the 'bacco go in these holes then?"

  Rae
smiled. "No, that's a different sort of pipe. One for smoking. Yours is for music."

  Courtney thrust the pipe into Rae's hands. "Make music."

  "It's been a long time since... oh, very well. There is no need to go all sad faced on me." She blew softly into the end of the pipe, warming up first, then managing a credible rendition of "Yankee Doodle." Courtney's clapping, off beat but appreciative, encouraged her to play through it again until another set of hands, louder and more rhythmic, joined her niece's clapping. She stopped abruptly, straightening, and faced Jericho, who was leaning casually against one of the veranda supports, looking very fit in a pair of Salem's buff britches, white linen shirt, and a navy jacket of Noah's. It was useless to attempt any sort of hauteur, because she had already hidden the pipe behind her back as a child might do when neatly caught with both hands in the cookie jar.

  Courtney, plainly oblivious of her aunt's embarrassment, demanded more music.

  "Yes, Miss McClellan, play something else for us."

  Rae gave the pipe back to Courtney. "I was only playing for my niece, Mr. Smith. I had no idea you were there. Should you be outside? It's a trifle cold today."

  Jericho ignored Rae and spoke to Courtney. "Tildy says she has a warm tart with your name on it. But only if you hurry." When Rae made to follow the little girl, Jericho pushed away from the white pillar and blocked her path. "Let her go. I want to talk to you... Red."

  Rae lifted her chin a notch. "I believe we had this conversation some weeks ago. I can make allowances that you may have forgotten; you were quite ill at the time. But I still have not given you leave—"

  "Cut line, Red," Jericho said, emphasizing her name deliberately. "You are the one who has difficulty rememberin'—and forgettin'." His cerulean eyes bore into her startled ones. After a moment he took pity on her and his face softened. "Come, let's walk a bit. Your mother says there is nothing wrong with a 'modicum of exercise,' as she phrased it. And your father has lent me his cane." He twirled the ebony stick with a flourish.

  Rae allowed herself to be turned away from the house and lent her support to Jericho as he hobbled down the steps. Her insides were roiling, and she found refuge by ignoring the myriad questions that plagued her and by making inconsequential conversation. Maybe she had only imagined the knowing look in his eyes. "Papa doesn't use the cane often. He hates calling attention to his infirmity."

  "I can sympathize, but for the time bein' there is nothing for it. What causes your father's limp? Gout?" For himself Jericho was quite content to let the confrontation ride a while longer. Two things had kept him from addressing it earlier, the fact that Rae had often managed to avoid him while he was convalescing in his chamber, and that while he was bedridden, escape was all too easy for her. He had waited this long; he could wait a little longer.

  Rae flashed a small smile. "Don't ever say you suspected that. He would be most put out. No, he was shot in the leg years ago. And no, it wasn't during the war with the French and Indians. It was Ashley's uncle who did the thing."

  "The Duke of Linfield."

  "Yes. Oh, but of course, you know that. You helped her when Nigel sent someone here to abduct her. It seems as if you are a guardian angel for the McClellans. First Ashley, then Noah. Salem says you are the very man to have in a fray."

  "What a convenient memory you possess, Red. Or are you goin' to protest you still don't recall Wolfe's?" When she didn't reply, Jericho pointed with his cane to the summerhouse. "Let's have a seat over there."

  "Perhaps we should return to the—"

  "Over there," he said imperturbably.

  "But your leg—"

  "There."

  Rae gritted her teeth and stayed at Jericho's side until he had mounted the few steps to the open, airy floor of the summer-house. Once he had chosen his seat on one of the benches that lined the octagonal structure, she took a place on the opposite side.

  "I would not have thought you would be so skittish about sitting close to me," he said affably.

  Rae did not mince her words. "How long have you known the truth, and who told you?"

  Jericho gave her one of his infuriatingly calm smiles. "Now, that is more like it, Red. Do you recall the evenin' you flew out of my room because—well, actually I don't know why you flew out—"

  "Go on. I remember."

  "Leah saw you go and came to me demandin' an explanation. She had no qualms about takin' a sick man to task when she thought I had done somethin' to her sister. You McClellans do tend to rally round, don't you?"

  Rae's foot tapped impatiently.

  "In a rather incoherent fashion I explained the problem to her, and she simply gaped at me like I'd gone daft. Perhaps you didn't like being called Red, she said, because no one would like being reminded that she had thought herself a strumpet. Naturally, this was a source of confusion to me, since you'd led me to believe you remembered none of it. The next day I heard the whole of it from Gareth."

  Rae was very still. "The whole of it?" Oh, surely Gareth hadn't said she loved this overbearing man!

  Jericho nodded. "The whole. You pretended not to know me because you imagined you presented an embarrassment to me. I thought about that for a long time, and do you know, I concluded that given the same circumstances I would act exactly in the same manner."

  "Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" she asked mockingly.

  Bless her biting little tongue. "The point is, that is scarcely the confession of a man who looks upon his honest mistakes with shame."

  Rae looked away from him, eyes lowered. "And what of my mistakes? I threw myself at you, practically begged you to—to—" Words failed her as she thought of her brazen behavior. "If you imagine I would act in precisely the same manner, you are sadly out of it there."

  "I doubt the matter will arise, Red. I am hardly likely to mistake you for a lightskirt again. And the intimacy that we shared, surely that is between us? Your brothers may suspect, but they cannot know with any certainty. Contrary to what you think, they would not believe ill of you. The blame would have been laid at my door, and not so wrongly. I was not the innocent, Red. I could have refused your invitation."

  Rae's lips twisted in an ironic smile. "I think I am supposed to voice that last statement."

  Jericho shrugged and absently traced a long, smooth squiggle on the floor with the tip of his cane. "Perhaps." He hesitated, the tracing stopped, then resumed, but this time its movement was deliberate. "I don't see why we can't be civil to one another. Friends, as it were. Doesn't your family find it odd that you rarely left my side when I was ill and haven't come near me since I began to recover?"

  "That's not true," Rae gasped. "I'm here with you now." Jericho shot her a look that made her ashamed of her shabby retort. "I doubt anyone has remarked on it."

  "Mayhap not to you, but I can tell you they suspect me of gross misconduct, although what anyone thinks I did to you from my sickbed I can't begin to imagine." He leaned back, looking at her through a fan of dark lashes, wondering if she could detect his lie. Take it easy, he warned himself. And slow.

  The Strategy for the Assault on Rahab McClellan's Heart had changed in light of the fact that she knew him, but the goal remained the same. Jericho sensed it was a coin toss as to who was frightened the more. "It would do much to ease my situation here if you did not treat me as a leper."

  "That's doing it up a bit too brown. My family is in your debt, and well you know it. Still, I suppose there is no reason we can't be civil, though that is not precisely our history." She twisted the frog clasp on her riding jacket. "There is something I would like to clear with you..."

  "Go on."

  "You mentioned Wolfe's as if I should remember it. In truth, I don't. It is the cause of severe headaches when I think on it. There are a few other incidents like that, but they don't concern you. I would prefer it if we don't refine on what happened in the tavern."

  "It is not a subject I find pleasant to discuss either," he assured her. "Is that it?"

&nb
sp; Rae shook her head. "Did—did Gareth say anything else to you?"

  "Of what nature? You'll have to be more specific. Gareth and I have talked of many things."

  "It's of no import. Foolishness on my part, really." The clasp nearly fell off in her fingers.

  Jericho's eyes narrowed suspiciously on her stomach. "Red, you never carried my child did you?"

  Rae stood, mouth gaping. "How could you think...? That would hardly be of no import! And don't call me Red!"

  "There is an inconsistency here," Jericho drawled, a teasing smile in his voice, in his eyes. She was a beauty in all her ruffled pride. "Everyone is quick to point out to me that Red makes you sound like a strumpet, yet, unless I have forgotten my Bible, isn't Rahab the name of a harlot? Do you see my confusion?"

  "Ooh!" Her hands rested on her slim hips in frustration.

  "Salem and Gareth gave me that name when I was born, and they can hardly be held accountable since they were only ten and eight at the time. I'm certain you were born knowing what a harlot was, but they were not!"

  "But your parents," he interjected, struggling not to laugh aloud.

  "My mother nearly died giving birth to me and Papa was too distraught to realize what the boys were calling me. By the time Mama recovered, the name had stuck. Why do you think they are forever calling me Rae? And before you split the stitches in your leg, shaking it with your ill-timed glee, let me remind you that the reason you no doubt recall Rahab the harlot, is because the Lord's guiding hand made certain she escaped Jericho. Think on that, Mr. Smith."

  Jericho watched her leave, her shoulders and spine stiff as she marched back to the house. He shook his head, an admiring smile lifting the comers of his well-shaped mouth. God, he had missed his fiery Red!

  Chapter 7