Petals on the River

  “Aye, Shemaine, there is.” His smile was brief enough to be terse. “I’d like you to stay and eat with us.”

  Self-consciously she folded her arms across her bosom, not at all sure what he could see. “I’m not decently dressed, sir.”

  “You look just fine,” Gage assured her as his eyes touched her face and the curling wisps that coyly framed it. It had always amazed him how fetching Victoria had looked scurrying about the kitchen in her nightgown and bare feet. Since her death he had felt a strange, haunting vacancy in the kitchen, even when Roxanne had occupied it, but this girl, with her ratty pigtails and a dusting of flour on her saucy nose, filled that dark void with a feeling of warmth and life. Just for a few moments more he wanted to savor her presence, and hopefully that gnawing sense of emptiness would fade forever from his awareness.

  “I don’t think Andrew and I have ever shared a meal as appetizing as the one you’ve prepared for us this morning, Shemaine. Roxanne always had to cook breakfast for her father before coming out here. That left me with the task of putting together something for the boy and me. I can seriously attest that it was a poor attempt at best. And we certainly haven’t been able to enjoy the presence of a beautiful lady at our table since Victoria was taken from us. I’d like you to stay with us, Shemaine, just the way you are. Will you?”

  Shemaine was no less embarrassed now by his careful perusal of her face than she had been by his earlier inspection of her form, but she thought it wise not to complain. If he limited himself to looking, then she’d have to consider herself fortunate indeed. “If ‘tis your wish, sir.”

  “Aye, ‘tis,” Gage whispered. Deliberately he leaned forward to breathe in the fragrance of her hair. “You smell nice, too.”

  Unsettled by his close attention, Shemaine ran her fingers nervously through the long, feathery strands that had escaped at her temples, fervently wishing she could retreat to the safety of the loft. “I probably smell like bread—”

  “Like any woman when she’s been cooking in a kitchen,” Gage murmured warmly. He swept a hand invitingly toward the bench where she had sat the night before. “After you, Shemaine.”

  Obediently she slid into the high-backed seat and accepted a cup of tea from him as Andrew cocked his head and looked at her curiously. Smiling in response, she reached for a piece of bread which she had rolled out and cut into the shape of a man for him earlier that morning.

  “This is for you, Andrew,” she said, offering it to him.

  “Daddee!” he exclaimed excitedly, showing his father what she had given him. “Sheeaim cook man!”

  Shemaine laughed and, reaching out a hand, ruffled the boy’s hair. He chortled, wrinkling his nose at her and, with his little fingers, pried off an arm from the bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Her eyes glowed as she watched him chew the piece with relish. Then he looked up at his father again and giggled.

  “Man yummy, Daddee!”

  Gage chuckled as he spooned scrambled eggs seasoned with chives onto his own plate. “I know, Andy. I like the bread, too.”

  “Sheeaim make you man, Daddee?” Andrew asked, leaning forward to search his father’s plate.

  “No, Andy, Shemaine made the man especially for you, but she cooked a delicious breakfast for us both.”

  “Sheeaim nice, Daddee?”

  “Shemaine very nice, Andy.”

  The emphasis Gage placed on the single word made Shemaine glance up in surprise, and for a brief moment she found her gaze ensnared as he probed the translucent depths of green. Then Andrew asked to be given eggs, and his father readily complied.

  Shemaine’s appetite was still far from adequate, and after only a few bites she grew uncomfortably queasy. She made a brave attempt to finish the small portions she had taken on her plate, but the threat of heaving up what little she had eaten made her reconsider. Averting her gaze from the table, she folded her hands in her lap as the other two continued to eat. Since they were apparently enjoying the meal and were plainly in no rush to conclude it, she could foresee a lengthy delay before she would be able to escape to the loft.

  Gage Thornton was hardly oblivious to his bondswoman. He had made a concerted effort not to peruse her any more than he had already, despite the instincts that compelled him to do so. If he had found it difficult to keep his eyes from straying to her after he had returned from Hannah Fields’s, then it was doubly hard this morning, when her clothes were less confining. He was especially desirous of scanning her breasts. Though ample enough to arouse any man’s lusting admiration, the fullness was youthfully proud, stirring within him a strong yearning to stroke his hands over their softness and pluck them free of her garments. But such an idea caused havoc within him, for it made him painfully sensitive to the hard-pressing needs that were in serious want of being sated.

  Despite his reluctance to let her go, Gage could no longer ignore Shemaine’s impatience to leave the table and finally peered up at her as she rose to pour him another cup of tea. The wary glance she cast him in return and her unmistakable incertitude made him realize that she was feeling as trapped as a caged sparrow. He had no choice but to relent. “Perhaps I’ve been unkind to insist you stay with us, Shemaine. If you’d like, you may go to your room and get dressed.”

  Relief flooded through Shemaine, bringing a wavering smile to her lips. “Thank you, sir. I do believe I made myself sick trying to eat so much.”

  “That’s understandable, considering what you’ve been through,” Gage replied, feeling some chagrin for having kept her. “Just let me know when you’re feeling better. My men will be arriving within the hour, and I’ll need to leave Andrew with you so I can start work.”

  “I won’t be long, sir.”

  Shemaine was anxious to leave the torturous sight of food behind her, but after washing her face and body with cool water, she revived considerably. She laid out the blue gown, noticing that she had overlooked the fact that the lace trim on the rounded collar was loose in the back, but she didn’t dare take time to mend it. After donning her clothes and combing her hair into a sedate coiffure, she took a moment to set the loft in order and drag aside the canvas sheets that had been hung above the balustrade.

  Upon her return to the kitchen, Shemaine found Gage seated in the rocking chair near the hearth. He was reading to Andrew, who was listening intently as he reclined upon his father’s chest. Reluctant to leave the security of the elder’s arms, the boy refused to go to her or to acknowledge her efforts to draw him away until Shemaine created a playful diversion. Singing an Irish ditty she had learned as a child, she wrapped a cloth around her hand, marked a face on the back of it, defining the lips on her thumb and forefinger, and hid her sleeved arm behind Gage’s. Moving the digits to make it seem as if her makeshift puppet could talk, she cajoled Andrew in a squeaky voice, winning his undivided attention. Soon he was chortling in glee and evoking chuckles from his father. Then she slowly withdrew the puppet from view, pulling it down behind the elder’s arm. Eagerly Andrew leaned across his father’s lap to search for it, and much to his delight and surprise, Shemaine popped it into view.

  “Peekaboo! I see you!”

  Amid the youngster’s laughter, Shemaine failed to notice the man turning his head to catch the subtle scent of her hair as she leaned close. Neither was she cognizant of his gaze leisurely stroking a small ear and the neat braid she had coiled in a knot at the nape of her neck. Had she been inclined to lift her head, she might have glimpsed a hungry yearning in those amber-lit eyes that all but devoured her.

  Finally Andrew agreed to come into her arms and seemed content to be there. Singing softly against the boy’s cheek, Shemaine followed his father to the back porch. There she coaxed Andrew into waving farewell as Gage strode toward the steps.

  “Bye, Daddee,” Andrew called at her whispered urging, and then wrinkled his small nose above a wide grin when his father glanced around with a chuckle.

  Coming back, Gage placed a lean knuckle beneath his son’s ch
in and tilted the small face upward for a doting kiss on the forehead. “Be a good boy, Andy.”

  Andrew turned wide, inquisitive brown eyes to the woman who held him and then, very curiously, peered up at his father again. “Kiss Sheeaim, Daddee?”

  “Oh, no, Andrew!” Shemaine gasped, and quickly shook her head, hoping the man wouldn’t think she had given his son the idea. Gage willingly obliged and lifted her face as he settled his lips upon her gaping mouth, much to Andrew’s giggling amusement. His kiss went far beyond the boundaries of a casual peck between strangers. Indeed, it was as warm and sultry as any Maurice had given her.

  Shemaine stumbled back in confusion, amazed that such a brief meeting of lips could awaken so many strangely delectable stirrings within her young woman’s body. With an odd quirk of a smile, Gage met her astonished stare and then touched a finger to his brow in a casual salute before he whirled and crossed the porch in swift, lengthy strides. His haste seemed to convey an indifference which, in contrast to the wealth of emotions Shemaine was struggling to subdue, was enough to scald not only her face but her pride as well.

  She remembered only too well that Maurice had been prone to pursue her kisses with passionate fervor and, more than once, had to be urged to cool his ardor until after they were wed. After the formality of their engagement, he had implored her to give herself to him, promising to be careful with her and equally discreet so no one else would know. But with calm deliberation and a pragmatism that had equaled anything her mother had ever displayed, Shemaine had convinced him that it would be better for them to wait and enjoy the intimate delights of marriage on their wedding night rather than ignore the consequences she might reap if some fatal accident struck him down and she be found with child.

  Gage left them with a wave of a hand and strode briskly down the lane toward his workshop. His men were already arriving on horseback, having come from their homes by the narrow, winding road through the woods. For most of the day, he and his employees would have to wrap and crate the finished furniture in preparation for the trip to Williamsburg. Though no firm date had been set aside for the delivery, there was less chance of damage being done to the pieces if they were packed now. Hopefully, before too much time elapsed, they would be making the trip upriver to deliver and collect payment for the completed items. Until then, the old shipwright, Flannery Morgan, and his son, Gillian, would have to work on the vessel by themselves, for the limited supplies did not allow enough progress to be made to warrant Gage’s close supervision or assistance.

  Shortly after padding and wrapping the pieces, the five men began the chore of crating them. Gage stepped outside with Ramsey Tate, a tall, broad-shouldered man of an age a year past two score, and began stacking rough-sawn planks together to carry inside. Their progress went unhindered until Gage happened to glance toward the cabin. Then he slowly straightened.

  Curious to see what had ensnared his employer’s attention, Ramsey followed the other’s steadfast gaze until he spied a fiery-haired young woman drawing water from the well. He had no need for further enlightenment, for he could clearly see the reason for Gage’s sudden preoccupation.

  “That yer new bondswoman?” Though Ramsey offered the conjecture in the form of an inquiry, he could have saved his breath, for he already knew the answer.

  Gage slowly nodded in distraction.

  Ramsey shaded his eyes with a hand in an effort to see the woman better. “She looks mighty fetchin’ from here.”

  “She is.”

  “She doesn’t favor yer wife much, though, with all that red hair.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Ye gonna keep her for a while?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  Thoughtfully rolling a drooping end of his mustache between his fingers, Ramsey cocked a bushy brow in wonder as he contemplated his friend. “As long as it takes for what?”

  The slender, feminine figure disappeared inside the cabin, and beneath the speculative stare of the older man, Gage returned his full attention to hefting one end of the stacked boards. When his cabinetmaker failed to do likewise, he barked an impatient question. “What’s the matter with you, Ramsey? Wake up!”

  Ramsey snorted as he squatted down to obey. “If’n ye ask me, I think ye’ve been bitten.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “What do ye think?” Ramsey snapped back. “That li’l bitty redhead saunters out onto the porch, an’ all of a sudden ye’ve lost yer bloomin’ mind. I’ve never seen ye so wrought up before! Ye never stopped ta drool like a hungry hound when Roxanne came prancin’ herself down here lookin’ for ye.”

  “No, and you never will either,” Gage muttered.

  “So, what are ye goin’ ta do ’bout her?”

  Gage looked at the man as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Who? Roxanne?”

  Ramsey rolled his eyes in disbelief and almost shouted his reply. “No, dammit! The redhead!”

  Gage cocked a brow sharply as he fixed his gaze upon his employee. “I’ll let you know that when I get good and ready,” he rejoined gruffly. “Until then, you hairy ol’ nail-driver, mind your own business.”

  Ramsey squawked in feigned outrage. “If’n ye don’t mind me rufflin’ yer feathers a mite by remindin’ ye, Mister Thornton, ye are me whole bloomin’ business! Not one of us is worth our salt without ye! An’ if’n I’ve gots a mind ta worry ’bouts ye, I’m only lookin’ out for me own frazzled hide an’ me family’s.”

  Gage waved away his comments. “You’re not old enough to be my father, so stop acting like it. You’ve got enough sons to take care of as it is without adding me to your litter.”

  “Well, think of me as yer friend, then,” Ramsey suggested with a sudden chortle. “An’ whilst I’m at it, ye seem ta be needin’ a bit of advice. Ye’re a man what’s in bad need of what only a woman can give ye, an’ by that lustin’ look in yer eye, ye won’t be happy just sniffin’ ’round the skirts of that li’l girlie, not when ye’d rather be twixt ’em.”

  Gage winced uncomfortably under the man’s chiding. The fact that Ramsey had hit at the core of what was vexing him gave him cause to wonder just how transparent he had become. He had never been one to seek favors from hired strumpets, and he had tried to dismiss his growing need for a woman by devoting himself entirely to his work. The kiss he had given Shemaine had surprised him, perhaps more than it had the girl, for it had gone through him like a searing hot iron, instantly awakening his senses to the hunger roiling within him. Rather than embarrass himself by letting her see just how she had affected him, he had lit out like a scalded dog. Yet even now he outwardly disavowed his need for the logic that Ramsey offered him.

  “Your counsel, my dear friend, is about as basic as a bull in a breeding pen, but I’m after something more than that.”

  Ramsey scoffed at his claims and cast a last wry glance toward the cabin. “Aye, I noticed.”

  Shemaine’s talent for entertaining youngsters had never been realized before this day in history. In spite of her lack of experience with children, she managed to win Andrew’s trust and arouse his eager curiosity with her gift of the bread man and her impromptu puppet. He was ready to make friends with her and willingly cooperated as she bathed him in the washtub and shampooed his hair. When she lathered up her hands and blew soap bubbles into the air, the boy chortled heartily, deriving great enjoyment from poking a finger at the ones that floated near and seeing them pop and vanish in a flick of an eye.

  Shemaine was in the process of dressing him in the master bedroom when an insistent rapping came upon the front door of the cabin. After wrapping Andrew in a small blanket, she gathered him up in her arms and hastened to open the portal. A tall woman with harsh features and straw-colored hair drawn back tightly in a severe knot behind her nape stood at the threshold. In response to Shemaine’s cautious nod of greeting, the stranger managed a stiff smile.

  “I’m Roxanne Corbin. . . .” The gray eyes slipped downward, skimming
over the slender form and the painfully familiar frayed gown. It was one that Victoria Thornton had worn more than any other while working in the garden or at some other untidy task which might have damaged her better gowns. To see a convict wearing the deceased woman’s garb caused a festering resentment to sink its claws into Roxanne’s heart as she met the curious green eyes. “And you must be the bondswoman, Shemaine O’Hearn.”

  Shemaine resettled Andrew in her arms and answered the other’s supposition with another careful nod. “If you’ve come to see Mr. Thornton, I believe he’s working in his shop.”

  “Actually, I came to see you.” There was a penetrating coldness in Roxanne’s glower that caused its recipient to shiver. “To see just what kind of nursemaid Gage managed to buy from a prison ship.”

  Shemaine’s face grew warm at the jeering repugnance heavily imbued in the other’s tone. She wished in good manner that she could send the woman on her way and return to the bedroom with Andrew, for her weakened arms were growing increasingly strained from his weight. The risk of dropping him made her anxious, but she could think of no gracious way of inviting the visitor to leave.

  Shemaine noticed, however, that for all of Mrs. Pettycomb’s avowed claims that Andrew was fond of Roxanne, he barely glanced at his former nursemaid. He seemed far more interested in poking a finger in the rebellious wisps of hair that were wont to curl against her own temple.

  Shemaine lifted Andrew higher in her grasp once again, summoning forth the last vestiges of strength she could claim. She was grateful when Andrew wrapped both arms around her neck and, for added security, locked his fingers in the cloth of her collar.

  “Is there something you wish of me, Roxanne?” Shemaine questioned, trying to bring a quick conclusion to her predicament. “If not, I should get Andrew dressed now.”

  “Mistress Roxanne to you, girl,” the blonde corrected haughtily. “If you don’t learn anything else, you should at least be taught the proper way to address your betters.”