Patricia Rice (22 page)

Pace didn't want to know what she saw when she looked at him. He was too aware of the damaged mess of his arm, the ragged scar against his ribs, his hairy crudeness next to her smooth perfection. And his randy body made the evidence of his desire all too clear.

"I won't force you," he said stiffly. "You've already sacrificed enough for no good reason."

Her wariness turned thoughtful as she caressed his jaw. "Is it so difficult to believe that this is what I wanted?"

"Yes," he answered curtly. "It is. I don't know what you think to accomplish, but I'm desperate enough to accept whatever you offer. Now get out of here before someone comes looking for you."

She drew away then, leaving her dampened chemise for his use, drawing on her stiff cotton gown and petticoat without its protection. Pace tried not to watch her, but he had difficulty tearing his gaze away knowing he might never have the opportunity again.

He hoped she hadn't caught the significance of what he'd just said. He could lie beneath these trees for the rest of the week and no one would come looking for
him.

* * *

Dora nearly dropped the soup tureen when Pace entered the dining room that evening. Garbed in evening dress as if this were a formal occasion, he wore his waistcoat buttoned, his frilled shirt starched, and his narrow black tie tucked beneath his turned-down collar. He had apparently abandoned his uniform in deference to his father's opinions.

He had shaved and had his hair cut. Something wary lingered behind the green of his eyes as he regarded the tableau in front of him, but Dora couldn't tear her gaze away. In frock coat and trousers, he looked every bit as magnificent as he did in uniform. The awkward angle of his damaged arm in no way detracted from his athletic frame. She had difficulty believing such a man had ever looked at her.

Carlson Nicholls grunted and took the tureen from Dora's hands. "Suppose this means you're marching back to war."

"I thought I would go over to the Andrewses' place tomorrow and bring Amy and Delia back, if I might borrow the carriage." Pace spoke stiffly, not looking at Dora.

"Good idea. Don't know why the fool woman took them away in the first place. They belong here. So does that damned wife of Charlie's. Tell them I said so." He looked up from his soup in irritation. "Why in hell you still standing there? Forgotten how to sit down?"

This time, Pace's gaze turned to Dora. She was horribly conscious of her soiled apron and baggy gown, and she lifted the tureen to keep from looking at him.

"I'm waiting for Miss Smythe to take a seat," he answered with the same stiff arrogance as before.

Carlson snorted. "Then you'll wait until the mountains crumble unless you want to go whip some sense into those darkies' heads."

Dora found her tongue when the awkward silence grew. "Have a seat, Pace. I'll set an extra place for thee. The chicken is almost done. I'll take a tray up to thy mother and have Annie come down to serve thee in just a minute."

She knew Pace had no awareness of the deterioration of authority around here. He simply struggled to prove his identity as a gentleman, in her eyes as well as his own. She didn't know how to tell him that proof wasn't necessary. For all she knew, gentlemen were extinct creatures and probably useless in their own time. She gestured at a chair and went to the sideboard to fetch the china and silver.

Noiselessly, he startled her with his nearness as he reached for the plates. She was altogether too aware of the man who had held her naked in his arms just hours ago. She knew his physical form intimately, the strength rippling beneath the elegant coat. His arm barely missed brushing her breast, and she held her breath as their fingers touched when he took the plate away.

"I can set my own place and one for you. Go fetch Annie. Tell my mother if she wants to eat, she can come down and do so. I'll be happy to help her with the stairs if she needs it."

Dora didn't know why he went this far. With Pace, there was never an easy answer. She let him have the plates. She wouldn't surrender more.

"I'm sure thou and thy father have much to discuss," she murmured. "I will eat with thy mother as usual." She tore away from him, wrapping her hands in her apron as she started for the door.

"You will damned well eat down here where you belong," Pace yelled after her. "It's time this damned family acted like one!"

Carlson gave his son a raised-eyebrow look and continued eating his soup. He'd abrogated his responsibilities as a family man a long time ago.

Dora could agree with Pace's sentiment, but she couldn't imagine how he would put his words into action. Silently, she left in the direction of his mother's room. It wouldn't hurt to try.

Harriet looked at her as if she were crazed when Dora expressed Pace's desire for a family dinner. "He wants me to go downstairs for the pleasure of listening to him and his father tear each other apart? No, thank you. I'll decline the invitation." She settled resolutely into the overstuffed chair beside her bed. "I'll go hungry first."

Dora had expected that response, but for Pace's sake, and to avoid conflict, she tried again. "Pace will be on his best behavior. And I'll remind him if he forgets. This means a lot to him. He will go back to war shortly. It would make things easier on the help if we all ate in one place. Perhaps thou couldst persuade some of the kitchen staff to work again. I am not good with servants."

Harriet tapped her toe and stared out the window. She'd not asked for her bottle of laudanum recently. She was awake more during the day. Dora thought sitting here doing nothing all day must bore her horribly. Perhaps Pace had offered the excuse she needed to break her self imposed exile.

"Annie could fix thy hair," Dora suggested shyly. "Wouldn't thou like wearing one of those pretty dresses again?"

Harriet turned and gave her a shrewd look. "You're the one who ought to have her hair fixed and wear pretty dresses. You look like an old maid. You'll not catch my son's interest looking like that." Without a clearer reply, she gestured for Annie to fetch the silver-backed brush from the dresser.

Not daring to leave for fear Harriet would change her mind, Dora stayed to help choose a dress and locate undergarments. The styles were terribly outdated. Nothing fit. She had little talent for making adjustments in this kind of finery. Still, she found enough garments to dress Harriet fully. The older woman could no longer he called beautiful, and she could scarcely be called dignified with her sagging chins and overtight bodice waists, but she looked more human than she had in many years. Dora breathed a sigh of relief as Harriet swayed in unbuttoned shoes toward the door.

"Annie, go fetch my son. Dora, go get yourself fixed up. Servants don't eat in the dining room. You must look like a guest." She waved imperiously, dismissing her subjects as she shuffled toward the hall for the first time in years.

Nervously, Dora escaped to her own room. Untying her apron, she reached for her best Meeting gown. Perhaps if she left the collar and apron off, she would look less like a servant. Mother Elizabeth would disapprove, as would the Elders, but making peace in this household seemed more important than maintaining modest attire. Plain Dress had been intended to create equality, avert vanity, and avoid notice. By keeping to the styles of hundreds of years ago, they had forfeited that intent in Dora's mind.

Dora heard Pace talking to his mother as he helped her down the hall. Considering what she had done with him this afternoon, her attire was the least of her sins. Her heart thumped in her throat and her stomach clenched as she listened to the low vibrations of his voice. He was a man of the world, a well-respected lawyer in Frankfort, an experienced soldier. She was nothing, less than nothing. How could he see anything in her?

He didn't. She had to remind herself of that. She was nothing to him but a convenient vessel for his needs. She didn't consider what she had done a sacrifice because she had wanted it, but she had done it knowing it could have only one outcome. She would keep Pace from joining that battle, keep him alive to fight the legal battles that would follow this war, and watch his fight from the distance of hundreds of miles.

Armed with that knowledge, Dora combed her hair, straightened her cap, and hurried to join the unusual party downstairs.

Pace frowned at the cap when she entered, but in keeping with his unspoken promise, he said nothing argumentative. When Dora started for the door leading to the kitchen, he just grabbed her arm and shoved a chair under her.

Carlson had sat in the first chair he reached, which wasn't the head of the table. He glared at his empty soup bowl and ignored the gray-haired woman taking the chair farthest from his. Dora watched uneasily as he sipped at a mug of ale, but he didn't seem much inclined to talk.

Pace had taken a seat halfway between his parents and directly across from Dora. He frowned but kept quiet as Annie set a platter of chicken on the table without passing it. Wordlessly, he helped himself from the platter when his father passed it down to him. Dora had sat at this table before with him, but never after spending intimate hours in his company. She didn't know what to do or how to act.

"That gown is very becoming, Mother," Pace said formally as he held the platter so she could choose from it.

"That's a lie, but I thank you for it," Harriet answered. "Where is your uniform? Have you been discharged?"

"I reenlisted in May. I'm having a new uniform made. I will return to my regiment shortly."

Annie returned with potatoes and carrots, handing them to Carlson first and walking out. She had been trained as a ladies' maid and not a serving girl, but she knew better. Dora felt the slave's resentment and hostility, but though she might sympathize, she had no power to correct the situation. To even mention paying Annie would throw Carlson into a rage not conducive to the proposed peace of this dinner.

Carlson shoveled out some potatoes and pushed them toward Dora. "Damned Yankees think they own us," he muttered,
sotto voce.

Pace pretended he didn't hear. Taking the bowl of vegetables from Dora, he said pleasantly, "I haven't thanked you for your care while I was ill, Miss Smythe. Is there something I can do for you to show my appreciation?"

This was too much politeness for her taste, but she wouldn't say the first angry word. Pain had carved harsh lines around Pace's mouth, and she responded to the almost tender look in his eyes.

"Thou canst stay alive and come home safely," she murmured.

She heard his father grunt at this reply, but Pace's gaze warmed, and his mother intervened.

"You could stay here and work the farm like you ought. That arm should get you a discharge." She dug into her potatoes with enthusiasm. Her "illness" had never diminished her appetite.

Pace stiffened, but his father replied before he could summon a polite answer.

"I don't need the likes of him around. I've still got a strong back and two good arms. I built this place by myself. I can keep it going by myself."

Dora could see Pace struggling to control his temper. She breathed easier when he answered with patience.

"I could help you find some hired hands. Solly doesn't make much of a field laborer. I was thinking of taking him with me."

Carlson slammed his fork against the table, sending a carrot flying into the air. "You'll damned well do nothing of the sort! That boy belongs to me, and don't you forget it! Lincoln can't steal our property. It's against the Constitution! That's what this damned war is all about, upholding the Constitution. You and your blue-bellied friends won't change the way things are."

"Things have already changed," Pace pointed out. "Your slaves have gone and you won't get them back. You're going to have to hire help."

"And who in hell do you think I'll hire to do nigger work? Just tell me that, smartass. There ain't a self-respecting white man in this state that's goin' to work out in those fields. Your damned blue-bellied friends better start thinking about that before winter comes and they find their blue bellies empty."

Pace's temper began to show. "If the state of Kentucky hadn't made it unconstitutional for free black men to stay and hire themselves out, you and your friends wouldn't have to worry about getting your pristine hands dirty. Tell that to your mighty congressman next time he pats himself on the back for getting that heinous piece of stupidity locked into the Constitution for the next umpteen years."

"I'll not sit here and listen to that kind of guff from no son of mine!" Carlson roared, heaving himself upward. "Matt Mitchell is a damned good friend of mine and has a better head on his shoulders than you'll ever have. Why don't you get your Yankee hide out of here and back to those nigger-lovin' friends of yours where you belong? Lookin' at you makes me sick."

Pace leaped to his feet in fury, but his father was already on his way out the door. The look on his face made Dora's soul weep, but she had no magic powders for healing this festering wound. She hurried to take Harriet's arm when Pace's mother staggered to her feet.

"Well, I hope everyone enjoyed this happy homecoming. I think I'll rest now, Dora. Don't ask me to repeat this experience anytime soon."

Dora didn't dare glance back at the look of despair lurking behind Pace's proud features. She led Harriet from the room and flinched as the front door slammed a few minutes later.

Chapter 16