“I didn’t say you did. Let me see it.” He held out a hand.
“It’s mine!” the boy shouted, holding tighter.
“I just want to see it,” the Englishman persisted.
Meggy sent Drew a frown meant to plead. Don’t make him any angrier.
He unfolded his fingers, one by one. A tiny wooden beaver crudely carved, but recognizable all the same, lay in his hand. When the man moved to touch it, he pulled it back.
“It’s mine.”
“So it is. Your work?”
Drew nodded then met the man’s gaze directly. “Will it pay for the blanket?” He bowed his head. “I couldn’t finish it. I had to leave—”
“Don’t bother this man with your troubles, Drew,” Meggy cut in. Her already taut nerves became almost unbearable.
“We’ll talk about it later, lad,” Rand said and rose on a sigh. The low ceiling and his lanky frame made him appear even taller than when Meggy first saw him. He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Follow me,” he told Drew.
The boy stood frozen to the spot. He watched his mother helplessly.
“I won’t eat you,” the Englishman said. “I need your help.”
Meggy nodded at her son. “He won’t hurt you.” Dear God, please let me be right. At least he hasn’t hurt the children so far. Memory taunted her with that notion. She trusted their father not to hurt them once, too.
She kissed her mother’s cross and tied it around her neck before gathering their few belongings into a pile, her concentration entirely on the figure of Lena, restless on the narrow bed.
The sound of banging resonated from the kitchen for several long minutes before she heard steps in the hall.
“I’m almost packed. We’ll leave in the morning,” she said before he could get closer. She put her body between him and the child on the bed and crossed her arms around her middle.
“Not if that child is still feverish.” The Englishman had come back carrying a small casket painted in shades of green and brown in geometric patterns under one arm and a steaming mug in the other hand. Drew followed with a bottle.
Laudanum?
“Where was that?” Meggy blurted out.
The man’s right eyebrow rose. “Is that what you were searching for when you went through my belongings, my room, my trunks?”
“We didn’t take anything,” she retorted.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He brushed past her to set the casket on the bed and opened it to reveal an herbal keeper, with bins separated by slats of wood. At a glance, she recognized mint, lemon balm, lavender, and willow bark. Praise God!
He pulled out a slip of the lavender and handed it to Lena. “Give it a sniff. Good girl.” He pulled her upright and held the mug to her lips.
“What are you giving my daughter?” Meggy demanded.
“Willow bark tea, you fool woman, not nightshade.” The child took a tiny sip. “She’ll have to do better than that for it to do any good,” he said.
He rose from the bed and shoved the mug in her hand. “See that she drinks the entire thing.”
“Why are you doing this?” Meggy asked.
“The sooner her fever’s gone, the sooner I’ll have you out of my house,” he spat.
“What is this for?” Drew asked, hefting the bottle.
“That is for boys who fail to care for their broken arms. Don’t take much and don’t take it often, but you gave that arm a shock, and this will help.” He glanced at Meggy.
Is he actually asking my permission?
“A tiny amount, yes. Only for today.” She turned her attention to encouraging Lena to sip tea. When she heard Drew gag on the laudanum, she hid a smile. At least the stuff tastes vile.
Will he really let us stay for a bit? And what will he want in return? Experience taught Meggy not to trust a violent man. She knew she had to get the children out of his house.
“We’ll leave as soon as her fever breaks,” she said.
“That and when the boy pays me my beaver,” he said. He turned away from Drew too fast to see the boy’s startled reaction. “I’m going out to see to my horse. The beast has been standing in the cold because I had to deal with intruders. If he takes ill, you’ll pay for that, too.”
“We’ll leave as soon as it breaks,” she repeated with less defiance.
“You’ll leave, or I’ll set the authorities on you.”
She watched his retreating back and began to shake uncontrollably.
Rand cradled a mug of soup in his hands and let the heat seep into his frozen fingers. Cat had curled up in his lap and fallen asleep, as glad as he to be out of the storm and safely situated in the parlor. It was quite the storm, although whether it turned to snow by morning remained to be seen. His feet, clad in dry woolen socks, stretched out toward the fire. He reached over and picked up another morsel of thick, buttered bread.
Warm bread and damned good soup. A man could be content like this.
Rand would have been content if the soup hadn’t been the work of a conniving interloper, if outsiders hadn’t violated his privacy, and if he were alone exactly as he liked to be. As it was, strangers inhabited his upper stories, leaving him wondering where he would sleep.
He absently stroked Cat. “What am I going to do with them? I would throw the woman out in this storm without hesitation, but I can’t put a sick little girl out. She’s as helpless as you are.”
Cat blinked awake and glanced at him as if to say, “Liar. You wouldn’t put the mother out either.”
“Go back to sleep,” he growled, scratching its ears.
Rand sipped some more. The hot liquid satisfied his taste buds and warmed his innards. He liked it. For some reason, that irritated him. “She has no business trying to bring me up sweet with soup.” He ignored the fact that she had made it for her children before he arrived. He refused to see her as a doting mother. “She’ll show her true self soon enough. They all do.”
Rand didn’t remember his own mother. His older sister took the role, and she had been good to him, at least until she married her earl and they sent Rand and his brother off to a hellish public school.
He swallowed more soup and closed his eyes. It did taste good.
“Mister, ah, sir? May I have a word?”
He jumped up at the sound, dumping Cat into the chair, and squeezed his eyes shut. Damned woman. Can’t she leave me at peace even in my own parlor?
“My name is Wheatly,” he growled. “You might have found that out before you broke into my house. What do you want? Did I fail to provide silk sheets and a down coverlet?”
She stood with her back to the stairs in the flickering candlelight. Her face turned red, and she swallowed hard. “Of course not. I came down to thank you. The willow bark seemed to help. She’s sleeping peacefully.”
“That makes one person in this damned house. Is that all?” he growled.
She pushed away from the door. “If you’re finished, I’ll clear up your dishes.”
“Damn it, woman. I fend for myself here.” He scrutinized her from crown to toe, taking time to examine her deep blue eyes, midnight black hair, and dusky skin. “What are you? Gypsy? Is that where you learned how to diddle a man out of his belongings?”
She drew her back up straight and squared her shoulders. The gesture pulled her dress tight across obviously ample breasts.
There’s a practiced enticement. She’s in for a surprise if she thinks that trick will work on me.
Chin high, she met his eyes without flinching. “My grandmother is Ojibwa, my father was French, and my husband was a Scot. You can despise whichever one of those your English heart chooses, or all of them, but I am not a thief.”
She grabbed her skirt and took a step toward the door. “Do fend for yourself. We’ll leave as s
oon as we can.”
“I’ll decide when you’re a thief,” he snarled, bringing her to a halt. “It’s my house.”
She spun on him, eyes blazing, but he spoke before she could.
“What’s your name?”
“Meggy Campeau.”
“How do you come to be on the road out here in the back country with two sick children?”
“I, ah—I came seeking my grandmother, in the direction I remembered from some time ago, but the last of her people have moved on. I can follow her above the lakes, but—”
“But not until spring. What do you plan to do in the meantime?” He didn’t like the way her bleak eyes made him feel, didn’t like that she had an exotic beauty he couldn’t ignore. He knew better than to succumb to a pretty face, better than to give in to pity where it hadn’t been earned. At least the woman doesn’t seem to harbor any illusions about staying.
“I don’t know. Find work. I can cook. I can clean. I’ll find something.”
Not bloody likely and not my problem either.
“Where is your husband, Meggy Campeau? Couldn’t he keep you satisfied?”
“Dead.” She rushed her reply.
A widow? A brief flare of interest, quickly doused, raised his body temperature. There are plenty of widows in Upper Canada—too damned many.
“Dead? When?”
She waved her hands as if to wave away the question. “Last month,” she said. She appeared as skittish as a deer, immobilized but ready to bolt.
There’s more to that story. I’d stake my land on it. She showed more fear when I threatened her with the authorities than when I pointed a gun at her. He eyed her carefully.
Meggy squirmed under his scrutiny. “If you think widowhood makes me a willing woman, think again,” she said, venom evident in her voice.
“Even if your children need to eat?” he asked maliciously.
“I’m not that desperate yet. If I ever am, you’ll be the last to know.”
She left in a swirl of skirt and indignation.
Rand cursed himself. What drove me to say those things? Meggy Campeau brought out a side of him he preferred not to examine too closely. He hated her for it.
“That woman needs to leave,” he said to the empty room, “before I do something I’ll despise myself for.” The cat rolled over and yawned but didn’t wake up.
Chapter 5
Sleeping in the barn on a cold night did little to improve Rand’s disposition; he didn’t plan to do it again. His shoulders ached, and his back felt like he had slept on rocks. He wasn’t sure that he hadn’t. Those uninvited guests have to go . . . and soon.
When he stumbled into his house not long after dawn, already spoiling for a fight, the smell of coffee and something sweet alerted him that he wasn’t the first one up.
If she thinks she can buy me with cooking, she has another think coming.
He stomped past the stairs and through the front parlor to the kitchen.
“Damn you. I said you could stay. I didn’t say you could make free with my kitchen!” he roared.
Too stunned to move, Drew stared back at him with frightened eyes, blue like his mother’s. He was alone.
Rand dropped his head back and glared at the ceiling in frustration. The damned woman won’t even stay and give me the satisfaction of a good scold.
Cat ran through his legs and curled up by the stove.
He dropped into a chair across from the boy. “Where’s your mother?” he demanded.
“Feeding Lena.” Drew put his spoon down and pushed his bowl of porridge toward Rand. “I’m sorry we ate your food, Mr. Wheatly. I was hungry. I’m sorry.” Moisture pooled in his eyes, but tears didn’t fall.
Rand pushed the bowl back roughly. “Eat. You need to eat. I’ll get my own.”
The boy seemed confused but did as he was told.
A clean mug, bowl, and spoon lay on the counter near the stove with a neatly folded napkin. Another napkin covered a bowl. He lifted it, and the aroma of cinnamon teased his nose.
Made free with my spices too, I see. He tore off half a cinnamon roll and downed it in two bites.
“Did you have one, boy?” he demanded.
“No, sir,” Drew said. “Mama said I was to be content with porridge and grateful for it.”
Rand rolled his eyes and tossed a roll to the boy. “Try it. You’ll be even more grateful.” It pleased him to see the boy catch it one-handed.
“Foolish notion, Wheatly. It was just a catch,” he muttered while he spooned out a bowl of porridge, poured a mug of steaming coffee, and put them by his chair. He set the entire dish of rolls in the middle of the kitchen table and tucked into his porridge.
Damn. It’s only porridge, but mine never tasted this good. Where are the lumps? He took a deep drink of the coffee, closed his eyes, and allowed himself a brief moment of absolute pleasure.
“Sir, are you in pain?” Drew asked.
“Why would you ask that?” Rand asked, stuffing another piece of roll into his mouth.
“Your face was, I don’t know, funny for a minute,” the boy said with a shrug. He eyed the cinnamon rolls hungrily.
Rand pushed the rolls toward him, but the boy still hesitated.
“Will my beaver pay for these rolls, too?”
“I could put a fine beaver like that over my fireplace if you finished it.”
Drew gazed down at the table.
“You had to leave before you finished it,” Rand said.
The boy’s head bobbed up and down. “I don’t have a knife to finish it.”
“Left your tools, did you?”
The boy nodded again.
“Why?”
“They weren’t mine and we left—” Drew stopped. He darted a glance toward the door as though searching for his mother.
“Yes? You left?”
“In a hurry. There wasn’t much time.”
Time to steal someone else’s tools? Did they get caught stealing in their last stop?
“Where were you when you made it?”
Drew made lazy circles with his spoon. Rand waited; no answer was forthcoming.
“Did your father help you?” Rand asked. The head bobbed up, but he still didn’t answer.
I’d swear that question frightened him. Rand decided to take another tack. He handed him a roll. “How old are you, boy?” he asked.
“Almost eight.”
Seven then. “Pretty young for carving animals so well.”
That brought a smile. “Cap’n Smythe said I have a gift.”
Captain. Interesting, Rand thought. “I imagine having a broken arm doesn’t help.”
“No, sir! It does not.”
“How did you break it?”
“I fell.” That answer came too fast. I suspect he won’t answer questions about that either.
“I fell out of a tree once,” Rand told him, trying to keep his tone casual. “No break, but I cut my arm good, and my sister had to patch me up. I had a magnificent bandage for a week. I thought it made me look heroic.”
He could tell Drew didn’t feel heroic.
“It hurt, though,” Rand went on. “How is your arm today?”
“Better,” Drew said, smiling at last. “That horrid-tasting stuff you gave me helped. I had funny dreams, though. I was at the camp, and the drums were playing, so I started to dance. Then a bear came and chased me. I was scared, but when I woke up I remembered it all, and mostly I think it was funny.”
Rand picked up his bowl and the boy’s, too. He carried them with spoons to the sink. A bucket of water sat next to it, and a clean bowl, mug, and spoon lay drying on a towel. When Rand had his house to himself, it usually overflowed with dirty dishes. He never
saw the need to wash up more than once a week.
When he poured another mug of coffee and savored a swallow, dark blue eyes—too large for so small a face—followed his every move. Back at the table, he put one leg up on a chair and balanced his elbow on his knee to lean over the boy.
“About my beaver.”
Drew’s eyebrows rose.
“If I find you tools and a clamp to hold it, can you finish it up one-handed?”
The boy shrugged. He does that a lot. “I can try,” the little fellow said.
“Can you do it today?”
“Maybe. If I start soon.”
Rand nodded at him. I’ll take the thing in whatever shape he leaves it. He needs to pay for his keep, a lesson his mother won’t teach him. I’ll take what he gets done today and get them out of here. They can take the damned blanket with them.
“Mama, the fairy won’t stop dancing.”
“Let’s let it dance then, precious girl,” Meggy told her. She wrung out a scrap of linen in the basin at her feet and wiped Lena’s face with it.
Hallucinating again. Angels above! Help me get this fever down!
She wrung the cloth again and put it across her daughter’s forehead. The water felt warm. She needed to change it. Fresh water from the creek, icy cold, would be better.
What can be keeping Drew? I can’t leave her to fetch water. I told him to eat and come right up. She rotated her arm to ease her shoulder. Admit it, Meggy. You don’t want to see the Englishman, but you’re going to have to. You’re going to have to beg for more willow bark—anything to attack this fever.
“Are you ready to leave?” a voice behind her demanded. She didn’t have to search for her nemesis. He came to her.
“Not yet.” She soothed Lena’s hair back without turning.
The Renegade Wife Page 3