He’d gambled everything he had on the mill. As a result, he was as close to broke as he’d been since he was a kid, but he’d always liked taking risks. For the moment, he felt content.
He was scraping his boots by the back door when Lucy, the maid Sophronia had recently hired, came flying out. “It wasn’t my fault, Major. Miz Sophronia didn’t tell me nobody was comin’ today when she went off to see the Conjure Woman. This lady showed up askin’ for you, and then she just took herself off to the sitting room, bold as brass.”
“Is she still there?”
“Yes. And that’s not all. She brung—”
“Damn!” He’d received a letter the week before announcing that a member of the Society to Protect Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy would be calling on him for a contribution. The respectable citizens of the neighborhood ignored him unless they needed money; then some matronly woman would show up and observe him with pursed lips and nervous eyes while she tried to get him to empty his pockets. He’d begun to suspect the charities were merely a face-saving excuse to get a glimpse inside the lair of the evil Hero of Missionary Ridge. It amused him to watch those same women try to discourage the flirtatious glances that came his way from their daughters when he was in town, but he restricted his female companionship to infrequent trips to the more experienced women of Charleston.
He stalked into the house and down the hallway toward the sitting room. He didn’t care that he was dressed in the same tobacco-brown trousers and white shirt he’d worn all day in the fields. He’d be damned if he’d change his clothes to receive another one of these tiresome women. But what he saw when he entered the sitting room wasn’t what he’d expected . . .
The woman stood at the window looking out. Even with her back to him, he saw that she was well dressed, unusual for the women of the community. Her skirt rippled ever so slightly as she turned.
He caught his breath.
She was exquisite. Her dove-gray gown was trimmed with rose piping, and a waterfall of pale gray lace fell from her throat over a pair of supple, round breasts. A small hat the same soft rose shade as the trim of her gown perched on her inky-dark hair. The tip of the short gray plume that dipped from the brim came level with her brow.
The rest of the woman’s features were covered by a black veil as light as a spider’s web. Tiny, sparkling dewdrops of jet clung to its honeycombed surface, with only a moist red mouth visible beneath. That and a small pair of jet earbobs.
He didn’t know her. He’d have remembered such a creature. She must be one of the respectable daughters of the neighborhood who’d been so carefully tucked away from him.
She remained quietly confident under his open appraisal. What household calamity had resulted in so enticing a morsel being sent to take her mother’s place in the den of the infamous Yankee?
His gaze touched that ripe mouth peeking from beneath her veil. Beautiful and intriguing. Her parents would have done better to keep this one safely locked away.
While Cain was studying her so intently, Kit was conducting her own perusal from behind the honeycombed cells of her veil. Three years had passed. She was older now, and she studied him through more mature eyes. What she saw wasn’t reassuring. He was more outrageously handsome than she remembered. The sun had bronzed the planes of his face and streaked his crisp, tawny hair. The darker hair at his temples gave his face the rugged look of a man who belonged outdoors.
He was still dressed for the fields, and the sight of that muscular body unsettled her. The white shirt that stretched across his chest was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing tanned, hard-tendoned forearms. Brown trousers clung to his hips and hugged the powerful muscles of his thighs.
The spacious room in which they were standing seemed to have shrunk. Even standing still, he radiated an aura of power and danger. Somehow she’d managed to forget that. What curious, self-protective mechanism had made her reduce him in her mind to the level of other men? It was a mistake she wouldn’t make again.
Cain was aware of her scrutiny. She seemed to have no intention of being the first to speak, and her composure indicated a degree of self-confidence that intrigued him. Curious to test its limits, he broke the silence with deliberate brusqueness.
“You wanted to see me?”
She felt a stab of satisfaction. He didn’t know who she was. The veiled hat had given her this one small advantage. The masquerade wouldn’t last for long, but while it did, she’d have time to size up her opponent with wiser eyes than those of an immature eighteen-year-old who’d known both too much and too little.
“This room is quite beautiful,” she said coolly.
“I have an excellent housekeeper.”
“You’re fortunate.”
“Yes, I am.” He walked farther into the room, moving with the easy rolling gait of a man who spent much of his time on horseback. “She usually takes care of calls like yours, but she’s out on some kind of errand.”
Kit wondered who he thought she was and what he meant. “She’s gone to see the Conjure Woman.”
“The Conjure Woman?”
“She makes spells and tells futures.” After three years at Risen Glory, he didn’t even know this much. Nothing could have offered more proof that he didn’t belong here. “She’s sick, and Sophronia’s gone to see her.”
“You know Sophronia?”
“Yes.”
“So you live nearby?”
She nodded but didn’t elaborate. He indicated a chair. “You didn’t give Lucy your name.”
“Lucy? Do you mean your maid?”
“I see there’s something you don’t know.”
She ignored the chair he’d indicated and walked to the fireplace, deliberately turning her back to him. He noticed that she moved with a bolder step than most women. She also didn’t try to position herself in a way that showed off her fashionable gown to best advantage. It was as if her clothing were merely something to toss on in the morning and, once she’d done up the fastenings, to forget.
He decided to press her. “Your name?”
“Is it important?” Her voice was low, husky, and distinctly Southern.
“Maybe.”
“I wonder why.”
Cain was intrigued as much by the provocative way she avoided answering his question as by the faint fragrance of jasmine that drifted from her skirts and tugged at his senses. He wished she’d turn back around so he could get a closer look at the captivating features he could only glimpse behind the veil.
“A lady of mystery,” he mocked softly, “coming into the enemy’s lair without a zealous mother to serve as chaperone. Not wise at all.”
“I don’t always behave wisely.”
Cain smiled. “Neither do I.”
His gaze slipped from that silly dab of a hat to the coil of silky dark hair resting on the nape of her neck. What would it look like unfastened and tumbling over naked white shoulders? His jolt of arousal told him he’d been without a woman too long. Although even if he’d had a dozen the night before, he knew this woman would still have stirred him.
“Should I expect a jealous husband to come banging on my door looking for his wayward wife?”
“I have no husband.”
“No?” He suddenly wanted to test the limits of her self-confidence. “Is that why you’re here? Has the supply of eligible men in the county dipped so low that well-bred Southern ladies are forced to scout in the Yankee’s lair?”
She turned. Through her veil he could just make out flashing eyes and a small nose with delicately flaring nostrils.
“I assure you, Major Cain, I’m not here to scout for a husband. You have an elevated opinion of yourself.”
“Do I?” He moved closer. His legs brushed her skirt.
Kit wanted to step back, but she held her ground. He was a predator, and like all predators, he fed off the weakness of others. Even the smallest retreat would be a victory for him, and she wouldn’t show him any vulnerability. At the same time, his
nearness made her feel slightly dizzy. The sensation should have been unpleasant, but it wasn’t.
“Tell me, mystery lady. What else would a respectable young woman be doing visiting a man by herself?” His voice was deep and teasing, and his gray eyes glimmered with a devilry that made her blood rush faster. “Or is it possible that the respectable young lady isn’t as respectable as she seems to be?”
Kit drew up her chin and met his gaze. “Don’t judge others by your own standards.”
If she’d only known, her unspoken challenge stirred him more than anything else could have. Were those eyes behind the honeycombed veil blue or a darker, more exotic color? Everything about this woman intrigued him. She was no simpering coquette or hothouse orchid. Rather, she reminded him of a wild rose, growing tangled and unruly in the deepest part of the woods, a wild rose with prickly thorns ready to draw blood from any man who touched her.
The untamed part of him responded to the same quality he sensed in her. What would it be like to work his way past those thorns and pluck this wild rose of the deep wood?
Even before he moved, Kit understood that something was about to happen. She wanted to break away, but her legs wouldn’t respond. As she gazed up into that chiseled face, she tried to remember this man was her deadly enemy. He controlled everything that was dear to her: her home, her future, her very freedom. But she’d always been a creature of instinct, and her blood had begun to roar so loudly in her head that it was blotting out her reason.
Slowly Cain lifted his scarred hand and cupped the side of her neck. His touch was surprisingly gentle and maddeningly exciting. She knew she had to pull back, but her legs, along with her will, refused to obey.
He lifted his thumb and slid it upward along the curve of her jaw and under the edge of the honeycombed veil. It dipped into the valley behind the lobe of her ear. He caressed the silky hollow, sending quivers coursing through her.
He brushed the delicate shells of her ears and the tendrils of curl that feathered around her small jet earbob. His quiet breathing rippled the bottom edge of her veil. She tried to move away, but she was paralyzed. Then he lowered his lips.
His kiss was gentle and persuading, nothing at all like the wet, grinding assault from Hamilton Woodward’s friend. Her hands lifted of their own accord and clasped his sides. The feel of warm-muscled flesh through the thin material of his shirt became part of the kiss. She lost herself in a swelling sea of sensation.
His lips opened and began to move over her closed ones. He curved his hand along the delicate line of her spine to the small of her back. The narrow space between their bodies disappeared.
Her head swam as his chest pressed her breasts, and his hips settled against the flatness of her stomach. The moist tip of his tongue began its gentle sorcery, sliding leisurely between her lips.
The shocking intimacy inflamed her. A wild rush of hot sensation poured through every part of her body.
And through his.
They lost their identities. For Kit, Cain no longer had a name. He was the quintessential man, fierce and demanding. And for Cain, the mysterious veiled creature in his arms was everything that a woman should be . . . but never was.
He grew impatient. His tongue began to probe more deeply, determined to slip past the barrier of her teeth and gain full access to the sweet interior of her mouth.
The unaccustomed aggression brought a flicker of sanity to Kit’s fevered mind. Something was wrong. . . .
He brushed the side of her breast, and reality returned in a cold, condemning rush. She made a muffled sound and sprang back.
Cain was more shaken than he cared to admit. He’d found the thorns of his wild rose much too soon.
She stood before him, breasts heaving, hands balled into fists. With a pessimistic certainty that the rest of her face could never live up to the promise of her mouth, he reached out and pushed the veil up onto the brim of her hat.
Recognition didn’t come instantly. Maybe it was because he took in the separate features of her face instead of the whole. He saw the smooth, intelligent forehead, the thick, dark slashes of eyebrows, the heavily lashed violet eyes, the determined chin. All of it, together with that wild-rose mouth from which he’d drunk so deeply, spoke of a vivid, unconventional beauty.
Then he felt an uneasiness, a nagging sense of familiarity, a hint of something unpleasant lurking on the other side of his memory. He watched the nostrils of her small, straight nose quiver like the wings of a hummingbird. She set her jaw and lifted her chin.
In that instant, he knew her.
Kit saw his pale gray irises rim with black, but she was too stricken by what had passed between them to step away. What had happened to her? This man was her mortal enemy. How could she have forgotten that? She felt sick, angry, and more confused than she’d ever been.
A disturbance came from the hallway—a series of rapid clicks, as if a sack of parched corn was being spilled on the wooden floor. A streak of black-and-white fur darted into the room, then skidded to a stop. Merlin.
The dog cocked his head to study her, but it didn’t take him nearly as long to guess her identity as it had Cain. With three barks of recognition, he raced over to greet his old friend.
Kit fell to her knees. Oblivious to the damage his dusty paws were inflicting on her dove-gray traveling dress, she hugged him and let him lap her face. Her hat fell to the carpet, loosening her carefully arranged hair, but she didn’t care.
Cain’s voice intruded on their reunion like a polar wind over a glacier. “I see finishing school hasn’t improved you. You’re still the same headstrong little brat you were three years ago.”
Kit looked up at him and said the first thing that came to mind. “You’re just mad because the dog’s smarter than you are.”
8
Not long after Cain had stalked out of the sitting room, Kit heard a familiar voice. “Lucy, did you let that dog in the house again?”
“He slipped past me, Miz Sophronia.”
“Well, he won’t slip past me!”
Kit smiled as she heard the approach of brisk, efficient footsteps. She hugged Merlin and whispered, “I won’t let her get you.”
Sophronia swept into the room, then drew to a sudden halt. “Oh, I’m sorry. Lucy didn’t say we had a visitor.”
Kit looked up and gave her a mischievous grin.
“Kit!” Sophronia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Lord! Is it really you?”
With a laugh, Kit sprang to her feet and raced toward her. “It’s me, all right.”
The women hugged each other while Merlin circled them, barking at their skirts.
“It’s so good to see you. Oh, Sophronia, you’re even more beautiful than I remember.”
“Me! Look at you. You look like you just stepped out of Godey’s Lady’s Book.”
“It’s all Elsbeth’s doing.” Kit laughed again and grabbed Sophronia’s hand. They sank down on the settee, where they tried to catch up on three years of separation.
Kit knew it was her fault their correspondence had been so infrequent. Sophronia didn’t like to write letters, and the few she’d sent were so full of praise for what Cain was doing at Risen Glory that Kit’s replies had been scathing. Finally Sophronia had stopped writing.
Kit remembered her earlier agitation over all the improvements Sophronia had made to the house. Now that seemed petty, and she praised her for everything she’d done.
Sophronia drank in Kit’s words. She knew the old house was shining under her care, and she was proud of her accomplishments. At the same time, she began to feel the familiar combination of love and resentment that always plagued her where Kit was concerned.
For so long, Sophronia had been the only one watching out for Kit. Now Kit was a woman with friendships and experiences Sophronia couldn’t share. She was also beautiful, poised, and at home in a world Sophronia would never enter.
The old hurts began to throb.
“Don’t think because you’re home now yo
u can start stickin’ your nose in my business and tellin’ me how to run this house.”
Kit merely chuckled. “I wouldn’t think of it. All I care about is the land. The fields. I can’t wait to see everything.”
Sophronia’s resentment faded and worry took its place. Putting the major and Kit under the same roof was going to lead to trouble.
Rosemary Weston’s old bedroom had been redecorated in blush pink and soft moss green. It reminded Kit of the inside of a ripe watermelon, close to the bottom where the pink meat joined the pale iridescence of the rind. She was glad the cool, pretty room would be hers, even though it was second-best to the bedroom Cain occupied. The fact that both shared a common sitting room made her uneasy, but at least it would allow her to keep a closer watch on him.
How could she have let him kiss her like that? The question she’d been trying to avoid asking felt like a fist in her stomach. True, she’d pushed him away, but not before he’d thoroughly kissed her. If it had been Brandon Parsell, she could have understood, but how could she have done such a thing with Baron Cain?
She remembered Mrs. Templeton’s lecture on Eve’s Shame. Surely only an unnatural woman would abandon herself like that with her most bitter enemy. Maybe there was something wrong with her.
Nonsense. She’d merely been exhausted from the trip, and Miss Dolly’s chatter was enough to drive anyone into doing something irrational.
Determined not to think of it again, she stripped off her dress and stood in chemise and petticoat to freshen up at the washstand. Bathing was her favorite luxury. She could hardly believe she’d once hated it so. What a silly child she’d been. Silly about everything except her hatred for Cain.
She cursed softly under her breath, a habit even Elsbeth hadn’t been able to stop. Before Cain had stormed out of the sitting room, he’d ordered her to meet him in the library after dinner. She wasn’t looking forward to the interview. At the same time, he needed to understand he was no longer dealing with an immature eighteen-year-old.
Lucy had unpacked her trunks, and for a moment Kit considered throwing on one of her oldest dresses and dashing outside to reacquaint herself with her home. But she had to be downstairs soon, ready to do battle again. Morning would be time enough.