Levi slammed the fan shut on his palm. "That will be all, Thomas," he said in a quiet tone.
Levi shut his eyes as he heard the door close behind Thomas. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Regina had made it plain that she wanted Jensen punished. He had to face the fact that he had been made an accomplice, unwilling perhaps, but an accomplice, nonetheless, in her vicious plans. His own jealously had made him deaf to Jensen's explanations and angry enough to punish her unjustly.
He fought the urge to put his fist through the window when he thought of the danger she'd faced when the stallion had exploded into the stables. How, he wondered, as he crushed the fan in his fist, would he be able to control his temper around Regina.
***
The smokehouse was a dark, windowless room, built entirely of stone, with two large brick ovens that sat side by side along the rear wall. The rafters were strung with curing hams and turkeys. The walls, ceiling, and floor were covered with baked on soot.
It was obvious to Jensen that the room hadn't been cleaned in at least ten years, if ever. She cursed under her breath as she set the oaken barrel, filled with warm soapy water, down in a corner of the room. Using a large, crude wooden handled brush, she began the odious task of scrubbing the ash-darkened floor.
At first, she worked silently, but after awhile she got caught up in the monotonous rhythm of the brush shushing over the cobbled floor, and she began singing to herself.
The worst of it was lugging the heavy barrel out to empty it and then refilling it at the pump. Her arms ached, her knees were sore from the rough floor, and her stomach complained loudly. She had skipped both breakfast and supper, hoping to finish sooner. But dusk was quickly fading into night by the time she left the airless chamber.
The heavy, homespun fabric of her maid's dress clung to her sweating body as she stood on wobbly legs. She had protected her hands with a pair of old riding gloves, but they had proved useless, the harsh lye soap had seeped in. Her hands were raw, swollen, and as clumsy as crab claws. Peeling the gloves off, she stuffed them in her pocket.
Trembling from the exertion, she took the last bucket out to empty. She closed the door behind her and hoped never to set foot in the horrid room again.
The second she entered through the servant's door, she was summoned to appear in Levi's office.
She knew it would be impossible to repair her scruffy appearance, so she settled for tucking some stray curls behind her ears and slipping on her fingerless, wool gloves to disguise her red, raw hands.
Hesitant, she knocked softly on the office door and was ushered in by a curt response. He did not immediately look up from his ledgers. Jensen edged closer to the desk, and he finally lifted his eyes.
He stood, circled the desk, and scowled down at her. "Damn, you look a fright. What the devil have you been doing?"
She stared at him in disbelief. "I was cleaning the smokehouse, sir."
He looked momentarily puzzled. "Ah, yes, your punishment, I'd forgotten." He pulled the tail of his shirt loose from his waistband and proceeded to wipe her face. She fidgeted under his ministrations.
Satisfied that he had done all he could to clean the soot from her face, he motioned her to a chair. "I realize this comes a bit late, but I owe you an apology. I've come to find out you were not responsible for loosing the stallion and the subsequent damage done to my stables. I'd forgotten to release you--"
"Sir," she said, cutting his apology short, "it's over and done."
He propped himself against the desk edge, arms crossed over his chest. His long legs spanned the distance between them. "I'd hate for there to be hard feelings between us because I was so quick to form a judgment."
"If it relieves your mind at all," she said, locking eyes with him, "I should tell you, that I've nothing but hard feelings where you are concerned, so you needn't fret over this little incident." She took satisfaction in seeing his eyes narrow to silver slits.
"Here, Jensen Marlowe," he growled and tossed an envelope into her lap. "Matthias was in port and was thumbing through the mail at the inn when he came upon this." She stared down at the envelope of fine vellum, refusing to touch it. "Often mail finds its way to inns in the ports when there's not enough information to route it to the right location."
"The reason I didn't tell you my real name--"
Levi held the flat of his hand up just inches from her face. "Don't spin me another yarn, woman."
"As you like," she replied haughtily.
She dropped her eyes from his contemptuous glare. Jensen could feel the color leave her face as she easily identified her intended's bold script.
"You recognize the writing?" he asked.
"Aye."
"I thought you were an orphan with no connections in England."
"I am an orphan," she confirmed.
"Who is the letter from, then?"
"Am I to have no privacy?"
"If I'm taking a risk having you here on my plantation, I'd like to know about it."
She paused for a moment, thinking that perhaps this might be her chance for freedom. "You've found me out, sir. You are taking a huge gamble with your reputation by employing me." For effect she shook her head woefully. "I'm ashamed to admit it, but I've had a terribly unsavory past."
A suggestion of annoyance flickered in his eyes as he gave her a long considering look. "It is amazing what comes out of those sweet, pink lips. How long did it take you to perfect that guileless performance?"
She shrugged her slender shoulders and favored him with an elfish smile. "Well, it was worth a try."
He shook his head, whistled through his teeth, and tugged at his earring. "By any chance, do you remember Duff, whether I was wearing my good-luck charm on the day I picked you up in Chesapeake? Because something tells me, I wasn't."
"Aye, perhaps both of us forgot our lucky charms that day," she couldn't help but smile.
He moved to tower over her, lifting the letter from her lap. She experienced the same sensation of heat that seemed to envelop her every time he came near. Looking up into his handsome face, she had the oddest urge to run the tip of her tongue along the square of his jaw. She was so caught up in her fantasy, it took her a moment to register that he was slitting open her letter with a pocket blade. She lunged for it, but he reacted with lightning speed, tauntingly waving it well out of her reach.
"'Tis nothing, just a letter from my uncle," she said hurriedly, hoping this particular lie was more believable.
"Your uncle?" His tone was incredulous. He lowered the letter, using the edge to lift her chin so that she was forced to look directly into his eyes.
She shifted uncomfortably beneath his harsh glare. "He is a hard man. I did not care to live under his roof." She thought her explanation quite reasonable.
He dipped his head as he lightly scraped the letter to the tip of her chin, raising her lips so that they were dangerously close to his own.
"Let me understand this. You did not want to live with your uncle, so you advertised yourself as an expert horse manager and boarded a boat to the colonies." His words breathed into her mouth, never finding their way to her mind. She nodded dreamily.
Abruptly straightening to his full height, he shattered the charged atmosphere between them. "Did he beat you?" Her eyes followed the letter as he tapped it impatiently against his open palm.
"No, of course not, he is a prosperous country squire. He'd never do anything to sully his standing in the county. He owns a vast estate in Launceston and another just outside of London."
"It doesn't sound as if you had reason enough to leave."
"I was nothing but a nuisance to him."
Surprisingly, he handed her back the letter, and she tucked it deep into her pinafore pocket.
"Is that it, then? May I be excused?"
"There's one more thing. Why did you risk your life for that silver box?"
"I should have known you would follow me. If you must know, it is all I have left to remember my moth
er."
"And where the hell," he continued forcefully, ignoring her indignation, "were you headed to?"
"Moss Rose."
He rubbed his jaw and contemplated her with a cynical expression as he waited for the truth.
"Moss Rose . . . by way of Culpeper." His hard glare did not soften. She nervously plucked at her glove. "My aunt, Charmaine Hawthorne, lives there."
"Of course, first an uncle and now an aunt." He shook his head. "Why on earth are you wearing those?" he asked eyeing her gloves. "It's hot as the devil's den today."
Holding her firm with one hand, he started to peel off her glove. The wool stuck to the sores on her palm. He winced when he saw the damage the crude lye soap had done to her delicate skin.
"Christ," he muttered.
Seeing the sympathetic look on his face made her temper flare. "The last thing I want from you is pity, Mr. North." She pulled her hand away and struggled free of him, gasping at the sudden sharp pain in her side. Her ribs still ached fiercely from her harrowing experience in the stables, and a day on her knees scrubbing the smokehouse certainly hadn't helped matters.
"Ah, Duff, you're obviously in pain." Levi's voice gentled in concern.
Backing away from him she said, "'Tis just a small bruise. You needn't worry, it will not interfere with my duties."
***
The second the door slammed behind her, Levi pulled the bell.
When Maggie answered the call, he immediately sent her off to find out the extent of Jensen's injuries and treat them if necessary.
"Well?" he asked when he saw Maggie's self-important expression. "How is she?"
"Black and blue from here to here." She held one hand beside her breast and the other at her hip. "It seems that mare of yours got a mite upset. Smacked the poor girl against the stable wall."
"Is she in a lot of pain?" He tensed.
"Nary a whimper out of that one. I gave her some poultices for the bruises and a cup of chamomile tea to help her sleep."
He finally relaxed his shoulders once Maggie had assured him that with a few days rest, Jensen's condition would be much improved.
Maggie stood expectantly, rocking on her heels in front of his desk.
"What are you dying to tell me?" Levi said and leaned back in his chair, stacking his hands behind his head.
"I can't help noticing you've taken a rather keen interest in the girl, sir."
He thought to deny it but decided it was futile. Maggie was more persistent than a gnat at getting to the truth. "I'm afraid so." Maggie looked a little disconcerted by his frank admission.
"Of course, a man in your position can take a woman like that for a mistress. I mean to say you would hardly be the first," she wrung her hands nervously, blushing profusely, "but certainly not to wed." When he did not instantly agree, she continued with a tittering laugh, "Imagine, a North marrying a common servant. Unthinkable. Indeed, your father would turn over in his grave." Her worried expression suddenly altered to a broad smile. She wagged her finger at him. "Master North, you're teasing me. You would never shirk your duty."
He scrubbed his face with his hands before returning his gaze to his housekeeper's watery blue eyes. "Don't worry, Maggie, I will marry Miss Trent, a woman so spoiled she refuses to ride in my carriage if there is a spot of mud on the wheel, so that I might acquire more land than I bloody well know what to do with." He placed his hands flat on the desk, lifting himself out of the seat. "More land than I could hope to cultivate in ten lifetimes." A fierce smile distorted his lips. "Have I put your mind at ease?"
She took a step back, away from his menacing glower. "Master North, we all just want the best for you."
"And what about my wants?" he thundered, sending her scurrying out the door.
He sunk back into his seat, feeling guilty for his outburst. To be honest, there had been a time in his youth when he had done exactly as he pleased. To his father's chagrin, he had been mere months away from finishing his final term at Oxford, when on impulse, he had signed on as a crewmember on the Serendipity.
Before leaving England, he had sent a missive to his mother concerning his plans, so as not to worry her. A year later, when the merchant vessel docked in Virginia, he found his furious father waiting for him at the end of the gangplank. "It's time," his father had told him, "to settle down and take your place in Virginia society. Your risky adventures end here." His father had flicked his silver earring with disdain and said with lips drawn tight, "First that horrid tattoo and now this. What will your poor mother think when I bring you home looking like a goddamn pirate?" Then his tone had unexpectedly gentled. "When I die, I fully expect you to take over the Moss Rose. Hard work will tame you, that's for certain. And in a few years time, you'll marry Andrea Trent as we planned and double the North's holdings. I will not be disappointed by you again, son."
His father's words had proved prophetic. Six months after his return, his father succumbed to a fever, and a mere week later his mother died. He'd inherited the sobering responsibility of the plantation and the guardianship of his charming, devil-may-care brother.
Chapter 17
Jensen was relieved to have been given a day off to recover from her injury in the stables because Maggie was proving a veritable hellion as she readied the plantation for the North's annual horserace. She could hear Maggie's voice increasing in shrillness as the morning wore on.
Jensen had watched as some of the men scraped a path with hoes and heavy iron pans.
By late afternoon, kegs of ale, hard cider, and pots of steaming coffee were set atop a makeshift table. Even the servants were made to feel a part of the event.
As the gentry poured out of the house, the servants quickly took their places along the course. Some chose to sit on the paddock fence. Others constructed seats out of wood and hay bundles. Jensen sat alongside Celia on the fence, near where the race was expected to start.
After the men had placed their wagers, the first riders took their positions. The track was wide enough to easily accommodate the four horses that pawed the ground in anticipation. They were to lap the track once, a quarter of a mile in total.
"You know, the winner gets a kiss from the lady of his choice," Celia informed her excitedly.
"I don't see Master North. Will he be in the race?" Jensen hoped she sounded indifferent.
"Nah, he took off hunting early this morning. It's a shame though," she sighed heavily, "Levi North handles a horse as if he were born to the saddle. There's something almost spiritual about seeing a man his size in such command of one of God's most magnificent creatures." She smiled suggestively. "I'm sure he'll have Thomas or Samuel take his place on Archer."
Jensen had been surveying the stands now filled with richly dressed Virginians. A handsome, young man purposefully caught her eye. Flustered, she looked away quickly, but obviously not quickly enough, because the man made his way across the track toward her. He was clad immaculately in nankeen breeches, cream colored silk stockings, and a brocade jacket of emerald green.
"Excuse my forwardness, but I just had to come over and introduce myself." He removed his hat and bowed deeply. She noticed the thick silk ribbon holding back his lustrous golden hair. "I am Stephen Trent of the Tidewater Trents, Andrea's cousin," he said, inclining his head toward the stands. "And you are quite the loveliest thing I've seen since returning from Boston."
"Then I suppose you must have just arrived," Jensen replied with a laugh.
"Ah, an English accent and a sultry voice, what an absolutely devastating combination." He smiled, and his face lit up with boyish charm. "I hope you don't find it reprehensible that I dispense with formalities, but as you can see, everyone is too caught up in the race to introduce us properly." He extended a hand, which Jensen excepted gingerly. "What is your name?"
"Jensen."
"You would do me a great service if you would join me." He inclined his head in the direction of the stand.
More than a little embarrassed, Jensen hes
itated for a moment before replying. "I'm not a guest. I work here."
"Here?" His tone was incredulous.
"Well, there actually." She pointed in the direction of the stables. "I work with the horses."
His brows drew into a puzzled frown. "A lovely creature like you currying the horses. How . . . unique." After some hesitation he asked, "May I get you a cup of cider?"
"No, thank you," she demurred. "I'm not overly fond of it."
"What aren't you overly fond of, Duff?"
She startled at the sound of the familiar deep voice.
"Cider, sir," she replied as she turned to look at him.
He was a daunting sight, unshaven, with his long hair hanging in tangles. Shirtless, his unlaced hunting jacket exposed a bare chest slick with sweat and streaked with blood. Dangling from his hand was a rope strung with several dead grouse. To complete the savage picture, his wolf loped over the lawn to come stand beside him. He looked as though he'd just come down from years spent alone in the mountains.
Trent's eyes darted nervously from the wolf to Levi as he offered his hand in greeting.
Levi propped his rifle against the fence, draped the string of birds over the fence post, and held his bloodstained palm up.
"Wouldn't want to get you dirty." He bared his teeth.
Stephen dropped his hand. "Ever the gentleman, North."
"Trent, drop the chivalrous facade. Your motives are anything but pure," Levi replied with derision, his eyes shifting from Stephen's furious face to Jensen.
"I'll be racing," Stephen said suddenly, and it sounded to Jensen like a challenge.
"Will you now?" Levi's smoldering gaze skimmed over Jensen's body as though she were naked and settled on her trembling lips for what seemed an eternity before turning his attention back to Stephen.
"Trent, forget the kiss, how about a real wager. One for money. Ten pounds sterling says I finish first. Better yet, let's make it twenty."
Trent surveyed the sky, which was marbled with the rosy shades of dusk. "Do you think there's enough light to run the horses safely?"
"Trent, has city life made you soft? Never known you to shy away from a bet."
Moss Rose Page 17