The Rebel Wife (15 page)

A teasing glint lit his eye. “
Used to
?”

“Do you want to hear my story or not?”

“Please, go on.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “I promise to be quiet.”

Hmmph, just like the sun promised not to shine. She gave him a pointed look, then continued. “Fannie had boasted of staying in the root cellar overnight, a place the house servants claimed to be haunted. I decided if prissy Fannie Lawrence could face a ghost, so could I. So, I mustered up my courage and went down that dark, rickety stairway.”

She grimaced inwardly. Going into that cellar was a picnic compared to what she’d endured in the tack shed. “I almost turned back twice, but I wasn’t about to let Fannie win. My knees were shaking, and I had to hold onto the stair railing just to stay on my feet.”

“That frightening was it?”

She shook her head. “I’d never put much stock in all those stories, but at that moment, in the dark, I believed every one of them. And admitting that the demons must be real, made everything that much worse. I scrambled for the exit, only to find someone, most likely that mean, ol’ goat Fannie, had bolted the door.”

He gave a soft cluck. “Poor little chick. Is that why you always seek the exits when you enter a room?”

Lordy, he didn’t miss a thing. “I imagine it is,” she said, unwilling to reveal the truth about her fear of confined spaces. “I had nightmares for weeks afterwards. Belle would sit by my bed and hold my hand until I fell asleep.”

“Like you did for me.”

“Having someone nearby comforted me. I could only assume it would help you, too.”

“It did. More than you know.”

He leaned toward her, and before she could stop him, he pressed his lips to hers. Gentle at first, then more demanding when she didn’t resist. How could she resist? His kiss was like a pirate ship running a blockade. Swift and bold. Unstoppable.

Tingles sailed delightfully along her neck and down her spine. Her lips, having a mind of their own, parted. His tongue delved inside with a daring swipe. He tasted of tobacco and after-dinner brandy. Her head swam. Potent stuff, his kiss.

A bluejay’s shrill squawk brought her back to port. She stiffened. What was she doing? Giving her desires free reign with Porter was the last thing she needed.

She gripped the edge of the bench, using it as leverage to drag her lips away. Something sharp jabbed her finger. She flinched but remained silent. Better a splinter than a broken heart.

“What’s wrong, Kitty?”

She brushed the back of her hand over her lips, trying to scrub away the last trace of his kiss. She feared it was a taste she’d never forget. “You don’t want to do that, Jack.”

“Why not?”

He was the grandson of a rich and powerful man—lived in a world where she, the daughter of a poor overseer, didn’t belong. Besides, if he knew what Bart had done to her, she doubted he’d want to kiss her, much less allow her to stay in his granddaddy’s dignified home.

He took her hand in his. “You can’t deny it, Kitty. I can see it in your eyes. You want me as much as I want you.”

“You shouldn’t want me. I’m not who you think I am.”

“Look at me.”

She moored her gaze on the pearl buttons parading down his crisp, linen shirt. If she got another glimpse of those tantalizing lips, she’d be lost.

“Look at me, Kitty.”

His tender plea dug into her resolve. She lifted her head, making sure her gaze avoided his mouth. A wiser choice, but not by much. So much fire burned in his one eye, she’d worry if he had both.

He plucked a rose petal from her hair. “I know exactly who you are. You’re strong and fiercely loyal. You know what you want, and you’re not afraid to go after it, no matter what the consequences.”

He was oh-so-wrong about her not being afraid. She had a mile long yellow streak when it came to him. “Jack, don’t do this.”

“I’ve tried, but I just can’t fight it any longer.” He leaned toward her as if to kiss her again.

She pressed trembling fingers to his lips to stop him. “Don’t. Please. Our trip to Elmira will be difficult enough. We don’t need the added strain of foolish emotions.”

“Foolish...” His expression hardened. “You still don’t trust me, do you? After all we’ve been through.”

“Jack—”

“Fine. I won’t push my attentions on you again. Ever.”

****

The stomp of boot heels trailed her into the parlor. She slowed as Jack brushed past her and headed for the sideboard. Little good their stroll did. He was just as puckered now as he had been before they’d gone outside. Maybe more.

“Mister P had to go upstairs, Miss Carleton,” the housekeeper said from the other side of the room. “Said he’d be back shortly for your game.”

“Thank you, Sally.”

“How was your stroll?”

“The stroll was lovely.” It was when they stopped strolling that the trouble started. “Beautiful evening. The rose garden—”

“Badly needs pruning.” Jack snatched up the brandy decanter from the sideboard. “Seems to have gone to hell like a number of things around here. Old man too cheap to hire a gardener, I guess.”

“Here now.” Sally planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you go disrespectin’ your grandfather that a’way, Master Jack.”

“Just pointing out the obvious.”

“Maybe you ought t’ be pointin’ your attention inward.”

“And maybe I ought not to have come here at all.”

“Hmmmph. Sounds like some folks could use somethin’ to cool down a mite. I’ll go make up some lemonade.”

He yanked out the stopper and poured a generous dose into a glass. “I need something with more bite to it than lemonade.”

Louisa shook her head. Sally was right. He needed to cool down. Maybe some time alone would help. “Sally, I need your help with something. I’ll just come along with you to the kitchen.”

She followed the housekeeper down the hallway and into a brightly lit chamber. Copper pots and baskets dangled from a rack suspended over a work-roughened table bearing knife marks and stains, but scrubbed clean. A black cast iron stove sat in one corner of the room, a pine hutch the other. It reminded her of Spivey Point and the happier times she’d spent cooking with Belle. But the Porter kitchen did little to cheer her now.

“What was it you needed, Miss Carleton?”

She held up her bloodied hand. “I cut my finger. Will you bandage it for me?”

“’Course I will. Pull that chair up to the table and have a seat. We’ll see to it.”

She scooted the ladder-back chair across the floor and sat while Sally gathered a basin of water, clean cloths, and a small basket. A sweet smelling pie cooling in the center of the table had her mouth watering. “That pie sure smells good. Apple, isn’t it?”

“Yes’m. Master Jack’s favorite. He’d eat the whole tin by hisself if I let him.”

“It’s my favorite, too. Add a dollop of cream on top...mmm-mmm.”

“Got a crock in the cellar. We’ll have pie and cream after your checker game.” Sally set her supplies on the table, then turned up the lantern wick. “Let’s see that finger.”

She extended her hand, and Sally dabbed at the dried blood with a wet cloth. Her dark hands were gentle, yet firm, just as Belle’s had been during the many doctorings she’d performed on her wayward charge. Her heart twisted. How was Belle faring? Were her new employers treating her kindly? She gripped the edge of the seat with her other hand. One day, they’d all be back together, her and Jeb and Lance and Belle. She’d see that happen, or die trying.

“Are you treated well here, Sally?”

“Better than most, I s’pose. Mister P’s more bark than bite.” Her brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field. “Why you askin’?”

“Jack arranged for a friend of mine to come and work here once he’s well enough. I just want to make sure Jeb won’t be mistreated. He’s no longer a slave, and I’d like to see him stay that way.”

“Well enough? Is he ill?”

“He was shot while trying to help me get to my brother.” She swallowed around the lump that had sprouted in her throat. “He’s recovering at the Yankee prison hospital in Point Lookout.”

Sally gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll see to it your Jeb is looked after.”

“Thank you, Sally. That means a lot.” She released her grip on the chair seat. Until she could come back for him, Jeb would have a comfortable home with good, caring people. It was one less worry to plague her thoughts.

The housekeeper stilled her wiping. Her frown deepened. “Looks like there might be a small sliver of somethin’ just ’neath the skin. How’d you pick up a splinter? You was s’posed to be walkin’.”

“The bench. In the quad.”

“Hmmm?”

“Jack suggested we sit and enjoy the bay breeze. I was sitting there...”
Hanging on for dear life as he leaned in, big and close and strong, to kiss me.
Heat rushed into her face. “I must’ve slid my hand across the wood.”

Sally, shrewd as an old fox, studied her for a moment, apparently considering the truthfulness of this account. She gave the finger a squeeze, and a hiss of pain escaped Louisa’s lips.

The housekeeper glanced up. “Hurts you, does it?”

The splinter she could handle. What hurt was the pained look on Jack’s face and knowing she’d caused it. Knowing she had no choice. Tears stung her eyes. “A little.”

Sally fished around in her basket, setting out bandaging, a needle, and a small pair of forceps. She clamped down on Louisa’s hand. “Here we go. Hold still while I work out that splinter.”

Poker hot pain seared her finger at Sally’s probing, and she clenched her teeth to keep from yelping. It was one thing to be doing the doctoring, quite another being doctored on.

“Somethin’ gettin’ under your skin can cause all sorts of grief,” Sally muttered while working.

You can say that again
. There wasn’t a pair of forceps large enough to pry Jack from under her skin.

Sally cut her a sly glance. “Best to get it out in the open where it can heal.”

Clever
.
Very clever
. But she had no desire to talk about her feelings for Jack. It would only remind her of what she couldn’t have. She took the wisest course and kept her mouth shuttered.

Sally released her hand. “There, splinter’s out.”

Finally.
She flexed her fingers, working out the soreness. “Feels better already.”

“Good. We’ll put some salve on it, and it should mend just fine.”

“Salve? What kind? Seems like my nanny had a concoction for every type of injury imaginable.”

“I have a batch of chickweed mixed with rosemary oil and a bit of comfrey. Eases the pain and helps with the healing.” She gathered up the basin. “Look in my basket and take out the jar marked chickweed while I dump this.”

Louisa slid the basket closer and eyed the multi-colored jars nestled inside.
Tarnation
. Why couldn’t the woman just ask for green or blue? Colors she could handle. She shifted the jars until the labels faced up. As always, the letters bunched and twisted. She squinted and tried to make sense of the words.

“Hard to read my chicken scratchin’s, ain’t it?” The housekeeper wiped her hands on a drying cloth. “It’s the blue one.”

Cheeks flaming, she hauled the blue jar from the basket and set it on the table. Nothing was more frustrating and embarrassing than not being able to read. “Where’d you learn about medicines?” she asked, steering the conversation to a safer topic.

“I worked for a doctor before hirin’ on with Mister P. Helped with his patients along with doin’ the cookin’ and cleanin’.” She dabbed salve on Louisa’s finger. “Good thing I learned such things. Master Jack got into more scrapes as a young-un. I remember one time he cut his foot on a piece of broken glass. Took eight stitches. Poor fella was green for days after that.”

Glass had sliced his foot back then. Today, she’d cut him. Had him thinking she still didn’t trust him, because she was too spineless to tell him the truth.

“He’s lucky to have you,” she managed past the guilty lump in her throat.

“Somethin’ more than this little bitty cut has you upset. You want to tell ol’ Sally ’bout it?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“You shouldn’t let things fester. Not wounds of the body nor the soul. No good ever comes of it.”

The familiar words tugged at her heartstrings. Belle had said the same thing while trying to coax her to talk about Bart Lawrence. Hadn’t done any good back then. Wouldn’t work now either.

Strained male voices carried from the hallway. She glanced at the open doorway, her heart near to breaking at the thought of Jack in distress.

“Is it Master Jack what has you upset?”

Drat
. She’d best take better care with her emotions, else she faced more pointed, personal questions. “He’s part of it.”

“Don’t take his crustiness to heart. He comes by it honest. Let him be for a bit. He’ll be smilin’ agin by mornin’.” Sally tore off a strip of bandaging and wrapped it around the now seeping wound. “He’s a good boy, Jack is.” She laughed softly as she tied off a knot. “Good man, I reckon I should say. Hard to think of him that way sometimes, ’specially when he gets that mischievous look on his face.”

She knew the look. That captivating boyish gleam that had sparked in his eye when Socks tossed her on her backside. The look that made her stomach do odd little flips.

“I can still picture him clear as sunlight the day he left for college,” Sally added. “He was so proud and cock-sure of hisself. Gonna take on the world, that boy was.”

Just like the young men in Richmond on enlistment day. All fired-up and ready to march off to war. To save the world. Or at least their little portion of it.

Sally wagged her head as she gathered up her medical supplies. “I remember the last time he left here. He was gonna take on the world then, too, only it weren’t so good a time round here.”

“When was that?”

“When Master Jack took his job writin’ ’bout the War. Mister P won’t at all happy about it. They had a terrible row afore Master Jack—” She cut off with a frown.