The Seduction of Shay Devereaux

by Carolyn Davidson

  It made her quiver inside when he did that. Not that his perusal was intimidating or in any way worrisome. It was just that his gaze made her aware of herself. Aware of the way she walked, the way her hand dipped into her apron pocket, the way her hips swayed in rhythm with her steps. And he didn’t miss a shred of it. His lips moved just a little, the bottom one twitching a bit, and his eyes darkened, if that were possible.

  She hadn’t been so studied, not ever in her life, as she had lately. Carl had paid attention to her, mostly in the bedroom, sometimes when he was feeling randy. But Shay was a different sort, more intense, more observant, and that intensity was focused on her, more often than not. As if each movement she made was unique, each word she spoke worth hearing.

  It could be heady stuff, she decided, climbing the two steps to the back veranda, where he watched and waited. His hand reached for the milk pail and she gave it to him, unthinking. “I’ll take it in to Isabelle,” he said. “Wait here a minute. I want you to tell me where to put this trellis. There are roses blooming all over the ground on the east side of the house. They’d be better off with something to climb on.”

  Jenny nodded. His request was reasonable, no matter what Isabelle thought. A whispered warning early this morning had brought quick color to Jenny’s cheeks. “You watch out for that man, Miss Jenny. He’s a dark one, with thoughts about you he shouldn’t be thinkin’.” Isabelle’s eyes were sparkling with indignation as she spoke. “He’s lookin’ at you like you’re an available woman.”

  I am. Jenny closed her eyes as she remembered the words. Available for marriage, anyway, though I doubt that’s what Shay is thinking of. The screen door slammed as he returned, and he lifted one finger as a signal.

  “Just another couple of nails and this will be ready. Have a seat, ma’am.” His words encouraged her to linger, and she perched on the edge of the veranda, arms wrapped around her knees as she watched him. Long fingers held the nail, and the hammer hit it twice, driving it firmly into the wood beneath. Another nail was pounded home and Shay set aside the hammer, lifting the trellis with him as he stood.

  “I knew the roses were being neglected, but the wind kept blowing them down, and I didn’t know how to fix…” Her voice trailed off as Shay carried the trellis past her, a nod of his head urging her to follow. She stood quickly, brushing her skirts down. A movement at the door caught her eye and she waved at Isabelle, flashing a smile as she trotted behind her new handyman.

  Thorny branches, profuse with roses, lay beneath the library window. “I’ll bet you can smell them at night,” Shay said, leaning the trellis against the house. The sun was climbing rapidly into the morning sky and its warmth brought forth the scent of the flowers, rising from the ground to surround them with its aroma.

  “Yes,” she agreed, hands shoved into her apron pockets, watching as he lifted the heavy branches aside, making room for himself to stand. Curtains caught the breeze and billowed into the room as she watched, and past his bent form she caught sight of her bed. Covering the mattress was a pieced quilt, one her grandmother had made years ago, now the only memento she had of the elderly woman who lay in the churchyard. Her nightgown was tossed carelessly against the counterpane and Jenny wished fervently that it had been folded and put away in her chest of drawers.

  Carl had told her more than once that she was always in too much of a hurry, anxious to move on to the next moment. Isabelle had called from the kitchen this morning as Jenny dressed and she’d hastened from her room, leaving an unmade bed and general disorder behind. Now it was exposed for anyone to see. For Shay to see.

  “Here, hold this,” he said over his shoulder, nodding with his head toward the place where he wanted her hands to rest. She did as he asked, standing beside him, stretching to grip the wooden frame. He knelt, one knee on the ground, the other bent, and dug with a small spade he’d carried along. The hole was narrow and deep enough to hold the bottom of the trellis, the earth piled up around it as he plied the spade.

  “Let’s drop it in,” he told her, grasping the frame, allowing her to balance it above his hands. And then he lifted his head, looking inside her room, his hands unmoving as the curtains billowed, revealing the unmade bed and the white gown she’d left behind. He glanced up at her once more, his expression harsh. “Ready?”

  She nodded, lowering the trellis, then held it steady as he packed dirt in the hole. He stood, brushing off his hands, stomping the loose earth to hold the latticework firmly in place. “I think I’ll nail it in two places to the siding on the house,” he told her. “That way the wind won’t take it again.”

  She stepped back. “I thought you wanted me to tell you where to put it.”

  “You want it somewhere else?” His eyes glanced at her over his shoulder and her smile faltered. His mouth twitched. “I decided for you, ma’am. By the time I mend the other trellis and set it on the other side of the window, there won’t be enough room for anyone to climb inside without getting stuck by the thorns. Thought it might be wise.”

  “Who’d want to climb in my window?” she asked incredulously. “There’s only Noah and the boys and Marshall, and they can go right in the back door. Isabelle would never make it over the sill.”

  He was silent, that faint movement of his mouth turning into a slow grin. “And I’m upstairs. Reckon we don’t need to worry about keeping you safe and sound, do we?”

  “I’ve never worried for a minute,” she said stoutly. “There’s no one hereabouts to fear.”

  “Then why do you suppose Isabelle’s been sleeping in front of your door? She was there again this morning when I got up early.” He bent to pick up the hammer and spade and straightened to face her. His smile twisted the scar, lifting one side of his mouth, and her eyes were drawn there. With an oath that took her by surprise, he turned away.

  “No. Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t turn from me. Please.”

  It was the addition of that small word that halted his retreat. She’d said please, and not for a moment could he deny her the courtesy of facing her again. “I know my face is beyond ugly, ma’am. I don’t blame you for looking.” His words became softer as he attempted to placate her with a touch of humor. “I’ve had babies cry, and women scream for mercy, just looking in my direction.”

  Jenny’s eyes left his and moved again to that puckered scar. As if she had reached to touch it, he felt a welcome warmth the length of its twisted ridge, and his own hand rose to tug at his hat brim, effectively hiding it from her sight.

  “How did you get it?” she asked quietly. “It looks painful, but I suppose it’s not, really.”

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “You might say I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t welcome.” That he’d fought for a man’s life in the prison camp in Elmira, fought and won, was something she didn’t need to know. The Yankee guard had been buried quickly, and their captors had been too busy dealing with the water that overflowed the camp to make a fuss. They’d been in a deluge, wading in ankle-deep water in their simple shelter for three days. He’d shivered with cold and listened to men weep unashamedly.

  “Was it in prison?” she asked, her eyes bleak as she probed for the answer.

  “No,” he lied. “In a saloon, before the war.” He’d lied before, for lesser reasons, but this one stuck like wet feathers against the roof of his mouth. He’d lie again if he needed to protect her, he realized. And then he chuckled, a low humorless sound, to make certain she believed his tale.

  “I’ll finish up the other trellis now,” he told her. “Guess my time could have been better spent on the cornfield, but my mama always liked her roses. I hated to see yours layin’ in the dirt. I’ll catch up with Noah and the boys a little later.”

  “Thank you for doing the repairs,” she told him, walking beside him as they turned the corner to the back of the house. “My mama always said we all need beauty in our lives. I’ve missed seeing the roses climb the way they used to. Isabelle can find me a rag to tea
r up into strips, and I’ll tie the branches up off the ground later.”

  She glanced up at him. “If you don’t get the hoeing done today, leave the part go that’s closest to the house. I’ll go out after supper and work at it a while, when the air’s cooler.”

  His nod was abrupt. “You’re the one in charge, ma’am.” He bent to lift the tall framework he’d mended, carrying it from the porch. “You going to help me with this?”

  Jenny shook her head. “You can handle it, I’m sure. I think I need to give Isabelle a hand in the house. Yesterday’s cream is ready to churn.” The door closed behind her and he retraced his steps to the library windows. She’d been embarrassed to have him see her gown on the bed. He’d sensed her squirming beside him, and deliberately taken long moments to gaze into the shadowed interior. It hadn’t taken much imagination to visualize her inside that pale gown.

  The hole was dug in moments and he dropped the trellis in place, holding it with one hand as he used his boot to shove the dirt in, firming it quickly. Stepping back, he eyed his work. She’d have the roses trained in no time. And every time she crawled into bed and inhaled the rich fragrance…

  He turned away. Noah was heading for the field, a hoe across his shoulder. And if Shay knew what was good for him, he’d spend his energy on digging weeds instead of making monkeyshines with the boss.

  Chapter Three

  Dusk shadowed the graceful stalks of corn, yet still Jenny plied her hoe. To rest against its handle would only invite more of Shay’s scrutiny, and she’d borne about all of that she could handle for one evening. His eyes rested on her between each movement of his hoe, ever observing, as if she might fade from sight if he didn’t keep close track. Yet it did not detract from the rhythm he’d set, pushing himself to complete the task he’d taken on. It seemed the man would never say die, never cease his energetic removal of weeds from around each hill of corn. And who could argue with that?

  Certainly not the woman who’d accepted his offer to work beside her in the cool of the evening. And then the mosquitos descended. To thwart the advance of the pesky critters she’d simply rolled her sleeves to her wrists, then buttoned them. Her bonnet kept them from her hair, and she waved away the few insects that buzzed near her face.

  She cast sidelong glances in Shay’s direction. The man could work. There was no getting around that fact. His hands and arms moved in a rhythm she could never hope to emulate. His own hat kept the bloodthirsty insects from his head, and he’d turned up his collar, somewhat protecting his neck from their bites. Shirtsleeves tightly fastened, he worked diligently. As if the crop of corn would be his to sell at harvest time, he chopped weeds with a vengeance.

  Jenny moved between the rows at a slow but steady pace, noting that Shay uprooted the green predators in the row to her right before she could reach them, easing her workload by almost half. Leaving only the weeds to her left to the mercy of her hoe, he moved smoothly beside her, doubling her accomplishment, with no apparent effort on his part.

  She paused, standing erect, her hand moving to the small of her back, and Shay glanced at her, his harsh features visible in the twilight. “Had enough for tonight?” he asked.

  His words were low, drawled in a voice that made her think of cool sheets and moonlight streaming through her bedroom window. And where that thought had come from, she wasn’t sure. She only knew that she hadn’t traveled such paths since the day Carl rode his big buckskin stallion down the road, then turned to wave goodbye with a jaunty hand. That this dark, enigmatic stranger could elicit such pondering from her female mind was a fact she wasn’t ready to cope with.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she murmured, aware fully now of the aching muscles in her back, just below her waist. Hoeing corn had never been her favorite chore, yet she’d done it for the past four years or so without complaint. Mostly in the evening when Marshall was under Isabelle’s care, bathing and readying for bed. Though the task was tedious, she enjoyed the stillness, when her only companion was a mockingbird in the hedgerow. When her thoughts could have free rein, and memories of past days and nights ran rampant through her mind.

  None of those solitary evenings held a candle to this one, she decided, turning her hoe over to Shay’s capable hands, watching as his broad palm encompassed both handles easily. Before them, rows of corn seemed to stretch endlessly into the field. At the horizon a pale moon appeared, rising in increments into the sky.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said, allowing her gaze to rest on the shadowed outline of his face. “You work hard all day long. I really don’t mind coming out here alone in the evening.”

  “Do you think I’d let you work by yourself?” he asked. “Don’t you do enough all day, let alone chopping weeds till dark?” He reached for her, gripping her hand firmly in his, and she followed his lead, a row of fragile, foot-high cornstalks between them as they walked. “Watch where you step,” he told her. “I’ll pick up the piles of weeds tomorrow.”

  “I can do that,” she protested. “I’ll bring a basket out in the morning.” His hand was warm, his fingers enfolding hers with an easy clasp. She allowed the intimacy, relishing the brush of his callused hand against her own. In silence they reached the end of the rows and she turned to look back over her shoulder.

  “Admiring your work?” he asked dryly.

  “No,” she answered, smothering a laugh. “Just being thankful for good weather, I guess. The corn’s doing well.”

  He halted, drawing her across the few inches that separated them, where the tilled ground meshed with grass and tall weeds. “Listen, Miss Jenny,” he whispered, cocking his head to one side. “You can almost hear it growing.”

  It was a whimsical notion and she smiled readily. “I’ve thought the same thing before,” she told him, “when the heat of the day is gone and the night is quiet. My papa used to say that corn was the perfect crop for a man to plant.”

  Shay turned his head and she saw a flash of teeth as his lips parted in a smile. “I’ve never heard that theory before,” he said. “I would have thought cotton would be on the top of his list.”

  Jenny lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “Cotton is a moneymaker. But you have to have hands to harvest it. A poor man can only plant ten or fifteen acres. A man and his family can only tend to so much, if they’re going to tend it well.”

  “Carl wasn’t a poor man. He must have had plenty of field hands out there.” His head nodded toward the far fields, where the land lay fallow.

  “That was a long time ago,” Jenny said quietly. “Things change. I’ve never forgotten the things my father told me though, when I was growing up. He didn’t own a place like this. We weren’t poor, but…”

  “You were raised to be a lady,” Shay said.

  “Yes, I was. But I learned early on that life is uncertain, and tomorrow brings surprises.”

  “And so you’ve managed to take hold here and keep things going.”

  “I’ve done my best. For Carl’s sake, and for Marshall. Yet, even now I think of all the things my father taught me, and they’ve proven to be true. He said that if we do the hard work, God will provide the rain and sun. Corn’s the best crop we can raise to keep us from goin’ hungry.” She spread her hands in a gesture that encompassed the field. “You can’t eat cotton. With corn we use the youngest, tenderest ears for our supper table, then when it’s ready to shuck out, we feed it to our stock. The best ears we grind for cornmeal. We use the stalks for silage and plow the rest under to feed the land.”

  “You’re quite eloquent, ma’am,” he said soberly. “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way before. I suspect your papa was an educated man.”

  She laughed, the sound husky in her ears. “He had some education, but mostly he read the Bible and a whole shelf full of books he brought with him from New Orleans.” She tilted her head, the better to see beneath his hat brim, suspecting that his smile lingered at her expense. “He used common sense, to tell the truth. I remember he t
old my mama that with a cow and a few chickens and a few acres of corn, a family could make out.”

  “I suspect your father was rather more wealthy than that though, wasn’t he?”

  Jenny nodded. “Yes, he had money. Not as much as Carl. I married ‘up,’ as the saying goes. Carl had the means to buy slaves, and these fields were white with cotton by summer’s end.”

  “And after the war, when the slaves were freed and released?” Shay asked quietly. “What happened then?”

  “A good number walked away. I gave some of them land to work, and a few stayed on here.”

  “Isabelle and Noah?” His hand released hers and he turned her toward the barn, long fingers pressed against her spine, just above her waist.

  She closed her eyes, then blinked away the rush of moisture that blurred her vision. That the warmth of a man’s hand should touch some deep part of her was more than she could understand. And yet it had. Her spirit wept for the simple joy he brought her.

  She relished the innocent pressure of his hand against her back, his fingers holding hers captive during the walk through the field. And now the weight of that same hand on her shoulder. Inhaling his essence, the musky scent he bore, she reveled for a moment in his protective shadow.

  It was unexplainable, this tension that held her breath in abeyance. It was unbelievable, this sweetness that warmed her heart as he bent to speak her name.

  “Jenny?” His tone reminded her of the question he’d asked, and the answer she’d failed to give.

  “Yes, Noah and Isabelle stayed on, with their sons. They belong here, and this place belongs to them, almost as much as it does to me and my son.” She held her breath a moment and then spoke the words that might draw a line between them. “They’re my family, Shay.”