Gossamer

  His blue-eyed gaze saw too much. Elizabeth felt her face redden beneath James’s intense scrutiny. And in spite of her best efforts to prevent it, her breath quickened and her breasts rose and fell in cadence to her rapid breathing. “Ruby was frightened,” she replied, somewhat defensively. “And climbing into the bathtub myself was the only way to reach her.”

  Thunderation, but she was killing him. The strain of struggling to behave normally was killing him. James ground his teeth together again and a muscle in his jaw began to tick from the pressure. He had to get out of there. Elizabeth couldn’t possibly understand how her innocent explanation for climbing into the bathtub evoked images he was valiantly trying to control. Reaching out, he unfolded the second towel and held it out in front of him almost as a shield, then ground out, “For Garnet. She’s turning into a prune.”

  “I know,” Elizabeth agreed, bracing her hands on the sides of the tub to lever herself up and out of the water. “We’re behind schedule. I should have finished their baths half an hour ago. You go ahead with Ruby. Garnet and I will be right behind you.”

  “No!” James replied in a rather strained voice. “You stay right there. Just hand me Garnet and I’ll leave you to fill up the tub and finish your bath in peace.”

  “I’m not bathing.” Elizabeth said as she helped Garnet get to her feet, then kept a hand on her until James leaned forward, wrapped the child in the towel, and lifted Garnet out of the tub.

  “You might as well,” James said, staring down at her. “You’ve had a long, busy day. Relax and enjoy a hot bath. Delia and I can look after the Treasures for a while.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Elizabeth began to protest, although the idea of filling the bathtub full of hot water and bubbles and soaking her tired body appealed to her more than she liked to admit, “but it really isn’t necessary.”

  “Oh, but it is,” James insisted. “You’re joining me for dinner at eight, remember? And if you don’t take advantage of your opportunity to bathe now, you may not get another chance before dinner. Besides”—he bent low to turn the hot water tap back on and whispered—“the question of whether or not you’re bathing has already become a moot point. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s transparent … uh …” James could have bitten out his wayward tongue. “Apparent that you’re soaked to the skin.”

  Elizabeth looked down at the wet fabric clinging to her chest, revealing more than it concealed, and gasped. “I didn’t realize …”

  Unable to stop himself, James grinned an impish grin, then whispered his confession. “I did.”

  The glint of blue-green fire in her eyes warned him before her furious squeal did. He opened the bathroom door and shepherded Ruby and Garnet through it just seconds before Elizabeth’s wet, soapy camisole landed against it with loud, watery thwack.

  “Missed me,” he commented as he opened the door seconds later and stuck his head inside. “You throw like a girl,” he taunted, adding insult to injury.

  Maybe so, but the facecloth that followed her camisole came closer to its mark and left a trail of soapy water splashed across James’s handsome face before it slipped down the door and landed on the marble floor.

  Much to her disgust, Elizabeth couldn’t prevent a silent chuckle from escaping her lips when she heard James’s roar of laughter on the other side of the door.

  Twenty-two

  ELIZABETH FINGERED THE edges of her smoke-colored satin wrapper before she loosened it and untied the matching sash. She sat on the edge of her half-tester bed and carefully moved Portia off the pillows to the far side of the bed before she flung herself backward, so that she lay in an unself-conscious sprawl in the center of the bed. She had been about twenty minutes into her long soak in the bathtub when James knocked on the bathroom door to inform her that the wrapper she’d worn at breakfast was hanging on the doorknob whenever she was ready for it. Elizabeth had childishly stuck her tongue out at the door and muttered a few uncomplimentary names about him beneath her breath before reluctantly admitting that she was rather glad he’d thought to leave it for her. Her undergarments were wet and a good many of her outer garments were, too, since the water from the camisole and the facecloth she’d thrown at James had pooled and run across the marble floor to the pile of clothing she’d left lying there.

  How could she go downstairs and have dinner with the man after what had happened in the bath? But how could she think of not going? Elizabeth glanced over at the armoire. She was going. And she was going to wear her favorite dress. The elegant and sophisticated green silk gown showed off her figure in just the right places. She knew she should probably wear a dress more sedate—more governessy—but there was something about the way James Craig looked at her that sent ripples of excitement shivering through her. When he looked at her, Elizabeth experienced a sense of expectation and an acute awareness that triggered goose bumps on her flesh and an intense yearning deep inside her. She wanted very much to explore those feelings.

  What was it about James Craig that brought out that restless, unbridled, untamed, unladylike side of her? Elizabeth frowned, suddenly confused and thrilled and dismayed by this new and unexpected aspect of her personality—all at the same time. Less than an hour ago she had knelt in a tub full of water while her employer looked on. That she hadn’t known the undergarments she’d left on, for modesty’s sake, were transparent when wet did not excuse her behavior. She shouldn’t have been in the tub in the first place, and he certainly shouldn’t have barged in and seen her.

  But he had seen her, and though embarrassed by her lack of modesty, Elizabeth was also secretly thrilled at the way her body quickened and her heart pounded in response to the look in James’s eyes. Two days ago she had vandalized a business in broad daylight in downtown San Francisco and been carted to jail for her efforts. She should have been ashamed of herself, but she wasn’t. There was a part of her that rejoiced at her having had the courage to strike a blow for Owen and all of the other unfortunate young men who had succumbed to the lure of opium. Less than a week ago she had allowed a strange man to enter her hotel room in the middle of the night and not only offer words of comfort, but to hold her in his arms while she slept. And she’d allowed that same man to kiss her senseless on the front walkway of a boardinghouse run by an infamous madam. That the stranger had been James still did not excuse her behavior. And yet it did, because Elizabeth knew in her heart that she would never have allowed any other man past her door in the middle of the night or allowed him to kiss her so thoroughly. But how could she explain feeling like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis when she didn’t even know when or why or how the metamorphosis had begun? She only knew that James had somehow recognized and responded to it.

  And what a metamorphosis she had had so far! Elizabeth grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. Today had been an adventure in itself, thanks, in large part, to Ruby. Ruby. Who would have dreamed a three-and-a-half-year-old child could be so demanding and strong-willed? Or so terrified of water? Or so overwhelmingly possessive of her father?

  Her father. Still pleasantly warm and damp from her hot bubble bath, Elizabeth stared up at the half-tester and covered a yawn as she listened to the sound of James’s deep melodic voice coming from the room next door. Elizabeth had purposely left her bedroom door slightly ajar so that she could hear the story as James resumed his reading of the adventures of Don Quixote to the Treasures. She liked the way he read aloud, the way he dramatized the story, the way he patiently endured endless interruptions to answer the Treasures’ questions or to explain the nuances of the story so toddlers might understand it. Tonight they were finishing chapter twenty-two. Pasamonte and his gang were about to stone Don Quixote and Sancho and steal their clothes, and James was skimming over the passages the Treasures might find disturbing and making a great to-do over the knight’s heroism. Elizabeth smiled at the notion of James Cameron Craig shielding his daughters from the more disturbing events in the life of the fictitious hero, Do
n Quixote, just as he shielded them, every day, from the more disturbing events that might touch their real lives. Elizabeth closed her eyes and let James’s voice fill her imagination with images of courtly knights and their lady loves. Chivalry hadn’t died at all. It still flourished in the heart of one extraordinary man.

  JAMES STOPPED HIS nervous pacing and focused his attention on the rapidly melting beeswax candles in the silver candelabrum on the table. He glanced over at the clock on the dining room wall to check the time again. Twenty-six minutes past eight. Three minutes later than the last time he’d checked. He raked his fingers through his hair. Elizabeth was late. Or worse yet, she had decided not to come downstairs and join him for dinner.

  He walked around the table to his customary seat, lifted a small silver bell from beside his plate and rang it. Annie appeared in the doorway almost instantly, almost as if she’d been waiting just outside it listening for the sound of the bell.

  “Shall I begin serving now, sir?” she asked as she lifted the skirt of her white apron a fraction and bobbed a respectful curtsey.

  James shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He walked to the opposite end of the table and gazed down at the place setting laid out for Elizabeth. He hesitated for a moment, then lifted the plate and silverware and carried it to the chair sitting to the right of his own and relaid the place setting on the table in front of it.

  “Shall I do that for you, sir?” Annie asked.

  “No, thank you, Annie. I can manage. There’s no need to bother you with this.” He walked back down to the opposite end of the table and removed the bread and dessert plates and the glassware.

  “I’ll be glad to do it, sir,” Annie insisted. “It’s no bother.”

  “Actually, I would rather do it myself,” he told her. “I think I’ve gotten quite good at this during the last half hour. I’ve already removed and reset Miss Sadler’s place three times.” James flashed the timid little kitchen maid a crooked half-smile. The tips of his ears warmed in embarrassment at his uncharacteristic admission of nerves. Suddenly he turned his full attention on Annie. “What are you doing here? It’s late. You should have had your supper and left for home an hour ago.”

  “I asked Mrs. G. if I could stay a bit later tonight. I thought there might be something I could do to help out.” Annie shrugged her shoulders self-consciously and looked down at a scuff mark on her polished, but well-worn, boots.

  “Why would a pretty young girl like you want to work later than necessary?” James asked.

  “Ah, I’m not pretty, Mr. Craig. I’m plain,” she informed him. “I’m way too skinny, too. All elbows and knees with no boo—no figure to speak of. And I’ve got this flaming red hair and no eyebrows or eyelashes and spots on my face. It’s common knowledge that I’m never going to be passable, much less pretty. Everyone says so.” She hunched her shoulders and seemed to withdraw from him.

  James studied Annie’s downtrodden expression, the flush of bright red color that stained her cheeks, the way she tried desperately not to meet his gaze and the way she attempted to hide her underdeveloped body by hunching her shoulders and looking down at the floor. She did have flaming red hair, but it was thick and curly and he’d bet his last cent that in five or six years, her hair would darken into a rich, burnished copper color. In a few years Annie’s facial blemishes would fade, and women throughout the town would envy her pale ivory complexion and big blue eyes. “Who told you that nonsense?”

  “My brothers and the boys in town. And”—she lowered her voice to a tortured whisper—“my dad.”

  “How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  “Sixteen.” She cringed as she answered.

  “And how old are your brothers?” he asked.

  “Eleven, fourteen, and eighteen.”

  “Well,” James pronounced in a voice full of confidence and authority, “that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Annie’s blue eyes widened with curiosity.

  “It explains what’s wrong with your brothers and the boys in town,” James told her. “Everyone knows that boys that age are louts. Especially to their sisters. As for the boys in town, well, they’ve not yet matured enough to be able to recognize beauty when they see it. You mark my words. In five or six years those same callow fellows who make fun of you now will be begging for a scrap of your attention. You see, Annie, your red hair and coloring have been passed down for generations from the beautiful women of Scotland, Ireland, England, Brittany, and Wales. You’re an unmistakable Celtic beauty. But the boys you know are too ignorant to notice.”

  “Really?” she asked hopefully. “You think they’ll notice in a few years?”

  “I’ll stake my fortune on it.” He smiled at her.

  “What about my dad?” Annie whispered.

  James frowned. “There’s no excuse for your dad,” he replied harshly. “Some men never appreciate the unique and wondrous beauty around them. But that doesn’t excuse them. Certainly there’s no excuse for a father who doesn’t think his daughter is the loveliest creature the good Lord ever put on earth.” James paused to let his words sink in, then waited until he thought he recognized a glimmer of trust in Annie’s blue eyes. “Now, why don’t you tell me the real reason you wanted to work late tonight?”

  “Because it’s Friday night,” she replied as if that explained everything.

  “I’m sorry, Annie,” James apologized for his ignorance on the subject of Friday nights in Coryville. “But I don’t understand what Friday night has to do with your wanting to work late. I would think it would be just the opposite—that you would want to get off early.”

  “My dad drinks,” Annie confided. “And my oldest brother, Calvin, drinks. And on Friday nights they invite all their friends home to drink at our house. And, well”—tears sparkled in her bright blue eyes and her voice caught in her throat—“sometimes it gets ugly with them all pawing at me and saying that they might have to put a bag over my head, but they’ll be more than willing to suffer in order to do me a favor and teach me all the things a girl needs to know in order to please a man.”

  “Has anyone ever touched you?” James clenched his fists to contain his rage. His immediate concern was Annie’s safety, but his rage extended to her brothers and to her father, who had failed to see her inner beauty as well as her potential outer beauty and had demeaned and belittled her during the most awkward and confusing time of her life. James was furious with her brothers and her father for failing to care for and appreciate Annie as she deserved to be cared for, and appreciated and loved, just as she was—just for being herself.

  “No, sir, not yet, but it’s hard to avoid ’em when they get mean and drunk every Friday,” she admitted.

  “I believe there’s an extra bedroom beside Mrs. G.’s suite. If you like it and want it, Annie, it’s yours,” James said.

  “For Fridays?”

  “For any day you want, for as long as you want,” he told her.

  “Oh, Mr. Craig, thank you.” Forgetting herself, Annie rushed forward and flung her arms around his neck and hugged him. She then quickly stepped back and blushed. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  “That’s quite all right, Annie,” James said, “I needed a hug to reassure me, for I seem to have lost my dinner companion tonight.” He glanced back at the clock on the wall as his stomach rumbled, then turned his attention to the two empty place settings on the table. Eight thirty-three. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, sir. Ages ago.” She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “May I go tell Mrs. G. about the room now, sir?”

  James managed a rueful smile and gazed longingly at the table before he turned his attention back to Annie. “Sure, run along. I don’t think I’ll be needing you to help serve dinner for a while.”

  Annie was halfway through the dining room door before she remembered what she wanted to say to him. She turned and smiled at James. “I don’t believe a word of what they say about you, Mr. Craig.”

  James’s
heart seemed to skip a beat. Could Annie have possibly heard the rumors about him killing his wife? He swallowed hard. “Really?”

  Annie nodded her head. “I don’t believe a word they say about you being daft in the head where those little girls of yours—the Treasures—are concerned.”

  “Is that what the townspeople say?”

  “Yes, sir. They say you’re real queer about them and that you’re teaching them to be uppity instead of knowing their place in the world like all the other Celestials. Everybody says you’re teaching the Treasures to think they’re as good as white folks because they’re Celestials, not in spite of it.”

  James sucked in a breath. He had known the townspeople didn’t share or appreciate his love for his daughters. But he hadn’t known how much the townspeople resented his educating them. “What do you think, Annie?”

  “I think you treat the Treasures the way you do because you love them,” she said simply. “Because you’re a man who sees and appreciates the unique and wondrous beauty around him and because you really and truly like girls. Even girls like me.”

  “Every girl is a Treasure, Annie. Every girl is a rare and precious gem. God thought so or he would have bestowed the greatest gift of all on men by giving them the ability to carry and bear children.” James winked at her. “You’re descended from a long line of wonderful women. Princesses, every one of them. And don’t you ever forget it. Or let any mere man tell you differently.”

  “I won’t, Mr. Craig. I promise.” Annie left the dining room and headed toward the kitchen, and as she did so, James noticed that she held her head higher and her back straighter and carried with her a newfound sense of dignity and self-esteem.