by Lisa Kleypas
“Of course you don’t. How could you?” He stood up and gave her a careless smile. “It was written by a very weary war correspondent . . . a Southern one, as a matter of fact. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, but I’d like you to explain—”
“I can make tolerable sourmilk biscuits.”
“Why did you—”
“And coffee.”
“Oh, all right! I won’t ask you any more questions.”
“You do like to ask a lot of them, don’t you?”
“Actually . . . there is one more thing.”
“Yes? What?”
Lucy hesitated and looked down at the clean, faded quilt, her face turning progressively brighter shades of red. It took several seconds of concentrated thought before she could phrase the question. “I . . . I need to . . . is there a water c-closet, or—”
“Of course. I don’t have a robe for you. Would you mind wearing one of my shirts?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind . . . thank you.”
Mercifully, he was sensitive to her mortification, his attitude completely matter-of-fact. Or was it just that after having been through the privations of a five-year war, he had forgotten that the functions of the human body were something that most people were embarrassed by?
As she watched him stride over to the chest of drawers, Lucy blushed even deeper, aware that underneath the covers she was wearing nothing but her corset cover and pantalets. He must have put them back on her last night after they had dried. It was a disturbing thought, that he was the only man who had ever seen her naked. Except for Dr. Miller, who had delivered her twenty years ago. All sorts of thoughts occurred to her, thoughts that she should have put away immediately, but she couldn’t help wondering what Heath had thought of her looks. In contrast to the fashionable ideal, she was dark-haired and petite, the owner of a lively tongue and feet that tended to move too quickly for the rest of her body to follow. Ever since the age of sixteen, her figure had taken on a generously curved shape that made her appear shorter than she really was. For years Lucy had wanted to be tall, slim, and elegant. Still, she had been told often that she was pleasing to the eye. Did Heath Rayne think she was?
Impassively Heath laid a soft white shirt and a pair of woolen socks across her knees, then turned his back. Since it didn’t appear that he was going to leave, she blushed deeply and dressed with record haste. Lucy discovered as she slid her arms into the silken garment that it had the same scent she had noticed about him before—clean and fresh, faintly dry. The shirt was hopelessly big for her. She rolled up each sleeve several turns to shorten it to her wrists. The hem of it would fall to her knees when she stood up. Wincing at the bruised and battered feel of her body, she pulled her legs out from under the covers and began pulling on the socks, the heels of which reached well past her own feet. Risking a glance upwards, Lucy saw that Heath had turned his dark golden head to the side, just enough to glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Instantly he moved his eyes back to the wall and lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. She should have been terribly offended by his sneaky glance, as well as afraid and mistrustful of him. Strangely, her instincts told her not to be.
“Mr. Rayne,” she said crisply, “you’re not behaving like a gentleman.”
“Miss Caldwell,” he replied over his shoulder. “A long time ago I had high hopes of becoming a gentleman. I was raised to be one. Unfortunately, the events of the past few years forced me to make a choice . . . between remaining a gentleman or staying alive. War is the best way there is to weed out the gentlemen . . . very few of them manage to survive it. The scoundrels, on the other hand—”
“Oh, stop it!” she cried, staring at him in a mixture of horror and confusion, wondering if he was actually sincere. “There are some things you shouldn’t joke about.”
“I agree. However, I don’t think war is one of them. Or are you of the opinion that it should be remembered as a righteous undertaking? If so, you’re one of many. The winning side always remembers war fondly, and justifies it quite adeptly.”
She didn’t know what to think of him. Warily she followed him to the second-floor bathroom, taking care not to touch him, even accidentally. The oblong bathtub was shining clean, made of tinned iron. In the corner a water closet stood like a stalwart sentinel. How cunning and modern the little room was!
“I would like to take a bath,” Lucy said, eyeing the brass faucets that glistened at her invitingly.
“Not while you have a fever.”
“The house is warm, and I feel just f—”
“In five minutes you’ll be as weak as a baby, and I doubt you’d like it if I had to charge in here and save you from drowning . . . although I certainly wouldn’t mind rescuing you from your bath—”
“I’m not going to take a bath,” Lucy informed him shortly, closing the door in his face. What a big, shameless scamp he was. It was indecent of him to tease her as he just had, even more reprehensible than undressing her last night. After all, he had undressed her in order to keep her from getting pneumonia, but he teased her merely because . . . because he was a devil!
After relieving her more urgent needs, she splashed water on her face and smoothed her long, gnarled hair with her hands. It didn’t take long for her to discover that Heath had been right—she was exhausted. She opened the door, and he appeared in the hall immediately. Flashing blue eyes swept over her, taking in the sight of her small feet in the floppy socks, the lace trim of her pantalets, the ridiculous length of his shirt on her.
“Please don’t look at me like that,” Lucy murmured. “I know I’m a sight.”
“Before I met you, I’d heard you were the prettiest girl in town. I had no idea you would be one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.”
Self-consciously she lowered her eyes, disliking his empty flattery. “You’re an outrageous liar.”
The comment would have frozen Daniel up, would have made him coldly quiet. Heath Rayne merely grinned. “I might stretch the truth about some things, yes. About you, no.” He followed her back to the bedroom with a long and indolent stride. She could feel his eyes on her back, a fact that hurried her pace considerably.
“I’m going to sleep now—” she began.
“Not until after I bring you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“There are some books by the bed that you might like to look through while I fix breakfast.”
There was no arguing with him. Resignedly Lucy got into bed, wrapping her arms about her middle and staring at him with round hazel eyes as he tucked the covers around her. “Thank you, but there’s no need for you to—”
“In some ways you remind me of the women I used to know in Virginia.” Heath paused after straightening the quilt, his turquoise eyes glowing with amusement. “Sweet. And maybe a little spoiled . . . and so very well-behaved. Are you really as prim and proper as you pretend to be, Lucy?”
She floundered for a response to his disrespectful question. Finding none, she settled for giving him a withering look. He chuckled and left the room, not at all bothered by her disdain.
The touch of fever was gone after a day’s sleep, but still Heath wouldn’t let her get out of bed. He brought soup and bread up to her for dinner. He sat in the chair by the bed while she ate, crossing his well-muscled legs in front of him and studying the scuffed surface of his blunt-toed boots. “You said you came back two days early?”
“Yes,” Lucy replied in between spoonfuls of delicious broth. “But Father doesn’t know that, and he won’t be expecting me until the day after tomorrow.”
“Good. The train won’t be running until then anyway. I’ll take you home and we’ll say that I was driving by as you were walking home from the depot—what about your luggage?”
“I lost my bag when . . . when I fell in. I’ll make up some story about leaving it on the train.” She sighed despondently. “Now it’s at the bottom of the river.”
“Don’t frown so
much, honey. Why don’t they teach the women up here to smile more?”
“We’re raised to economize,” she said, and her eyes sparkled as she laughed. “We don’t waste our smiles on just anything.”
“Or anyone,” Heath added, staring at her intently. He seemed to be fascinated by the sight of her as she bent her attention once more to her dinner tray. “Why did you decide to come back early?”
Lucy looked up at him quickly, her mouth full. In just a fraction of a second his mood had changed. Although his question was casual, the interest in his eyes was not, and the new realization made it difficult for her to swallow. There were several ways in which he could make this entire situation very difficult. She just hoped that he wasn’t the type to take advantage. “I had to apologize to someone,” she said shortly.
“Daniel Collier?”
“Yes. I had an argument with him, and then I left to stay with some relatives in Connecticut without making up to him.” How strange. After thinking about him for days without end, she had actually forgotten about Daniel for the last hour or two. “I just had to tell him I was sorry for arguing with him, and I couldn’t wait.”
“It takes two to argue. Why don’t you wait for him to apologize first?”
“Oh, but it’s only fair that I apologize first. I’ve always been the one to start the arguments. Ever since we were children.”
“Oh. I should have guessed that,” Heath said, grinning at her. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t take long for him to forgive you for just about anything. Not if you put those big eyes of yours to good use.”
“It takes a few days,” Lucy said gravely. “He’s a very serious man. Things mean a lot to him. But after we talk and I tell him I’m sorry, and we come to an understanding, I know he’s forgiven me when he reaches over and takes my hand, and I know that in a day or two he’ll have forgotten all about—”
“Takes your hand?” He seemed to be amazed. “That kind of making up is hardly worth the trouble of getting into an argument. What exactly is it that you two fight about?”
“That’s none of your business,” Lucy said, affronted by his criticism of her relationship with Daniel. “If you’d ever met Daniel, you would understand what an honorable man he is. He’s quiet and thoughtful, and that means he cares far more deeply than someone who is loud and brags about his own feelings!”
“Yes, yes. I know . . . still waters run deep. Tell me, are you planning on getting married soon?”
“Yes. Soon. We haven’t set the date yet, but we’ve been engaged for three years, and we both agree that it’s time for—”
“Three years? You’ve been engaged since the war ended?”
“You don’t have to repeat everything I say!”
“Incredible,” Heath muttered. “I’ll say one thing. You Northerners are a different breed, all right. Don’t know which is worse, him wanting to wait that long or you being willing to wait.”
“We’re waiting until Daniel has enough money to buy a nice house and support a family. He doesn’t like to leave things up to chance. He wants the best for me.”
“He’s not afraid some other man will come along and take you for himself?”
“No man could.” Her voice rang with sincerity. “No one could ever take me from Daniel.”
“I’m sure both you and he believe that . . . but the odds don’t look good on it, not when you’ve been dragging it out for three—”
“I’m finished with this soup,” Lucy said sharply, handing the tray to him. “You may take it now.”
He closed his mouth and took the tray from her, his eyes brimming with quiet laughter. Just before he left the room, he glanced at her and winked, and Lucy realized ruefully that he had been enjoying himself immensely at her expense, teasing her and laughing at her stiff-backed pride.
The next day Lucy looked outside the window and found to her relief that the day was clear and bright.
“Mornin’.”
She spun around and then smiled at Heath. He was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes traveling over her until they reached her slim ankles and bare feet. Then he threw her a dark, irritated look, and she made the discovery that he was handsome even when he was scowling.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Hell’s afire, what are you doing out of bed with nothing on your feet?”
She scampered back to the bed, hunting for the wool socks and yanking them on hurriedly. “There’s no need to use such language with me.”
“Are you trying to make yourself sick?”
She smiled at him, ignoring his testy mood. “I’m not going to get sick. I’m perfectly healthy, and I’m going home tomorrow. Just look outside.”
“So that’s why you’re so happy. Can’t wait to go back and apologize to your fiancé. How does humble pie taste, Lucinda . . . sweet or tart?”
“A big slice of it wouldn’t hurt you any.”
Reluctantly he grinned back at her. “Probably wouldn’t.”
“And a nice, long bath,” Lucy continued hopefully, “wouldn’t hurt me any.”
“Probably right about that, too.” He got her a fresh shirt and handed it to her, conspicuously careful not to brush her fingers with his.
“Just think,” Lucy said brightly. “Tomorrow night you won’t have to sleep in the parlor again. You’ll have your bedroom back.”
“But I don’t mind you sleeping in my bedroom.”
After giving him a reproving glance, she turned away from his innocent smile and left the room. Heath went downstairs to build the fires up and make sure that the rooms were extra warm, while Lucy luxuriated in the bathtub, vigorously plying the cake of soap on her skin and hair. When she appeared in the parlor, pink and flushed and damp, he spared her not even a cursory glance, as he became preoccupied with bundling her in a chair by the fire and weighting her down with quilts. The room was filled with light and a curious sense of companionship. Lucy separated the tangles in her hair with her fingers and then ran a comb through the drying chestnut tresses while Heath pored over a stack of tattered newspapers.
Lucy didn’t notice the frequency with which his bright blue eyes flickered to her. Heath studied her unobtrusively, appreciating the picture she made with her hair tumbling loose and her skin gleaming in the light. She presented no small temptation to him, for although he had known many women, there had been none quite as sweet, as vulnerable, as unawakened as Lucy Caldwell. She had a strange combination of sweetness and spirit, and an innocence that both attracted and repelled him. All of her dreams were intact. And his dreams—what remained of them—were lying around him in bits and pieces, captured in the words and the lines of print of the old newspapers he had saved. He kept them and read them every now and then, to remember. He would never forget the lessons of the past five years, had never allowed himself to make the same mistake twice.
“What are you reading?” Lucy’s curious voice interrupted his thoughts, and he answered readily.
“An old edition of the Atlanta Intelligencer. About the campaign of Atlanta.”
“Why in the world would you want to read that?”
Heath smiled wryly. “For its mistakes. This account of Johnston’s retreat across the Chattahoochee, for example. The reporter states that the troops ‘retired in good order.’ ” He shook his head and snorted. “I was there. I served under Johnston.We didn’t retire in good order—we ran like hell, stepping all over each other in an effort to save our skins.”
“You were with Johnston? Why, Daniel served under Sherman in that campaign!”
“We probably came nose to nose. In fact, I’ll bet he was one of the bas—the soldiers who battered us with their flanking operations.”
“Why are you reading those papers for their mistakes?”
“It’s a hobby of mine to look them over . . . to see how they cover things, to see what the editorial policies were. Most of the time you get more information from looking at something that’s been done wrong than when it’s been
done right. And everyone knows a lot was done wrong by the press during the war—on both sides.” He settled himself on the rug before the fire and handed the paper to her. “Look on any page—rhetoric. Rhetoric instead of facts. Now if I were an editor . . .”
“Yes?” Lucy prompted when he didn’t continue. “If you were in charge of a newspaper, what would you do to fix things? You might start it off doing things your own way, but sooner or later you’d probably bow down to the politicians, and start writing what they told you to write, and—”
“So hard-bitten,” Heath said, his eyes glinting with sudden amusement.
“Not at all . . . that’s just the way we do things in Massachusetts.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I wouldn’t, no matter what everyone else did. If I were in charge of a paper, I wouldn’t let it be anyone’s puppet, and I’d steer my own course instead of following fashions. Most editors let anyone and everyone manipulate their newspapers, especially the politicians. And the papers up here are just as bad as anywhere else—they’re too soft, too partisan, too . . . timid. Hardly anyone has the backbone to step on a few toes, print the truth without using a lot of fancy words to soften it up—”
“But would you always print the truth if you were in the editor’s shoes? Even if you didn’t like it?”
“Damn right I would.”
“I don’t think so. Maybe you would at first, but eventually you’d start printing your own version of the truth, just like all of the other editors do.”
“Ah, but I’m different from all of them,” he said, smiling at her animated expression. “I wouldn’t be so eager to sweet-talk the subscribers that I couldn’t call a spade a spade. I have few biases—”
“Except that you hate Northerners.”
“Oh, that’s a little strong. When you get right down to it, I don’t. In fact, there are some I could get to be quite fond of.” He chuckled as she stared into the fire with renewed absorption.
“Tell me,” she said, still not looking at him, “have you ever worked for a newspaper? It seems like you have.”