This Side of Heaven

by Karen Robards

  Thank the Lord for the protection of the quilt, that she could not see! Feeling a guilty heat steal up his face, Matt willed the embarrassment away.

  “It took you long enough!” he grumbled, his mind focused more on his problem and its source than on what he was saying.

  That earned him a fulminating glare. As she stood there slaying him with her eyes, it occurred to him that she’d changed her gown as well as her hairstyle since that morning. The blue silk that had felt so smooth under his fingertips had been replaced with a gown of dark green serge. Though slightly overlarge, it was becoming, as were all her clothes, no matter how outlandishly they were colored or styled. But he imagined that this particular garment would feel scratchy to the touch. Which, of course, was probably why she had chosen it.

  Not that the changed dress, which was clearly intended to rebuff, was necessary. He would not be touching her again. But she could not know that until he told her so.

  “I’m not an animal, or a child, to be coerced by a shout!” Her voice was as hostile as her eyes. Her fingers were clenched so tightly on the edges of the tray she carried that her knuckles showed white.

  “I was not trying to coerce you. I was trying to get you up here!”

  “You’ve succeeded.” The iciness of her reply was matched by the ramrod stiffness of her spine. Matt’s eyes followed her as she marched around the bed to set the tray on the bedside table. Even all pokered up, she was a beautiful, desirable woman. He’d thought so from the first, and he thought so, with an almost painful physicality, now. Until he’d held her, all soft and warm and weeping, in his arms, he had not realized how much the ice-over-fire contradiction of her appealed to his senses. He’d wanted her that morning—dear God in heaven, how he’d wanted her!—and to his dismay he discovered that he wanted her still. The feel of her, the shape and scent of her, the sensation of her breasts pressing into his chest and her legs against his and her hands on his skin, were imprinted on his brain. The memory assailed him and made him grit his teeth.

  Watching her as she angrily rattled bowl and mug, Matt exercised iron control and willed the shameful thoughts away. What he had to remind himself, over and over and over until his body was as convinced as his mind, was that any woman would do. It need not be Caroline.…

  “Lift up.”

  Still he was not quite prepared when Caroline turned from the table to lean over him, shoving a second and then a third pillow beneath his head as he obediently lifted it. Her scent, a mixture of spice and woman, overwhelmed him, setting his head momentarily awhirl. His loins ached; his fists clenched; in a desperate effort to defend himself, he refused to breathe. Not while she was so near. He would not allow himself to make the same mistake a second time, especially when her intentions toward him were so clearly innocent. With the best will in the world, he could not blame his stumble on the path of righteousness on the lures of a Jezebel. From the first she had been blameless in her dealings with him. ’Twas he who must bear the onus for thinking sin.

  From the look of her as she punched his topmost pillow into shape, it was certain that she wished she were pummeling his person instead. It was doubtful—no, sure, rather—that she would not listen to so much as a word he had to say. But if he could not convince himself of the innocence of his feelings toward her, it was imperative to both his comfort and peace of mind that he at least convince her. Life would be much simpler if she would continue to treat him with the same ease she had seemed to feel before this morning’s idiocy.

  Knowing that it was probably a mistake to touch her, and knowing too that if he didn’t seize this chance of insuring her attention, she would in all probability plunk the tray down on his lap and sail out of the room, not to be seen again until dusk, he caught her wrist.

  For a moment she jerked angrily against his hold, which he refused to release. Her eyes were as yellow as those of that blasted cat of hers; if she’d had a tail, he imagined she’d be lashing it.

  “Let me go.”

  “Caroline …”

  “I said, let me go!”

  “Will you just listen, please?” Desperation quickened his words. “I did not intend what happened this morning any more than you did. That—feeling—that arose between us was not by design on either of our parts, but rather because nature prompts men and women to desire each other. ’Tis no blame attached to you for it—or to me.”

  That attempt at smoothing her down, soothing as it was meant to be, clearly missed its objective by a mile. Her eyes flashed at him; her wrist jerked again in his hold.

  “Desire—you? I assure you, I do—did—no such thing.” Outrage quivered in her voice.

  “If you will have it so,” he said, not wanting to fan her anger by arguing the point. “Then I will not contradict you.”

  “ ’Twas you who—who …” She yanked at her wrist. Matt tightened his grip. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes bright with it. Her brows, which were black and silky and straight, formed a displeased vee above the bridge of her small nose. As she spoke, he could see her even white teeth, and beyond them her tongue. It was the deep pink of raspberries, and shiny wet. A bolt of heat shot through him at the thought of how it might taste. Shifting uncomfortably, he dragged his eyes away from her mouth.

  “Desired you?” In his befuddled state, truth was the only defense he dared trust. “Aye, I’ll admit it. Why not? You’re beautiful to look at, and made as God intended women to be made. When you threw yourself “I did not,” she interrupted wrathfully, “throw myself into your bed! Your monstrosity of a dog knocked me there!”

  “All right,” he conceded. “When Raleigh knocked you into my bed, and you started to cry—”

  “I never cry!”

  “Would you please stop interrupting?” Nettled, Matt forged on. “When, by whatever means it occurred, you lay in my arms, it was natural—”

  “If you say that again …” Caroline went very still suddenly. “I’ll hit you. I swear I will!”

  “What?” He was bewildered.

  “That what happened between us was ‘natural’!” There was a wealth of loathing in her voice.

  “But it was!”

  “It was not! It was shameful, and disgusting, and—”

  “Stop it, Caroline!” The sharpness of his voice silenced her just as he feared she might grow hysterical. She yanked at her wrist, trying futilely to free herself, and his hand tightened in response. To his consternation she winced; he hadn’t realized that he was gripping her so hard. At once he loosened his hold, although still not enough so that she could escape. But he would not want to cause her an injury, which he could easily do. Her wrist was so fragile that his fingers were able to span it with inches to spare. It occurred to him that, for a tall woman, she was very delicately made. Even the skin of her wrist was silky soft.

  That bolt of heat struck him anew, shocking him so that he nearly released her. But he narrowed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and hung on. If there was to be any peace between them at all, they had to settle this once and for all. If he released her, he knew she would flee.

  He tried to ignore the effects of the lightning bolt and appeal to her with the coolness of reason. “What precisely did happen between us this morning? Nothing, except that you discovered that I am a perfectly normal man, and that you’re not as averse to men as you’d thought.”

  “I am averse to men! I hate men—and especially you!” She jerked at her wrist again.

  “Will you please just be still and listen?” Exasperated beyond bearing by her inability to be rational, he inadvertently tightened his hand around her wrist to such a degree that she cried out. Appalled at himself, he released her. Immediately she whisked herself beyond his reach.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” If there was anger in his voice, it was for himself rather than her.

  “Men are all the same! Nasty, violent beasts …”

  “It was an accident!!”

  “I hope you rot! I hope your leg f
alls off! I hope you never walk again!” An edge of what sounded like hysteria made the words shrill. Matt realized that instead of mending matters, his attempt to get her to see reason had only made things between them worse. He should have kept his mouth shut and simply allowed her anger to run its course. But of course, like all wisdom, it came too late to do any good.

  “Caroline! Caroline, listen! I—”

  “I hope you starve!” she finished for him and with a swirl of her scratchy skirt turned and ran from the room.

  “Come back here!” he roared, both angered and frightened at something he had seen in her face.

  But of course she did not. He was left to worry and fume in solitude for the rest of that day, while the tantalizing aroma of venison stew danced under his nose.

  23

  “Good afternoon, Mistress Wetherby. I trust we have not come at a bad time?”

  Caroline was on her knees, furiously scrubbing the hopelessly blackened stones of the hearth with sand in an effort to make them clean again. The previous day had been the Sabbath, and all but the most essential work was forbidden, she had been informed. Thus she had a great deal to catch up on, and was hard at it. The soft voice startled her so that she knocked against the bucket that rested beside her, sloshing dirty water over her skirt, the floor, and the hearth. Not that a wetting would do any of the three any particular harm. Her skirt was already filthy from her labors, and the floor was next on her list of things to wash after the hearth.

  “Oh, I startled you. I’m so sorry!” The speaker, Caroline looked around to discover, was James’s wife, Mary. She stood just outside the door that led outside through the keeping room and overlooked the kitchen. A gurgling baby rode her hip, and behind her were two more females, young like Mary but slender where Mary was comfortably plump, both bearing cloth-covered dishes.

  “Not at all. Do please come in.” Caroline got to her feet, brushing at her dripping skirt as she smiled with some degree of wariness at her entering visitors. She had developed a tentative liking for Mary on the day of the dominie’s visit, when Matt’s sister-in-law had rid the house of Mr. Miller and Mr. Williams with a great deal of tact and had been all that was pleasant and polite to herself besides. But though Mary’s smile was friendly, and the baby was adorable, the smiles of the two women behind her were stiff.

  “This is Hannah Forrester, and her sister Patience Smith.” Mary introduced them. “And this”—she joggled the infant—“is Hope.”

  “Hello, Hope.” The happy innocence of the wide-eyed child breached the careful barriers she usually erected when faced with strangers, and Caroline smiled at her. Her reaction to the women was more guarded. Like Mary, they were dressed in the sober style favored by the Puritans. The elder sister, Hannah, was lovely, with smooth pale skin, simply dressed dark blond hair, and hazel eyes given a greenish cast by the deep blue of her gown. Patience looked like her sister, although her features were a trifle less delicate and her eyes were blue. Unlike Hannah, who was busy taking in the details of Caroline’s person, Patience seemed shy. Caroline immediately liked her the better of the two.

  “How do you do, Mistress Forrester. Mistress Smith.”

  “Goodwife Forrester,” Hannah corrected. “I am a widow, unfortunately. How do you do, Mistress Wetherby.”

  “They’ve brought an apple pie for Matt,” Mary informed her.

  “Two, actually.” Patience smiled. “With all these hungry men, one wouldn’t go very far, would it?”

  “And apple is Mr. Matt Mathieson’s particular favorite.” Hannah said it with the air of a woman who knew whereof she spoke.

  “How very kind.” For the life of her, Caroline could not keep the coolness from her voice. “Would you like to set them on the table? The men will certainly enjoy them, I know.”

  The women put the pies down. The aroma the confections gave off was quite delectable, Caroline had to admit.

  “I believe I will just pop abovestairs and bid Mr. Mathieson good-day, while I am here.” Hannah smiled brightly at the other three women.

  “But, sister, should you? Perhaps it might not be quite the thing.” Patience frowned as she cautioned Hannah.

  “Indeed, I am quite convinced that it is my Christian duty to do so. He must be dying for some company other than his own.” Hannah’s response to her sister came even as she flitted through the kitchen toward the front room and from there, presumably, to the stairs.

  With Hannah already whisking away behind her, Patience looked at Caroline and Mary with resignation. “Perhaps I will just go with her,” she murmured, and followed her sister from the room.

  “How good of you to come.” Left alone with Mary, Caroline felt she must make conversation, although she had little enough notion of what to say. Her life had never included an opportunity to make friends with members of her own sex. Besides, at the moment her attention was focused on what was occurring abovestairs. Daniel had described the Widow Forrester as having set her cap for Matt, and Caroline was belatedly remembering the conversation. An unpleasant prickle of some nameless emotion stirred to life inside her. Caroline resolutely ignored it, shifting her focus to the child Mary was bouncing rhythmically on her hip.

  “She’s lovely.”

  “Isn’t she?” Mary smiled and tickled the little girl’s cheek, causing the round baby face to produce a huge, toothless grin. “I hope you don’t object to me bringing Hannah and Patience to call. They are dears, really, and particular friends of the family. Besides, I thought you might be growing lonesome for the sight and sound of other females. You’ve not gotten into town since you arrived, I believe.”

  “Things have been a trifle hectic around here,” Caroline responded with what she considered vast understatement. Was Matt pleased to see his visitors, she wondered even as she gestured to Mary to sit. And if so, to what degree?

  “They certainly have.” Mary sat, chuckling, and the baby echoed the sound.

  There was no harm in Mary, Caroline was certain. Taking the chair across the table from her guest, she dredged forth a social smile. But even while she offered Mary a cup of tea, she could not get her mind off the scene of tender reunion that might or might not be taking place in Matt’s chamber at that very moment. The Widow Forrester was very lovely, and not, from what Caroline had seen of her, the type to be easily dissuaded. If Matt was even interested in dissuading her, of course. Perhaps his professed disinterest in remarrying was naught but a sham to mask his true intentions.

  Mary took a sip of tea and smiled comfortably. “I am glad ’tis you and not me who has to deal with Matt bedridden. I have always harbored a healthy fear of James’s elder brother, I must confess, and the thought of dealing with him when he is in pain and cannot move about quite alarms me.”

  “He is not the easiest patient,” Caroline admitted. The murmur of voices from the others was just audible, and Caroline realized that Matt’s chamber must be directly overhead. It was an effort to stop trying to decipher their words and focus on Mary instead.

  “Perhaps Hannah will discover that and will no longer be so determined to land Matt as her second husband. I have assured her that he is not, in my opinion, the best material for such, but she is so taken by his looks that she cannot see beyond them. Of course, I understand that, because he is so like my dear James, who is the handsomest man imaginable, but inside—what his marriage did to him cannot, I fear, be fixed.”

  “What it did to him?” Caroline suddenly had no difficulty at all concentrating on Mary.

  “He has not much use for us women, you know. It was a most disastrous union. Oh, that’s right, his wife was your sister, was she not? Forgive me, then. I must not say more.”

  “Please.” Caroline leaned forward in her eagerness to persuade Mary, the goings-on abovestairs temporarily forgotten. “I’ve gathered already that something was very wrong here. ’Twould make things so much easier for me if I knew what. Will you not tell me? You would be doing me the greatest favor, I assure you.”
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br />   Mary looked troubled. Hope fussed and kicked to get down, momentarily distracting her attention. Putting her on the floor at her feet, Mary pulled a rag doll from the pocket of her apron and handed it to the child. The baby promptly popped it into her mouth and sat there happily gumming its stuffed linen head.

  “You are sure to hear it from someone, and what you hear may be distorted,” Mary decided, her face earnest as she looked at Caroline. “ ’Tis not that I disliked Elizabeth, you understand—indeed, I scarcely had the opportunity to become acquainted with her, because Matt kept her very close indeed—but she was a—difficult person.” Mary hesitated, and her mouth firmed. “If I am to tell you at all, then I must tell you the truth. You will not be offended?”

  “On the contrary, I welcome your plainspeaking.”

  “Very well, then.” Mary took a deep breath. “I only knew your sister after she came to these shores, and she was older than I, so my first impressions are those of a young girl for a married lady. She was never popular with the community, and she kept very much to herself, which I thought was the cause of most of the rumors about her. ’Twas not until I wed James that I realized that the rumors had basis in fact.”

  Mary paused, her eyes troubled as they met Caroline’s.

  “What were the rumors?” Caroline prompted.

  “That she was a disciple of the Black Man.”

  “The Black Man?” Caroline stared at Mary. “Who or what is the Black Man?”

  “You don’t know of the Black Man?” Mary sounded faintly scandalized. “He is the Devil, of course. ’Twas said about the town that Goodwife Mathieson had made a pact with him. In later years, after Davey was born, she was seen, disheveled and muttering, roaming the woods at all hours of the day and night. Toward the last, Matt had to keep her locked in her room. He feared she might take her own life, which in the end she did.”

  “What?” Caroline could scarcely believe what her ears insisted they had heard.