The Renegade Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  “Still feverish?”

  Meggy nodded. “It was better in the night, and I hoped— Well, I had hope. But this morning, it came roaring back.”

  “I think it best that I hitch up my wagon and drive you to Gibb’s Mill. I need supplies anyway. Children get fevers. They get over them. When she does—”

  Meggy felt as if he had kicked her in the stomach. Her cheeks burned. She rose in one fluid motion and spun around to confront him. “They do not all get over it,” she roared, marching across the room to stand in front of him, hands on hips, her breath rapid. “Some of them don’t ever get over it. I know this too well.” She tried to stem the flow of words, but they kept coming. She poked his chest with one finger. “Some of them die, Englishman. Some of them die.”

  Thickness in her throat choked her, and tears threatened. She took a shuddering breath and turned away. “Don’t tell me that again. Don’t ever say it again,” she mumbled, falling to her knees next to the bed.

  Rand was next to her so fast she had no time to avoid him. He put a hand on Lena’s head.

  “She’s burning up.” He made it sound like an accusation. “Didn’t you give her more willow bark tea?”

  “I— You took it.”

  “Damn it, woman. I put it in my bedroom right down the hall. You weren’t so shy before.”

  “You weren’t home before.”

  A sob came from the bed. “Stop shouting!” Lena cried. “You’re upsetting the fairies.”

  Meggy saw several emotions in succession pass over Wheatly’s face: confusion, amusement, concern, fear. She nodded at him.

  “I’ll make the tea,” he said.

  “Thank you. Could you also send Drew for more cold water?” she asked, handing him the basin.

  Before Rand could move, his cat streaked through the door and onto the bed. It curled up next to Lena. The little girl’s hand came down on its back and ruffled its fur, but the cat didn’t move.

  The Englishman stared down at the bed. “I want you gone from my house—”

  Meggy froze. If I take Lena out like this, we’ll lose her. A second thought followed in quick succession. What choice do you have, Meggy dear? For the first time, she wondered if she had been right to run from Fort Malden and Fergus.

  The lanky Englishman ran an agitated hand through his thick auburn hair. “I want you gone, but it won’t happen today. We’ll have to make the best of it.” He started for the door, hesitated, then asked, “Where did you sleep last night?”

  “Here. With Lena.”

  “Good. I may be stuck with you, but I’m not sleeping in the damn barn again tonight. There’s a sturdy lock on my door.”

  Does the looby think I’ll attack him in his sleep? What a jackass.

  Lena began to shake, and the sight drove all other thought from Meggy’s brain.

  Chapter 6

  Steaming mugs of tea lay between Rand and the woman across the kitchen table. Meggy was it? What kind of name is that? Margaret perhaps? He knew next to nothing about her.

  Is this how Sudbury feels when he negotiates a treaty? The Duke of Sudbury, a family friend, dealt with unctuous diplomats and power-hungry potentates without so much as wrinkling his impeccable attire. Rand preferred business. At least no one hides his greedy self-interest in a business deal. Foreign governments—and women—are another matter.

  The little one had fallen into a restful sleep late in the day. Now she and her brother slept. Rand doubted she would be in any shape to travel for several days.

  “I offer shelter and food, and that for one week. Nothing more,” he said.

  “What more could I possibly want?” Meggy asked with every show of offense. “Is that why you brought me down here?”

  “Rules, madam. We need ground rules.”

  She didn’t speak, but her eyes never left his face.

  “Sleeping arrangements. I will not sleep with my horse for a week.”

  “Of course not! I have a pallet by the children.”

  “There’s room in the attic. You can sleep there, or the boy can if you need to stay near your daughter.”

  She nodded. “Is that the stairway at the end of the hall?”

  “Noticed that door, did you? That leads me to the next rule. You will not enter my bedroom.”

  She gasped. “As if I would!”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Was I mistaken that someone went through the cupboard in there?”

  She avoided his eyes then. “I needed willow bark or feverfew. It was just the once, and you weren’t in it, were you?”

  “You will respect my property,” he ground out.

  She bit her lower lip, bringing color to her mouth. “Of course,” she said. He pulled his eyes away from those lips.

  “You will not go in my study. Ever.”

  “Study?”

  “The room across from the parlor, to the right of the door.”

  “It’s locked,” she blurted out and then colored brightly, realizing she just told him she had tried the door.

  “Now that I’m back, I shouldn’t need to lock it. Should I?”

  She shook her head.

  I may anyway, damn it all, he thought.

  “While you’re here, you’ll earn your keep. You may cook my meals,” he said, as if she weren’t already doing that. “Your son can sit with his sister when you have to be down here.”

  “Like he is now.”

  Rand took a long sip of strong tea. “Precisely,” he said. “And when you don’t need him, he can work for me. A boy needs to learn to earn his keep.”

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t object either.

  “Where did you get the rabbit for dinner?”

  That surprised her. She sat back. “Trapped it, of course.”

  “You trap?”

  “I can set simple snares. So can Drew. Grand-mère taught me, and I taught him.”

  The Ojibwa grandmother, he remembered. Useful skills at least.

  “Good. Then I won’t have to. You can eat what the two of you catch and what I have in the larder as long as you feed me, too. You have my herbal chest. Get that fever down. You have a week.”

  The woman put both hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. She had let her tea go cold.

  “Is that all?” she asked.

  He tipped his chair back, pushing his feet on the stretcher beam under the trestle table. “No, it isn’t. Help me move my chair.”

  He could see that puzzled her. “You’ve made my parlor a damned thoroughfare. Help me move it by the fire in my study where I can have some peace.”

  Her face lit up with understanding. “We can do that now.”

  “One more thing,” he said without rising.

  She stilled and waited expectantly.

  “Cat is mine. She sleeps in my room.”

  The locked room held no mystery, no treasures, and no obvious hazards. Meggy saw the same warm colors, the same blue curtains, and the same carved mantel as the parlor on the other side of the door. She did note one difference. The room boasted windows on two sides, one side obviously angled to the southeast. She could visualize it in the daytime, lit by the morning sun.

  The two of them wedged his chair, a wide-armed rocker with deep cushions on the seat and back, through the door. She watched him fuss with the angle and placement on a rug in front of the empty fireplace. He left and came back with a small table, just right for holding a mug of tea or a book, and put it next to the chair.

  “This will do,” he sighed. The room was slightly smaller than the other, and the extra furniture just fit. Frown lines around his eyes showed his displeasure. The frown dimmed his blue eyes to a dull gray. She wondered what joy would do to their appearance.

  You
aren’t likely to find out, Meggy, my girl. You’ve not seen him happy so far.

  When he knelt to build up kindling in the hearth, Meggy found herself fascinated by the grace with which so tall a man moved, by the play of muscles in his back where his shirt pulled across his lean frame, and by his thick hair that hung well below his collar.

  She took a deep shuddering breath, pulled her eyes away, and occupied herself with more constructive thoughts, taking the opportunity to survey the room for some clue to help her deal with her unwilling—and irritable—host. A desk had been pushed up against the south-facing windows so light would fall on the desk and whoever sat there had a clear view of the clearing in daylight. That clearing, she recalled, fell slightly downhill for a hundred yards or so to the forest. A worn leather portfolio lay on the desk along with a neat stack of papers and a cup full of pens. Tidiness and order. Remember that, Meggy.

  The fireplace occupied the far wall. Above it and along the wall to the left of the door were a series of framed pictures. Meggy moved closer, fascinated by the subjects.

  “Like them?”

  Meggy jumped at the sound of his voice. She had been staring at a painting of an English thrush. The little bird had been painted standing in grass, its head cocked to one side, while it eyed a bug as though it were a succulent morsel. Every frame held a drawing or painting of a bird, each wonderfully detailed.

  “Yes, I do. They are perfectly rendered,” she said without turning. And not at all what I would have expected. I would have expected landscapes, if he had pictures at all—or dogs or horses at very least. The colonel’s bachelor quarters in Fort Malden had weapons on the wall.

  “Yes, they are.” He had come up behind her and brushed her shoulder when he reached out to touch the frame. He towered above her. “This is a favorite. We had many of the little fellows at—”

  He pulled his arm away and stepped back, as if suddenly realizing how close they stood. He left her bereft of his warmth.

  “Who did them?” she asked, trembling slightly.

  “My sister,” he told her, still staring at the painting. A moment later, he shook his head and turned back toward the hearth where a fire had sprung to life.

  “This will do,” he said gruffly. “This chimney goes up by the bedroom where the little girl is. It should keep her warm enough. We will not light the parlor fire this week.”

  So I’m to stay out of this room, and there will be no warmth in the parlor. That left Meggy the kitchen and Lena’s bedside. Fair enough.

  She nodded. “I’ll stay out of your way, then.”

  “See that you do. You should be able to manage it for a week,” he called to her retreating back.

  Chapter 7

  Rand rode into Gibb’s Mill determined to avoid the troublesome woman until he could rid himself of her. He rode with a plan in mind, a list in his pocket, and a boy wrapped inside his greatcoat in front of him.

  Taking the woman’s son along gave him two advantages. He could help with the supplies, for one. He played a key part in his plan, for another. However unjust it may be, a boy in Drew’s position had to work to eat. The mother might find employment, but Rand doubted it would be enough. He planned to search for a place for the three of them using a willing worker as bait.

  He put one arm around the boy when they made their way through wetlands to the edge of the woods and picked up the pace. He swore he could feel the kid’s ribs.

  “It isn’t much farther,” he said.

  “I don’t mind. Riding up here is ever so marvelous.”

  Great. Now I’m giving charity transport. Next, the woman will want me to cart the lot of them to town. He conveniently forgot that had been his idea in the morning: cart them to town and leave them. Bringing the boy along for supplies seemed like a good idea once he realized he couldn’t throw them all out.

  They won’t be leaving this morning. The woman can tend the girl with us out of the way. I just hope she does that when I’m not there to watch her. His rusty conscience complained about that judgment when he remembered her reaction when he had said they all recover. If her agitation this morning was an act, it was a damned good one.

  Rand slowed his pace. “What can you do besides carve?” he asked.

  “What do you mean? Like read? I’m starting to.”

  Interesting. Probably helpful. “What do you do to help your mother?”

  “Oh. You mean like work? I can sweep. I can carry logs. When she does laundry for people, I carry the bundles of dirties, but she won’t let me carry the clean. She’s afraid I’ll drop it.”

  “Good lad. That’s exactly what I meant. Did you help your father when he was alive?” He felt the little body stiffen, but he didn’t answer, obviously unwilling to talk about his father. Rand let it go. “What else can you do?”

  “I fetch.”

  “Fetch?”

  “You know—get things for people and bring them. Like messages or tea. The Cap’n gave a penny a week to fetch.”

  Captain again. At least the boy sounds willing enough.

  Rand pulled up at the general mercantile store and tied his horse to the post. The family that ran it knew him well and knew not to bother him with the sort of chitchat and false friendship merchants offered to keep customers from questioning prices. He slapped his list on the counter, and they filled it without question.

  “We’ll have to order the cinnamon from Montreal,” Carl Grady, the storekeeper, said. His eyes glittered, but he didn’t ask the question on the tip of his tongue. Rand nodded curtly. If I need spice all of a sudden, it’s none of his business.

  Grady began to fill his saddlebags.

  “One more thing. I need a penknife. Small.”

  Drew’s head bobbed up, but Rand avoided his eyes. He paid Grady and let the man finish loading his bags. Rand scanned the store. It could use a good sweep.

  “Looks to me like you need a worker,” he said.

  Grady’s startled expression amused Rand.

  He went on. “Someone to sweep up, stock shelves, and, ah, fetch.” He put a hand on Drew’s shoulder and ignored the way the boy’s eyes widened.

  “Have one,” Grady said. “Comes in two mornings a week. Can’t afford more.”

  Rand nodded in response, picked up his saddlebags, and headed out the door.

  “Wheatly!” The greeting filled Rand with distaste. He turned around to see Douglas Gibb following him. Gibb eyed Drew with a curl to his lip.

  “You hiring out boys now?” Gibb asked. He managed to caress the word boy just enough to be insulting. Drew moved closer to Rand.

  “This young man is a friend’s son.” Rand lied without thinking, eager to turn the conversation.

  “Friend? Didn’t know you had any.”

  Rand ignored that salvo. “What do you want, Gibb?”

  Gibb reached over and squeezed Drew’s good arm. “Scrawny, but I suppose he can work. Mill can always use good hands. Who owns him?”

  Anger threatened to choke Rand. The only thing he despised more than a lying woman was a man who bullied those who were weaker. Douglas Gibb’s bullying terrified half the village. A man lost a hand in his mill, and Gibb withheld his past wages “‘cause he damaged my equipment.” The man died, and his family almost starved until they were able to afford passage to Montreal and on back to Ireland.

  “No one owns him, and he isn’t desperate enough to slave in your mill,” Rand spat. He turned away and began to tie up his saddlebags.

  “Keeping him for one of yours?”

  “What do you mean, mine?”

  “Everyone knows you’re moving into the timber business. Bought land up north, haven’t you? How many acres do you have?”

  How the hell does he know all that? I shouldn’t be surprised. Rand had been quie
tly buying up acres of timber for four years in modest transactions, making use of the earl’s money to augment his own. He doubted anyone knew the full extent of it—five thousand acres of heavily timbered land. He wasn’t about to show his hand until he had all the pieces in place to begin harvesting and transporting. Milling too. It would dwarf Gibb’s little business.

  He lifted Drew up to the saddle and jumped up behind him. “You know everything, Gibb. You tell me.”

  The man’s sneer didn’t waver when they rode away.

  “You trying to find me work?”

  “Yes, but not from that man. You’ll need to help out when your mother moves into town.”

  “She won’t.”

  “What do you mean ‘won’t’?”

  “We mostly avoid towns.”

  Rand recalled her words. I came seeking my grandmother. Ojibwa, he recalled.

  “Why?”

  Rand felt the skinny back move in a shrug, Drew’s standard response to questions he chose not to answer.

  That woman doesn’t want to be found. But what is she running from?

  He’d get no more out of the boy, and it didn’t matter. The woman and her lies were not his problem. “Want lunch?”

  “Yes, please,” Drew said, his cheer reasserting itself.

  The tavern by the river generally offered decent food and whatever news there was to be had. It sat by the Tay, which, in turn, flowed to the Rideau. News also flowed with it. Traffic along the Rideau had picked up considerably since the canal had been completed, smoothing out the rough spots and creating the fastest route to Montreal. He thought perhaps he could pick up an idea for his unwanted guests there.

  They found the place quiet when they entered; it was a bit early for midday traffic. Rand tied his horse where he could see it out the window, left his bags lashed to the saddle, and took a table toward the back of the tavern. He went to order at the counter.