The Seduction of Shay Devereaux

by Carolyn Davidson

  “I’ve got the water hot already,” Isabelle said. “By the time you get him settled, I’ll have it ready, Mr. Shay.” She stood by the stove, pouring a small amount of hot water into a pan, then stirring the contents into a thick paste. Jenny’s hands left Marshall then, and she watched as Shay lifted him, careful not to shift him with rash movements.

  “You’re being brave, Marsh,” he murmured. “You can’t cry, son. We don’t want your blood to pump any faster than it is right now. And I’m telling you, boy, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Do you believe me?”

  To his credit, Marshall whispered a single word of assent, then lay inert in Shay’s arms as he carried him across the wide hall. Jenny was there before him, pulling back the quilt and sheet, plumping Marshall’s pillow.

  “Get cool water from the pump,” Shay told Joseph, who watched from the doorway. “Have Isabelle fill a basin and bring in a couple of towels. We’ll want to keep him cool.”

  Jenny watched as Shay cut Marsh’s shirt with a single, long slash of the knife he drew from his boot. “It wasn’t worth saving,” Shay decreed, and then slit the boy’s remaining trouser leg from waist to hem. The pants were old ones, coming only just below his knees. Jenny took them from Shay’s hands as he lifted Marshall’s slight form to slide the garments from place.

  “Now we wait,” Shay said, watching as Jenny tended her son, settled the poultice against the swollen area. “I think we’re safe, Jen. It wasn’t a rattler, or he’d be—” He halted, and Jenny nodded her understanding.

  Standing outside the house, Caleb bent to look in the open window. “I put the heifers in the pasture,” he said. “Do they need any extra feed, Mr. Shay?”

  “No, there’s plenty of good grass left out there,” Shay told him. “Make sure the big tub has water in it, though.”

  “Joseph did that already,” Caleb said. “Looks like we’ll get rain yet tonight.” He lowered his voice. “Everything all right in there?”

  Shay nodded. “Looks like a bad scare, maybe enough to make him sick.”

  “That’ll happen,” Caleb agreed, backing from his vantage point.

  “Shay, did you eat anything today?” Jenny asked.

  “Not since breakfast.” He reached to wipe Marshall’s forehead, then left the cool cloth there. “I’ll get something later on.” He bent to tug at his boots, sliding them from his feet. “I asked Herb Duncan at the store and he directed me to a farm about forty miles west of here. Spent the night there in the hayloft and ate breakfast with the farmer and his family. I brought home two dandy Hereford heifers, pretty little red things. One of them is already bred. Checked a couple of other places for a bull.”

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she said.

  “Yeah.” The single word carried a wealth of meaning, she thought, and yet he did not look at her.

  “Shay?” Jenny spoke his name with a note of pleading, and he lifted his head, his gaze wary.

  Without waiting for him to reply, she rose and walked around the footboard, kneeling before him as he sat on the edge of Marshall’s bed. Her hand reached to smooth the boy’s hair, but her words were for Shay, an apology she’d formed during the day, waiting for the opportunity to offer the simple phrases.

  “I was wrong to nag at you the night before you left.”

  He was silent and she ventured a glance upward. His eyes held worry as he looked from her to Marshall and then back. “We’ll talk about it later, Jen. I left you sleeping, and then worried the whole time I was gone that you’d be angry at me for it.” One warm hand touched hers and she bent to lay her cheek against his skin.

  “I’m dirty from traveling,” he said quickly, drawing back.

  “Do you think I care?” Her heart ached from the rift between them and she bowed her head.

  Marshall stirred restlessly, reaching for her. “Mama, I feel better. My new papa fixed me, didn’t he?”

  Shay leaned closer. “Joseph was the one who carried you to the house and helped you, Marsh. We’re just thankful that it was probably a pine snake you scared up. He bit you, but mostly you were frightened, son. You’ll be fine.”

  Jenny lifted the poultice. “The red is almost gone, Shay.”

  Marshall sat up, peering down at his leg. “Let me see, Mama.” He inspected the site of his injury and grinned. “Did you know that Joseph cut my leg a little bit with the paring knife? I’m gonna have a scar.”

  “Not a very big one,” Shay assured him. “Joseph only cut a tiny bit, so he could suck out the bad stuff.”

  Marshall looked disappointed and flopped back on the mattress. “I thought I’d have a scar, Papa. And then I could have a badge of honor, too.”

  Shay leaned closer to look at the small incision, the reddened area already returning to its normal color. “Well, I’d say that might qualify, son.” He offered a nod of consideration. “Yeah, I’d say that might be called a badge of honor.”

  Shay filled the largest tub with hot water, and claimed the privacy of the kitchen after supper. “I smell like a horse and I’ve got hay sticking to my neck,” he told Jenny. “I almost went out to the stream, but I’m too tired. I’m thinking the hot water will feel good.”

  She found a book of children’s stories on the library shelf and settled herself beside Marshall. His injured leg propped on a pillow, he reigned supreme, a small bandage covering his wound, and a length of cloth holding it in place. “Sit by me, Mama,” he demanded, patting the bed beside him.

  “Just for one story, Marsh,” she told him, leaning against the headboard, so that he could look at the pages with her. With one ear tuned to the kitchen, she read a favorite of his, and watched as his head tipped to rest against her shoulder. By the time the story was finished he was sleeping, and she laid the book aside to scoot him down on his pillow. Her hand brushed against his forehead and she kissed his cheek, her heart thankful that the fright had proved to be just that. Snakes were a fact of life, and the outcome could have been…

  She shivered, thinking of what might have happened. From the doorway, Shay’s deep voice spoke her name and she looked up. Wrapped in a towel that barely met at his waist, and only reached the middle of his thighs, he watched her. His dark hair was damp, his long body pale against the bronzed hue of his arms, and she welcomed the sight.

  Picking up the lamp, she left the room, Shay stepping to one side as she drew the door shut behind herself. In the glow of lamplight, his eyes were dark and mysterious, and his jaw wore a two-day beard. An aura of menace surrounded him, and her eyes swept his length, noting the widespread feet, the broad shoulders and the grim line of his mouth. Dangerous. The word flew into her mind, and lodged there.

  Dangerous. Yet she felt no trace of fear as she met his gaze, only a warmth that swept through her with the force of a whirlwind.

  “I’m glad you’re home, Mr. Devereaux,” she whispered.

  His hand rose to examine his jaw. “I’ve washed away the dirt, lady. Do I need to shave?”

  “Not for my sake.” She blew out the lamp, placing it on a table in the wide corridor before she reached for him, her hands touching his chest, her fingers buried in the triangle of curls. Burrowing her face against his shoulder, she inhaled his scent, recognizing the masculine aroma of male flesh brought to arousal.

  “Take me to bed.” It was as brazen an invitation as she’d ever dreamed of. One she would not have issued to Carl, lest he think her bold. Whether or not Shay shared that opinion signified little. Only his compliance with her request mattered right now.

  He left her no doubt, lifting her in his arms, as easily as he’d carried Marshall hours earlier. His stride was long as he crossed the hallway, leaning to turn the knob on her door. Twining her arms around his neck, she clung to him, feeling herself lowered, the mattress at her back. And still she held him fast, unwilling to release her grasp, lest he move from her.

  There was no chance of that, she found, for his fingers were between them, working at the buttons on her dress, shov
ing it from her shoulders. “Help me, Jen,” he muttered, his voice rasping and harsh. She complied, lifting her body, relaxing her hold on his, easing his way as he stripped her clothing in a small series of economical movements.

  She was naked beneath him when he tossed the bundle to the floor and turned back to her. His hands found her in the darkness, his fingers exploring each curve and valley, his mouth and lips tasting and touching, as though he had been long without the scent and feel of her skin.

  Only three days, she thought. It’s only been three days.

  An eternity.

  He was not patient, as was his wont. Like a man starved for nourishment, he came to her, seeking the replenishment she provided, his hungry body moving against hers. Heat swept through her from the skin of her breasts, where his growth of beard abraded the surface, bringing her to a yearning awakening, to the place where her woman’s flesh opened for his taking.

  He knelt between her knees, lifting them to circle his hips, and she moved to his bidding. She trembled beneath him as he took possession, his strokes long, his breathing harsh. Against her throat, his mouth was warm and damp, and then he slid upward, until, imbedded fully, he covered her, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

  Jenny welcomed him, turning her face, angling it into the curve of his shoulder, where her teeth touched firm muscle, and the salty flavor of his skin met her tongue. A cry rose from her lips as he drew away, and her fingers clutched at the smooth flesh of his back, seeking purchase.

  He murmured assurance, whispering his need aloud, moving carefully, slowly, within her until she surged fretfully beneath him, seeking ease for her aching flesh, searching for the fulfillment his possession promised.

  It was what he’d waited for it seemed, for his voice became ragged, urgent and coaxing, and he met her rhythm with long, sure strokes.

  She cried aloud again, and his head bent, his words guttural and harsh, his movements heavy and forceful. “Jenny…” As from afar, she heard him groan her name, his mouth against her hair, his voice straining to sound the syllables. She was battered, tossed about, flailing for an anchor, and only the solid strength of his body offered a haven, as she clung with all her strength.

  Her breath caught in her throat as the splinters of delight shattered her into a thousand pieces, and she was convulsed by the pounding, fierce pleasure he brought into being. Gasping for breath, she shivered, trembling in his embrace, and once more he whispered her name, his jaw taut, his teeth clenched, as if he held on to his passion with one fragile shred of control.

  Then, sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her hips, taking possession anew with a driving, primitive force, and she was filled. Achingly, abundantly filled.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It’s my cotton,” Jenny’d said stubbornly.

  Picking cotton was hard work, he’d told her. Shay’d kept her from the field as long as he could. Citing meals to be prepared and carried to the men at noontime, Shay had persuaded Jenny to stay in the house during the morning hours for three days. The four men worked unceasingly during the daylight hours, once Noah deemed the crop ready to begin harvesting. And then Zora joined them, telling Shay that she was tired of being lazy. With a glance at Caleb, he’d nodded assent. Caleb could keep an eye on her.

  The thought that they would pick cotton for the next several weeks, filling the bags, then emptying them to begin anew, gave Shay new insight into the life he’d known little about as a boy growing up on the Devereaux plantation, a place named River Bend. His fingers had never bled from multiple sticks and stabs. His back had never before ached beyond description. Now, he ached and bled, muttering heartfelt curses as he bent over miserable cotton plants all the livelong day.

  The tough calluses on Noah’s fingers took on new meaning. Yet even those patches of thickened skin gave way to the brutal bloodletting that was a result of picking cotton, wresting the dirty white fruit from the bolls holding it captive. Their fingers wrapped in thick layers of rags to contain the seeping blood—lest it damage the crop—the pickers made their way down seemingly endless rows of small, sturdy plants, finally kneeling when the pain of bending became intolerable.

  And then Zora succumbed to the heat, stumbling and finally sitting with bowed head, unable to bear up under the brutal sun. It was at that point that Jenny made her move, decreeing that Zora would work in the house. The young woman gratefully took Jenny’s place in the kitchen.

  And Jenny joined the pickers in the field. Shay had protested, but at the subtle shake of Noah’s head, he’d backed off. There was apparently going to be no stopping the woman for now, and he would not fight her, not when it was her lifeblood at stake. The plantation was her inheritance, and in turn would be Marshall’s. She would not be deterred from joining in the harvest that might provide a turning point in her battle to keep her head above water.

  Now, Shay watched as Jenny bent, mere feet from where he worked, her hands agile as she plucked the cotton from the bolls that held it captive. Only the wince of pain and the occasional grumble gave proof of her injuries, and he forced himself to back away, feeling her misery, but unwilling to mar the serenity he’d found in her presence.

  Marshall flitted the length of the rows, his youthful exuberance bringing smiles to all of them. He lugged heavy sacks of cotton to the wagon, where each of the men took their turn at emptying bags, then carried back the empty sacks. They were long, narrow containers, hanging from the left shoulder by a wide strap, trailing on the ground, growing heavier as they filled.

  “I can take my turn on the wagon,” Jenny decreed after dinner. “I’ve emptied bags before.”

  “Not this year,” Isabelle said bluntly, shooting a look of warning at her, and Shay took note of the undercurrent between the two women.

  He followed Jenny from the shade as she sought privacy in the nearby grove of trees, and she turned as a branch broke beneath his foot. Stealth had not been his object. Indeed, he’d walked behind her carelessly, surprised that she hadn’t sensed his presence there.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told him. “I’m only going to—” Her hand moved restlessly as she hesitated over the reason for her stroll through the trees.

  He grinned at her, strangely pleased by her reluctance to speak boldly. She was such a lady, his Jenny. He’d have told her he needed to take a leak, and watched the blush color her cheeks. Now, he took one step and circled her in his embrace.

  “I know where you’re going, sweetheart. I promise I won’t watch,” he teased, watching as her mouth primmed, then twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’re trottin’ off into the woods on a regular basis these days, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Her shrug was negligent. “Maybe. I’m drinking a lot of water. The sun just bakes it out of you, doesn’t it?”

  She hedged, he thought. “I’ll wait here. You go on ahead,” he said. “Watch for snakes.”

  Her nod was sober, and the memory of Marshall’s frightful experience was alive between them for a moment. Shay leaned against a tree, grateful for the shade, his keen hearing catching a bit of melody as Noah sang the beginning notes of a song. The men and Isabelle took turns, in an unspoken agreement, it seemed, choosing ballads and mournful songs, one voice lifting softly, then another joining it. At times the harmonies were sad, with minor notes and chords that gripped Shay’s heart.

  But always, they sang, and he’d begun joining them, beneath his breath, humming, sometimes picking up the words from his memory. Jenny knew all the songs they sang, and her soft, melodic voice lent a lighter tone to their harmony.

  Shay closed his eyes, inhaling deeply of the humid air, aware suddenly of the scent of Jenny’s soap, and the warmth of her body before him. His lashes lifted and he beheld her lifted face, mere inches from his own. There was no self-protective instinct when it came to this woman. He’d recognized that fact for weeks, months in fact. So aware of danger in the long years he’d traveled alone, he’d become attuned to the presence of another h
uman, even in slumber, awakening quickly should a stranger approach.

  But Jenny was no stranger. She was a part of him, the other half of his soul. And isn’t that an odd idea? His mouth twitched as he pursued the thought. And his hands moved rapidly, clasping her lest she move away. But it seemed there was no danger of that, for she leaned against him, fitting herself between his legs as he used the tree as support for their combined weight. His hands moved to enclose her hips, curving beneath the rounding of her bottom, pressing her against the rising length of his manhood.

  She smiled, a tempting, sloe-eyed expression urging his mouth to touch hers. Damp lips met his kiss, and her tongue touched his with the speed of a hummingbird seeking nectar on the honeysuckle vines. “I love you,” she whispered, and the words vibrated in his head, spoken into his open mouth, accompanied by the taste and scent of sweet tea and spearmint. It was a treat she favored, floating the leaves from her small patch of herbs on the cool glasses of tea she preferred.

  Now, he was pleased by the cool flavor, by the warmth of her body against his, and the soul-nourishing words she spoke. Her whisper was soft, tempting him, luring him to her, and in truth he could not be closer to her supple body without stripping away the layers of clothing that separated them.

  “I love you, Shay,” she repeated softly, as if she must speak aloud the words that radiated silently from her eyes. It was a declaration that expected no reply. She’d made it clear that he need not respond in like manner, only that he hear her words when they burst from her in a spontaneous fashion.

  If only… The thought of losing himself in the love of a woman had long lured him, and he’d had the good sense to keep his soul inviolate from such a commitment. Yet, with Jenny, he felt the surge of affection swell within his breast each time she spoke the avowal of her love.

  Almost, he was able to repeat the words. Almost.

  “We need to go back to work,” she whispered against his throat, her head against his shoulder, her body relaxed in his embrace. She’d become limp, and he wondered at her ability to take these short moments as a gift, as if she fed her inmost being on his touch, on the strength she drew from his caress. Now, she sighed and pushed away from him. He allowed it, dropping his arms, and standing upright.