Surrender to Love (19 page)

A short laugh of amusement escaped him.  What a spitfire she was.  Whatever had possessed him to think she should be in a sitting room, occupied with needlework?

“How can you laugh at me?” she continued in frustration,  her bare foot stamping against the floor.  “I’m not some piece of fancy jewelry or …or a horse!”

“No, you’re not.  But, Sabine,” Michael commented with forced seriousness, “it’s not every day I see such contempt coming from a half-clad female.”

Sabine stiffened visibly, and she spun away, crossing her arms against her breasts in an effort to conceal them as the images of Troy Markham and Manuel Colón flooded her memory.

“What do you want from me, Mr. Pierson?” she questioned without facing him.  “What is it you expect?”

The smile on Michael’s face quickly faded as her cool words fell on his ears.  She slowly faced him, her emerald eyes mirroring the distrust, the hurt, the bitterness that rang out so clearly in the tones of her voice.

“I don’t expect a thing from you,” he told her simply as his gaze met hers.

She cocked an eyebrow skeptically.

“I suppose, then, that you intend for me
to run about unclothed?  I won’t be playing your fancy lady.”

Michael stood up and replaced the chair to its rightful position at the dressing table.

“And I never said you would.  In the wardrobe there are a few things,” he said as he began to leave.  “See if any of them fit.”

“Oh.”

The simple word sounded so foreign coming from her, and Sabine stared awkwardly at the closed door between them.  Suddenly she felt foolish for losing her temper, though she wasn’t quite sure why.  She shouldn’t feel guilty about a thing.  He deserved the brunt of her anger – every single bit of it.

She turned to the wardrobe.  So, she thought suddenly as she attempted to push a disconcerting idea from her mind, whose clothes were these?  And how did Michael co
me into possession of them?

Perhaps the belonged to someone else in the household staff, she considered thoughtfully, though she had yet to hear any other stirrings about the place.

It must be, then, that they were the belongings of a mistress, former or otherwise.  Sabine fell her heart fall to the floor, but quickly gathered up the pieces and put them back together as her gaze darted briefly to the door.

Ridiculous.  Why on earth were these stirrings of jealousy invading her brain?  She didn’t possess an ounce of envy when it came to this man who thought of her only as a result of a decent night’s hand of cards.  She couldn’t stand him in the least!

The garments in the wardrobe were exceptional, though; sumptuous…but hardly suited to working about the house.  Satins.  Silks. Velvet – in Cuba?  Carefully she sorted through the gowns, removing one after another until they all lay on the bed.

Good, sweet Heaven, she had never seen so many gowns in one place – or belonging to one person.  And they were all so…
impractical.
  Somehow she couldn’t picture herself in garnet velvet, complete with ebony braiding, scrubbing away at the kitchen floor

With a sigh of dissatisfaction, Sabine smoothed her hand over an ornate home gown or sprigged cotton and crocheted lace.  The lace.  Sabine wrinkled her nose at the yards of creamy lace that spread in multitudino
us tiers across the full skirts, the capped sleeves, the ample bodice with its revealing neckline.  It was the closest thing to a functional dress she had found, and it would have to do, she supposed, even if it was too large for her.

She slipped into it, and began the arduous task of untangling her hair with the silver-handled brush she found next to the water pitcher and bowl.  Standing at the mirror, she picked out the loose twigs and dust that persisted to cling among her tendrils.  The dust.  How had she let her sensibilities run away with her and allow her to act so foolishly? 
Under the bed, hiding like a frightened child.  Ridiculous. 
Embarrassing.

Standing in the mirror, she intently examined the injuries Manuel
Colón had inflicted upon her.  A ring of bruises still encircled her neck, but, thankfully, they had begun to yellow and fade.  And the nasty cut that marred her cheek had shrunk and was well on its way to healing.

But the eyes that stared back at her were not her own. 
They were disillusioned, cold.  She couldn’t even remember a time when she didn’t look that way; it had been so long since she had laughed, felt like that carefree girl she had once been.

It was useless even to consider it.  The girl had been replaced by a bitter woman who had no time for frivolous thoughts and dreams.  Dreams didn’t come true…and people – well,
men
– couldn’t be trusted for a second.

A light tap on the door brought Sabine out of her reverie
, and she cracked it open cautiously. 

“Did you find everything you need?”

“Yes, Mr. Pierson,” she replied with polite humility, her gaze unconsciously dropping to the floorboards.  “This will be perfect.”

He stepped inside and examined her closely.  Perfect?  She looked like hell in that contraption of Julia’s.  All that…lace.  He hated lace.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and leaned against the doorjamb.

“You don’t like it.”

“No,” he admitted frankly, “I don’t.”

“There’s nothing functional in that wardrobe, Mr. Pierson,” she said as she hitched the too-large bodice farther up on her shoulder.

Michael nodded in agreement.  Tomorrow, he made a mental note, get something decent for her to wear.

Damn.  He wished she’d quit staring at the floor as if she were some sort of inferior.  And that dress.  It was the most atrocious thing he had ever seen in his life.  Well, Julia had never been known for her taste – or conservatism – when it came to clothing, anyway.  She equated ostentation with class.  Somehow, for her, it never seemed to work.

Bitterness crept into his heart, burning with a fierce heat as the thought of her came to mind.  This Sabine was dredging up a whole lot of memories he’d rather just forget.

Julia Hartmann Pierson, faithless bitch.  That’s what he had come to call her after almost two years.  Sure, she was loyal, just as long as things went her way…and just as long as the money kept rolling in.

The problem was, there never was much money, and little there was generally didn’t come rolling in on a daily basis.  Julia wanted parties.  Julia wanted fancy clothes and jewels and everything a dirt farmer could never give her.

But he had been young and foolish enough at twenty-five to believe a society girl from Boston wanted him, when all she was really after was a way to get back at Daddy for not letting her take a grand tour of Europe.  If he had only known then how hardhearted the selfish wench could be….

How she came to be in the Kansas Territory he never knew, but Julia fawned and flirted until Michael knew he couldn’t live another day without her.  The second worst mistake of his life, he admitted only to himself, was the day they drove to the minister’s.  That day he had managed to get himself trapped in hell.

Only one month they had been married when they fled Lawrence.  And for two weeks he had listened to
her cutting taunts and vicious tongue until they landed in Havana.  Within three weeks she had found a lover, and, within another two, had disappeared with the first dashing gent who had a few coins in his pocket.

And then, to add further insult to injury, she left a note stating she wished he had been lynched in Kansas.

Bitch.

He had hated her for a while, his ego having been bruised and betrayed by her wanton disloyalty.  But now he didn’t care.  Didn’t feel a thing – even when word came round
that she had succumbed to some disease or another last fall.  It was as though she had never existed.

Julia had managed to strip a lot of him away, but  the emotions, the caring, were slowly coming back to him, and he was ready to take a risk again with his feelings, his heart…maybe.  Two years was enough time to get over his hurt.

But not with her.  Not with some kid like Sabine.

“It’s getting late,” Michael informed her, his voice ho
arse as he shook the entire incident from his mind.  “Let’s get you something to eat.”

He led her to the kitchen and motioned her to sit at the roughly hewn table.  She did, idly swinging her bare feet under the rungs of the chair as she glanced curiously, cautiously, around the room.  Small, but neat and cozy.  She liked it.  Just like a home should be.

But the personal touches were missing, and a place like this could have so many little things to truly make it hers.

Sabine caught her breath, her eyes widening.  What was she even considering? 
Hers? 
This would never be hers – nor did she ever want it to be – just like freedom would never be hers either.  And she shouldn’t even think these ludicrous things.  Her home, indeed.

“I’d think your other servants would have done more with this place,” she stated pointedly
as she attempted to subdue the beating of her own heart, the hot blush of embarrassment staining her cheeks.  Could he read her thoughts?  Did he know what had just passed through her mind?

An amused grin played on Michael’s lips as he contemplated her remark.  How was he ever going to explain his way out of this one?  The little wildcat would probably lash out at him with her claws unsheathed.  Well, there was nothing else he could do but reveal the truth…and face the consequences.

He wasn’t quite sure he’d ever be fully prepared for her reaction…no matter what it was.

Placing a hot bowl of stew in front of her, Michael cleared his throat and closed his eyes in preparation of the inevitable tongue-lashing he was going to receive…if not something worse.  Problem was, he couldn’t’ keep a straight face, and he fought to suppress a smile.

“The sole girl I have to run this place just recently arrived,” he announced with full seriousness, the smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “She’s been a little out of sorts, but I’m sure she’ll have the place cleaned up in no time.”

“I didn’t mean to say that – “

“You’re it,” he cut in with a grin.

Her jaw dropped as her stomach tightened with trepidation.  Like a frightened bird, Sabine poised at the edge of her seat, her instincts preparing her to take flight at a moment’s notice.  Oh, no, her rational brain staunchly insisted.  This was not going to happen.  He was not going to keep her trapped here with no one other than himself.

The mischievous grin from across the table was replaced with an intense look of concern.  He knew what she was thinking without even asking.  He had thought that by making light of the matter she would understand he meant her no harm.  It had failed, just as he had instinctively known it would.  He didn’t expect her to welcome the situation with open arms, but he wanted her to trust him, to be sure of the fact that nothing bad would happen to her here.

W
hy did everything have to be so damned difficult?

“It’s not what you think,” Michael
told her, his whisper intense, cutting through the thick silence between them.

“Oh, isn’t it,” she asked, her voice raising an octave as fear set in.

“Don’t be like this, Sabine.”  Desperation edged his words as his hands, white-knuckled, gripped the sides of the table.  “When are you going to give me a chance?  When are you going to realize I’m not like Manuel Colón…or probably every other man you’ve known?”

The tone of resentment in those last words stung, and Sabine’s eyes dropped back to the contents of the bowl
, her fingers absently swirling the spoon through its contents.  She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing what he said was not far from the truth.

When his comment was met with silence and fleeting, uneasy glances, his brow creased in frustration.
  He looked away from her, studying his calloused hands, now resting on the table in front of him.  Forget it.  He should simply forget about the whole thing, he concluded.  His obsession had become his mistake, and now he was paying dearly for it with a trust he thought he could win so easily.  What a fool he was, believing what she would still be an innocent child, trusting and naïve.

But what had he done so far to gain her trust?  Win her from Col
ón in a card game? Scare the hell out of her every time she turned around?  Even if he wanted to set her free, he didn’t have the money to draw up her manumission papers.  He didn’t have the money to send her back to wherever her home was or even to pay her to stay on here as hired help.

And he sure as hell had no intentions of sending her back to Havana to fend for herself.

“I have no ulterior motives, Sabine,” Michael continued, hoping she would listen, but knowing his words would fall on deaf ears.  “Granted, by law, you’re my property, but I’ll treat you fairly and expect the same from you.  I don’t want any additional favors, except that you keep my house clean and cook my meals.  If you have’t’ figured it out by now, I’ll tell you I’m not much of a cook.”

He certainly hit that nail right on the head, Sabine though
t as she set down her spoon.  The stew tasted as though it had been simmered in a vat of salt.