A Bride Most Begrudging (7 page)

She chewed on her lower lip and wiped her hands on the jerkin.

“With a sponge and bowl?”

His gaze settled on her face. “With a rag and bucket.”

She took a deep breath. “Thank you. That would greatly please me.”

A waft of air swept the path, strewing a few curls across her face and rustling the underbrush around them. A weeping willow’s long tassels swayed gently behind him as he rubbed his eyes, muttering, “What folly.”

After a moment, he peered at her wearily. “I have no need for a bride. I especially have no need for an additional woman. You’ll simply have to make yourself useful as best you can. For now, help with the cooking and upkeep of the cottage.”

“I don’t know how to cook.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “And why is that?”

“I never had reason to do so.”

“No need for food, have you?”

She tipped up the corners of her lips. “On the contrary, I’m quite fond of food.”

“But not of cooking.”

“It’s not a matter of fondness. It’s a matter of know-how. I know not how to cook.”

“What do you know?”

“Stitching.”

“Nothing else?”

“I’m rather talented with numbers.”

“Well, praise be. And here I’ve been worrying you were worthless.”

“Quite so.”

Drew contemplated the enigma before him. She couldn’t possibly be telling the truth. No gently bred woman would allow her hair to flow with such abandon from her kerchief. No gently bred woman would loosen her bodice with two men mere feet away. No gently bred woman would have survived the passage over. If she was an earl’s daughter, he was a king’s son.

Still, no common born female would know how to read and write. No common born female would speak in such a refined manner. No common born female would have asked for a washbowl instead of a bucket.

“Are you, by any chance, the
illegitimate
daughter of an earl?”

She gasped. “How dare you! Why, you wouldn’t know the queen of England if she were staring you in the face!”

“Answer my question.”

“I shall not dignify that question with an answer.”

Brushing her skirt to the side, she swept past him and set off down the path—in effect, dismissing him. Well, by trow, he was the master here. The sooner she understood that, the better.

Tightening his lips, he took several great strides, hooked his arm around her waist and lifted her up off the ground. She reacted with vehemence—shrieking, struggling, kicking, scratching, and biting. He wasted no time in releasing her.

She whirled around, crouched and ready to spring. “I have been tornfrom my homeland, chained in a hold with fifty female felons, sold as a bride, and bartered for in a card game. Suffice it to say I am not in the most tolerant of moods. Touch me again and I’ll not be held responsible for my actions.”

“You most certainly will. I am your master in all things. How you fare here will be the direct result of how I decide to treat you. Because the majority of the women in this settlement are former criminals, the means by which we control them are somewhat barbaric. Before, I never advocated such treatment, but at this moment, I am rapidly reassessing my stand. Do not ever walk away from me when I’ve asked you a question.”

She spun around and marched off. He hesitated only a moment before swooping down upon her from behind. He twisted to take the brunt of the fall, then quickly rolled her beneath him. “Are you the illegitimate daughter of an earl?”

She snaked her arms up between them and pushed with a respectable amount of strength. “I wish that you did itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee. I would make you the loathsomest scab in all of England.”

“We’re in the colonies. Now answer my question.”

She spit in his face. Wiping his cheek with his shoulder, he allowed more of his weight to rest upon her and bracketed her cheeks with his hands. She stilled.

“Do not
ever
do that again. Do I make myself clear?”

He saw her gathering the spittle within her mouth. He narrowed his eyes. “I dare you.”

Ah. A response at last. She swallowed her spittle.

“Are you the illegitimate daughter of an earl?”

“I am not.”

He hesitated. She’d answered his question. He’d won the skirmish. Now he should release her.

He stayed where he was. Of course, the leather jerkin he’d lent her may as well have been a suit of armor, for it completely disguised any curves she might possess. But a single beam of moonlight captured her face in its gentle palm. And he took his time exploring her features at such close range.

If he ignored the freckles, she was really quite comely. Her delicately shaped face was graced with a pert and dainty nose, and never in his life had he seen eyelashes so long. Long and not red, exactly, but a sort of rusty shade, like her eyes.

Oh, but her eyes were something. Big, luminous, and far too intelligent.

She moistened her generously curved lips.

He panicked at the reaction that induced. “I suppose Mary can do the cooking and cottage. You may see to the garden and my young sister.”

“You’re too kind.”

He crooked up one corner of his mouth. Ah, victory was sweet. Rising, he turned and headed down the path—in effect, dismissing
her
.

chapter
F
OUR
   

CONSTANCE OPENED HER eyes. An exquisite child stared at her with wide-eyed innocence. The moppet’s pearl-like complexion glowed with exuberance and charm. Thick jet-black curls fell past her shoulders.

Constance lifted her head.

In an immediate attempt to scramble back, the child plopped to the floor. A puff of dirt billowed around the shapeless sack that served as her dress. Drawn in at the neck and wrists with a narrow cotton ferret, the primitive gown concealed the child’s build. If her heart-shaped face and delicate hands were any indication, the garment encompassed a petite frame.

Constance smiled.

Springing to her feet, the child ran out of sight.

Constance allowed her head to fall back on the pallet and sighed. How wonderful it was to wake up in unmoving quiet. No tipping deck that continuously swayed to and fro, no feet sounding on the upper decks, no stifling hold with everyone’s irons rattling and banging about.

After a moment, she became cognizant of the household awakening.

A whispered exchange. A muted padding from one spot to another. A crackling fire. Turning her head, she glanced toward the fire and discovered Mary hunching over its embers.

Her friend stirred the contents of a peculiar frying pan perched on three curved spiderlike legs. With a thick cloth in hand, she rearranged several wrapped objects sitting amongst the coals.

Dearest Mary. Had it not been for her, Constance never would have survived the passage over. What a pleasant surprise to find the good Lord had seen fit to keep them together. It would make everything so much easier, for both of them. Constance inhaled deeply. The savory trail of the morning’s meal drifted to her.

Propping herself on her elbows, she canvassed the rustic cottage. She had seen next to nothing in the darkness of the night before. The light now seeping through a square hole in the cottage’s wall provided a bit of visibility.

At one time, this sparse one-room cottage with crudely made furniture would have surely caused a wrinkling of her nose. But compared to the hard deck she had slept upon for these last two months, the complete blackness that filled the hold and the enclosed air soured by the sick, this thatch-roofed dwelling was more like a palace.

A long table with two benches made of split logs, flat side up, sat shoved against one wall. A low platform built into one corner of the room marked the only bed in evidence. Puzzled, she looked for the family’s sleeping quarters, but found none. Opposite the bed sat a long wooden trunk. Clothing and utensils hung on a few pegs driven into the walls. She took it all in, her confusion mounting, until finally she noticed a split-pole ladder propped up against a small loft at the far end of the cottage.

The fire popped. Constance turned back to Mary. The fireplace took up one entire wall. Its hearth, made of flat rock, contrasted sharply with the mixture of clay and grass baked around the fireplace’s wooden frame. An assortment of implements and pots hung from a beam and littered the hearth.

“You’d best rise, girl.”

Yanking the covers to her chin, Constance sat up and twisted around.

A seasoned woman passed behind her carrying an armful of folded linens while the child clung to her skirts. Opening the trunk, the woman placed the makings of some pallets inside. “The men will be in shortly. We need to ready the cottage.”

This must be the grandmother Drew had spoken of last night. She wasn’t at all like Constance had pictured her. This woman carried herself with grace, holding her head high and proud. Her cheekbones, accentuated by the onset of old age, held an unnatural, but becoming, blush of pink. The child at her skirts hooked an index finger over her nose and thrust a thumb into her mouth.

Releasing the covers, Constance stood and stretched. Her old chemise hung limp on her frame and still smelled of unspeakable odors. After the disaster with her bodice last night, she’d had no choice but to garb herself in the only covering she possessed. With her fingertips, she plucked the chemise away from her body. “I was told I could make use of a bucket and rag this morning.”

The woman nodded. “Fold up your pallet, then, and help me arrange the cottage.”

Stepping onto the dirt floor, Constance leaned over and picked up the top bed sheet. “You live here?”

“For the time being.” The old woman scrutinized her while tying together the two strings dangling from her cap. “I’m Elizabeth Lining, but everyone calls me Grandma.”

“A good day to you, Grandma. My name is Lady Constance.” Grandma humphed. “We don’t stand on formalities here in the colony. I’ll be calling you Constance.”

Constance handed the woman the folded spread. She allowed it to unfurl, then refolded it.

“Where are the men?” Constance asked.

“Washing at the creek.”

She gave Grandma a quick peek, but the woman acted as if that was indeed an everyday affair. Moving to retrieve the bottom linen, Constance shook it out. Dirt surged upward.

Grandma grabbed the bedsheet. “Mercy, girl. You never shake the linen indoors.”

Coughing, Constance rubbed her eye. “Your pardon.”

While the dirt was settling, Grandma took the bedding outside. Constance wasted no time in turning to Mary. “What do you know of our situation here?”

Darting a quick look at the open door and then the child, Mary wiped a hand on the tattered apron she wore around her waist. “The master contracted for me ’cause his married sister is due for a birthing right soon. The grandmother goes to care for her. So I am to care for the two masters, this little tyke, and the men.”

“Men? What men?”

“The master bought ten indentured men—two of them brick layers. He’s to pick them up from the ship this morn.”

“When does Grandma leave?”

Mary shrugged. “They didn’t say, but if I was to guess, it’d be right soon.”

“Has anything been said about me?”

Mary shook her head. “Not a word, but I’m thinking the grandmother was pretty surprised to see you slumbering on the floor this morn, she was.”

“Mr. O’Connor still hasn’t told her about me?”

“I don’t know, but it seems not. He was gone when I arose and the grandmother was still sleeping.”

Constance caught a flash of brown from the corner of her eye, spun toward it, then relaxed. The little girl had wedged herself between the table and wall.

“And what’s your name?” Constance asked softly. The thumb stayed in her mouth. “Sallwee.”

“Sally?” Constance squatted down.

Her curls bobbed up and down with affirmation.

“How do you do, Sally?”

The child’s brow furrowed. “What’s your name again?”

Constance thought a moment, sent Mary a mischievous smile, then looked back at the child. “My Lady.”

Sally wound a lock of hair round and round her finger. “That’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you. Sally is a very lovely name too. How old are you?” Releasing her hair, Sally held up two fingers. “Thwee.”

Grandma reentered and placed the linen in the trunk. “Come, Constance, and help me move the benches and board to the middle of the room.”

Constance stood and glanced about the room for the chamber pot. She could see the bed didn’t have one beneath it, yet she couldn’t imagine anyplace else to keep one. Perhaps they had a privy instead.

She hesitated, then moved to help Grandma. The roughhewn benches weighed a considerable amount. The table nearly did her in. Leaning on its knotted surface to catch her breath, she acknowledged there was no more time to spare. She must ask Grandma where the necessary house was located.

Looking up, the words stuck in her throat, for Drew’s broad frame filled the doorway. With sunbeams shooting through the cracks between him and the doorframe, it was impossible to discern his expression.