“Horses? His … babies … are horses?”
Mrs. Reeves grimaced. “Big thunderin’ things too. They come trompin’ past the house ‘bout an hour ago an’ kicked up enough dust to choke the Lord Himself up in heaven. Now then, Mr. Michael has been takin’ his meals in here," she said, stepping aside so Amanda could enter the breakfast room. "The dinin’ room proper would swallow up a man even the size o’ him. But I can take ye around fer a look-see yerself, if ye’ve a mind to change things.”
"Thank you Mrs. Reeves. I have been a guest in this house many times and am fairly familiar with rooms. And I agree, this room is perfect."
“Flora, dearie. Just call me Flora.” She bustled back out the door, her starched petticoats rustling with efficiency. “Set yerself down an’ I’ll see what I can find in the pantry to stop that rumblin' in yer tummy.”
Amanda nodded and breathed a small sigh of relief when she was finally alone. The breakfast room was twice the size of Rosalie’s formal dining room, with wide, tall windows spanning the length of one full wall. The cherrywood table was long and solidly built, gleaming under several layers of beeswax. A fire crackled cheerfully at one end, at the other, an enormous sideboard stood waiting with half a dozen silver chafing dishes and serving spoons, all polished to mirror brightness.
She crossed over to the bank of windows and looked out over the remnants of a rose garden. Repairs had not begun on this side of the house or property yet , but knowing that Tarrington needed the stables rebuilt for his horses explained why so much work had been concentrated in the rear outbuildings. She hadn’t even known enough about her new husband to realize he raised racehorses. It was all Ryan would need to hear to drive his fury to new heights.
Mrs. Reeves returned a moment later carrying a tray weighed down with enough fresh-baked bread, butter, and cold sliced meat to feed a score of ravenous field hands.
“Just a wee snack,” Flora assured her. “To tide ye over. Sal’s bringin’ the tea, hot an’ strong, an’ flavored with a wee bit o’ chamomile to put some color in yer cheeks.”
She set the tray down and stood with her hands on her hips. “Try not to take ma meanin’ the wrong way, now. ’Tis is a grand old house, to be sure, but it’s no’ what I expected. Especially with all these big, empty rooms. Too temptin, ye ask me. Mark my words, ye’ll have each an’ every one o’ them gagglin’ sisters o’ his swoopin’ down on ye an’ fillin’ em afore ye know it. Not that they’re a bad lot, mind. Just too many o’ them with their own opinions, all o’ them different an’ none o’ them willin’ to bend one way or t’other. They’ll be fannin’ themselves raw with curiosity to see the lassie who finally managed to squeeze a wedding vow out o’ their brother’s mouth. His mam an’ da won't be too far behind either."
She saw what little color there was drain from Amanda’s face and rushed to correct the impression she had given. “Ach, don't fret yoursel’ too much, there's a good lass. They’ll come around soon enough. They all think flowers grow out o' his arse." She paused and chuckled at her shocked expression. "Well it's the truth, an' I’m no the one to keep ma thoughts to maself, nor one to soften ma words when I think a harder one is needed.”
Amanda had guessed that much already. “You’ve been with the Tarringtons a long time then, I gather?”
“Mr. Michael is thirty an’ two, an’ I were there at his birthin’. That came two years after his mam an’ da were wed, an’ I were there to watch them take their vows. Only peeped from the kitchen, mind, since I started in the household as a skullery maid—tumble job it was too, but the best I could find fresh off the ship from Glasgow. He were a sickly wee thing when he were born, though ye wouldn’t guess it now to look at him. Puked all the time. Couldna take his mam’s milk, ye see, an’ by the time the bluidy doctors figured that out, he was near gone from starvation. I’d just given birth maself—to the first o’ eight babes o’ ma own— an’ I crept up from the skullery one day on account o’ I couldn't bear to hear the wee thing cryin’ any more. Aye, well, the long an’ short o’ it was, he took to ma teat like a leech ta raw meat. Sucked me dry, he did, an’ kept it all down, every last drop. Crept up to him three days in a row afore his da caught me. Big bloody bastard he is, too. Dark as the devil an’ twice as ornery when he’s riled. I tell ye, I nearly fouled ma britches then an’ there when I saw him standin’ in the shadows watchin' me suckle his son.
“When I were finished an’ the babe blew wind an’ nothin’ more, he came up to me an’ took ma hands in his—” Flora paused and held out her hands as if the deed was still a momentous event in her mind. “An’ stab me in the heart if he wasn't weepin’. He couldn't talk, he could just weep an’ nod his head, an’ squeeze ma hands so tight I thought ma toes would curl into the floorboards.
“I were his nurse from that day on,” she finished proudly. “I’ve thought o’ him as ma own flesh an’ blood since then too, which is why I’m here, seein’ he doesn't get into trouble, though I wish I'd known about this ahead o' time."
Flora seemed not to realize what she had said until she saw Amanda twist her hands together.
“Ach, there ye go, risin’ up all red an’ hot again.Ye’re goin' to have to learn to take what I say wi’ a grain o’ salt, dearie, or I'll be takin' advantage. I wasn’t meanin’ to say you were any kind o’ trouble at all; just that he manages to find it quicker than any other man I know. Like one o’ them fangled magnet things. Trouble just comes to him—or he goes to it, I don't know which. Ach—” She stopped and tilted her head to one side as the sound of knocking saved her from further explanations. “Now who could that be poundin’ on the door like a banshee? Like as not it’s that worthless snot o’ a son-in-law o’ mines tellin’ me he’s out o’ this or out o’ that an’ canny work another hour without what he needs. What Ned Sims needs,” she grumbled on her way out of the room, “is a clout upside the head now an’ then.”
Amanda sank down onto one of the shield-back chairs, not quite sure what to make of Mrs. Flora Reeves. She was exhausting to keep up with mentally, that much was for certain. And she suspected a good deal of the spit and polish Briar Glen had recently acquired could be attributed directly to the feisty housekeeper.
“Beggin’ pardon—” Flora was back a few minutes later. “There’s a man askin’ to see Mr. or Mrs. Tarrington. I’ve put him in the study.”
Amanda blinked stupidly for a moment. Then she realized, of course, that she was Mrs. Tarrington and would be expected to respond to such requests.
“The thing o’ it is,” Flora continued, halting Amanda halfway to her feet. “He wouldn't give’ a Christian name, said he wanted to surprise the bride an' groom, but he doesn't look the sort to be one o’ Mr. Michael’s close friends.” She paused and lowered her voice further “Would there be anyone else knowin’ he has himself a new wife this mornin’?”
Amanda grasped her meaning at once but could not think of a single solitary soul apart from Foley and the Reverend Mr. Thorne. And why would the reverend have hastened here from Jamestown unless it was to tell them there was something amiss with the marriage ceremony and they weren’t really married!
“Should I send to the stables for Mr. Michael?”
Amanda shook herself for her own foolishness. It was probably nothing more ominous than a peddlar, or a local merchant who had heard of the repairs taking place at Briar Glen and merely assumed the new owner had a wife.
“It's fine, Mrs. Reeves. No need to trouble Mr. Michael."
Nevertheless, Flora accompanied her as far as the door to the study, then hurried off down the hall, leaving Amanda alone for a moment to smooth her skirts and tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ears before she went inside. She was still reasonably calm when she opened the wide gumwood door and swept graciously across the threshold. But her hand froze on the brass latch and the greeting died in her throat when she saw who was pacing back and forth in front of the window.
It was E. Forrest Wainright, and there was not
hing friendly about his appearance at all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Natchez banker was standing in a bank of sunlight. His hair, already a painfully bright shade of red, looked as if it were blazing on fire. The lower half of his face was prickly with copper stubble; his hawkish eyes were bloodshot and the heavy smudges beneath bespoke a long, sleepless night that had not been spent in pleasurable activity. His clothing was rumpled, his cravat askew. The bottoms of his trousers were stained with mud and water, and one of his shoes was missing a heel.
“Well, well, well,” he said slowly, his eyes taking their time sweeping down the length of Amanda’s body and back up again. “So it’s true.”
“Mr. Wainright.” Amanda’s mouth was suddenly as dry as day-old ashes. “How … did you know I was here?”
“How indeed,” he mused, his eyes glittering and hard. “I might still be waiting by the side of the road, hat in hand, were it not for the rain … and this.”
He held up a small gray glove—the one she had thought she had dropped on the floor of the coach last night.
“The fresh wheel tracks were distinctive and easy enough to follow. The preacher was somewhat less cooperative, having been wakened for the second time in as many hours, but he eventually told me all I needed to know.”
Amanda tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue had been reduced to chalk as well. “Please, you must believe me. It was not planned.”
“What part of it?” Wainright asked casually. “Marrying Tarrington or deliberately humiliating me?”
“Neither,” she said. “It just … it all happened so quickly …”
Wainright’s gaze took in the almost perfect fit of the blue muslin gown, the softly brushed fall of her hair. “Yes, I can see it was all spur-of-the-moment.”
Amanda twisted a bit of lace on her sleeve and heard it tear. “Mr. Wainright—”
“You came to me, remember. You made certain promises and commitments which I, in all sincerity, was prepared to accept in exchange for relieving you and your family of considerable financial burdens. You gave your word, Amanda,” he added in an ominously low voice. “Is it of so little value?”
“I did not deliberately set out to break it. I was there last night, on the road, at midnight. Just as we had arranged.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t, was I?” he hissed. “Your lover made damned sure of that.”
“He … he wasn’t my lover,” she insisted softly.
“And none of this was planned,” Wainright said belligerently. “Not the broken axle, not the ride to Jamestown or the furtive ceremony. Not the fine house or the fine clothes … which, by the way, seem to fit remarkably well for all that you claim to have been so surprised. What game were you playing, Amanda? Was it your idea to humiliate me this way, or was it your brother’s?”
“Ryan knew nothing about it,” she cried. “He knows nothing about it. It was all my idea, and—and my fault, I suppose, that it all went so terribly wrong. You can believe me or not, but I had every intention of keeping my word. I did not know Mr. Tarrington had interfered, or that he’d had any designs toward interfering until it was too late. I saw the coach waiting where it was supposed to be waiting—”
“And you just climbed on board, drove to the nearest preacher, and married the fellow without so much as a by your leave? You’re absolutely right, Amanda,” he sneered. “I don’t believe it.”
“It wasn’t as simple as that,” she whispered.
“No, I don’t imagine it was. I imagine it was very difficult to choose which one of us—Tarrington or myself—was best suited to your purposes. Tell me … did you decide on merit alone? Was it the size of his bank account, or the size of something else that finally decided you?”
Amanda’s flush deepened. “I have apologized. I’m sorry if you find the apology unacceptable.”
“My dear Amanda, you have not begun to apologize to me. And we have not yet settled the matter of your other debts.”
“You will get your money.”
Wainright moved a menacing step closer. “Money was not the only consideration.”
“You are wrong, sir. Money was the only consideration in our bargain.”
“Why, you haughty little bitch,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing, his mouth compressing into a thin, harsh line. “Haughty and arrogant, just like your sister. Like your whole damned family. You are obviously long overdue for a hard lesson in reality. I’m going to enjoy teaching it to you, Amanda dear. I’m going to enjoy seeing you crawl to me on your hands and knees one day, begging me to take you back.”
“You shall have a very long wait ahead of you, sir,” Amanda said, with more surety than she was feeling. “And if you do not leave this instant, I will have you removed by force.”
“Bold words, Mrs. Tarrington.” He gave a nasty laugh. “But unlike you or your yellow-bellied brother, I am not a man of idle threats. When I say I am going to make you pay for this, you can believe you are going to pay.”
“And when I say you have five seconds to get out of my house,” said a deep and bone-chilling baritone from the doorway, “you had better believe you won’t be alive to count the sixth.”
Amanda whirled around. Michael Tarrington was standing in the doorway, his broad shoulders almost filling it. He was dressed in tight black breeches and a loose-fitting linen shirt. Not a hair was out of place to indicate he had hurried in any way, yet skidding to a halt directly behind him, was a huffing and puffing Flora Reeves.
“You are E. Forest Wainright, I presume?” Tarrington asked, stepping casually into the room.
Wainright’s eyes narrowed. He had heard of the rich Yankee naval officer from Boston and his dislike was instant and intense.
“You seem to think you have some business with my wife?” Tarrington asked, crossing over to his desk and helping himself to a cigar from the carved sandalwood humidor.
“You know I do,” Wainright replied evenly. “Just as I am sure you know what it is.”
Tarrington glanced at Amanda. She was pale and still as death. The way she was watching him reminded him of a small, trapped animal, poised to run for her life if she could just figure out which way to go. She was also beautiful enough to constrict the muscles in his chest, making it difficult to resist the urge to smash his fist into Wainright’s face for frightening her so.
He took his time lighting the cigar, then turned to the banker. “Refresh my memory.”
“Personal warranties aside,” Wainright said slowly, “there is a small matter of some money owing me. Mrs. Jackson had herself negotiated the terms of extending the loan on Rosalie, which I, in good faith, had agreed to accept in lieu of hard cash. Despite her heartfelt pleas and promises, she failed to meet me at the appointed time and place—but then, you already know that.”
“I know full well what Mrs. Tarrington was doing last night. As for the loan on Rosalie, keeping personal warranties aside, I’m sure I can offer you terms equally acceptable.”
“The loan is due at midnight tonight.” Wainright hissed.“Fifty thousand. In cash. Those are the only terms I will entertain.”
Michael exhaled a hazy blue cloud of smoke. He glanced once more at his wife then walked around behind his desk and took a ring of keys from the top drawer. From a deeper bottom drawer he withdrew an iron strongbox, very old to judge by its appearance, heavily scrolled and crested with a foreign coat of arms. The key he slotted into the lock was equally ornate and antiquated, for both had been salvaged off the wreck of an old galleon.
Michael opened the strongbox and began counting out a neat pile of crisp Yankee greenbacks. Wainright’s black scowl wavered between impatience and incredulity before settling once again on outrage.
“Fifty thousand,” Michael announced, sliding that amount across the desk. He stuck the cheroot back in his mouth, clamped it securely between straight white teeth, and squinted against the smoke. “Was there anything else? Any other … business … you had to discuss with either myself or
my wife?”
Wainright flushed and his eyes glittered with a new malevolence. “The money will do for now, but I am far from finished my business … with either one of you.”
He leaned forward to scoop up the greenbacks, but before he could, a hand closed securely around his wrist, stopping him cold.
“The note?” Tarrington asked.
“I don’t carry it around with me,” Wainright spat.
“And I am not in the habit of simply handing this much cash over to complete strangers.”
“You don’t seem to harbor any deep objections to marrying them.”
Michael’s expression would have frozen the flames of Hades. “I’ll overlook that for now, considering the circumstances, but I give you fair warning—I do not react well to insults. And an insult to my wife is as good as—or worse—than an insult to me.”
Wainright bore the quiet warning with the same disdainful indifference as he bore the crushing pressure around his wrist.
With his eyes still locked to Wainright's, Michael pushed a sheet of paper across the desk and flipped open the lid on an inkwell. "You can write a discharge now and sign it. I'll send one of my men into town to collect the original notes."
He released the banker’s wrist, watching through slitted eyes as the receipt was hastily scratched out and signed.
Wainright snatched up the money and tucked it into a breast pocket. His eyes swept around the richly paneled walls of the library one last time before he looked at Michael and sneered.
“You’ve done well for yourself, for a newcomer. Even so, a man in your position should know better than to make too many enemies too soon.”
“A man in your position,” Tarrington countered evenly, “should know when to leave while he still has two good legs to walk on.”
Straight For The Heart Page 23
