“
Lance.”
Said the name with such disgust, Gwen
went instantly defensive. “Be responsible. Everyone knows Lance
must win the tournament, or my father would never let me marry
him.”
A door slammed, he turned to glare at
her from across the littered table. “For the last time, I had no
need to cheat. I’d beat Lance fairly, twice to be exact, and still
you people deny. How can you face your conscience, my lady? How do
you sleep at night?”
By dreaming. All the hot, driving force
of last night’s fantasy slammed into her, leaving her trembling
with need. If not for the table between them, there was no telling
what foolishness she might have committed. “I…I love Lance,” said
feebly, striving to recall the other man’s face. “I always have and
always will.”
“
So you have made it
abundantly clear.” Michael looked away, his boys hard with anger.
“Unfortunately, you are married to the wrong man. You are my wife
now, and you’re staying right here where you are.” So saying, he
turned to march out of the cabin.
Gwen stared at the doorway. It was not
in her to humble yourself so, and what good had it done? Michael
had it made the least attempt to listen to her please. He did not
want her, but he meant to keep her trapped here, until it she was
old and gray and no one else wanted her either.
Worse, there wasn’t a single thing she
could do about it.
Overwhelmed with stray shin and rage,
she grabbed the first thing she could find to throw after him. The
iron pot hit the door, managing to splinter the frame badly enough
in the door what it never again shut properly.
Staring at the broken frame, she
realized that her tantrum had not only been destructive, but had
been futile, since Michael had long since made his exit. Knowing
she’d accomplish nothing by standing there fuming, she followed him
outside.
Down by the bank, she found Michael
reaching into his boat. “Where are you going now?” She demanded.
“It is inhumane, I tell you, leaving me with those children. Is
this how a man treats a wife? Why… Why, I’m more and unpaid
nursemaid, a…a jail warden.”
Lifting a bundle from the boat, he
showed it into her chest. “It’s nothing fancy, but at least you can
change out of…” He looked at the filthy, non-fitting dress she was
in, “… What you are in.”
She knew what he was thinking, but
whose fault was it that she looked like a drowned rat?
Still, clothes were clothes, and it had
been a long time since she’d had new ones. With more excitement
than she wanted to feel, she dug into the sack to pull out to
dresses, a hideous green, and other a Dole, blue gray, along with a
shift, stocking, and a blimp petticoat. “Where on earth did you get
these?” She asked with disdain.
“
You’re welcome.”
Belatedly, she realized that she should
have thanked him, but she was still angry, and his sarcasm rankled.
“I’m sure you mean well,” he said stiffly, “but I am accustomed to
finer things. I’ve always had servants do my cooking and cleaning.
My bed had new linens, the table held the proper utensils. It isn’t
fair, what you are asking of me. Mine is a gentler, more refined
life; can’t expect me to survive in this shack.”
“
What I hear, things have
changed up at the Willows. You don’t have much in the way of
servants, or china and crystal there, either.”
“
You enjoy being cruel,
don’t you? I know what this is. It’s some attempt at revenge. You
hold a grudge, for what we did as children, and now you mean to
punish Lance and me forever.”
“
Let’s get one thing
straight, my lady.” Stared at her coldly. “Seeking revenge might be
lance’s idea of fun, but trust me I have better ways to waste my
time. You two can go to the devil together, for all I care, but I
did win your services in a fair fight, and as probably noticed, I
don’t care leaving the children alone while I’m gone.”
“
But-“
He held up a tired hand. “Next time I
come around, maybe we can discuss this like a reasonable adults,
but right now, I am too busy for your tantrums.” He glanced
meaningfully up at the shack. “If I were you, I would get the boys
to do something about repairing bad door, or there’s no telling
what will be crawling inside the cabin while you sleep.”
Gwen shivered. “Please, Michael, I
can’t spend another night here. What you are doing is…is
torture!”
“
I suppose you could look at
it that way,” he said, as he stepped into his boat. “But
considering you have no choice, why not think of your stay here as
redemption? Not everyone gets to right an old wrong.”
With a tight smile, he handed her a
string of fish and, leaving Gwen sputtering helplessly on the bank,
he pulled off in his boat.
Rite an old wrong? Denying the twinkle
of guilt, she marched back to the shack, insisting that the man
hadn’t the least idea what he was talking about. She was the one
who been wronged; he had kidnapped her. Michael needed the
redemption, she insisted as she slapped the fish on a platter. Her
conscience was as clean as a new slate.
She left the fish on the table, since
she hadn’t the least idea what to do with them, and went to her
room to inspect her new clothes. Looking at the dress he had bought
her, she felt another twinge, this one harder to overlook. Not many
men would have thought to bring her clean clothing. How selfish and
shallow she sounded, complaining about the quality, when it was
clear the man hadn’t the means of obtaining anything
better.
At least the clothes were clean and
fresh smelling. Which was a good deal more than she could say about
what she now wore. And what did the style matter? It wasn’t as if
anyone she knew what ever see her here, way out here in this
shack.
All I once, she couldn’t wait to wash
up and change. With wave of longing, she wished for her brass tub
at the Willows, along with Aunt Agatha’s delicate, scented soaps
for her hair, but she supposed the soap in the room would just have
to do.
Lifting up the blue dress, spun with it
in front of her. Oh yes, she would primp and preen, next time she
saw Michael… well, nobody would call her a drowned rat.
“
That’s not yours!” Jude
cried, bursting through the door. He looked at Gwen as if she were
a witch to be burned at the stake. “What are you doing with our
mothers things?”
Gwen almost dropped the dress. “Michael
gave them to me.”
“
He didn’t. He
wouldn’t.”
Recovering from her initial surprise,
Gwen grew angry. As if she would steal a dead woman’s clothes. “He
most certainly did give them to me,” she said firmly, “and where
are your manners? You don’t barge into a bedroom uninvited, and you
certainly don’t go around branding someone a thief without proof.”
Uneasily, she recalled once doing the same to the
children.
“
You’re not my mother,” Jude
lashed out. “I don’t have to listen to you.”
“
For pity’s sake…” Gwen
trailed off, for the child had already left, slamming the door.
Following to the porch, she called after him. “Wait a minute, Jude.
Who’s going to fix this door?”
“
Fix it yourself,” said over
his shoulder. “You broke it.”
“
But I don’t have the least
knowledge of carpentry. Come back here,” she demanded when the boy
refused to stop. “Where do you think you are going?”
“
What do you care? You will
have the cabin to yourself all day, since we won’t plan to be back
until late.”
Gwen raised a hand to call him, but
Jude was already vanishing into the bushes. Hateful boy. She was
glad he was gone. Delighted.
Yet, going back inside, she felt
overwhelmed by the empty silence. The day stretched long and
tiresome, with nothing to do. Ignoring the piles of dirty dishes,
as well as the split doorframe behind her, she wondered back to her
room. Sheer move her old clothing and sponged herself clean, but
felt too tired and depressed to dress. Donning the clean dress from
the sack, she sank down on the narrow cot. As the straw poked into
her back, she felt a rush of longing for her soft, warm bed at
home, only to remember on the next breath that her beloved bed had
long since been sold.
“
Things have changed at the
Willows,” Michael had said, unhappily, she knew he was
right.
Worse, he thought as she felt sleep
over taker, life was demanding that she change with
them.
***
Gwen awoke from another lurid dream,
jolted from her fantasy by heavy pounding. In her grogginess, she
thought at first that it must be Michael’s horse, to take her away
from this dreadful shack, those awful children.
Yet, even as the smile formed on her
lips, it struck her that the noise was too sharp, too incessant, to
be a horses footsteps. No, now that she thought about it, it
sounded more like someone trying to break down her door.
Slowly, she remembered breaking a door,
and telling Jude to fix it.
She rose, so excited that the child had
obeyed her, she rushed into the other room without thinking. As
such, she was thoroughly taken aback to find Michael crouched in
the doorframe, nails in his mouth and hammer in hand. “Oh, it’s
you,” was all she could think to say.
His eyes widen as his gaze went from
her head to her toes. “You were expecting someone else?” He asked,
spitting the nails in his hands. “Dressed like that?”
Too late, she remembered falling asleep
in her shift. Looking down, she found a strap had slipped from her
shoulder, leaving much too much of her shoulders exposed. Oh dear,
and her right nipple was poking out over the lace trim. No wonder
he was gaping.
Hastily gathering the cotton closer,
she mumbled an apology and fled. She could hear the pounding resume
as she beat a retreat to her room.
Damn that man. Must he always manage to
catch her off guard? So much for her plans to greet him
confidently, properly groomed, so prim and sedate and proper that
he would be the one stuttering. Instead she’d gone charging into
the Fourier in her underwear.
Muttering to herself, she wiggled into
the slate blue cotton and pinned up her hair in record
time.
When she returned to the main room,
Michael had finished the repairs on the door and was moving about
in the kitchen. She wished she hadn’t take that nap. Not only had
it made her feel groggy and disoriented; and made her seem lazier
and more useless than ever. “What are you doing here?” She asked,
trying to take the attention off herself.
“
I live here,” he said
flippantly, pulling a soot stained kettle from the fire. Must have
seen her frown, for he nodded back at the door. “Actually, I came
to fix that.” Moving the last of the previous night’s dishes from
the table to the ever-growing pile on the counter, he poured
himself a cup of coffee and gestured her to the chair. “Won’t you
join me? I think it is time you and I had a talk.”
He looked away, but not before his gaze
strayed to her breast, she might be fully cover now, but they both
knew what he’d seen earlier. If you lecture her on her ladylike
behavior, she thought angrily, she would happily hit him in the
ears.
“
I don’t drink coffee,” she
told him tightly, primly spreading her skirts as he slid the chair
beneath her. “But it would be nice.”
“
We don’t have any-“he
stopped himself, as if determined not to be goaded. Forcing a
smile, he held up the coffee pot. “Jeffrey claims I make the best
coffee in seven states. Sure you won’t give it a try?”
“
I suppose,” she offered
reluctantly, for she hated this sickly sweet beverage. Though this
was not the café she drinks at the Willows, she saw as Michael
poured her a cup. “It’s so…so dark.”
“
I drink it black,” he said,
handing it to her. “I can offer you sugar, but I’m afraid of the
children finished the last of the milk this morning.”
Smiling all the more tightly, Gwen risk
a sip. It took all her willpower not to spit the hot, bitter taste
out of her mouth. Might as well then he her out go haul, she
decided; it sure had the same kick.
Michael, who had been watching her
face, tried not to grin. “Cajun coffee takes more getting used to.
You will come to love them time.”
Gwen nodded, “actually I have been
meaning to talk to you, Michael?”
With his attention focused on her, Gwen
found it hard speak. “You are an intelligent, reasonable man.
Surely we can reach a compromise.” She pause strategically to give
him a coy smile, and hoped she wouldn’t darken her teeth with that
coffee.
“
The flattering is wasted on
me, my lady. Don’t bother batting your lashes. You’ll get a good
deal further, if you just come out and say it.”
That was the crux of it; she no longer
knew what she wanted. To go home, surely, but first, she must repay
whatever debt she might owe him. She spent a few weeks teaching his
children, perhaps he’d considered the score settled and never
bother her again.
“
Very well,” he said
pausing, finding it hard to begin. “This is what I was thinking.
Maybe we can help each other.”