Straight For The Heart

by Marsha Canham

  “Ye tald me to make it ready, did ye not?” The housekeeper scowled, the gravel in her voice betraying the fact that she was less awake than she appeared. It also revealed, rather pointedly, that she was less accustomed to taking orders than giving them, and not at all shy about giving them to Michael Tarrington.

  He confirmed this by tossing a scowl back. “Mrs. Reeves descended upon me two weeks ago, claiming that while Boston might very well survive without her help, she did not think I could manage on my own in what she considered to be a ‘foreign’ country. She is a spry old dear, however, and I’m quite fond of her. At times.”

  “Fond o’ me?” Mrs. Reeves snorted. “Ye’ve an odd way of showin’ it then, keepin' me out o’ my bed until all the wee hours o’ the morn. It’ll serve ye right if I sleep till noon. God an’ all the saints preserve me—” She held the lamp aloft and seemed to notice Amanda’s bedraggled state for the first time. “Where have ye had this poor wee child? She’s soaked top to toe an’ blue with cold!”

  “Which is precisely why I am entrusting her to your expert care,” Tarrington said, and turned to Amanda. “Foley and I have a few matters to discuss; I will join you later.”

  Mrs. Reeves was already bustling toward the stairs. She snatched Amanda’s carpetbag out of Foley’s hand as she passed, eyeing it with the same mix of suspicion, disapproval, and bursting curiosity that marked each glance she sent Amanda’s way.

  Amanda trailed after her in silence, lifting the sodden folds of her skirts as she climbed slowly up the broad, curved staircase. The upper corridors were in darkness, the glowing sphere of the lamp barely penetrated the shadows cloaking the twenty-foot-high ceilings. She noted absently that Tarrington—or someone—had had the walls freshly painted and the wood floors waxed and polished. There were no carpets or wall hangings, but the two ceiling-high windows at either end of the long, central corridor were hung with new velvet curtains.

  Mrs. Reeves led her all the way to the last door in the hall. Amanda’s stomach had been in a state of upheaval since early evening; it rolled over completely and slid all the way down to her toes when she crossed the threshold and found herself standing in what had to be the most enormous, most intimidatingly masculine bedroom she had ever seen.

  A vast, cavernous chamber, it was paneled in dark wood and furnished with oversized pieces that could have come straight out of a medieval castle. The four-posted bed was easily three times as wide as her own at Rosalie. The marble fireplace that dominated the opposite wall housed a grate able to seat a six-foot log. Persian carpets underfoot were thick as fur, the armoire and night tables were solid oak, the two leather chairs in front of the fire were studded with brass buttons and sat on feet carved into lion’s paws.

  “The dressin’ room’s in here, dearie,” Mrs. Reeves said, going to a connecting door. “He said as how I should keep a bath hot, but since he didna say as to how long I should keep it, the water might need a bit o’ topping up. Aye—” She disappeared behind the door for a moment and emerged a few seconds later wiping her hand down the front of her apron. “I’ll fetch up a kettle or two. In the meanwhile, strip yoursel’ out o’ them claythes afore ye catch yer death. Land sakes, I dinna ken what gets into that man sometimes. Rush here, rush there. Stompin’ around the house the blessed day long like a billygoat wi’ his ballocks caught in a vise. Where’s the hurry, I asked him? Must it be tonight? I asked him. In a storm? I asked him.” She stopped and furled a brow in Amanda’s direction. “Ye dinna talk much, do ye?”

  “I’m … a little t-tired … and … a little overwhelmed by everything,” Amanda stammered.

  “Aye, well, so ye must be. Anxious too, an’ me here blatherin’ on like a fishwoman. There now, let me give the fire a poke or two to wake it up an’ then I’ll see about that hot water.”

  “Please don’t go to any more trouble.”

  “Hmphf. Trouble comes when ‘is Lairdship doesn’t get what he wants exactly the way he wants it. Spoilt cock o’ the roost, ye ask me. Doted on by his mam and pampered by them addled sisters o’ his. Father’s just the same: Spoilt. The pair o’ them.”

  Having made this announcement in motion—she hadn’t actually stopped moving or talking since entering the room —Mrs. Reeves sailed on out the door without a pause, still muttering to herself as she walked back down the hall. Amanda listened for a moment, then tiptoed to the door and peeked out. But the bloom of the lamplight had already made the turn down the stairs, and there was nothing but shadows and gloom and silence to emphasize the loud pounding of her heart.

  She retreated into the bedroom and closed the door. She stood with her back braced against the carved surface and surveyed her surroundings more closely, deciding it was definitely a man’s room, solid and imposing. Yet if she had any doubt she had been taken to the wrong chamber by mistake, it was belied by the sight of the delicate, skirted dressing table that sat against the wall between the door and the fireplace. It looked as sadly out of place as she felt, with its collection of little crystal scent bottles and silver-backed brushes.

  Tarrington had obviously been sure of himself. Certain he would not be returning to Briar Glen alone.

  Amanda was suddenly chilled to the bone, but not from the soaking she had taken in the storm. A hot bath, if she could stay awake long enough to enjoy it, sounded like ten kinds of heaven, and she tiptoed gingerly into the dressing room, pushing the door slowly, wondrously wide as it revealed shelves upon shelves of neatly folded clothing— shirts, jackets, trousers in every stripe and color, five woolen greatcoats, and enough pairs of boots to fill a solid row along one wall. She hadn’t seen so many crisp, clean garments in more years than she cared to remember, certainly not outside of a store. The dressing room, for that matter, was larger than most stores these days, with chests of drawers and a mirror on one wall that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  Occupying one corner was an enameled, tulip-shaped bathtub. Amanda dipped her fingers into the water and found it more than appealingly warm. She let her clothes fall where they would and stepped naked into the thigh-deep water, sighing as she sank down and let the heat engulf her up to her chin.

  She held her breath and submerged her head, working her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair, leaning back as she rose up out of the water again so that it fell in a gleaming gold sheet down her back. She found a small bar of soap, pink and smelling of roses, in a pot by the tub. She worked a thick lather over her skin and hair then rinsed and was lathering again when she heard Mrs. Reeves announcing her return with two kettles of steaming hot water.

  “I’ll build up the fire afore I go,” she huffed, tipping the kettles into the tub, her cheeks as pink as the soap. “Would ye like me to unpack the rest o’ yer claythes for ye tonight, or can it wait until the morn?”

  Amanda reddened sheepishly as she watched Mrs Reeves start to pick up the garments she had so carelessly discarded. She reddened to the point of fire as she had a sudden vision of what the woman would find if she opened her carpetbag— one tattered nightgown, one pair of worn slippers, a tintype of another man, and a child’s knitted bonnet.

  “No. No, thank you, Mrs. Reeves. You have done more than enough for me already. I can find what I need myself.”

  A small, keen eye cast her a glance that suggested Mrs. Reeves was well aware of what Amanda was capable of finding for herself. A handsome, rich husband for a start?

  “Aye. Well, I’ll just take these filthy things along wi’ me, then, shall I? Nay sense lettin’ them ripen the whole room. I’ll say good night now too, if ye think as how ye can find yer own way into a towel. There’s a bell pull on the wall if ye need owt, an’ wine on the table. Ye'll find hair brushes and tooth powder over yon, and three lovely nightrails in the drawer of the little dresser. I wasn't told yer size so ye might have to lift the hem when ye walk.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reeves,” Amanda murmured, blinking at all the preparations that had been made.

  Michael Tarrington h
ad been very sure of himself, ordering a bath, a fire, night clothes…even a bottle of wine.

  Amanda frowned and stretched out a bare, dripping arm to the decanter sitting on the nearby stand. She was more hungry than thirsty, but she poured herself a glass anyway and, after sampling a mouthful of the sweet red wine, downed the rest of it in several greedy swallows.

  She helped herself to a refill and leaned back against the tub, savoring the heat inside and out as she studied the extent of her husband’s wardrobe. One entire rack held nothing but gloves. An upper shelf held hats, easily a dozen of them in various shapes and styles.

  Amanda sipped her wine and sent a small, milky wave lapping over the crowns of her knees.

  He had said he would be joining her later. How much later, and would he be expecting her to fulfill her part of the bargain tonight? A glance at a small, glass-domed clock told her it was ten minutes past three. Too late, she thought. Surely too late.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Water sloshed over the rim as Amanda stepped out of the tub. She used two big towels to dry her body and her hair, leaving one wrapped around herself as she padded across the room and found one of the nightgowns. White, high necked, and shapeless, it made her look like a large moth—a large, half-crazed moth with her hair straggling every which way over her shoulders.

  Mrs. Reeves had stoked the fire, adding a huge log to the embers and banking it liberally with extra kindling. The flames were hot and bright, and she knealt by the hearth to brush and dry her hair.

  Surely an hour or more must have passed since he had dismissed her in the lower hall. Perhaps he was deliberately staying away to give her time to adjust to her new circumstances.

  Only half convinced, she rose and carried her wine into the massive bedroom, pausing beside the incongruously feminine dressing table. She stared at her reflection a moment, knowing there was no one else she could blame for her predicament. Ryan would explode when he found out she had married Michael Tarrington. He would hate her and hate himself, and then he would hate Dianna for introducing Tarrington to Natchez. Sarah Courtland would live on smelling salts for the rest of her life, and Mercy would be driven to murder her mistress with a butcher’s axe just to get some peace.

  Alisha was the only one who would laugh. Oh, how she would laugh and taunt and hold her up to ridicule for doing precisely what she, Amanda, had scorned her twin for doing: marrying for money and convenience.

  And Verity. What would Verity make of this big, gloomy house full of strange things and strange people? What would she make of Mrs. Reeves? Did Mrs. Reeves even know there was a child coming to live at Briar Glen? For that matter, had Michael Tarrington taken Verity into consideration when he had made his grandiose plans?

  Bribing a child with a basket of oranges and a doll was one thing. Assuming responsibility for her upbringing was entirely another.

  The sound of a heavy footstep in the outer hallway startled every other thought out of Amanda’s mind and sent her hand fluttering to her throat. She gaped at the door in horror and when she saw the brass knob begin to turn, she averted her gaze in a rush of even greater shock. She did not look in his direction as Michael Tarrington came into the room and shut the door behind him. The best she could manage was to snatch up the hairbrush and drag it through her hair, over and over again as if her life was dependent upon her removing every last crimp and tangle.

  At least she had the answer to one of her questions. He did expect her to live up to her part of the agreement tonight. He expected her to share his bed and fulfill her wifely obligations.

  The brush moved haltingly through her hair. She had pulled it forward over her shoulder to enable her to carry each stroke the full length, and she used it like a shield to hide behind, acting as if she hadn’t noticed him entering the room or that she was not aware of him standing there, watching her every move.

  Perhaps she should have looked. She would have seen that he was not just watching her, he was temporarily frozen to the spot and could not have moved if he had wanted to. The firelight was beside her, strong enough and bright enough to render the fabric of her nightgown almost transparent and if not for the curtain of hair rippling down to her waist, she would have appeared to be sitting there naked.

  He had deliberately taken his time dealing with instructions for Foley and calming his own nerves with a glass of brandy. He had stalled until he had seen Mrs. Reeves waddle down the stairs and bid him a good night, then he had stalled again until he was fairly certain he had given his new wife time to fall asleep. He had only come up to the room to make sure she was all right and tucked safely away in bed. He had certainly not expected to find her sitting and brushing her hair, obviously waiting to uphold her end of the bargain.

  With an effort, Tarrington moved away from the door and walked into the adjoining dressing room.

  Amanda released a pent-up breath and lowered the brush to her lap, meeting her own gaze in the mirror as she looked up.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. I am ridiculous. What is the worst possible thing that could happen? She wasn’t a virgin, for heaven’s sake. There were no surprises awaiting her in the marriage bed. He was aggressive and overconfident and he was a dangerous man to underestimate, but Michael Tarrington did not strike her as being either brutish or deliberately cruel.

  He was still a man, however, and he would still be trying to prove something—how virile he was, how strong and manly and skillful he was when the lights were out and the covers drawn. And he was still a Yankee—an obstacle that might prove to be insurmountable in the long run. But for all that he had saved her family from falling into ruin, saved Rosalie from falling into Wainright’s clutches—she stopped and took a long swallow of wine to drain the glass—it was not such a dreadful bargain to have struck.

  Michael Tarrington was not the ugliest man she had ever seen in her life, nor the least appealing. She would, in fact, be hard-pressed to name a man with a broader chest or a stronger jaw. He certainly knew how to kiss a woman, how to make her feel as if her whole body were involved in that one simple act of touching mouths, and she hadn’t disliked the feeling entirely.

  In truth, if she remembered correctly, she had been furious with herself for enjoying it too much.

  She heard the bang of a dresser drawer being shoved stubbornly into place and she stared at the dressing room door. He wouldn't dare return to the room naked ... would he?

  The thought set her to brushing feverishly again, filling the silence with the crackling static from her hair A moment later she saw the light go out in the dressing room and he was suddenly back in the bedroom, his big body clad in a long, heavily brocaded dressing gown. He barely glanced at her this time as he crossed over to the fire and gave the log a few adjustments with the iron poker. With a full glass of wine cosseted in his hand, he eased himself into one of the leather wing chairs and gave Amanda his full attention.

  She noticed all of this without once taking her eyes away from her own reflection. The shock of glimpsing bare feet and bare chest through gaps in his robe was enough to keep her brushing furiously.

  When her arm began to ache and her hair was as shiny as she would ever live to see it, she stopped and began to tame the glossy mane into a single thick braid.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said quietly. “I have always thought it a waste to keep something so beautiful twisted in knots and imprisoned with pins and nets. In your case, a terrible waste. Please … leave it loose.”

  Amanda’s hands faltered and slipped down to rest on her lap. She heard the leather creak softly as he stood, and she saw the shadows disturbed again as he came over to stand behind her.

  “Well, Mrs. Tarrington? Your face is nearly raw from scrubbing, your hair”—his long fingers began to toy with a silky curl—“could not possibly want for more attention. I would say the time has come for you to … lay your cards on the table, so to speak?”

  Amanda tensed herself against the steady rise of panic in
her chest. Her pulse was racing and her heart was beating like a wild thing. All of her lofty resolves liquified as he buried his hand deeper into the blonde cloud and caressed the nape of her neck.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I …”

  His hand paused, resting against her neck. "Yes?"

  I've made a mistake, she thought. I don't want to go through with this. I want to go home.

  "I ... would like a little more wine if you wouldn't mind," she whispered.

  He returned to the hearth and fetched the bottle, tipping some wine into her glass. The edge of the bottle clinked softly against the lip of the glass and she was surprised to see a slight tremor in his hand.

  "It isn't every day I get married," he said ruefully.

  The admission somehow made it easier for her to lift her chin and square her shoulders. It brought her to her feet and enabled her to walk past him to the bed. She sat primly on the edge of the mattress and faced straight ahead, her eyes angled downward and fixed on the framed picture of Caleb where it lay on the open folds of her carpetbag. He seemed to be staring back at her, his face pale and rigid, stoically accepting the sacrifice she was about to make.

  He had been so eager on their wedding night—eager and earnest and clumsy, struggling to temper his passion with the need to preserve and protect her modesty. Caleb had never challenged or defied her. He had never stood so boldly before her, his animal vitality throwing off enough heat to affect her breathing. He had never even let her see him naked or given her more than a brief glimpse of what he thrust with such embarrassed eagerness between her thighs.

  Tarrington was all muscle, all strength, all confidence. That he was naked beneath the brocade robe, she had no doubt. He probably did not even own a nightshirt nor would he see any reason to wear one to preserve anyone’s modesty, least of all hers.

  At the moment he was only a dark blot at the edge of her vision. He still had not moved. He stood with his legs braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest, his imposing silhouette framed by the glare of the firelight behind him.