“I believe I’ll keep you in the kitchen from now on,” he murmured as she brought him a glass of buttermilk.
“If you take Eli on, you won’t need me in the field,” she reminded him quietly.
“I’m considering it.” He chewed on a bite of ham and filled his fork with creamed potatoes. “You didn’t tell him he could stay?” His look was searching as she sat beside him on the bench.
“I told him he’d have to ask you,” Jenny said, reaching for a slice of bread.
“That’s what he said.” Shay ate steadily, halting only long enough to butter a slice of bread. “If you want him back here, it’s all right with me. We can use the help, and you’re right. It’ll free you up from field work.” He slanted her a glance. “You know him better than I do. What do you think?”
“Noah’s the one to ask,” Jenny told him, raising her voice a bit. “He’d be better able to judge.”
Noah looked up from across the table, nodding slowly. “Eli’s a good man, just blessed with a fiery temper. His woman can hold him in line pretty good.”
Shay nodded. “It’s settled then. I’ll send Caleb over to tell him.”
Chapter Thirteen
Heat surrounded her, stifling heat that made her gasp for air, as if her lungs could not inflate properly. Jenny sat up, aware that she was tangled in the sheet, conscious of Shay beside her, yet enmeshed in the dream. Her hand reached to touch him, needing to know for sure he was there, that his presence was not just a part of the dream.
Rock-hard and solid, his chest beneath her fingers was her security in the dark, and she spread her palm wide across the broad expanse. It warmed her chilled flesh, and she closed her eyes, steeping herself in the reassurance he gave so unknowingly.
She turned to him, curling against his side, her face against the rounding of his shoulder, and then sat upright, her heart beating wildly in her chest.
He was hot. Not just the natural warmth he exuded, as if his internal workings were set at a higher pace than most other human beings. This was different, she thought, moving her head upward, so her cheek lay against his forehead. Heat, pervasive and intense, rose from him and she absorbed it. Her hands framed his face and she brushed his mouth with her own, receiving the expected response. His lips opened. He released a breath, a sound preceding it that could only be called a moan. Sweetness, heavy with the scent of fever met her nose, and she rolled from the bed.
He reached for her, grunting a phrase that demanded her return, but she ignored it, concentrating on the lamp beside the bed. Fingers trembling, she lit a match, irritated by the globe that clinked against metal, the round knob that resisted her touch. And then the wick was glowing, flaring into flame, and she lowered the globe back into place.
Shay was silent, and she rounded the foot of the bed, lamp in hand, placing it on the table beside his head. Its glow cast a circle of light, and he was caught in its midst, eyes shut, mouth barely open, a red flush across his cheeks proving her worry to be valid. He was fevered, taken by some rapidly advancing illness, and her thoughts circled frantically, sorting out all the remedies she could bring to mind.
Cool water first. Then tea, elderberry tea, mixed with boneset to bring down the fever. She bent low over him, her mouth against his brow, her whisper soft against his skin. “I’ll be right back, Shay. I won’t leave you for long.”
The lamp in her hand, she crossed the hallway to the kitchen and went into the pantry. Her box of supplies was in its usual place and she brought it back to the table, the better to search out what she needed. Small envelopes, folded bits of paper, held dried blossoms from the elderberry plants in the hedgerows and she poured the contents of one into a pan on the stove. Water from the heavy teakettle was still warm and she poured the pan half full. Boneset leaves would help, she decided, and added a pinch from the cloth bag that held her supply.
The fire was banked for the night, but with the addition of kindling and three well-placed chunks of wood, it blazed in moments, the heat rising to the pan she’d put in place. The back door opened soundlessly and she picked up the water bucket beneath the sink, heading for the pump in the yard. The water was cool there, not passing through the pipe that led to the kitchen, and speed was of the essence.
Only three smooth movements of the handle were needed to send forth water that felt cold to her hand and she filled the bucket halfway, then started back to the house.
“Miss Jenny?” Joseph appeared out of the darkness. “Are you all right?” His voice was as soft as the night air, and she turned to him gratefully.
“Shay is feverish,” she said quietly. “Will you come in the house with me and watch the tea I’m brewing?” Her steps were rapid as she retraced her path, climbing to the porch and reaching for the door.
Joseph was there ahead of her, holding the screen door open, and she passed him, heading for the table. His dark face held concern as he took the bucket from her hand and waited. “I’ll do whatever you say, Miss Jenny.”
She snatched up a towel from the buffet and nodded at the doorway. “Take it to my room, please. I’ll be right there.” Peering within the pan, where tiny bubbles rose to the surface of the water, she pressed her lips together. “Hurry…” The single word was fervent, and she followed Joseph from the kitchen, carrying the lamp with her.
“You’ll have to find a candle in the kitchen for light,” she told him, entering her room. He was bending over the bed, his broad hand rising from Shay’s forehead as she neared.
“He’s awful hot.” His eyes widened and she sensed his fear. “You ’spose he’s got summer fever?”
“No.” She dipped the towel into the water, then, wringing it almost dry, sat down on the edge of the bed. “There was fever in the camp he was in during the war. This could be left over from that time, I suppose.” The towel soaked up the heat from his skin and she lifted it, dousing it again and replacing it. “Find me another towel, Joseph. You’d better get a lamp from the parlor, I think. And check to see if the tea is boiling. It will need to be strong, but don’t let it boil over. I don’t want to waste any of it.”
Joseph hurried from the room and Jenny stripped down the sheet, leaving only a narrow band across Shay’s hips. He was naked, as was usual, and for that she was thankful. Removing his clothing, even drawers and undershirt, would have been a heavy task for her. Instead she beheld his wide chest, the narrow waist and hips and long, muscular legs, the form of a strong, solid man. That knowledge sat well with her.
No matter how high the fever, whatever ill beset him, he could overcome this sickness. A man who had come from Elmira, who had traveled the countryside and made his way across hundreds of miles of rough terrain in order to fulfill a promise made to a dying man, would not be laid low by fever. Carl had trusted well in his friend.
She took the towel in hand and swung it through the air, cooling it rapidly, impatient with the wringing-out process. Opened wide, it covered his chest and belly and she sat back, picking up his hand, holding it between her palms as if she could pour strength through the callused skin from her own reserves.
Joseph appeared in the doorway with two more towels in his hand. She reached for them, wringing them out in the bucket and spreading them over Shay’s legs. And then repeated the process, one at a time, beginning with the cloth covering his chest. She swung them through the air, creating a breeze over his heated flesh, then placed them alternately upon his head, chest, arms…only to remove them moments later when they soaked up the heat from his massive frame.
The scent of elderberry tea reached her as Joseph carried a large cup between both hands, protecting his skin by several layers of toweling. “It’s mighty hot, ma’am,” he whispered. “And there’s more in the pan.”
“Push it to the back of the stove, Joseph.” She glanced up at his retreating back. “You can go on to bed now. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll just lay down on the porch,” he told her. “If you need anything, you’ll know where to find me.�
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She nodded, her attention already drawn back to Shay. His mouth was dry, his lips shiny in the lamplight, and she took a corner of the towel, dampening it in the tea, then dripped it slowly against his mouth. His tongue touched it, and he moaned, an audible plea. “Hot. I’m burning. Mama? Where are you?”
Jenny repeated the ritual, squeezing the tea from the towel into his mouth and he swallowed it quickly. Joseph had placed a spoon in the cup and she blew against its contents, cooling the small amount, then allowed it to flow against the corner of his lips. His tongue welcomed it and his murmur was appreciative.
“Shay, can you hear me?” she whispered. But there was no response, nor had she expected one. Still, she fought the disappointment as he merely murmured incoherent words, names she had never heard.
“Maggie?” His eyes flew open, glazed and wild and then they focused on her. “I won’t let him touch you,” he said, his teeth clenched, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl.
Well, that was a new one, Jenny thought. He hadn’t mentioned a woman before. She returned to the ritual with the towels, and Shay pushed her hands aside. “I need to—” He closed his eyes, his hands flexing, then reaching for her again. “Don’t…”
“Shh…I’m only trying to get you cooled off,” she said quietly. “Shay, listen to me.” And for a moment, it seemed he did, quieting as her words demanded his attention. “Drink this for me,” she said firmly, lifting his head to spoon the tea into his mouth.
“Thanks,” he said, the word coherent. He swallowed, then shivered, and she saw his jaw clench. His body trembled, as if caught in a chill so potent, he could not contain his trembling. “I’m cold, Mama,” he whispered. “Tell Roan I…” His words trailed off.
Jenny took the towels from him, and covered him, drawing the quilt up from the foot of the bed. Still he shook, as did the slender, small pines when the rain and wind swept through the forest. His mouth trembled and his arms jerked, hugging himself in an involuntary movement. There was no help for it, she decided, pulling aside the covers and sliding beneath them. Her arms encircled him, her face against his chest, as she lent her body heat to his. He was cold, drawing the warmth from her, and she lifted her legs to surround his, situating herself atop him.
His arms slid from beneath her and circled her, holding her fast against his body, and his mouth trembled against her ear. “I told him…” The pause was long, his words guttural as if wrenched from his lungs with great effort. “No love in Gaeton…”
Gaeton. Another name she’d never heard before. From somewhere in his past, Shay was dredging up memories, and she gathered each word, each priceless thought he uttered, storing them to be pondered over.
How long she held him, until the shuddering ceased and he lay lax beneath her, she could not tell. Minutes perhaps, certainly not more than half an hour. She relaxed against him, only to feel the pervasive heat once more emanate from his skin. Restless now, he pushed at her and she dragged herself from the bed, watching as he kicked off the covers, uncaring of his unclothed condition, lost in the fevered netherworld where his demons pursued.
“Carl!” The single word rose from his lips in long drawn-out agony. “I’m sorry,” he whispered after a moment, and then a single tear slid from beneath his closed eyelid.
Jenny placed a cool towel against his chest, bending to retrieve another from the bucket, wringing it almost dry and draping it over his thighs. His hand snaked to his side and snatched at her wrist, squeezing the slender bones in his grip.
“You’re a dead man, Rad Bennett.” As clearly as if he spoke from a rational mind, Shay muttered the promise, and Jenny shivered at the menace contained in the simple phrase. “You touched her.” His voice was cold, deadly, and his eyes opened for a moment, their dark depths radiating hatred such as Jenny had never known.
“Who?” she whispered, the query meant only for her own ears, and yet Shay turned his head, watching her from beneath hooded lids.
“I won’t shame her,” he whispered sadly. “I’m sorry, Beau.”
Beau. Another name, but this time one she’d heard him speak. Beau Jackson, a man he’d worked for in…She thought, concentrating fiercely. Had he said Kansas?
She bent to her task, changing the towels again, swinging them through the air to cool both man and heavy fabric. He was silent now, breathing heavily, his face and chest ruddy with the heat his body shed.
In the kitchen, she heard movement, and Isabelle appeared in the doorway.
“Fever?” she asked, a towel gripping the pan. The scent of herbs rose in the air and Jenny motioned her close, nodding at the empty cup.
Isabelle filled it, carefully keeping the leaves within the confines of the pan, then leaned over the bed. “How long’s he been this way?”
Jenny shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. Several hours. He woke me, and then Joseph heard me out at the pump and he came in and helped.” Her words ran together, her head pounding with a headache she’d only just recognized.
“You look puny,” Isabelle said bluntly. “Go get yourself some coffee and something to eat. I’ll tend him.”
Jenny felt a surge of nausea, and it propelled her to the slop jar in the corner. Kneeling before it, she slid the lid out of the way just in time, retching horribly as bile filled her mouth.
Isabelle was beside her, handing her a damp towel. “Wipe your face,” she said quietly. “You don’t want to get sick, Jen. Eat something, even if you don’t feel like it, you hear?”
Jenny nodded, compliant as she recognized Isabelle’s words as truth. Staggering to her feet, she made her way to the kitchen, thankful for the coffeepot that sent out a fragrant aroma. She swallowed hard and poured it, filling a cup halfway, then added cream and a spoonful of sugar, stirring it briefly. A loaf of bread lay beneath a kitchen towel, and Jenny snatched at it, tearing off a bit and easing it past her rigid lips. She chewed stoically and swallowed, washing it down with a small sip of coffee.
Sliding into a chair, she inclined her head, inhaling the steam from the cup, then, eyes closed, she lifted it to her mouth. Heavy with cream and sugar, it settled in her empty stomach and she breathed deeply. Another bite of bread followed the first, and she chewed and swallowed in a rhythmic fashion until a goodly portion had settled her nausea.
Shay. She must get back to him. What if he’d worsened while she dawdled at the kitchen table. She rose quickly, staggering as her nightgown tripped her up, then lifted the skirt and hastened across the hall.
“Mama?” Marshall’s voice beckoned her and she hardened her heart to his summons.
“Get up and get dressed, Marsh,” she called hastily. “Isabelle will get you breakfast.”
“Mama!” His voice demanded her presence and she hesitated.
“I’ll tend to him. Your man needs you now,” Isabelle told her, rising from her knees beside the bed. “He’s restless since you left the room.”
“Been that way all night,” Jenny said, her breath short as she hurried to his side.
“Not like this,” Isabelle said. “It’s like he needs to know you’re here.”
And her words were proven true as Shay reached wildly, his hand groping, until Jenny clasped it within her own, drawing it to her breast. He murmured, a petulant sound, then sighed as he turned his head to face her. “I’m here,” she whispered, leaning close, her nose scenting out the smell of his fever again.
“He’s buried deep,” Shay whispered, his tone confidential. “Bastard cut me pretty bad, didn’t he?”
“Your face?” Jenny asked quietly, holding her breath lest he realize the import of his words.
His eyes opened, a faraway look dulling the dark surface and his teeth gritted, the sound harsh and grating. “He killed Gerald.” The whispered sound tore at her heart, as a sob wrenched Shay’s chest. “Carl, watch—” His grip on her hand turned cruel and she swallowed the cry of pain, wriggling against his greater strength. And then he relaxed his hold, his head tossing from side to side
.
“Don’t touch her.” It was a primitive growl, the words almost incoherent, so smothered with hatred. “Damn you, Rad…Maggie!” It was a cry from his heart, a painful blending of the woman’s name and a phrase that cursed a man to hell. Shay’s arm swung wide and Jenny ducked the blow.
She sprawled across him, holding him to the bed, her whispers in his ear a mixture of pleading and prayer. He clasped her tightly, rolling with her to the opposite side of the bed, holding her against himself with masculine force, and she was held captive by the strength of a madman. He struggled to rise above her, straddling her slender form and one powerful arm drew back, the fist clenched.
“Shay! No!” Her voice was sharp, the words penetrating the feverish demons that drove him, and he shook his head, dropping the weapon he’d threatened to use on her fragile bones. “Shay, look at me,” she begged, her hands reaching to frame his face.
And he did. For one long moment, his eyes were lucid, his lips drawn tightly against his teeth. “Jenny…merciful God, Jenny.” He rolled to the side, shivering, whether from the fright of threatening her or with a resurgence of the chills, she did not know. It was enough that she was free from his weight, that she was able to slide from the bed and round the footboard to where the tea sat on the table.
Again, she leaned over him, coaxing him to open his mouth, lifting his head to receive the cup at his lips. He responded, quiet and almost withdrawn, drinking the cooling tea with great gulps. She set the cup aside and pulled the sheet to his waist, then wrung out a towel for his forehead.
He watched her, one hand lifting to touch her cheek. “Carl? I killed the bastard for you, for Gerald…maybe for Maggie, too.” And then his head wagged slowly from side to side. “No, that was Rad, wasn’t it?” His eyes narrowed and a furtive look crossed his face as he looked over her shoulder. “He’s buried deep, Beau.”
“Beau’s not here,” Jenny said soothingly. “Just me, Shay. It’s all over.”
The Seduction of Shay Devereaux Page 21