by Barbara Dan
"I hope it meets with your approval."
"Very much so. And speaking of good wine, I think we should celebrate our truce."
She frowned. "What truce?"
Smiling, he rose to get the bottle and delicate stemware. He popped the cork, and she jumped. Reseating himself, he poured her a glass and set it before her. "Taste it. Let it roll around in your mouth, then tell me how you like it," he invited.
Lydia decided to humor him. While she tried his technique, he poured himself a glass and raised it. "I propose a toast: To clam diggers everywhere."
It struck her so ridiculous that she giggled into her champagne and raised her glass.
"I'll drink to that."
"Good. And while you're at it, have some more chowder." He reached a long arm and snagged her a bowl from the counter without even rising.
"Since you insist," she said. She ladled a steaming cupful and sat back down.
They stuffed themselves with corn bread and warm clams. To her surprise, the effects of good wine and congenial conversation soon lulled her into a comfortable euphoria, not unlike warm bath water and poetry.
By the time the bottle was empty, Lydia felt utterly relaxed. Somewhere during the evening, she had sent her damp towel sailing into the corner with the rest of her laundry. Her fair head propped on her hand, she felt mellow, indeed, as they discussed what kind of live bait to use offshore and the best technique for outsmarting the crafty clam.
As the standing clock chimed ten o'clock, Bruce paused to eye his drinking companion. "How are you feeling now?" he asked.
"I'm happy as a clam," she mumbled, tracing one finger around the rim of her glass.
"You're steamed, my dear Mrs. Masters," Bruce noted with satisfaction, shoving back his chair. The evening had gone better than he could have hoped. The little minx had an amazing knowledge of fishing, and she wasn't nearly the stuffed shirt he had taken her for.
"Simmered in rose hips and wine for two hours . . . with just a light sprinkling of salt and pepper," she mumbled sleepily. Suddenly her head rolled gently off her arm and she went limp as a jellyfish.
"Good Lord!" Bruce exclaimed, realizing he was responsible for the lovely widow's deplorable condition. "Wake up, Lydia," he called, shaking her.
His efforts to rouse her only dislodged her from the table.
Quickly he caught her, as all hundred and five pounds of gorgeous femininity slithered off her chair toward the floor. Holding her in his arms, Bruce looked down at Lydia's softly parted lips and crazily tangled golden locks. This was definitely a first for him. It was one thing to have a willing, ravishing beauty in one's arms; it was quite another to have one out cold.
"Oh, God, what now?" he groaned.
As if in answer to his prayer, Lydia lifted her head. "Past my bedtime," her soft sibilant voice informed his ear, before she drifted off again.
Obviously he couldn't hold her until she regained consciousness in the morning. Past her bedtime, was it? Well, then, he would put her to bed. Aye, 'twas the decent thing to do.
As he picked her up, her robe parted, facing him with another difficult decision. There was no escaping her charms, despite his firm resolve to remain calm. Peeking up at him like generously plump meringue pastries, her firm breasts rose and fell in her sleep. The rosy tips pointed straight at him, as if daring him to nibble.
He gulped and looked hastily away from snowy mountain peaks, only to find himself gazing on the fair plains of Eden! Bruce was not a shy man around women, but neither was it his habit to take advantage of a lady. She had no idea how tempting and vulnerable she was, just as he knew only too well his own susceptibility!
I shall hate myself in the morning, but the sooner I put her to bed and get the hell out of here, the better, he told himself.
He could have measured her weight in feathers, so light was she, as he ascended the stairs to her bedroom. She snuggled against his chest and uttered a sigh, smiling in her sleep. By the time he reached her bed, stumbling in the dark, his hands were sweating. She might look harmless now, but when she awoke, with all her defenses up, she would be nothing but trouble.
His heart pounding, he set her down and yanked the covers over her. And then the great strong veteran of nineteen crossings of the Atlantic, and victor in twenty skirmishes with the British during the past year, ran downstairs and out the Masters' back door as if a houseful of banshees were in hot pursuit.
* * *
Bruce rose at first light and headed toward the slip where he kept his sailboat. Sailing always helped him relax. Besides, he needed to flex out the old noggin and consider if he was possibly going off the deep end. He couldn't deny that Lydia Masters was an attractive woman—beautiful when she wasn't wearing a chip on her shoulder!
But something about her didn't sit right with him. She seemed to feel nothing for her husband. Her irrational flare-ups and standoffishness sounded a warning bell in his head. He should avoid her like the plague.
If only he could. Lord, she had him so confused! When her guard was down, she was soft, feminine, and romantic; even had a trace of silliness. And what about her ferocious attack at the beach? How did that coincide with the cold, untouchable image she projected? What was going on? Had he been without a woman so long that he'd turned stupid or something?
Bruce decided to head out toward Bluff Point. He'd had his fill of fishing. Today he would just tack along the coast and let his mind browse at will.
Within a few days, he'd be heading south. And a good thing, too. He needed to give the whole subject of Lydia Masters a rest.
Maybe when he got back from harassing British shipping in the Caribbean, he ought to get back into circulation. Aye, that was the ticket! The old urges were surfacing. Almost any woman easy on the eyes would get a rise out of him. 'Twas a good thing for him that Lydia Masters had been three sheets to the wind last night, or he might have wound up in the pickle barrel himself.
* * *
As the first crack of dawn came stealing through her window, Lydia opened her eyes. She couldn't recall having put herself to bed, and yet she must have. She raised the covers and stared at herself. How odd. She was wearing her mules, and practically nothing else. Very strange.
The evening was still a hazy confusion. Vaguely she recalled talk of fishing. And the merry twinkle of brown eyes.
Oh, good Lord! Captain MacGregor! Sitting bolt upright, she looked furtively about the room, half expecting the blackguard to materialize. Oh, surely she had made it upstairs on her own two feet. But if she had, why was she still wearing her robe?
Hastily she climbed out of bed and crossed to her vanity table. It was all that frivolous poetry, putting ideas in her head, she told herself. She must take a more serious subscription, improve her mind. Literature solidly rooted in reality.
Her head throbbing, she cursed her foolishness. While she examined her slightly furry tongue in the mirror, she wondered if Captain MacGregor had tried to take advantage of her. But of course he hadn't! She chided herself for harboring such thoughts. He wouldn't dare!
Oh, but he might dare, a little voice in the back of her head suggested, in your helpless condition. "Nonsense!" she told her mocking image in the mirror, and that was that.
She scooted into her chemise and petticoat, threw on a dress and did up the fastenings. Pulling on stockings and a solid pair of low shoes, she marched downstairs to face the day.
She sent a neighbor boy with a message for Mr. Harris to send around a small wagon that very afternoon. The sooner she got away from here, the better. The house held nothing but bad memories, and last night hadn't improved matters in the least.
Hopefully, if she settled into her new housekeeping post by this evening, she could escape any further contact with Captain MacGregor as well. Lately he had a most unfortunate habit of turning up, and the way her head felt this morning, she was in no mood to chance any gloating male superiority. Now that she could do without very nicely!
She set to work
with a vengeance, purging her conscience of yesterday's sloth and last night's folly. She paused only for tea and the last of the corn bread at noon, before attacking the corners of her storeroom and pantry.
She planned to take her own food stores, of course, plus her own clothing, a few favorite pieces of furniture, and linens. Her parlor standing clock, to keep her on schedule, and her loom and spinning wheel must also accompany her, for there was no telling what the house on Old Point Road might require to make it presentable. Besides, the absentee owner had his house up for sale, so she must be prepared for any eventuality.
Lydia carefully organized everything, so that when the two young warehousemen arrived with a wagon at three o'clock, all they had to do was load up.
Once they finished, she locked up and left her husband's house without a backward glance, following closely with her horse and rig. Her brooms, mop, rags, strong cleaning soaps, and buckets accompanied her, for she meant to make the place habitable in a hurry. In addition, she carried a good supply of candles, her tea kettle, a basket of dried fruit, two wheat loaves, and her favorite graham biscuits.
In no time, she found herself striding up the stone walkway, armed with keys and a good deal of optimism. Even so, what met her eyes upon opening the front door came as a shock. A stack of construction debris blocked the vestibule.
Clearly the owner had spared no expense on materials and workmanship; the house was truly fine. Or it would have been, if one could overlook the five foot pile of lumber and wood shavings at the bottom of the grand staircase. Another mountain of trash caught her eye in the room to her left.
The carpenters had done a beautiful job installing woodwork, mouldings, cornices, paneling, banisters, ornately carved fireplace mantels and columns. After that, she had no idea what happened. Maybe they were so tired when they finished that they staggered off and got drunk instead of carting off all the leftover wood.
No doubt about it. She had hired on too cheap. She hadn't promised Robert Harris a miracle, but from the looks of the entryway, it would require one.
"I can't work around this mess," she declared, giving way to a flash of temper.
Joe Carter, one of the men assisting her with the move, stumbled, navigating awkwardly around the mound of debris.
"Mr. Carter," she said firmly, "after you and Mr. Fillmore find a place to put my things, please load all this up and haul it to the dump."
"Could we come back tomorrow?" Carter asked. "It'll be dark in another two hours."
"Indeed, it will, Mr. Carter," Lydia said. "Try to imagine me tripping over this in the dark."
"We'll take care of it, Mrs. Masters," said Brady Fillmore, perspiring freely on his end of a heavy armoire. "Now where do you want this?"
"Upstairs." She scooted past them on the stairs and entering the largest bedroom on the second floor, surprised a chipmunk. "My heavens! The place is infested!"
Quickly Lydia shooed the rodent out the window. Because of its spaciousness, she decided this room would be an ideal place to establish her base of operations. Since Mr. Harris had assured her that the owner never visited the house, she might as well be comfortable.
While Carter and Fillmore continued their trips up and down the wide, gracefully curving staircase, she went out to the kitchen to heat water. Dissolving naphtha flakes in a bucket, she scrubbed the bedroom floor on her hands and knees.
When it was gleaming, she directed the men in the setting up of her furniture. She still required a hammer and other tools to hang her mirror and bedroom pictures, which were the only ones she hadn't destroyed in her bonfire. Just having her things arranged, with a nice hooked wool rug laid beside the high bed to warm her feet in the mornings gave her spirits a lift. She would put the place in apple pie order before the month was out.
All she really required was a decent place to sleep and her kitchen furnishings—pots and pans and provisions. She had left most of her furniture behind; Mr. Harris and Mr. Bradshaw could use it for kindling, for all she cared.
That thought forced her to reconsider the scrap pile at the bottom of the stairs. By the time the two men came downstairs, ready to load up all the bits and pieces of leftover lumber, she had decided on a better use for it.
The movers stared at her, uncomprehending. "You . . . what?"
"I've changed my mind, gentlemen," she said. "Is that so difficult to understand?"
"But, Mrs. Masters, I thought you said—"
"Never mind, Mr. Fillmore." Lydia knew if she waited for them to think, they'd get nothing done. "It occurs to me that I won't have a neighbor boy around to chop wood. Of course, I could do it myself, but since I'll have my hands full with cleaning, I might as well use all this in the fireplaces."
The two looked dumbstruck, as if she were the most brilliant woman in the world.
"Now why didn't I think of that?" Joe Carter marveled.
She gave them a syrupy smile. "After you stack it neatly out back, we'll have tea. And don't worry. You will still get home to your families before dark."
After they left, Lydia walked around the house, sipping tea and listening to the patter of squirrels in the attic rafters. She would have to consult Mr. Harris about that. But all in due time. Her first task was to rid the house of sawdust, spiders, cobwebs, dust and grime. Then she would deal with the mice, squirrels—and any other varmints lurking about the place.
Chapter Five
When Robert Harris hadn't heard from the widow after two weeks, he decided to drive out to MacGregor's cold grey mausoleum of a house and see what was going on. He felt duty-bound to make sure Mrs. Masters was still on the job and that she didn't lack for anything.
She met him at the door, a broom in one hand, a feather duster in the other. "Mr. Harris, do come in," she exclaimed.
"Thank you, Mrs. Masters. How's the house comin' along?"
"Nicely!" She took his arm and led him inside. "Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Harris, that mere dirt and grime may not be the reason this house hasn't attracted a buyer?"
Robbie Harris stood looking about him. The place was immaculate, if stark. The masons had completed the outer walls and brickwork for fireplaces on all three levels before Bruce's wife and children died. Understandably, the grieving captain had lost all interest, long before the carpenters came on the scene. On their own, they had evidently thrown up walls wherever it seemed most logical, using their male instincts.
That wasn't good enough, at least to Lydia Master's way of thinking. As she took him on a tour of the house, Harris began to see the light of day.
"Look about you, Mr. Harris," she invited, leading him into the kitchen. "It's a good sized room, but how many women of your acquaintance have arms that are four foot long?"
He looked at her, scratching his head. "None, that I recall."
She opened a cupboard so deep it echoed. "Look at all this wasted space!"
"Mrs. Masters, I hired you to keep house, not meddle."
"Does the owner want to sell this place or not?" She looked him straight in the eye, and the challenging flash in her bright eyes was intimidating, to say the least.
"He does." Harris switched to flattery, rather than engage in a clash of wills. "You've done an amazing job, and in such a short time, too."
"I haven't done nearly enough. These shelves, for instance."
"Aye, no doubt, they're a wee bit high—"
"That's putting it mildly, Mr. Harris." She continued pointing out flaws which only a woman would notice. "The craftsmanship is of the best, but most women don't want rooms the size of a medieval banquet hall." She marched through the enormous dining room—nowhere near as big as a cricket field, but large enough. "Any sensible woman would take one look at the way this house is laid out and refuse to set foot inside."
"I don't see anything wrong with it," Harris said defensively. After all, he had nothing to do with how the house was built.
Lydia Masters whirled to face him. The look of incredulity on her face suggested he had
no more brains than a Merino sheep. "Mr. Harris! A woman wants to gather her family closely about her in the evening. She does not wish to shout across the room!"
He started to say, "It's not our place to criticize," but he stopped, seeing as she had such strong feelings about household management. Besides, he could see why she might feel frustrated. She had worked her fingers, elbows and knees to the bone, trying to make the house look homey. It never looked cleaner, but it was still cold and uninviting.
"Who is the owner of this castle? A war lord from the Highlands?" she raved, leading the way into the even larger parlor. "Look! There's room for a small army to bivouac in here. Or maybe we could flood it and let it freeze in the winter? It would make a fine pond to skate upon."
"Your point is well taken, Mrs. Masters," he sighed. "The house does lack a certain coziness. Me own wife would heartily agree with you."
"I'm relieved that you are not blind, Mr. Harris," she said, calming down slightly. "The house has such potential! But it will take a lot of work."
He eyed her suspiciously. So now we're about to arrive at the truth of the matter, he thought. "What did you have in mind, dear lady?"
"I want you to send me two able-bodied men for two weeks. With their labor and a few building materials, I can turn this into a house any woman would be proud to live in. And it will be easy to maintain without back-breaking work."
"I don't know—" Robert Harris cast a skeptical eye at the young widow. He had to admire her gumption, but dammit, didn't she realize there was a war on? He had precious few men to spare for such a project, not to mention the fact that lumber prices were sky high!
Arms akimbo, Lydia confronted him. "Let's be practical, Mr. Harris. If this house doesn't sell, the owner's money is tied up indefinitely. I presume you have business connections with the man?"
"Aye. We've done business together," he said cautiously.
"So if we could make this house appeal to a woman—" She smiled sweetly, and Robbie Harris felt the strings on his purse loosen. "Everyone knows a man controls the money, but when it comes to buying a house, a wife has considerable influence with her husband."