by Barbara Dan
"It doesn't seem like the same house," he remarked, sitting down again. "Of course, I haven't seen the place in two years."
"I only made changes any woman would make if she intended to live here," she said self-consciously. "I had all the cabinets rebuilt and lowered to accommodate a woman's reach."
"You did exactly right. Unfortunately my wife wasn't around to help supervise the final stages of construction."
Suddenly reminded of his loss, Lydia gazed into his velvet-brown eyes and felt her heart soften. "Losing your wife must have been extremely difficult for you."
Strangely moved, Bruce marveled that he experienced no resurgence of pain at the mention of Angela and the babies. Suddenly he sensed a sweet release from the past. "Aye," he said, reflecting back. "At the time, I only wanted to finish the house and put it on the market."
"All it required was a woman's touch, Captain," Lydia said, resuming her breakfast preparations.
"Aye, well—I am in your debt, Lydia Masters. You've given the house real charm."
"I believe in giving a day's work for a day's wages," she said pertly, "and the wages Mr. Harris offered are more than fair."
She stood wiping her hands on her apron, and he grinned, watching her move to the opposite side of the table to work. "So you did it for the money?" he said.
"Once I started," she confessed, blushing, "it was hard to confine myself to cleaning."
"Then you're pleased with the house?" Bruce asked, watching the warm glow in her cheeks and her lively movements as she set the table.
"Oh, yes, I love this house." She flashed him a shy smile. "But I fear I may have overstepped my authority, in which case I may find myself looking for another job."
As she passed close to his chair, he couldn't resist a boyhood prank he used to play on his mother. Reaching out, he tweaked the end of her apron string. As it dropped to the floor, she whirled around with a startled look of surprise on her face.
Bruce raised his palms in a helpless shrug. "Sorry. I can't imagine what came over me."
Goodness, he's certainly full of mischief, Lydia thought, retying her apron. "Breakfast is nearly ready," she said. "Would you call the boys for me?"
"My pleasure." His smile, as he brushed by her, made her stomach tighten. Her eyes followed his progress across the room to get his jacket. Suddenly, surveying his broad back, muscular flanks and long powerful legs, so fearfully and wonderfully made, she wished she had called the boys herself. He wasn't nearly so overwhelming a sight sitting down.
He was a marvel of creation, she thought, and graceful for such a tall man. So was Frank Masters. Oh, please, God—no! It didn't seem right, always being attracted to men who were so handsome, yet so unattainable. As painful memories came back in a sickening flood, she raised her clenched fist to her lips to stifle a sudden cry.
Hearing her muffled utterance, Bruce glanced around, surprised.
"Buck up, madam," he said coldly, misunderstanding her outburst. "I'll see they come to no harm." He flung the door wide, only to find four feet of snow piled in the doorway. "Here, lads," he shouted. "Throw me a shovel, and I'll dig out from here."
Startled, the trio stopped their antics. They stared at the commanding figure before them, then hastened to do his bidding. With Bruce shoveling and the boys' efforts from their side of the snow drift, the path was soon cleared.
When they were gathered around the table for breakfast, Lydia made the introductions. "Captain MacGregor owns this house," she explained. "Captain, may I present Richard Smith, and Enoch Hilyer, and Jeremiah Winston."
Bruce nodded. "I understand you men deserted His Majesty's Navy and signed on with Mrs. Masters here."
Jeremiah spoke around a mouthful of honeyed biscuit. "Well, sir, that's not quite how it happened. She threatened to shoot us with her musket." His eyes twinkled.
"But you made no attempt to escape afterward?" Bruce pulled a long face, taking in the size of his diminutive housekeeper. She was hardly a match for three such strapping lads!
"We like it here, sir!" Enoch said, drowning his biscuits in gravy. "Besides, Mrs. Masters took care of my back. We feel obliged to stick around and return her kindness."
"What was wrong with your back, lad?"
"Enoch received forty stripes before they jumped ship. Since his wounds have healed, he has been a great help around here. All of you have," Lydia said, smiling at her helpers.
"We'd be happy to stay and help Mrs. Masters for as long as the war continues," Richard, the towhead, volunteered.
"I take it you see nothing wrong with sponging off my hospitality indefinitely," Bruce said caustically. "Aren't you anxious to get back into the fight?"
"Oh, no, sir!" sang out a chorus of three.
Lydia stood up, her chair crashing to the floor behind her. "Captain, I don't care what you think of me for helping them, but they have earned every bite of food I've put on their plates!"
"Sit down, woman," he thundered. His right hand shot out to grasp her wrist. "This is my house, and I'll decide what's to be done here."
"Besides," she went on stubbornly, "they ate my food, not yours."
"What?!"
She nodded fiercely. "I brought my own provisions with me, and I've used my own money to pay for my needs and theirs."
Bruce gazed at her, dumbfounded. "What about your wages? Hasn't Robert Harris been paying you?"
"I'm using my wages to pay my husband's debts," She looked down at her hands, embarrassed to admit it.
"And whose ridiculous idea was that?" At her guilty look, Bruce released her wrist. "Well, you are certainly entitled to do as you please in that regard," he said gruffly. "But you should have consulted with Colonel Rathbun."
"If you intend to drag these innocent boys off to jail, I insist you take me, too!!" she said with spirit.
A hothead, if there ever was one, Bruce thought, reaching for her chair and righting it. "Simmer down, Mrs. Masters. Now, suppose we finish this very fine breakfast."
Choking back an irrational urge to pour coffee in his lap, Lydia sat back down and toyed with her oatmeal and tea, while he questioned her helpers. The boys' accounts of harsh treatment and poor food, while shocking to her, left her employer unmoved. She was even more surprised when all three fell in so easily with his suggestion that they accompany him to Fort Trumbull as soon as the roads were passable.
After breakfast, Captain MacGregor took command, assigning chores, and the boys began digging out a path from the stables to the road.
Lydia had just dried the last breakfast plate when Bruce re-entered the house. "Are you sure it's safe to let my prisoners out of your sight?" she asked, looking for a fight.
"Such devoted lads would ne'er desert you, dear lady! On a day like this, they'd only wind up in a snow drift or fall into a frozen pond." He shrugged out of his coat and came to her. "I'm ready for that tour of the house," he said with a smile.
Her nose still out of joint from before breakfast, she set aside her dish towel reluctantly. "I expect you've seen enough in the kitchen and pantry?"
"Aye," he gave her a shrewd look, "and remind me to reimburse you for out-of-pocket money spent on food and other expenses."
"That's really not necessary, Captain," she said stiffly and led the way into the dining room, playing her role as housekeeper to the hilt. The partition stood ajar, so she drew it closed to demonstrate how the space could best be utilized. "Unless you plan to install a thirty foot dining room table, like some Scottish king," she said, taking a slight dig at his national origin, "this is more room that almost any family will ever require for daily use. But perhaps you fancy the idea of sitting at one end of the table and shouting orders at your cowering subjects?"
"Ah, lass, 'twas myself drew up the plans," he confessed giving her a touch of the brogue. "Bein' on the tall side, I overestimated how much space would be required."
Lydia smiled. "My first impression was that some fairy tale giant had built this castle."
"And which fairy tale might that be?" Bruce asked, recalling her weakness for romantic poetry.
She shrugged. "'Jack and the Beanstalk.'"
"Are you sure you don't mean, 'Beauty and the Beast'?" With a teasing smile, he tucked an elusive blond curl behind her ear.
"I see no one in this room who fits the beast's description," Lydia said, backing away. "But then, I could be wrong," she added breathlessly and scurried into the parlor. "I hope you like what I did in this room, Captain." She made a sweeping gesture to indicate the alterations. "The partition doors help it serve a dual purpose. This end would make a lovely library."
Hands clasped behind his back, as if standing on the deck of his ship, Bruce inspected her work, nodding his approval of all her good work. "You have missed your calling, ma'am. Perhaps you should go into designing and building houses."
"I'm glad that you approve." Lydia's eyes sparkled at such high praise. "Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do in the kitchen. Today is my day for baking."
"But you haven't shown me the upstairs," he protested, finding her excuses transparent, and part of her allure.
He stepped closer, and Lydia, made quite breathless by his pursuit, felt her knees start to buckle. "You're welcome to look about at your leisure." Flustered, she attempted to winnow around him toward the safety of the kitchen.
Waylaying her feeble attempt to escape, Bruce swept her into a wild embrace and gave her a slow melting kiss. Going limp with shock, she gasped a muffled protest that only opened her up for more amorous explorations. Pleasantly drowning in emotions she had heretofore only dreamt of, Lydia threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his, again and again. After a somewhat convoluted, mind-swamping kiss that left her as wobbly as a wet noodle, they at last came up for air, both of them breathing hard.
When Bruce reluctantly released her, her whole body was throbbing. Her lips, still tingling with the swift burn of his passion, seemed to possess a will of their own. Thoroughly shaken, Lydia was so tempted just to drag him upstairs and test the strength of the mattress ropes on her fourposter!
"Oh, my stars!" Still in a daze, she met his impassioned, slightly whimsical smile.
Compounding her distress, Bruce stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and winked, obviously pleased with himself for unmasking her prudery.
Now truly desperate, Lydia made a supreme effort to pull herself together. The room was suddenly unbearably hot. Good gracious! How could one kiss make her take leave of her senses?
She hated Captain MacGregor for barging into her life and upsetting things. She had tried so desperately to maintain an even keel. What she needed was order and efficiency and—
Suddenly she needed to know what time it was. She had to get control! Instead she felt like a pile of watchworks that needed to be reassembled and given a good oiling, so that all the precision springs and cogs and wheels that governed her safe little existence could function in a predictable fashion again.
She gazed up at him, hopelessly impassioned, her eyes pleading. "I-I would really, really appreciate it . . . if you didn't do that again," she gasped.
Grinning, Bruce set aside temptation—temporarily. Taking pity on her pretty confusion, he stood aside with a bow. "You did mention baking bread, I believe?" he said, giving her an out.
"Uhm, yes," she said, her saucy pink tongue licking slightly swollen lips. "Please excuse me, Captain. I, uh—I was just about to . . . bake bread," she stammered.
Bruce eyed her with real surprise. The lady was obviously not used to being kissed so thoroughly. "Do you need any help findin' the kitchen?" He chuckled, watching a deep blush sweep over her neck and face.
The clock chimed seven-thirty, rescuing her at last from madness. Castigating herself for letting the time slip away from her, Lydia rushed from the room. Straightway she set about redeeming the time, combining leaven with cooled milk and stirring in dry ingredients.
What is wrong with me? she thought, throwing flour in the air. She must be truly depraved, not to have offered any resistance to that black-haired devil's kiss. She had actually kissed him back! Furious that she had so little control over her emotions, Lydia slammed her fists again and again into her bread dough. She wanted to punish that inanimate lump. Ooh! If only she could avenge herself for everything she had ever wanted, needed, and never experienced before. With a fierceness she barely knew she possessed, she punched and kneaded the dough until she was physically spent. Finally, drawing her sleeve across her sweaty forehead, she set the dough in a covered pan to rise.
Still fighting self-disgust, she went to the pantry and poured herself a glass of elderberry wine. She was just raising the glass to her lips when he walked in.
"Takin' a wee nip, are we, lass? And so early in the day, too."
"It's not early," she snapped defensively. She gulped her wine and made a wry face.
He made a point of checking the clock. "Oh, aye, 'tis all of nine o'clock. But you're right, Lydia. When it comes to certain things, you're years behind." He chucked her under the chin. "How about showing me the rest of the house?"
That did it! Lydia bolted out of reach. "I-I can't," she croaked. Spurred by conflicting emotions, she snatched her woolen cape from a hook and threw it around her shoulders. This man touched off feelings that stripped her defenses—utterly. But at least she could avoid being alone with him. She flung open the door and ran into the swirling snow, intent upon escape.
"What the hell?"
Behind her, she heard the crunch of his quick stride in pursuit. In a panic, she ran faster. Her feet flew out from beneath her on the icy path and, landing in a snowbank, she looked up and met Bruce's laughing eyes.
Mortified, she threw a fistful of snow. "Leave me alone!"
He ducked. "I don't know if you're running away from me or yourself, Lydia, but you have no damned business out here in the damp and cold." Ignoring her protests, he scooped her up and returned to the kitchen, where he proceeded to dust the snow off her.
"Take your hands off me, you beast," she said, freeing herself.
"So now ye see me for what I am, eh, fair beauty?"
He actually laughed! At her! Boiling mad, Lydia shook her fist under his nose.
"Captain MacGregor, I have never been so . . . so—"
Arms akimbo, he grinned. "Aye?"
"—insulted! As of this minute, I am no longer in your employ, sir. I resign! I shall pack my things and leave immediately!"
He rolled his eyes at her in a way that suggested she was flying off the handle of her broom.
"Not today, you won't. For one thing, the road isn't open, and until the storm blows over, you'd never make it to town. Besides, where would you go on such short notice?"
"I-I shall go to Mrs. Rafferty's." Glaring, she stomped to the door, only to discover his powerful hand hauling on her cloak. She swung around, seething. "You can't stop me!"
"Dear lady," he said reasonably. "Mrs. Rafferty's boarding house is bulging at the seams. That's why I landed out here last night."
"Oh. Then I shall go elsewhere," she said defiantly.
He let out a sigh. "Let's declare a truce, Lydia. Relax." He patted her shoulder gently, his voice no longer teasing. "I'll bunk in the carriage house with the boys."
"Thank you." Shrugging off his hand, she went to check the dough rising on the hearth.
Bruce stood in the open doorway, letting in enough cold air to kill her yeast. "Cheer up," he said. "As soon as the storm lifts, I'll introduce you and your three fine British lads to Colonel Rathbun. No doubt he will offer you excellent accommodations, at government expense."
Chapter Nine
After three long days of strained silence, a quick thaw in the weather signaled their departure for New London. Bundling into the rig in her woolen mantle and a lap robe, Lydia wedged her portmanteau between her and Richard on the front seat. Enoch and Jeremiah climbed up behind, and Bruce rode his rented chestnut.
&n
bsp; "Let us be on our way," said Bruce quietly.
Still furious with him for wanting to turn over the three teenagers to the colonel, Lydia slapped the reins against her horse's back and started down the road without a backward glance.
By the time they passed through the outer gates of Fort Trumbull, the tension between her and Bruce was bristling. Dismounting, Bruce tied his horse and Lydia's to the hitching post. Before he could offer assistance, she swung down, nose in the air, and marched stiffly past him up the steps and into the command post.
"Women!" Bruce muttered, thoroughly exasperated.
Richard, Jeremiah and Enoch exchanged a humorous glance, sharing the helpless feeling males share when faced with a woman's wrath. Stamping snow from their feet, all three youths followed Lydia and Bruce inside.
Colonel Aaron Rathbun was there to greet them. Now in his fifties, he cut as dashing a figure as ever he did as a young officer during the Revolutionary War. Bruce was not alone among New London citizens in his admiration for the man's reputation as a fearless fighter and strategist. Every sea captain operating out of New London owed him a huge debt of gratitude.
After the two men exchanged warm greetings, Bruce introduced him to the three British deserters and to Lydia. He was about to suggest the boys' release to serve aboard the Angelic Lady, when Lydia broke her silence.
"Good day, Colonel Rathbun. I am here under duress, because Captain MacGregor has all but accused me to spying for the British," she led off, gearing up to present her side of things.
She could not have made a more incendiary remark if she had told the town crier. The Colonel looked stunned. Did she not know she was forcing him to take her into custody?
"Young lady," Rathbun cleared his throat, "assisting enemies of the United States is a serious offense. I wouldn't be so quick to make such admissions, if I were you."
"I admit only that I fed and sheltered these young sailors. As a loyal American citizen, I stand ready to take my chances with you." She cast an accusing glare in Bruce's direction.
"Is this true?" Rathbun asked Bruce.
"The lady's a little hot where I'm concerned," Bruce admitted with a sheepish grin.