Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

  She’d almost allowed Zach to take her here next to the woodpile. Nay, she’d almost begged him to. How could she expect to find a proper husband if she were no longer a virgin? Her body was all she had to offer a man. And certainly a gentleman like Geoffrey Crichton would expect his bride to be untouched.

  “No.” She ignored the lingering ache deep within her. “I can’t give myself to a man like you.”

  Zach’s expression hardened.

  She looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I love ye, Elly. Maybe one day ye’ll come to your senses and realize that ye love me, too.”

  She watched his back as he walked away, trying to fight off the emptiness that had engulfed her. The breeze that had felt so warm just moments ago made her shiver. She had not meant to hurt him, but she had to make him understand. No matter what she felt, no matter what her shameless body wanted, she could not marry a sawyer. She’d watched her mother fade away caring for a brood of fourteen, the wife of a fisherman nearly twice her age. If there was one lesson she had learned, it was that a woman’s happiness and that of her children depended on the coin in her husband’s coffers. Zach had nothing.

  Voices intruded into her thoughts. It seemed the sheriff was about to leave. She slipped into the shadows and back toward her cabin.

  * * *

  “I’ll do what I can for you. I’m not saying I believe you, mind, but stranger things have happened.” The sheriff stood and stretched, his enormous belly threatening to pop the brass buttons on his jacket. “Until I find proof you are not Nicholas Braden, ’tis Nicholas Braden you shall be. You’ll do as your master bids without argument. You’ll cause no trouble. If you attempt to escape, Master Blakewell will be within his rights to see you hunted down and flogged and your indenture extended. Harm anyone, and I’ll see you hanged.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Alec looked pointedly at Miss Blakewell, who refused to meet his gaze. “I’ve already given my word.”

  “The ship you arrived on, the Easy Mary, has long since gone, probably off to the Indies. There’s no way of knowing when she’ll return. As for the soul driver, ’twould be impossible to track him down. The best I can do is to check the Mary’s papers, see who was listed as cargo. Perhaps there were others on board who saw or heard something suspicious.”

  The sheriff poured the last of his cider down his gullet and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I sent your letter to Williamsburg two days after receiving it. I took the liberty of writing one myself to the magistrate at Newgate. He ought to be able to clarify this situation, if anyone can. We can expect a response in late summer or early fall.”

  Late summer or early fall?

  Alec swore under his breath. Though only a matter of months, it might as well be an eternity. Every day he remained in this place was an injustice. Didn’t these people understand he had a family and a thriving concern to return to? No, of course they didn’t. They thought him a liar and a criminal of the worst sort. The look in their eyes—loathing mixed with fear—made their feelings plain. To them his words meant nothing. Now his entire future rode on a letter.

  He’d be lucky if he ever saw England again.

  Standing up slowly so as not to alarm the trigger-happy fool of a deputy, he watched as Miss Blakewell bade the sheriff good night. “Next time you write your father, tell him he’s lucky he missed me. I’d have cleaned his pockets. I’m feeling lucky tonight.” The sheriff laughed heartily.

  “I’ll tell him.” She smiled innocently.

  “I’m off to Crichton Hall for a game or two of whist. Old Crichton owes me fifty pounds, and I aim to make it an even hundred.” The sheriff laughed at his own joke. “Young Master Crichton fancies you, girl, and one day I expect he’ll finally ask your father for your hand. It would make a fine match.”

  So that bastard Crichton wanted to marry her. Fine. Let Crichton have her. Alec certainly didn’t care. Why, then, did he feel gratified at the look of distress that flashed across Miss Blakewell’s pretty face before she managed to hide it beneath a polite smile?

  “Geoffrey and I are just old childhood friends, Sheriff, nothing more. Good night.”

  She shut the door and turned to face Alec.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Everyone else had gone. Candlelight caressed her face, and Alec felt an insane urge to take her in his arms and kiss her. “Sorry?”

  “You haven’t had your supper yet.”

  How absolutely beautiful she was. Her unruly red-gold hair had begun to slip free of its pins again and hung in long, curling strands around her face. More than once he had wondered what it would feel like unbound in his hands. Though she had tucked a muslin kerchief in the top of her bodice, as fashion and modesty demanded, the cleft between her breasts made a dark shadow he found more than a little distracting. Truth be told, she was playing havoc with his senses.

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Nonsense. Sit down and have something to eat. We’ve more than enough to share, and there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

  She moved to the fireplace, the muslin of her gown rustling as she walked, and stirred the remainder of the cook’s stew, which had been kept warm over a low, glowing fire. The scent made his mouth water.

  She quickly filled a bowl and placed it on the table with a spoon and a cup brimming with cool cider. From the shadow behind a large mixing bowl on a shelf she removed a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and cut a thick slice. A warm, yeasty smell tickled his nostrils. It was wheaten bread.

  “We have to hide this when the sheriff comes,” she said somewhat sheepishly, placing the bread next to his bowl and pushing the butter crock to his side of the table.

  “I can see why.”

  Alec sat, giving in to his hunger and, not waiting to butter the bread, took a bite. He tried not to groan aloud. Since he’d arrived, he’d eaten only cornmeal, with occasional greens and a bit of salted pork or beef now and again—corn bread, corn muffins, boiled corn mush with bacon. He tasted the stew and had to force back another satisfied moan. He would never have imagined such simple fare could seem like a feast.

  “As you must have noticed when you were in the stables yesterday, the horses have not been tended properly for some time,” she said, smoothing her skirts unnecessarily. “We have need of a groom to curry and exercise them.”

  “You’d like me to take on those duties.”

  “In addition to your other tasks, aye. You claim to be experienced with horses.”

  So he was being put to the test. She was clever. If she could not verify his identity, she could at least check into parts of his story. “As I said, horses are one of my passions.”

  “You may begin in the morning.”

  “As you wish, mistress.”

  “Very well, then.” She reached for a broom that stood next to the hearth and began to sweep the redbrick floor. Though she acted as if he were not in the room, Alec could tell his presence made her nervous. Her movements were awkward, and she stayed on the other side of the table, refusing even to glance in his direction.

  As the stew took the edge off his appetite, he felt himself afflicted with hunger of another sort. Bent slightly at the waist, the curves of her lovely derrière rendered nicely by the fall of her skirts, she presented a delectable picture. He felt a tightening in his loins and cursed himself. He was a grown man, for God’s sake, not some randy youth who got a cockstand every time he saw a pretty face.

  He tried to shift the direction of his thoughts. “The stew was delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She swept yellow cornbread crumbs into the fire. Then she turned toward him. “I know you had hoped the sheriff would be able to do more for you tonight, but rest assured, Sheriff Hollingsworth is a man of his word. If he says he’ll investigate, he will.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical.”

  “You’ve no need for concern. If your story is true, you’ll be released. It’s only a matt
er of time.”

  “Time that benefits you and costs me greatly.” He stood.

  “You must understand we cannot simply release you because you wish it. We have an obligation to the Crown—”

  “Aye, an obligation to the Crown. And a need to get every shilling out of my hide you can. I understand all too well, Miss Blakewell.”

  She abruptly placed the broom next to the hearth and faced him, her hands on her hips, her cheeks flushing a tempting shade of pink. “You were sick, dying! I bought your indenture to save you the indignity of dying in chains, but more than once I’ve regretted that decision.”

  “Have you?”

  The convict mocked her! With that tone in his voice and the lazy smile on his face, he mocked her! Cassie fought the profane retort that flew to mind. She was trying to make up for having suspected him so unfairly yesterday, offering him a chance both to prove himself and to do what he claimed to enjoy, and he was responding by baiting her. Oh, the arrogance!

  “You may go now, Mr. Braden.”

  “Aye, Mistress.” He turned to leave.

  His voice made her skin tingle. It was deep and husky and as intimate as a touch.

  “Why must you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Address me in that fashion.”

  “Is ‘mistress’ not the proper form of address?”

  “Aye, but the way you say it . . . it’s all wrong.”

  “How do I say it?”

  “You speak with too much…familiarity.”

  “I beg forgiveness, Mistress.” His handsome face was the picture of contrition, though his tone was anything but sincere. Dressed in plain linsey-woolsey breeches and a white cotton shirt that contrasted sharply with his dark hair and tanned skin, he looked like the quintessential rake—dark, dangerous, and breathtakingly male.

  She turned and began clearing the table, effectively dismissing him. She wished he would stop watching her and go. Her hands trembling, she dropped the empty cider jug onto the brick floor, where it shattered. Cursing silently, she bent to pick up the broken pieces.

  “Let me help.” Cole knelt beside her.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Braden. I can take care of this myself.” Why couldn’t he leave her in peace? “It is my carelessness that caused it.”

  “Aye, but I provoked you.” He began to gather broken crockery.

  “Provoked me? Rude behavior from you is hardly enough to provoke me, Mr. Braden.” She hurriedly picked up several of the knife-sharp shards.

  Dropping the fragments with a pained gasp, she stared at her bleeding palm in surprise.

  Cole reached for her hand. “Let me see.”

  She rose and pulled away from him. “It’s nothing.”

  Cole ignored her protests, taking her hand in his. The contact startled her, sending frissons of warmth from the tips of her fingers to her belly.

  “It’s deep. We need to stop the bleeding.” He took a clean napkin from the table and pressed it firmly to the wound.

  She winced.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  Tantalized by his nearness, Cassie couldn’t answer. He smelled of leather and sunshine and something that could only be the natural fragrance of his skin. How could she be so affected by this one man? Other than those whose bodily odors were overpowering and offensive, she could not remember noticing a man’s particular scent, much less feeling drawn to him because of it.

  They seemed to stand there for an eternity, Cole holding her hand, she looking anywhere but at him. She heard the steady inhale and exhale of his breathing, felt hers quicken. She ventured an upward glance and felt the deep blue of his eyes penetrate her composure.

  “That should slow it. Have you any salve nearby?”

  “On the second shelf above the worktable.”

  In two quick strides he’d found the jar and was back, holding her hand and carefully spreading the ointment over the cut, which now bled only slightly.

  “Does it sting?”

  “Aye.” Her voice caught in her throat.

  His touch was gentle, disturbingly so, as he made delicious, slow circles on her skin. Pain from the cut mingled with pleasure, creating an excruciating sensation that left her nearly bereft of breath and thought.

  “I suppose your Indian medicine woman made this concoction.”

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “Takotah?” Cassie couldn’t help laughing at his reaction. Takotah had created many a smell far more unpleasant than this one with her herbs and potions. “Aye, but she’s not mine. She can leave the plantation anytime she likes.”

  “Why do you suppose she stays?”

  “Her people were all but wiped out by settlers. Her husband and children were murdered. We are the only family she has.”

  Cole seemed to consider this, then nodded his head thoughtfully.

  What a strange man he was: gentle one moment, harsh the next. The image of him holding that kitten against his chest leaped unbidden to her mind once again, causing her heart to beat faster.

  Since yesterday afternoon, she’d watched him play with the children. Following Jamie’s example, they had bombarded him with questions about pirates and sailing vessels. So far, he’d indulged their every query with surprising good humor. Yet she’d also seen the way he sprang from his seat tonight, his expression that of a man ready to kill. She remembered the terrifying strength of his arms as he’d cut off her breath and threatened to break her neck not so long ago.

  That he was dangerous was clear. But he was no common felon. That much was also apparent.

  “Is that better?” His voice was deep and soothing, his blue eyes warm.

  Cassie nodded, afraid to speak.

  He reached for another napkin and carefully wound it around her hand. Dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and he frowned slightly as he worked. The day’s growth of whiskers made the skin on his chin and cheeks appear dark and rough. She resisted the urge to stroke his face.

  “This should do it.” He tucked one end of the napkin under to create a temporary bandage.

  His gaze captured hers and held it unwavering. He should have released her hand by now, but he did not. Nor did she try to take it from him. Then, ever so slowly, he turned her hand over and, without breaking eye contact, brought it to his lips.

  Entranced by the deep blue of his eyes, she could at first do nothing but marvel at the warm sensation his lips created when they touched her skin. She’d been kissed this way a thousand times before, but never had this simple act made her pulse quicken. What she had once viewed as a polite form of greeting was with him an act of intimacy. She gasped and snatched her hand from his grasp as reality replaced surprise.

  “You’ve no cause to fear me.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “You’re trembling.”

  “It’s the night chill.”

  “You’re lying.” He smiled.

  She started to protest, felt her face flush. Damn him! Why did he delight in humiliating her?

  “Either you’re afraid of me, or you want to be kissed as badly as I want to kiss you.”

  His eyes darkened with an emotion some primitive part of her recognized. Her heart hammered wildly. She knew she should flee or call for help, but her feet refused to move. “You go too far, convict.”

  “Do I? Or do I, perhaps, not go far enough?”

  Chapter Seven

  Cole tucked a finger gently under her chin, and Cassie knew he was going to kiss her.

  Though her mind told her she must stop him, her lips tingled in anticipation, and her hands, which should have pushed him away, moved to rest lightly on his chest. She closed her eyes. His breath moved over her face as he bent toward her. One strong arm encircled her, pulled her against his warm, hard body. Then she felt the first tentative brush of his lips against hers, warm and soft. Her heart had nearly ceased beating when she heard the door creak behind them. She jumped away from Cole as if burned.

  “Beggin’ your pardo
n, Missy.” Nan appeared. “I saw the candle still lit and thought someone might be needin’ my help.”

  “No. Thank you, Nan.” Cassie felt her face flush and struggled to compose herself. Her heart was still pounding, and her lips burned.

  Nan looked from Cassie to Cole to the broken crockery on the floor, concern plain on her round face.

  “I was just clearing the table when I dropped the jug and cut myself. Mr. Braden was good enough to bandage the wound for me.”

  “With your permission, Mistress, I’ll retire now.” Cole stepped back.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. His face was a stone mask. The passion she’d seen there only moments ago had vanished.

  “Aye. You may go.” She tried to sound indifferent. How could she have lost her head so?

  He walked past Nan and out the door.

  “You, too, Nan. You’re always up with the sun. I can take care of this mess.”

  “Now, don’t go thinkin’ ye can pull the wool over these old eyes.” Nan bent her heavy form to pick up the scattered shards. “Somethin’ happened in here, all right.”

  “It was nothing, really.” Cassie joined her, careful this time to avoid the sharp edges. “He missed supper, so I gave him some stew. We had a bit of an argument, and I dropped the jug. That’s all.”

  “A tiff, eh?”

  “He was just bandaging my hand.”

  Nan looked anything but convinced. She rose with a grunt and carried the shards to the tin bucket containing the evening’s oyster shells, “Do ye think he’s cobbin’ us all, Missy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  One minute it seemed obvious to her he was lying in an effort to escape his sentence. The next she was almost certain he was telling the truth. How was she to know for sure?

  “Don’t ye think ye should find out before ye fall for ’im?”

  “Fall for him? Me? Oh, Nan, surely you don’t think I would...”

  The cook’s eyes showed that she did. Cassie started to object.

  “Well, I’m puttin’ these old bones to bed.”

  “Nan!”

  “Good night, Missy.” Nan took the steps carefully and shut the door behind her.