Mischief and Magnolias (6 page)

As soon as Shaelyn slipped into a chair, Brenna reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

She prayed, thanking God for the food on the table, asking Him to watch over them and to bring Ian home safe. To Shaelyn's surprise, her mother included the soldiers in the dining room in her prayer.

While she picked at her meal, she listened to the conversation in the other room. She learned that Daniel Bonaventure had a wife and three strapping boys in Pittsburgh. He hadn't seen them in quite some time and sadness reflected in his voice.

Aaron Falstead had a fiancée in Keyport, New Jersey, where he grew up and where his father owned a steamboat company that plied the shoreline from New York to Red Bank. They planned to be married once the war ended.

Cory Ames had a new daughter he hadn't yet met.

Peter Williams had no wife or fiancée waiting for him, but said he planned to remedy that as quickly as possible. Life was too short, he said.

Captain Becket didn't contribute much to the conversation. Out of all the men in her home, he was the quietest. If he had an opinion, he didn't share it.

Captain Davenport had neither wife nor sweetheart and didn't seem interested in obtaining either one. Or so he claimed in his clipped New England tones.

Major Harte said very little, although he did laugh, which for reasons she couldn't fathom, warmed her. A long sigh escaped her as she pushed the mound of mashed potatoes around her plate. Her appetite fled as a startling realization came to her. The men who had invaded her home were not monsters. They were just men who happened to wear blue uniforms. They felt sadness and happiness, loneliness and companionship, just as she did.

“You're not eating.”

Shaelyn glanced up from her plate to find her mother's gaze on her. “I'm not hungry.”

“Of course,” she said, then pushed away her own plate. “I know it doesn't seem like it now, but having them here may well turn out to be a good thing, Shae.” She stood and moved to the butcher-block table, where she opened the jars of peaches and poured them into one of her beautiful serving bowls. She added a serving spoon then took several smaller bowls from the cabinet and put them all on a tray. “Try to finish a little more, dear, then bring that other pot of coffee.”

Brenna pushed open the swinging door separating the kitchen from the dining room, the tray in her hands. Before the door swung closed, she heard her mother say, “My apologies, gentlemen, I have no dessert for you this evening, but I thought some peaches Shae and I put up last year might be the perfect thing to end your dinner.”

Shaelyn dragged herself from her chair, grabbed the coffeepot from the stove, and followed. As she refilled their cups, every one of the men around the table said “thank you,” which didn't surprise her. All of them were courteous and kind and polite to a fault.

A short time later, the officers left the dining room, and a hush fell over the house as they closeted themselves in the study. Shaelyn glanced at her mother and noticed the fine lines around her eyes seemed deeper and more pronounced. “Why don't you go to bed, Mama? I'll clean up.”

“Thank you, dear. Having all these men here just reminds me of how much I miss Ian and your father.” She sighed. “It's been such an eventful day. I must be tired.”

As Brenna slipped inside her room, Shaelyn filled the sink with hot soapy water then rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and began to clear the table, saving the scraps for the pigs, who would eat heartily tonight.

By the time the pigs were fed, the dishes done and put away, and the kitchen gleamed in the lamplight, exhaustion overwhelmed her. Not only exhaustion, but a queer, curious tingling in her belly as she placed the roasting pan in the cabinet beside the stove. She turned quickly to find Major Harte standing in the doorway, watching her every move. He limped closer and stood on the other side of the butcher-block table.

“Might I have a moment of your time?” His voice, when he finally spoke, seemed weary and yet still commanding.

Lamplight reflected on his thick black hair and again the insane impulse to run her fingers through the silky strands overwhelmed her. Her voice stuck in her throat, she simply nodded.

“Please thank your mother for a lovely supper. I've not had such fine cooking in a very long time.”

Shaelyn swallowed hard. “I'll tell her.”

“There is one more thing.” He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket. For a moment, she thought he might have changed his mind about letting them stay. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and she twisted her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking.

“This is a list of instructions I expect to be followed for as long as we are here,” he said, his voice lowering, sending chills up her spine. He unfolded the paper and handed it to her. Their fingers touched. Shaelyn sucked in her breath as a heat rushed up her arm and the vision she'd had earlier returned, clearer and more vivid.

“Good night, Shae.” As before, when he spoke her name, liquid honey pooled in the pit of her stomach. She willed the feeling away, but it remained even after he left the room, and she reminded herself that she hated his intrusion into her home.

A sharp knock on the door woke Shaelyn with a start. Her eyes flew open. With a groan borne of a lack of sleep, she rolled from the narrow bed in the servants' quarters.

Though she'd been exhausted, her rest had been fitful at best. She'd spent most of the night listening to the clock on the bedside table tick away the hours, her mind filled with thoughts of mere survival in a house full of strangers—strangers she now labored for. Even though keeping house for the officers had been her suggestion, it did not sit well with her.

She lit the candle on the bedside table with trembling fingers. The fury of yesterday had not lessened with the dawn of a new day. Her heart pulsed with anger and revenge—and something else she couldn't define. The vivid images she saw in her head each time Major Harte touched her haunted her dreams when she did sleep, leaving her confused and mystified.

The war wouldn't last forever. Major Harte would someday leave Magnolia House. She'd have her life back, with her home and her business intact because of the sacrifices she and her mother made. In the meantime, Major Harte would come to regret his decision to confiscate her home and her riverboats.

Her gaze found the list the major had given her last night after supper. Bold yet neat handwriting filled the page, his instructions explicit. He expected breakfast promptly at seven, a small repast at one, and supper at six thirty. Prior to breakfast, he required a cup of coffee, black. Per his instructions, the coffee should be brought to him at six.

In addition, she would prepare his bath, sharpen his razor, and mix his shaving soap into a rich lather.

He wanted his uniform neatly pressed and his boots shined to a high gloss. The bed sheets were to be changed, dirty laundry would be gathered, washed, dried, ironed, and put away before the end of the day, and the room he occupied—her room—would be cleaned. She would do the same for the other officers, except for the personal attention he required.

Shaelyn grit her teeth as she read over the list once more. In truth, she had asked for this, made this bargain that would allow her and her mother to stay, but she didn't have to like it.

In the few hours he'd been at Magnolia House, Shaelyn saw Remington Harte, like his list, to be a highly regimented man, rigid not only in his posture, but in his command as well. His men followed his orders to the letter and without the slightest hesitation. Even Jock MacPhee deferred to his wishes, and that particular Scotsman didn't take orders lightly.

In Major Harte's world, his word was law. No one dared to contradict or question him, and yet he tempered his orders with kindness. Always, he said “please” and “thank you” and treated everyone with the utmost consideration. Even her.

His officers respected him; that much Shaelyn saw for herself. The respect seemed to be mutual, and that was a good sign. It meant he would keep his word as best he was able.

Another sharp rap on the door startled her. “Yes, Mama,” she called out, her voice still groggy. “I'm coming.”

A sudden smile curved her lips. If Major Harte expected complete compliance from her, he'd be woefully disappointed.
She
was not military.
She
did not belong to his contingent of men.
She
did not have to follow his orders.

But she did. If she wanted to stay in her home…

The clock in the hallway chimed five times. Shaelyn shook herself out of her musings, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and dressed quickly in a simple skirt and blouse, though both were a bit frayed and well-worn. She twisted her hair into a loose knot atop her head and left the room to find her mother in the kitchen, tying an apron around her waist.

“Good morning,” Brenna greeted her, her lovely face a beacon of sanity in an otherwise insane situation. “I trust you slept well.”

“No, Mama. I did not sleep well at all.”

Brenna reached out and caressed Shaelyn's cheek. “Try not to be too angry, dear.”

“Anger doesn't even begin to touch the surface of what I feel.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Her mother sighed, her eyes conveying her understanding. “Sometimes, we must accept what we cannot change.”

Brenna might have been naive in many ways, but in this she couldn't have been more right. Shaelyn heard the wisdom in her mother's words, yet still railed against acceptance. But after yesterday's tears, she didn't want to upset Brenna again. Her voice softened. “I may have no choice, but I don't have to like it.”

“No,” Brenna conceded. “You don't have to like it. Just try to make the best of it.”

“Yes, Mama.” She met her mother's direct gaze, but said nothing more.

After a moment, Brenna sighed and turned away to make coffee. Over her shoulder, she said, “Please set the table.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

It didn't take long for her to prepare the dining room and rejoin her mother in the kitchen.

Brenna cracked eggs into a large bowl, added milk, and beat the concoction until it frothed. Slices of ham, left over from last night's impromptu dinner, were crammed into a skillet on the stove. They began to sizzle in the pan. The aroma of real coffee scented the air.

“What can I do, Mama?”

“Peel some potatoes,” Brenna replied as she added butter, a staple neither one had seen for a long time, to the skillet for the eggs.

Dutifully, Shaelyn peeled and shredded potatoes without saying a word, leaving a pile in a bowl, waiting to be fried.

At five fifty-five exactly, Shaelyn made her way upstairs to the room Remy now occupied, carrying his cup of coffee on a tray. She hoped he'd enjoy the generous dollop of vinegar she'd added to the hot brew behind her mother's back.

She didn't knock, just opened the door and walked in, fully expecting him to be lazing about in bed, waiting for his coffee. She stopped, the door wide open, her hand still on the knob, and sucked in her breath. Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped the tray.

Sweet merciful heaven! She'd never, ever seen anything quite like Major Harte. He stood beside the bed with his back toward her, completely and unabashedly naked. His broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist and firm, rounded behind, his legs were long and tightly muscled. Sinews rippled in his back as he reached for his robe. He didn't seem concerned with her presence as he slid his arms into the sleeves.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, quickly averting her gaze to stare at the floor.

“Good morning, Shae.” He turned as he tied the sash around his middle. “Perhaps, in the future, you should knock before you enter a gentleman's room.” He grabbed his cane and came forward to meet her. His robe flared open and she caught another glimpse of his muscular legs before her eyes were drawn to the long, jagged scar on his thigh. The wound did not look good at all. It was red and swollen; no wonder he limped. She could almost feel his pain.

She said nothing as she raised her gaze to his face. Yesterday, when she'd first met him, she'd been struck by his handsome visage. This morning, with his dark hair sleep tousled and his face scruffy with whiskers, he was even more so.

The warmth of his gaze touched her in ways she didn't comprehend. Her heart fluttered painfully in her chest and a queer quiver settled in her stomach as he advanced on her. She took a hesitant step back then stopped and drew in a deep breath. Silently, she handed him the coffee. Her hand trembled and she quickly hid it behind her back after he took the cup.

“Thank you.”

Anticipation and a touch of fear coursed through her as he raised the cup to his lips and swallowed. His eyes widened in surprise. His throat moved convulsively as his mouth pursed and an eyebrow rose in question, but he said nothing. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes said it all, and yet he didn't seem angry. Not one bit.

He might not show anger, but that might not mean he wasn't angry. Wishing she hadn't doctored his coffee with vinegar, Shaelyn took another step back, placed the tray on the bureau, and fled the room without saying a word.

She stood in the hall, trying to catch her breath and still the painful pounding of her heart. Once she calmed herself, she rushed to the bathroom to start his bath and mix his shaving soap. How far could she push him before he retaliated? How much would he take before he said “no more”?

Her stomach clenched. Had she already gone too far? He didn't seem angry, yet she couldn't be sure. She didn't know him well, didn't know what kind of man he was beneath the veneer of civility she'd seen so far, but if it would help to make him leave Magnolia House, she'd do whatever it took.

She mixed his shaving soap into thick, rich foam then started the bath water, running her hand beneath the spigot to test for temperature. Despite her fear of retaliation, the water splashing from the spigot remained cold.