by Jillian Hart
A wry grin twisted his mouth. "So, I was only good enough to save your life last night and convenient for you to tease with your experienced kisses?"
"You are nothing but a man of falsehoods, Hunter. You cannot hide that from me."
A thud ricocheted through the room. Tessa jumped. Jonah whirled. The youngest Hunter son stood in the threshold, surprise lighting his innocent brown eyes, a fallen chunk of wood at his feet.
"Thought you might need more wood for the fire," he croaked. "To keep Father warm."
When would she learn to keep her tongue? Andy Hunter now gazed at her as if she'd sprouted two heads. There was little wonder how she'd earned her reputation for being sharp-tongued. Jonah stood with an apology shimmering in his night-dark eyes.
"Yes, Andy, please bring in the wood." Wearily, Tessa eased down on the stool.
The youngest Hunter brother kept a wide distance from her as he stacked the sticks inside the fine brass container, then slipped from the room as if he expected her to cast a spell on him.
The old man lay breathing unevenly, but stable. He was holding his own. For now. Well, the poultice had cooled enough. She would clean off his chest and apply more. She could do little else until the surgeon came.
Aye, it would be best to keep her hands busy. Then she would not have to think about what she'd said, how she'd behaved. Shameful tears beat behind her eyelids. A lump thickened in her throat.
Jonah Hunter could tease her about her inexperience. It mattered little. He would find a pliable, pretty bride to make babies with. And she would be stuck in the marriage her grandfather had bought for her. Trapped in a nightmare she feared she might never wake from.
"She fell asleep about twenty minutes ago," Andy whispered, as if he were afraid to wake the notoriously sharp-tongued Tessa Bradford.
"I know." Jonah laid his hand over Father's. Heat buzzed at his fingers. The old man was much too hot.
Tessa had stacked cool, herb-scented compresses in a small washbasin, and he laid one across Father's brow before answering his brother. "Aside from a short trip home to fix her grandfather's family their supper, Tessa has been working here since midday without a single complaint. Look, 'tis nearly midnight now."
Where the hell is Thomas with the doctor? Fear drummed inside him. Father was desperately ill. Jonah sensed it might already be too late.
Tessa stirred, slumped in the chair by the fireplace. Well, he had to admire how hard she worked. He alone knew she'd not slept two nights in a row, and had no leisure to nap in the day between. She worked beyond exhaustion tending Father, worrying over his fever, easing the old man's struggle for air.
Light shimmered in her black-as-silk hair and washed her face, softening the fatigue written around her mouth. He studied those lips, generous cut and sweeter than wine. Who knew spinster Tessa Bradford could turn a man inside out with her kiss? The blood in his groin thickened.
"How's Father?" Andy approached the bed, dread and grief dark in his boyish eyes.
"Burning up." Jonah laid his hand against the old man's jaw. His skin felt too hot. His sleep was growing restless. "Damn it, Thomas should have returned by now. Where is that doctor?"
"Thomas is doing his best. I have no doubt about it."
"I should have gone." Anger smoldered in his chest like a long burning ember, flickering when exposed to air.
"That is right, big brother. You do everything bigger and better and faster than the rest of us." No accusation, but hard-edged truth sharpened Andy's voice. "Thomas is as capable as you. And he knows the night roads better. Does it pain you so much not to be the hero?"
A hero? Andy may speak truth, but he knew little of what was heroic. Nothing he'd done in the last ten years had been so, not facing death, not killing enemies of the Crown, not being responsible as men died beneath his command. Would his father die now?
"Let me spell you, Jonah." Tessa's voice came soft, sympathetic.
Perhaps she was tired. Or perhaps she'd overheard Andy's words. Jonah's chest tightened. Did this woman have to know so many of his secrets? That ember of anger flickered more brightly inside.
Yet one look at Tessa as she wove around the bedstead, her plain homespun skirts rustling with her graceful gait, drained away all his anger, all his shame. For one moment he saw compassion in her dark eyes so bright and tender.
The heat of her remembered kiss fanned across his mouth, firing his blood.
"Lie down." Her hand, small and warm, rested on his.
Then he thought about what it would be like to lie down with her. "I am not tired."
"There is no telling how long Thomas will take, and I can hear the danger in your father's breathing. Rest while you can. Surely, I will need your help later."
"How can I sleep?" The question tore through him, the guilt and concern and fear beating within his heart.
Swirls of black curls brushed her face. "I don't know. But try. Your father may soon need your strength."
Gratitude broke apart the lump in his throat. Tears, hot and painful, collected behind his eyes. How did this woman, so stubborn and difficult, understand? Perhaps for the same reason she tasted like heaven and fired want through his blood.
"I left a quilt on the chair." Tessa lifted her hand, stepped away, waiting to take his place on the low bedside stool. "Don't worry, Jonah. I will wake you if there are any changes."
He trusted her. This woman so hard-willed, so different from his notion of what a female should be. Desire licked down his spine at her nearness. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Such firm breasts, soft and full, drew his gaze, filling him with a heady want. If Father weren't so ill, he would reach out and touch them.
"Come, get some rest" Tessa smiled, vulnerable in the candlelight and oh, so soft.
"I might as well rest my eyes a bit," he agreed, rising, resisting the need to take her in his arms again. Was she bewitching him? And yet as he patted his Father's hand and crossed to the fire, he knew the truth.
He was terrified and she offered understanding, 'twas all. Father was dying. And he, as the oldest son, had failed him. He had not yet married. Did not wish to marry. How was he to trust a woman who coveted only his house, his money, any comfort he could give her? How was an honorable life built on so little?
As the crackling fire heated his back, Jonah watched Tessa spear poor Andy with her dark gaze.
"Fetch me another basin of cold water," she demanded. "Do it now."
Andy scrambled away, his eyes wide, more afraid of Tessa than of Father's dying. Who could blame the boy? She was frightening him on purpose, pretending she was a shrew when underneath her sharp words beat a gentle heart
Tessa's gaze snared his. Heat jumped in his loins. "I am afraid, too."
His worries were none of her business. She had no right seeing into his soul, no right measuring the fear inside the man.
Jonah settled into the single chair by the fire, fighting hard to control the jumble of feelings in his chest. Anger. Shame. Remorse. It mulled together, blending with such power he feared he would lose control.
When he finally closed his eyes, his last vision was of Tessa leaning over his father. He drowsed, listening to her movements, a rustle of muslin skirt, a splash of water, and the light rhythm of her breath.
"Jonah?"
He bolted up from the chair. Tiny creases shadowed the corners of her eyes. Fear darkened them.
That same fear beat in his heart. "What's happened?"
No sharp tongue, no stubbornly set chin. Only pure vulnerability as she clenched her hands together. "I thought you should know. I fear the end is near. I have sent Andy for the reverend."
Chapter Five
Tears of exhaustion burned behind her eyes, yet Tessa refused to stop working. The cold night wind burned her face, chilled her through to the bone, but she clutched the large washbasin in both hands and plunged it into the snow bank.
Beside her, Jonah did the same, a silent giant of a man who lifted a bucket of frozen
snow and headed toward the house. He didn't look at her, but she would not wipe away the memory of his scorching kiss.
Heart hardened, Tessa followed Jonah's shadow in the moonless night, as afraid of his silence as what he may be thinking. Aye, she knew what he thought No man would want her. He even feared she was holding hopes that he would chose her for his bride.
She tried her best to ignore him. To concentrate on her work-a man's life was at stake-yet when she least expected it, there it was. Her gaze followed the sight of Jonah's strong shoulders or lingered on his hard-set mouth.
The old man's fever soared as minutes ticked by, his heart beating weak and far too fast. Sweat dripped off her own brow as she struggled up the narrow stairs and down the hall, following Jonah into the bedchamber.
The sight of his hands holding the snow-filled bucket made her heart stop, made her shamefully wonder what his touch, capable and sure and powerful, would feel like on other parts of her body.
She bowed her head, thankful Jonah refused to meet her gaze, and together they tucked snow around his father's frail body. The man murmured in his sleep, crying out in terror. The bucket tumbled from Jonah's grip and he dropped onto the stool close to the bedside, cradling the old man's hands within his.
Tessa's chest squeezed at the sight. A single candle brushed pulsing light across the back wall, leaving Jonah's profile in dark silhouette. Unafraid and solemn, he leaned close enough to his father to whisper low, comforting words. There was no mistaking the love in his voice, so rich and full.
Who knew Jonah Hunter could be so tender? So uncommon and good? She saw the tears shimmer where they fell against the quilt and knew he was grieving his father's suffering. She thought of the man in the tales, the warrior, the soldier, the leader of men, and knew that all his accomplishments paled next to this great act of loving and comforting his father.
For the first time she saw with her eyes the hero inside the man.
She left them, washbasin in hand, and hurried down the stairs, feeling insignificant next to the love Jonah had for his father. Such was a love she'd had for her mother, tending the poor ailing woman all those years when she should have been courting a man's interest, planning her wedding, and later, making babies.
Jonah Hunter was not so bad of a man. Nay, he was excellent. Arrogant and handsome and sly enough to charm the devil, but underneath his brashness, he was a man capable of loving.
The night wind burned her cheeks and hands, drafted through her skirts, and she shivered. Tessa knelt and scooped the basin full of frozen snow and dashed back to the house, scurrying through the unlit rooms and up the dark stairs.
When she burst into the room, Jonah glanced up. He looked to be nothing but shadow, but he was so much more. Substantial. Courageous. Her heart ached as she tucked the snow around the old man's side. Wordless, she turned and dashed away, fear driving her steps.
Had she done enough for Jonah's father? She did not know. Exhaustion slowed her movements and she fought it, pushed herself harder. Down the stairs, out into the snow, back up and into the room.
Up again and down again until tears filled her eyes. As the old man inched closer to death, she feared his breathing would halt entirely and she would be left with Jonah's grieving tears and the terrible sense she should have done more.
She laid her hand on the colonel's forehead. So damn hot. His breath came in rattling whispers. What more could she do? Tessa set down the basin, refused to meet Jonah's eyes, and hurried back downstairs. Perhaps another onion poultice would break apart the congestion in the old man's lungs. She would need a hot fire. Yet the kitchen was dark, and she tried twice to light a lamp in the corner. Pain burned in her back and coiled in her neck.
She thought of Jonah's quiet courage and pushed herself harder. How many bedsides had she sat beside, comforting a dying loved one when others would not? Death frightened a lot of people, but not Jonah. He sat vigil beside his father so that the old man would not die alone.
Admiration burned in her heart. Or maybe it was something greater. There was no fooling herself. She felt a deep attraction to the man. His touches, his kisses filled her dreams.
Such foolishness. She knelt before the hearth and uncovered the embers. A few light breaths had the coals glowing red. She added kindling and listened to it spark. Love should be like this, starting gently, growing and feeding onto itself until nothing could stop it.
Yet one needed a worthy man to love. Like Jonah Hunter. What a lucky woman his bride would be.
The back door flew open, banging against the wall, startling her. She dropped the stick of maple, and it clattered to the floor.
"I have brought the doctor," Thomas announced as he charged into the room, tearing off his wet, ice-ridden cloak. "Is Father-"
"Still alive," Tessa finished, rising from the floor, the fledging fire forgotten.
She blushed as the surgeon entered the room, a young man come from so far. What must he think? His smart blue gaze studied her fallen hair and her worn and stained garments. Tessa felt heat creep across her face.
Aye, she was no beauty, but what a sight she must look. And deep in her heart she dared to hope Jonah found her attractive? Ashamed, she lowered her gaze.
The men stormed through the room, leaving boot tracks of mud and snow to melt in their hurry. Her work was done now. Sadness filled her. She liked to be needed, yet the doctor would know how best to help the dying man.
Alone in the silent room, Tessa lifted her shawl from the back of the kitchen chair where she'd left it. She prayed the old Colonel Hunter would live. Now, there was nothing more to do but wait.
Should she leave? Ice fell from the black sky as she glanced out the small window, clinging to scratchy limbed trees. The world looked so desolate, as if already mourning this night. Nay, she would stay, as she would with any patient, Jonah Hunter and his effect on her be damned.
Tessa returned to the fireplace and added plenty of wood. She would heat water for tea. Thomas and the surgeon looked frozen through. Then she would wait with the family for the end. Perhaps she could somehow help ease the suffering for the old man.
And in the quiet hours, until they needed her again, Tessa vowed not to think of her future. By this time next week she would be married to Horace Walling, that is, if her grandfather had his way.
Swallowing tears, Tessa reached for the water bucket. Empty, of course. Jonah's cloak hung from a peg by the back door. She slid the fabric over her shoulders, so heavy and finely woven. The wool smelled clean and faintly of a midnight forest, the way he did.
She closed the door with a click. Light glowed from the upstairs window through the sheen of the ice storm. Cold wind whipped through her skirts, and inside she felt as bleak as that breeze.
Jonah's kiss still tingled on her lips, spellbinding. How he'd tasted of passion and teased her with a glimpse of what she could not have. There would be no passionate, tender love in her future. The pain in her heart broke in two and she stepped into the yard.
Ice battered her. She didn't feel it. She could not feel anything at all. She'd lost her dreams, the hopes that kept her alive. It was not an easy situation living with a family who begrudged her presence. At night, so tired she could not sleep, she would wish on the closest star for the one thing that mattered: a family of her own to love and care for. And who would love her in return.
Horace Walling's face blurred in her mind, haggard and narrow-eyed and frightening. Tessa shuddered, her dreams dying one by one.
She knelt before the well, vowing not to cry. But the tears came anyway.
"I brewed some tea," she whispered to Andy, slumped by the fire, face buried in his hands.
The young man looked up, tears in his eyes. Exhaustion and worry saddened his face. Just back from fetching the reverend, he was too troubled to remember to be frightened of her. "I'm much obliged, Mistress Tessa."
" 'Tis just tea." Boiling water was easy work next to the dilemma poor Andy faced. And yet, he could n
ot see what she saw. Could not begin to appreciate that the years he'd already had with his father were a treasure greater than money or a fine home.
Her own father had died when she was a small girl. His face and even the sound of his voice had faded from her memory. But his happiness, the tenderness she'd felt when he cradled her in his lap before the fire and read to her from the great books he brought all the way from England, those memories remained. Faded by time, now they seemed no more than dreams.
No matter how hard her life had been since, Tessa always knew her father loved her. Losing him to a simple injury, aye, it never should have taken his life, changed hers forever. A broken arm wasn't so dangerous, yet there had been no one trained to set bones properly, to apply poultices to help the swelling and the bleeding. No one who knew more than mere home remedies for battling fever.
"My, that smells wonderful," the reverend hinted.
Tessa carried the fine silver tray across the room and held it steady while the silver-haired man poured milk into a steaming cup of tea.
"And biscuits too," he tried to smile.
That wobbly smile made Tessa's heart hurt all the more. She'd seen death more times than she could count and knew the signs, the feel of it in the room. She feared there would be no mercy this night.
"Jonah, you must eat," Thomas' voice boomed. Only the fire crackling in the hearth and ice tapping the glass window dared to make a sound.
"I am not hungry." Jonah did not turn from his place at the foot of his father's bed. Nor did he lift his solemn gaze from the old man's fevered face.
"Starving yourself will not change his condition."
Thomas' eyes warmed, the grief ebbing just enough for Tessa to see the gleam inside-a sight that made her throat close entirely.
Respect. Admiration. Love for his brother. She knew she shouldn't be observing a family's intimate warmth. Tessa ducked her chin as Thomas poured tea from the pot and handed it to Jonah.
There was no way she could get out of the pending marriage. The image of Horace Walling's face swirled before her. Her head spun. Pain cracked in her chest. Tessa set the tray on a small table, blinking hard, surprised such thoughts would intrude here, in this sick room where they did not belong. She had the surgeon to assist and, when he was gone, a patient to tend.