Law, Susan Kay (31 page)

He'd spent a lot of time learning to look beneath the surface,
trying to read the emotions she hid so well. He'd gotten quite good at it, but
now, he found, he couldn't see anything at all. She was closed to him.

Well, why not? he berated himself. He was her enemy. In all likelihood,
he'd shot at some of her family. He was lucky she hadn't killed him herself.

"How are you feeling?" she said slowly, as if choosing
her words with great care.

He flexed his left arm experimentally, relieved to find it still
functioned. The movement sent sharp pains shooting through his shoulder and
down his back, and he ground his molars together against a groan. So it hurt.
At least it worked.

"Hurts... a little. Not bad."

"You had a fever." She frowned a bit, then knelt beside
him, tucking her gown between her knees, and dropped a hand to his forehead.
"It seems to be gone now. Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"I'll bring you something later." She stared at him, her
expression carefully controlled, showing no emotion at all. He was oddly
piqued, just a bit. He'd have thought she'd be at least slightly happy at his
recovery.

"Feel sticky," he said, conscious of the sweat and dirt clinging
to him. He didn't want to be soiled in her company, at least not on the
outside. He couldn't do much for the inside.

"I'll wash you." She fetched a white enameled washbasin,
filling it with a steady stream of water poured from the wooden bucket. As
always, her motions were competent, graceful in their confidence and strength.
This wasn't a woman who fumbled.

She dipped a cloth in the water, wringing it out with a strong
twist of her wrists. He sighed in pleasure as she began to wash him, welcoming
the cool cleansing, but her touch was distant and impersonal, as if she was
simply a hired nurse caring for a tolerated patient.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Battle. Got shot."

"I didn't hear about any battles near here."

"Small one."

"Small one," she repeated slowly, her hands stilling on
his back. "That's all?"

"All I remember." He tried a smile on her. This time,
she didn't smile back.

Her hand went back to the pan, wetting the rag again. She was
watching him intently.

"Don't you want to tell me anything else?" she asked
flatly.

She was certainly acting odd. She had the right to be angry with
him, considering what had happened between them. Yet, he didn't think that was
the problem. There was something else, something that made her wary of him in a
way she'd never been before. He saw another emotion, carefully hidden but
simmering just beneath the surface. What was it?

"What?" he asked carefully.

"Oh, I was wondering what you've been doing since you've been
gone."

"Missed you?" he tried.

He didn't see it coming. Water cascaded over his head, filling his
open mouth, sluicing over his shoulders, soaking his bandage, pouring onto the
blanket under him.

She'd actually dumped the wash water over him! Sputtering, he
shook his head to clear his eyes. With his good arm, he pushed himself up
slightly and stared at her.

It was anger. She towered over him, her gown swirling around her
calves. Her eyes snapped with fire.

"You... you . .. How could you? How
could
you, you
lying, deceptive, unprincipled—you're no more of an idiot than I am. No,
I'm
the idiot, for never having seen it in the first place!"

His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Damn! He'd spent three
years in this role, and no one had ever seemed to catch even a glimmer of the
truth. Now it was shot to hell, all because he'd done what he'd
known
from
the beginning—oh, yes, he'd known—he shouldn't do: get involved with this
woman.

Her foot was already on the first rung of the ladder.

"Where are you going?"

She glared at him. "To turn you in!"

He lifted an eyebrow. It was almost a relief, not to have to
control every gesture. "In your nightgown?"

She glanced down, as if she'd forgotten what she was wearing.
"Lord," she muttered, and her head disappeared below the floor of the
loft.

She popped up again a moment later. "The horse is still
there."

Bennie strode across the loft, chaff flying around her, and
stopped in front of the window, mumbling under her breath something he couldn't
quite catch.

"What horse?"

"My mother's."

"So?"

Pursing her lips, she spared him another searing glance. If she
were a man, she'd make one hell of an army officer; all she'd need was that
look and insubordinates would cower before her.

"So she's still here. So she hasn't left for Adam's yet. So
I
can't go back to the house or she'll see me like this."

"Oh." The strain on his shoulder was beginning to tell,
and he lowered himself back to the blanket. She wasn't leaving him yet.

She wanted to
kill him. She'd spent a whole day and night,
slaving away to save his worthless hide, and right now she felt fully capable
of stripping it from him, inch by miserable inch.

How had she missed it? She took a quick peek at him; his eyes were
blazing with intelligence and intensity. How could she not have seen it? All
the vagueness was gone from his face, replaced with absolute control and
concentration.

There was only one explanation. She'd been blinded, too bedazzled
by that gorgeous face and body to bother with looking deeper. There'd been
hints—oh, yes, there had been, and she'd ignored them. She'd pushed them away,
writing them off as her imagination, or bits of the "past Jon"
showing through, because she'd liked him as he was, now accessible and
accepting.

He'd always been gorgeous, even with that deceptive vagueness on
his face. Now, with his features sharpened, his eyes alight, he was absolutely
devastating. And he looked entirely too calm.

"If you're going to be here awhile, you may as well sit
down," he suggested.

"You really don't want me too close to you right now."

"I trust you." His grin was dazzling, almost enough to
blunt the edges of her anger.

"You might want to rethink that." She sat down and
leaned up against the stone wall beneath the window. It wouldn't do to get too
close. Even if she didn't kill him, she was afraid his nearness would be enough
to weaken her judgment again. This time, she was thinking clearly, no matter
what.

"How did you know?"

"You had nightmares, with the fever. You talked a lot."

His eyes went gray, filled with a terrible bleakness that,
irrationally, made her want to comfort him.

"Yes," he said, his voice strained. "And you know
everything."

She shook her head. "I don't know who you work for." She
waited for his answer. Damn him, he wasn't going to tell her!

"Who?"

"It's not safe for me to tell you. It's better you don't
know."

It had to be the Americans. It was the only thing that made sense,
and it was a small balm to her wounds to believe that if she'd been duped and
used, it had at least been for a good cause.

But if it was the Americans, why wouldn't he tell her? It was
possible, she supposed, that he was working for British command, ferreting out
spies among his own ranks.

"Better for whom? Tell me," she demanded.

"No."

"You owe me that much."

He simply shook his head.

"I'll turn you in!" she threatened.

He looked vaguely amused. "To who?"

Beneath them, the door to the stable creaked open.

"Hush," she whispered.

Your mother?
he mouthed. She nodded.

They listened, the air in the loft crackling with tension, just as
the atmosphere sometimes did before a violent storm. They could hear Mary
preparing her horse, speaking softly to her mare in a sweet, modulated voice.
When she'd led the mare out and closed the door behind her, Beth stood and
peered out the window. Jon heard the thud of hooves on hard-packed earth, and
she headed for the ladder.

"Beth? Are you coming back?"

That look again, the one that said she'd be more than willing to
put a few more holes in him. Then she was gone without a word.

She did come back, when the sun was high overhead and heating up
the loft like an oven prepared for the weekly baking.

Wearing a flowing ivory blouse and an earth-colored skirt, she had
a bottle tucked underneath her arm and carried a covered basket that smelled of
fresh, yeasty bread. Her hair was twisted into a thick braid, but wild curls
sprang out around her temples.

Her hair was so like her. She tried hard to keep it all in, keep
it neatly contained, but little pieces kept finding their way free.

"For me?"

She handed him the food without speaking and turned to go.

He glanced at the label on the bottle and nearly strangled.
"Dr. Walker's Jesuit Drops? Beth, I assure you—"

"It's cider." Her face flushed red. "I needed a
bottle, so I just washed it out and used this one."

"I was afraid you were trying to tell me something," he
said, giving her a lopsided smile, hoping the humor would cause her veneer to
crack, just a little bit.

She continued on her way, but he didn't want her to go, not yet.
"Beth," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

She wasn't ready to hear it. She was gone before he could say any
more.

***

Two days passed like that. Bennie came twice a day, bringing food,
and left as quickly as she could, unable to bear being in the same room with
him.

She was angry; oh yes, she was angry. He'd lied to her, had let
her believe he was something he wasn't. Had let her learn to care for—to lie
with—a man who didn't exist.

And yet, there was more to it. If her soul had been soothed and
warmed by Jon, this stranger in her loft intrigued her. He radiated tangible
power and exceptional intensity. As his body healed, she would have thought
such a big man would get restless. He didn't. He was still, absorbed, perfectly
controlled.

More than his body was in pain. She would watch him out of the
corner of her eye, when she knew he wasn't looking. He stared off into the
distance, his eyes fixed on some unknown point, his expression one of agony—she
knew no other word for that extreme emotion.

What had happened to him? Even though he'd expertly deceived her
about so much, she still felt that, somehow, she would have sensed it if he'd
been in so much pain all along. It was as if his soul had been bruised and had never
begun to heal, but rather had been pounded again and again until the wound was
excruciating.

On the morning of the third day, Bennie came up to the loft with a
bag slung over one shoulder, a bucket of fresh water hooked carefully over one
hand.

The heat had yet to break. Although Jon surely would have given
anything for a breath of fresh air, he'd never complained. Since the day his
fever had turned, in fact, he'd never said anything, apparently respecting her
wish for silence. It was as if it were his way of apologizing.

She glanced over at his motionless form. He was still asleep; he
seemed to sleep most of the time, giving his body the rest it needed to heal.
There'd been no recurrence of the fever, and his skin now glowed with a healthy
bronze color, his former pallor gone.

Her heart gave a lurch—just a little one. Despite his injury,
despite her justifiable anger, he was as gorgeous as ever. Every day when she
made her brief visits, he lay there, clad only in a pair of breeches and his
bandage, which exposed far too much of his body for her peace of mind. And some
tiny, traitorous corner of her mind— and a slightly more demanding part of her
body—insisted on remembering that the blanket he lay on was the one they had
shared.

Squaring her shoulders against the roil of emotions, she marched
over to him and nudged him with her toe.

"Jon."

His eyelids snapped open. "Jonathan," he answered
sharply.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Jonathan Schuyler Leighton. That's my name. Not Jon."
His jaw was set, his mouth a harsh line.

"Jonathan, then." She slammed the bucket down,
splattering a bit of water over the side, and dug into the sack. "Here.
These pants belonged to one of my brothers. They should fit you."

His features softened. "You're talking to me."

"Only because I have to."

"Thank you." He plucked at the dirty, stained breeches
he wore. "These are a little worse for the wear."

"I noticed."

A bit of a twinkle lit his blue eyes. "You did?"