He brought the buggy around to the back of the house and pulled on the reins, drawing the vehicle to a stop. Shaelyn glanced in his direction, saw him close his eyes and draw a deep breath. He winced as he started to climb out of the buggy. Shaelyn slipped out of her seat and came around to his side of the vehicle. She reached up to grab his hand. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” he all but roared, pain not only showing on his face, but clear in his voice as well. “Stop fussing over me. I’m not an invalid.”
Shaelyn jumped back. Without warning, unwanted tears filled her eyes and she sucked in her breath. “Damn stubborn Yankee.”
He glared at her. The skin around his eyes had a yellowish green tinge. She’d seen that particular color before—on Papa’s face just before he had an infected tooth pulled.
“Just full of pride, aren’t you? Can’t accept help from anyone, can you?” She returned his unflinching glare with one of her own. “Have it your way, Major. You always do.”
He turned away from her then, but not before she saw something flash in his eyes. An apology perhaps? She had no time to discern the look as he limped up the back steps and disappeared into the house, his body stiff, shoulders tight. She couldn’t see his face, but knew pain radiated from every fine line around his eyes and mouth.
“He’ll be all right, lass. Just give him some time.”
She glanced to her left and saw Jock rise from a rocking chair, a meerschaum pipe clenched between his teeth. He leaned against the veranda railing for a moment, then sauntered down the back steps. “Here, let me take Jezebel.”
“No, I’ll do it. Why don’t you check on him?”
Jock simply smiled, took the pipe from between his lips, and shook his head. “I’m not that much of a fool,” he said, his Scots brogue heavier than usual. “I’ve known him long enough to know he don’t want no one with him now. And lass, he’s embarrassed you saw him this way.”
Shaelyn said nothing. She couldn’t. The lump in her throat didn’t allow her to speak. Instead, she shrugged and strode away, leading Jezebel and the buggy to the carriage house, berating herself for a fool with each step she took.
She’d forgotten. Between the beauty of the day and the warmth of his smile, she’d forgotten she didn’t want him here. Forgotten that she hated his intrusion into her life.
Didn’t she? So why did she care that his beautiful eyes revealed his pain? Why did she feel hurt they had argued? That she’d called him a stubborn Yankee ass? Indeed, it would be best if he left Magnolia House and she never saw him again. Anything would be better than the utter desolation she felt now.
• • •
How stupid!
Remy pressed his lips together in annoyance and continued to massage the cramped, bunched muscle in his thigh, though his efforts had little effect. His leg throbbed, the pain more intense than it had been in a long time.
He leaned against the desk, where he poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a long swallow, hoping the heat from the liquor would help to relieve some of his stiffness, his soreness.
What made him think he could traipse about town? What made him think he was the same strong, powerful man he’d been several months ago? And could do the same things that man had done?
Ah, but he knew the answer. With Shaelyn beside him, her fingers pressed into the crook of his elbow, her face animated with laughter, he’d thought he could do anything.
Oh, how wrong he’d been.
What if General Sumner saw him like this? Would he be deemed unfit to command? Would someone else be put in charge? Here? At Magnolia House? Would Shaelyn and her mother be allowed to stay?
The questions crashing against each other in his head were almost as painful as his leg, which still wouldn’t hold the weight of his body and gave out one more time. He almost fell to the richly patterned carpet, but managed, by sheer force of will, to maintain his balance. Leaning on his cane, he made it to a high-backed leather chair and collapsed within the buttery softness of the cushions.
He counted himself fortunate he’d been able to make it back to Magnolia House and inside before he tumbled to the floor, but not before Shaelyn had seen his pain, his weakness. What’s worse, she’d shown sympathy, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her actions solicitous and caring…much more than he could take.
A long sigh escaped him before he tilted the glass and swallowed more of the dark amber brew. Warmth trickled to his stomach and spread outward as he leaned forward and removed the shoes from his feet. Another burst of searing pain shot through him, the rising tide of biting agony stealing his breath. He took another sip of whiskey, wiped the sweat from his brow, and prayed the keen throbbing would stop. He closed his eyes as the pain slowly receded.
• • •
Shaelyn rubbed her eyes in an effort to get them to focus once more. The candle on the bedside table didn’t provide enough light for the task at hand. Despite the lateness of the hour and the strain on her eyes, she continued using small, delicate stitches to sew up the legs in Major Harte’s undergarments.
As she plied the needle, she wondered what punishment he would think of for this prank and couldn’t help the delicious shiver that snaked down her spine. Despite running into Millie, despite the pain in his leg, and the way the day had ended, she had enjoyed spending time with him.
In another time, in another place, she might have harbored the thought they might court. Handsome—and charming when he chose to be—Remington Harte was the kind of man her father would have chosen for her. Even more, Sean Cavanaugh would have liked him tremendously, as her mother did.
Ah, but this was war. His charm didn’t matter. His good looks didn’t matter. Neither did his kindness. After all this time, he was still an invader in her home, an unwelcome guest.
But was he really? If she admitted the truth…
Shaelyn drew in a deep breath and laid her sewing aside as the realization stung her. After laughing with him and listening to him speak with such love about his family, she had to admit he certainly wasn’t the enemy she’d thought him to be when he first came to Magnolia House. He didn’t have to show her the kindness he had. Indeed, he didn’t have to let them stay. For that alone, she should be grateful. And she was.
And though he remained an unwelcomed guest, she couldn’t say with any accuracy that his being here had made her life worse. In truth, things had become easier. Just a little. At the very least, she did not have to worry about putting food on the table. Major Harte had taken care of that burden by filling the pantry with a variety of goods, some of which she hadn’t seen in a very long time.
The candle flickered on the nightstand beside her, the flames making shadows dance on the walls. She caught her own reflection in the mirror and studied the face staring back at her.
Never before had she felt this way. She’d always known exactly what she wanted, but…he confused her, muddied her thinking until she couldn’t hold a coherent thought in her head if she so wanted. Her thoughts and emotions were jumbled now, colliding with each other, clicking off one another like billiard balls on a smooth felt table, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit. One moment, she hated him. The next, she didn’t, and if butterflies would stop fluttering inside her belly every time he looked at her, if she didn’t feel a tingle and a surge of heat every time he touched her, maybe she could stop the whirlwind of conflict inside her head. Maybe she could stop caring about him.
He’d shut himself in the study as soon as they’d come home. Because he couldn’t climb the stairs? Shaelyn had no way of knowing. He had refused dinner, refused to let anyone come into the study, friend or foe, simply requesting to be left alone. He hadn’t come out by the time she’d finished cleaning the kitchen and retired for the night—to sew up the legs in his undergarments—which she now thought was juvenile and mean-spirited, but had been part of her plan, one that she had been determined to follow through to the end. At least, until he packed his bags and left Ma
gnolia House. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t check on him, see if he needed anything. That didn’t mean she was pleased to have him in her home. She wasn’t, and would do anything to help his decision to leave.
She chewed at her bottom lip, unsure and uncertain, torn between what her heart wanted and what her head wanted.
An hour later, her vision so blurry she could barely see, her fingers cramped with the effort of removing all those tiny stitches, Shaelyn put her sewing kit away, neatly folded the major’s undergarments, and rose from the bed. She stuffed her feet into worn slippers and her arms into a thin wrapper, tied it securely around her waist, grabbed the pile of undergarments, and took the servants’ stairs to his bedroom.
Once in his room, she went quickly about her business. Opening the bureau drawer, the scent of fresh air and citrus assailed her nose. His scent, the one she could smell even when he wasn’t near. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. The other officers smelled of bayberry, except for Jock, whose fragrant tobacco drifting from his ever-present pipe scented everything he wore.
Shaelyn tucked the major’s undergarments into the drawer and left the room through the gallery doors. Beams of moonlight danced on the mighty Mississippi in the near distance. A slight chill in the air made her shiver and draw her wrapper closer.
With a sigh, she took the gallery steps down to the veranda and peeked into the study through the open French doors. Several candles were lit against the darkness, but she didn’t see him. She entered the room on tiptoe and spotted him reclined in a big, overstuffed leather chair, one sock-clad foot on the tufted ottoman in front of him, the other on the floor. His right hand clutched the head of his cane, as if fused to his palm, his left lay across his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took.
A bottle of whiskey sat on the small, round table beside him. Even in the candlelight, she could see the bottle was empty, the glass beside it empty as well.
She came further into the room, intending…she didn’t quite know what she intended…and tripped over the shoes he’d been wearing earlier. She grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling with a muffled “Heaven help me,” and continued to his side.
Without thought, she leaned over him and laid her palm against his forehead, as her mother had done when she was younger and not feeling well. No fiery heat seared her hand. His breathing seemed normal. The pain must have receded, just enough to allow him to rest. She ran her fingers down the side of his face, feeling the roughness of his whiskers and the softness of his skin beneath.
She straightened, moved quietly to the window seat, and moved one of the cushions aside. She pulled up on the panel beneath, grabbed a thin throw from the compartment, and put the cushion back in place.
Approaching him once more, she spread the blanket over him. “I wish you would just leave,” she whispered, even as she tucked the flannel around him. “I want my life, such as it was, back.”
His eyes flew open as his hand snatched her wrist, the grip like an iron band around her bones, yet gentle and caressing at the same time. Shaelyn jumped, a startled squeak stuck in her throat.
“That’s not going to happen, Shae.” His gruff, pain-filled voice struck her heart. A low heat flooded her belly, and her breath stuck in her throat. “Until either I get reassigned, which might happen because of this—” He gestured to his leg propped up on the ottoman. “Or until this war is over, I’m staying. You’ll just have to come to terms with that.” He lowered his voice, but his gaze never left her face. His eyes glowed in the candlelight. “Now leave me alone.”
Shaelyn swallowed, took one look at his pain-ravaged face, and ran from the room, hurt beyond reason and a little angry she had removed all those tiny stitches from the legs of his undergarments.
Chapter 7
Major Harte had made himself comfortable in her home and refused to budge. Nothing she did to drive him out—vinegar in his coffee, cold baths, molasses in his boots—none of it had the desired effect. He remained at Magnolia House, charming and pleasant as always, finding her pranks amusing, laughter smoldering in the blue-gray of his eyes. He never, not once, mentioned the incident when the pain in his leg had become too much for him. He never apologized for it either.
Frustration ate at Shaelyn. What else could she do to him? What would make the man finally realize he’d come to the wrong place and simply depart? She’d run out of ideas.
On the bright side, she no longer had to prepare his bath—he’d fallen in love with the rain bath and preferred that to soaking in the bathtub. She no longer had to mix his shaving soap into a frothy foam, nor shine his new boots either. She still had to do his laundry and clean his room, but those were tolerable tasks.
Shaelyn watched the time pass, cleaning up after men who for the most part seemed to take care of themselves, and maintaining her beloved riverboats. One day flowed into the next and the next until, before she knew it, September turned to October. Leaves changed their colors to brilliant scarlet and stunning gold, and a briskness filled the air as they floated to the ground.
She entered the kitchen on a bright fall afternoon, a basket of folded laundry in her hands. The bed linens were still warm from hanging in the sun and smelled of sweet, fresh air. She stopped short.
Her mother and Jock MacPhee stood side by side in front of a big pot on the stove, aprons tied around their waists, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. They spoke softly to each other, their conversation intimate.
A private moment Shaelyn shouldn’t have seen.
She watched her mother. Brenna’s eyes were bright when she faced Jock, a soft smile on her lips. She laughed, a sweet sound Shaelyn had not heard in a long time, not since her father had passed away.
Jock lifted a spoon to Brenna’s lips. She sipped delicately and a dreamy expression stole across her face. “Oh, Jock, that’s wonderful.”
Shaelyn’s face flushed. She had intruded. She struggled to breathe over the sudden lump in her throat, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
She must have made a sound, for they both turned. Jock blushed to the roots of his ginger hair and the mustache across his upper lip twitched. “Excuse me,” he stammered, removed the apron from around his waist, tossed it on the table, and made a quick, embarrassed exit.
Shaelyn did not miss the look of longing the man sent her mother before the door closed behind him.
“What were you doing, Mama?” she asked as she put the basket down.
“Jock was just showing me a new recipe for seafood gumbo,” Brenna said softly as their gazes met and held, her mother’s eyes still dancing with bright lights. She tilted her head, her direct stare never leaving Shaelyn’s. Her chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s still the same Uncle Jock you’ve known all your life, Shae. He hasn’t changed because of the war. He isn’t your enemy. None of these men are.”
Shaelyn said nothing as she studied her mother and noticed the blush coloring the apples of her cheeks, the warm glow that seemed to infuse her. How could she explain the feeling of betrayal that settled in the pit of her stomach at seeing her mother flirt—yes, flirt—with another man, even if he was a man she’d known all her life? Jock MacPhee had been her father’s best friend, had piloted the Cavanaugh steamers for as long as she could remember.
“He’s always loved me, Shae.” Brenna’s voice reflected her happiness. “And I…I always loved him. I just loved your father more. You know that. I’ll love Sean until I take my last breath, but things have changed. Your father is no longer here and I think—no, I know—I deserve a little happiness. If I can find that with Jock, I’m going to.”
Shaelyn still couldn’t find her voice, despite the pleading tone in her mother’s words. What could she say? She was happy? She approved?
In truth, she didn’t know what she felt, couldn’t define the emotion if her life depended upon it. So many things had changed, so much had happened to throw her well-ordered routine into a spinning, muddle
d mess.
She swallowed against the lump taking permanent residence in her throat.
“It’s all right, dear. You don’t have to say anything. The expression on your face is enough.” Sadness crept into Brenna’s voice and a sigh escaped her before a hint of defiance glimmered in her eyes. Her voice grew stronger, her tone no longer meek. “You don’t approve. Well, that’s fine. You don’t have to. I’m not looking for your permission or your blessing. I’m a grown woman, able to make my own mistakes, if that’s what this is. I’m willing to take that chance. What about you?”
Brenna’s attitude changed as she asked the question. She stepped forward, hands on her hips, the sadness in her eyes gone as quickly as it came, the expression on her face one Shaelyn remembered from before they’d both been thrown into this…this turmoil of war. “Admit it, Sassy,” Brenna demanded, using the nickname she hadn’t used in years. “You find the major attractive. If circumstances were different—”
“I find no such thing!” Shaelyn declared hotly, finally finding her voice. “Have you forgotten I am in love with James? He will come home, I’m sure of it. And he’ll bring Ian home with him.”
Brenna gently caressed her hand, still grasping the handles of the wicker laundry basket, and whispered the truth neither one of them was willing to admit. “I don’t think either of them will come home, Shae. I think they’re both gone or we would have heard something by now. A letter from one of them at least, telling us they are all right.”
“I refuse to believe that, Mama.”
Brenna shrugged. “Believe what you will, my dear, you always do.” She turned and walked away, back to the pot on the stove. As she picked up the spoon and began to stir the simmering contents, she commented over her shoulder, “I’ve seen the way Major Harte looks at you.”
Shaelyn stiffened beneath the casually uttered words and did the first thing that came to her mind. She lied. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Mischief and Magnolias Page 8