by MJ Fredrick
“We got word in October.”
Three months. “Why are you still here? You should go to the colony, or back home.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is. Get some of the soldiers to escort you…” He trailed off, seeing how she pulled her lips between her teeth. “How many soldiers remain?”
She didn’t answer.
“Who fires the cannon?” The explosion had awakened him the past five mornings. He’d used the cannon fire to keep track of the days.
She remained silent, folding up the shirt again, preparing to flee.
A realization struck him, stilling his heart for a moment. The fort was very quiet, day and night. Too quiet. Groups of men couldn’t stay quiet so long. There was no singing, no shouts, no footsteps other than hers. “Kit, are you here alone?”
“Of course not.” She bounced to her feet. “I’ve neglected my duties too long. Will you be able to finish that on your own?” She indicated his dinner, grown cold now.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be back to collect your plate and bowl later. Will you need me before then?”
She didn’t want him to need her. He understood that. She had other things to do. If there were no men here—no soldiers, anyway—was she running this place by herself? If he were stronger, he could help. But he could barely hold a spoon by himself. And if he helped her, would he then feel obliged to stay?
He’d told himself when he left Louisiana that he would go where the wind took him. Getting involved with another person, tying himself down, was not something he wanted. He was in no shape to do that, physically or emotionally. As soon as he was healthy again, he had to move on. Maybe he’d find a purpose somewhere along the line, but not here and not now. Responsibility would come soon enough.
“No, ma’am. I’ll manage just fine.”
She slipped out the door, her head bowed gratefully, not even looking back.
Now, if only he could believe his own words.
Chapter Three
Kit pushed the door of their quarters open with her backside, balancing Mr. Watson’s dirty dishes and her sewing basket.
Agnes looked up from stirring the fire. “He’s getting well?”
“And hungrier.” Kit set the basket on the table and wiped her hair back from her face with her wrist. Mr. Watson had drunk the gruel straight from the bowl and eaten two pieces of the awful bread, but she’d still heard his stomach grumbling when she left the room. Her own had rumbled in response as he unknowingly ate her share of the bread. “I don’t know how we can continue to feed him. Have you seen the size of him?”
“No, you won’t let us go over there.” Mary pouted from the table where she kneaded more bread.
If they continued to use the bread starter and wheat at this rate, they’d spend the rest of the winter eating porridge. Kit’s taste buds rebelled. What she wouldn’t give for a sweet, juicy apple. Or apple pie. She didn’t even have what she’d need to make the crust.
“I don’t trust him.” Bad enough she’d let him know that no men were about. So far he was too weak to take advantage of the situation. If he decided to…well, she would ensure she alone suffered for her mistake.
“Why not?” Mary countered.
Kit set the basket on a nearby chair with a thunk. “I know nothing about him.”
Mary flipped her hair over her shoulder. “You spend enough time over there.”
“When he was fevered. Not when he’s awake and regaining his strength with every bowl of gruel.” She carried the dishes over to the wooden tub, so weary she could barely stand.
She would not admit to them that she missed the scent of a man, that being in the room with him reminded her of the cozy life she’d had with John, before he had brought her out here and abandoned her.
“Is he handsome?” Mary asked.
Silly romantic girl. Had Kit been so foolish? Had she changed? Because she did find him handsome, especially when he smiled and his cheeks dimpled and white teeth flashed.
She sniffed, trying to mask her reaction with disdain. “He’s dirty and smelly.” And young and strong.
What would it be like to have someone to lean on again, to take some of the weight from her shoulders?
No. She’d promised herself she would not let anyone take charge of her life again, make her decisions for her. If this was the life she had to lead to keep that vow, so be it. She would be in control of her destiny from now on.
“He’s young,” Agnes remarked, sitting at the table near where Mary worked.
Kit tensed at the older woman’s disapproving tone. “That he is.”
“You need to watch yourself. Men have ideas about widows, especially young ones. You need to be on your guard.”
“I know.” She was always on her guard. She wished she could let it down, just for a bit. She tightened the cloak about her shoulders. “We need more wood.”
Grateful for the excuse to be out from under Agnes’s scrutiny, she walked into the yard. She stopped short at the sight of Mr. Watson standing in the doorway of the second lieutenant’s quarters, his hands braced on either side of the door as he inspected the yard. She wasn’t ready for him to be on his feet. She needed more time to think, to prepare. She swept up her skirt and rushed across the open space.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
He gave her a sheepish grin. “Looking for the outhouse.”
She shifted when he looked past her toward their quarters, and she prayed Mary or Agnes didn’t come out. She didn’t want him to know her vulnerabilities, not yet. “You have a chamber pot.”
His face flushed beneath his stubble. “I don’t want you doing that for me anymore. And I need to stretch my legs.”
“It’s too cold and you’re not well yet. You need to get back inside.” She crowded him, trying to herd him back into the barracks. If she hadn’t noticed how big he was when she was hauling him into the fort, she did now when she had to look up at him. And up.
He didn’t back away, merely craned his head to meet her gaze. Amusement at her dilemma brightened his brown eyes.
“Really, you shouldn’t be on your feet just yet.” Her hand hovered above his chest before she changed her mind about touching him there and pushed at his upper arm to steer him back into the barracks.
“Kit,” he chided gently. “The room smells like sweat and smoke. I just want some air.”
What was she going to do, wrestle him back into the room? She couldn’t keep him prisoner. But how could she protect her family against someone so big? She’d have to let him out, and do her best to keep Mary and Agnes away.
“The outhouse is over there.” She motioned toward the big doors at the entrance. “Can you make it by yourself?”
“Or die trying.” He pushed away from the doorjamb and started toward it.
She watched him make his way to the small room set into the wall. It would be cold in there, not like the room he’d left. Heat poured from the open door behind her, and she turned to see he’d stirred up the fire. And Lord, the room did smell—like illness, dirty man and musty corn husks. The linens she’d brought days ago sat on the rickety chair, unused. Deciding to use them now, Kit crossed the room to strip the bedding he’d sweated on.
She jolted when his shadow dimmed the light in the room, and pivoted to see him leaning in the doorway. His breathing was labored and his face sheened with sweat from his trek across the yard. The urge to go to him, to steady him, was strong, but she resisted. Now that he was on his feet he was more of a threat, and she couldn’t risk softening toward him.
“I didn’t mean for you to do that.” He nodded toward the bed.
“It needed to be done.” She smoothed the sheet and straightened.
He didn’t move out of her way when she gathered the pile of dirty linens and approached the door. Her heart thundered in alarm. What more did he want from her?
“I could sure use a bath and a shave.” He scrubbed his
hand over his jaw in emphasis.
The stubble he’d arrived with had thickened, shadowing his cheeks, jaw and throat. She understood the need to be clean, especially after he’d sweated out his fever. But how could she accomplish the task? She couldn’t carry the hip bath over here, or the cauldron to heat the water, and he was too weak to help. He sat on the clean bed, folding his hands, but not before she saw how he trembled, just from walking across the yard.
She tried discouraging him. “It will be too cold and you don’t have any clean clothes.”
He scratched the back of his head and frowned at his raised arm. “I can’t stand myself right now. I’ll even haul the water.”
As if he had the strength. She shook her head and sighed. She could manage it, though her very soul told her this was a bad idea. “I’ll set up the bath in my quarters and come get you when it’s ready.”
She eased past him and hurried back to her rooms, trying to remember all the things she needed to do today, everything that had gone out of her head when she agreed to help him bathe.
Agnes and Mary looked up from their sewing at her entrance and watched in concern as Kit dragged the copper hip bath down from its hook near the stove.
“It’s Thursday,” Mary pointed out, frowning.
“He wants a bath.” She set the tub near the fire. No sense him catching a chill that would put him back in bed where she’d have to care for him again.
“In here?” Agnes rose from the wooden bench, her tone indignant.
Kit swallowed the huff of exasperation. Where else? She didn’t say it, but she couldn’t stop a bite of impatience. “I can hardly cart it all over there.” Kit turned to face her family. “I need the two of you to stay in the bedroom until he’s gone.”
Mary shivered. “How long will that be?”
Kit frowned, not liking the need to send her family into the fireless bedroom. Mary hadn’t fully recovered from her illness. She couldn’t catch another chill. She would rush through Mr. Watson’s toilette. “A bath and a shave. No more than half an hour, I suppose.”
“And you’re going to help him.”
Kit couldn’t meet her mother-in-law’s judgmental gaze. “He can’t do it on his own.”
“If he’s well enough to bathe, he’s well enough to be on his way.”
Her thoughts had traveled along the same line. But she remembered how he’d shaken. “Not quite. Another day or two.” She pushed her loose tendrils back from her face and turned to Agnes. “Please, Mother.”
Agnes eased her shoulders a bit. “Do you need help getting the water?”
“No. I don’t want him to know you’re here. I’ll get it.”
Filling the cauldron, heating the water, and transferring the water to the tub took a long time. Kit was sweating and wanted a bath herself by the time she walked across the yard to fetch Mr. Watson. If he was asleep, she would use the bath. She almost hoped he was as she knocked on the door. He swung it open with more energy than she expected, eagerness tightening the line of his body.
She frowned, keeping her gaze on his face. The sheer size of him made her body warmer. “Your bath is ready.”
The eagerness faded as he studied her. “I’m sorry. It was too much to ask.”
She didn’t affirm or deny it, merely turned to lead him back to her quarters, not sure what to say. Her nerves danced as they approached the rooms. He would be naked, and they would essentially be alone.
His own unease was apparent once she closed the door behind them. He shifted his weight and glanced about, taking in the small area, the hip bath by the fire. The room was as warm as his, with the added moisture from the water over the fire, and his skin glowed with perspiration.
“Um, I—” He made a circle where he stood, searching for something.
“I don’t have a screen,” she murmured. “I’ll just—work over here.” She gestured to the tub of dishes on the sideboard and stood to face it, stacking the drying dishes to drown out the swish of fabric as he undressed. Her imagination, which had been inactive until he arrived, pictured him shedding each item of clothing. She remembered the expanse of muscled chest and shoulders, the long strong arms. Finally she heard the splash of water that told her he was in the tub. She debated whether she should turn around. Did he need help? Why did she presume he did? Maybe he wanted his privacy altogether.
She chanced a glance over her shoulder. His head was tilted back, hands draped over the sides of the tub, knees drawn up almost to his chin. His eyes were shut and his expression was relaxed but his face was pale. She stepped closer, gaze fixed on his broad shoulders, long arms carved with muscle, and wide chest covered with the lightest scattering of curling hair. How good would it feel to curl up against it, listen to his heart beat and feel those arms around her? His eyes opened and looked into hers, pleasure curving his lips as though he knew what she was thinking. She took a quick step back and glanced around for something, anything, to distract her.
“The, ah, soap and a wash cloth are here. The soap is lavender. I’m sorry, it’s all I have.” On the table. Too far for him to reach without standing up. She pushed a chair closer to the tub and set the cloth and soap on the seat, then hung the drying sheet over the back. “Is there anything else you need?”
“A razor. I didn’t bring one.”
Grateful for a reason to look away, she turned, taking a deep breath. “I have John’s here somewhere.”
“Kit.”
“It was a nice one. He kept it well-sharpened.” She crossed the room to the chest of drawers by the bedroom door, found the razor in the top drawer, wrapped in chamois. She traced the engraved handle, then tested the edge of the blade with her thumb. She frowned and carried it back over to Mr. Watson. “Is it sharp enough?”
He pressed too hard and a line of blood appeared on the pad of his thumb. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
A thought occurred to her. “I don’t have a shaving mirror.”
“Ah.” He rubbed his hand over his beard. “Can’t cut my throat after all your hard work keeping me alive.”
He wouldn’t ask. She wondered why. Maybe because he’d asked so much already? “I can do it.”
He lifted his eyebrows. Perhaps he didn’t trust her.
“I’ve done it before, for John.”
“John was apparently a braver man than I.” He handed back the razor and she set it down on the table with a snap. He drew in a deep breath. “All right. I’d like you to shave me.”
She hadn’t realized what she’d offered when she said the words. She would have to get close to him, touch him, and already his big body made her nervous. She glanced over to see a hopeful look in his eyes.
“Could you wash my hair, too? I can’t think of how to do it without getting water all over your floor.”
Palms tingling in anticipation of feeling that thick hair between her fingers, she picked up the pitcher she used to rinse Mary and Agnes’s hair when they bathed on Saturday. “All right.”
She crossed to the stove and filled the pitcher with warming water. Returning to the tub, she held the container out to him. “See if this is too hot.”
He dipped his finger in. “Just right.”
“Bend forward.”
He did, obediently, and she slowly poured the water, hesitantly sliding her fingers through his thick brown hair to wet it all. He remained still as the water drizzled from his hair to the tub, rivulets sluicing over his strong neck to coast down the indentation of his spine. She drew in a deep breath, trying to find her senses, only to breathe in the scent of man and soap.
It all felt too familiar, taking her back to many other bath nights, when John and she would bathe, sometimes washing each other, sometimes bathing together, before falling into bed.
Pushing aside memories of her husband, she set the ewer down to lather her hands with the soap, and smoothed it into Trace’s hair, telling herself it was no different than washing Mary’s hair. His was thick, so she had to work a little harder to get
the soap in, circling her fingers against his scalp, his temples, the crown of his head, taking longer than she needed with the sensual feel of his hair between her fingers, until he moaned in pleasure.
The sound pierced her thoughts and she snatched her hands back. He lifted his head to look at her, squinting against the soap that framed his face.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Just—no one’s done that for me in a long time.”
How long, she wondered, and who? His Angel? But she kept her lips pressed in a disapproving line nonetheless. What would he think if he knew she’d been enjoying it, as well?
She wiped her soapy hands on her apron, hating the thought that she removed the feel of him from her skin as she did so, and carried the pitcher back to the stove for more warm water. He would need to get out of the tub soon, or she’d have to heat more water. He took the washcloth as she returned, and covered his face with it. He yelped as the first stream of water hit his scalp, and the line of his shoulders tensed.
“That was hotter,” he said needlessly, his voice muffled against the cloth.
“I’m sorry.” But she poured more, easing her fingers through his hair to release the soap. “One more time. You have thick hair.”
He grunted, letting his hair drip as she returned to the stove and filled the pitcher. This time she cut the hot with some of the cold, then refilled the pot from the well bucket beside the stove. He sucked in his breath in anticipation before the water hit, then sighed again when she fingered his hair.
“I think I have it all.”
He scooped his hair from his face, slicked it straight back, and leaned against the edge of the tub. Her gaze slipped to the waterline and below. Oh, dear. Oh. Dear. Very, um, manly.
She blinked and returned her attention to his face. His eyes were open. She hoped he attributed her blush to the heat from the fire, that he hadn’t seen her gaze slip.
“Is your water warm enough?”
“Mm.”
“Just—because it might take me some time to shave you and I don’t want to get the bristles in the water.”