by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
She had just finished tying up her fourth when she all but leaped from the four-poster bed. A pair of silvery blue eyes was fixed upon her.
“You’re awake.”
He said nothing, only continued to stare up at her.
“Does it hurt?” She held aloft the needle and thread as though to explain the grounds for his discomfort.
He answered in a croaky rasp, “Like hell.”
“I am sorry,” she said, wincing with regret. “But you need at least another two or three, I do believe.”
His lids closed. “Go ahead.”
He did not reopen his eyes while she finished her stitching, his breathing so even that she wondered if he had lost consciousness or fallen asleep.
However, when she reared back to examine her needlework, he was again watching her.
“I’m done,” she told him.
“Good.”
She placed the back of her hand against his stubbled cheek. The skin burned with fever.
“You’re very ill.” She stood up from the side of the bed.
“Eliza?”
“She’s with Mrs. Murphy.” Penny, careful not to jostle his head, adjusted the pillow beneath his neck. “Do you know what happened?”
He did not answer for a few seconds, then said, “I kissed you.”
Heat flowed into her cheeks, and she straightened her skirts to give herself something to do.
“After that,” she prompted, feigning composure.
“Kissing you is all . . .” His voice faded as his eyes again fell closed. “All that . . . I remember.”
Penny stood there, her pulse drumming. Fear crept into her thoughts. Surely Josh was too strong to be done in by a fever and a knock to the head. Surely.
But his unusual pallor worried her. Who knew how long he had lain in the creek, pelted by the cold rain? And hadn’t she seen men healthier than this suddenly succumb to mysterious illness?
When Macgorrie returned, he and Penny argued over who would assume the role of nurse. At first Mac kicked up a fuss, but he eventually conceded the argument when she pointed out that he couldn’t be hobbling up and down the stairs all day, carrying pots of hot water and bowls of broth.
And as Penny pointed out, her limited experience aside, she had learned a few lessons about doctoring over the years. Keep the patient warm and out of drafts. White vinegar worked wonders for almost any ailment. And encourage liquid nourishment such as weak teas and bouillons.
Josh, however, did not wake again until late that evening, after sleeping fourteen hours straight. By that time, a frantic Penny had been ready to pull out her hair, not knowing if she ought to be worried by his lengthy sleep or to be thankful he was resting peacefully.
Earlier she had found, tucked away in the parlor’s library, a dusty copy of A Compilation of Household Receipts. She was flipping through the yellowed pages, hoping to find some miraculous remedy, when a low groan drew her out of her chair.
“Josh?”
She touched his forehead. Was it her imagination or was he warmer than he’d been a few hours before?
He stirred awake, his gaze cloudy and unfocused.
“Is the lamp too bright? May I get you some broth? How do you feel?”
He blinked at her battery of questions. Then, slowly drawing out each syllable, he answered, “No. Yes. Utter shit.”
Fighting back a relieved smile, she hurried to fetch a cup of beef broth. Then, with some difficulty, she propped him up with another pillow before pulling her chair closer to the bed.
As she had expected, he tried to grab the spoon from her grasp, but she pushed his hand aside with ease. He was too weak to put up much protest.
She fed him close to half the broth before he croaked, “Enough.”
“A little more,” she coaxed.
“No.” With his jaw set stubbornly, he might have been a boy Eliza’s age, except for his heavily muscled arms and two days’ growth of dark beard.
Acquiescing reluctantly, Penny exchanged the cup for a clean damp towel, which she used to cool his neck and forehead. As she dabbed at his brow, a shock of chestnut hair tumbled forward, and she tenderly smoothed it back.
“Who are you?”
Penny’s hand froze just above his ear. Goodness, did he not remember? Had his memory been damaged? She had heard of that sort of thing happening to soldiers in the war, particularly where a head wound was involved.
“My name is Penelope Martin.”
“Yes, yes, I know your name.” He gave a weary sigh of annoyance. “But who are you? Where did you come from, Penelope Martin?”
“Ah.” She cocked her head to one side, feeling a kink settle in her neck from sitting so long in the chair. “It’s really not a very interesting story.”
“Indulge me.”
Penny feared that she had already indulged him too much the other night, when she had allowed him to kiss her senseless. Indeed, she had allowed him more liberties than she had ever allowed any other man.
“If you insist,” she said, shrugging. “Though don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let’s see . . . I was born outside Hampton, Virginia, where my father was a sharecropper. A pretty poor one. My mom ran off when I was still in swaddling, so it was just Pa, Lewis, and me. When my pa died, Lewis took me with him to Boston. And that’s where I grew up. End of tale.”
“Who was Lewis?”
Penny’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “He was either a slave or a servant—I don’t rightly know. But he was my closest, dearest friend.”
“And what did you do in Boston?”
Penny rose from the chair. “I learned when it was time to stop answering questions,” she said, moving the pillow so that Josh was in a reclining position.
He narrowed his eyes at her, but she ignored him.
“You need your rest.”
He grumbled beneath his breath, but before Penny had settled back into her chair and drawn her shawl across her lap, he had fallen back to sleep.
Throughout the night, his condition grew worse, his feverish mutterings hoarse as he tossed and turned, mangling the bedclothes. His flesh was so hot that Penny would have sworn her fingers blistered when she touched him. Up and down the stairs she raced nearly every hour, fetching ice so that the towels she used to bathe him remained cold.
Just as the first rosy glimmers of dawn appeared in the east, his fever broke. Perspiration beaded his skin, and he suddenly seemed to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Penny had never known such relief. During the night, she had been tormented by the question Eliza had posed. What would become of the child if something befell Josh? Would Eliza remain here in this house, to be raised by Macgorrie? Had Josh made arrangements for the girl? Did he have family to whom she could go? Penny could not bear the thought of Eliza growing up orphaned and alone. She knew too well how difficult such a life could be.
And as much as she worried about Eliza’s fate, Penny couldn’t pretend that she didn’t harbor her own private, selfish concerns. What she had felt the other evening in Josh’s arms had been indescribable, unlike anything she had felt before. To be truthful, the depth of her feelings had frightened her, the way she had responded to him without reservation. As if she were meant to be held by him, meant to be touched by him, meant to be with him.
It wasn’t as if she were some green girl who had no familiarity with the opposite sex. She had worked beside men her entire life and had rebuffed a few bold characters who had succeeded in stealing a kiss in a corner. Some of the bolder ones, like young Thomas Bailey, had tried to steal more than a kiss, and he had been half the reason she’d had to flee Boston. He’d not taken kindly to the black eye she’d given him last spring.
Yet her experiences had not all been wrestling matches. Since becoming a woman, she had doled out one or two kisses of her own free will. But those encounters had been basically meaningless, particularly when compared to the emotional and physical response she had known with Josh.
A wiser woman would have made
herself forget the incident in the dark hallway. In fact, throughout the night as she had tended him, she had warned herself not to make too much of it. A kiss was not a declaration of undying devotion, and she had no reason to believe that Josh Cooper was interested in anything more than a stolen moment in the moonlight. But couldn’t she hope that perhaps he had felt as she had felt, that what they had shared had been something unique? Something special?
Chapter Six
“You’re not as good-looking as my other nurse, you know.”
“Aye, and you don’t smell as good as she does neither,” Macgorrie pointed out with a disdainful sniff.
“That may be,” Josh admitted, warily eyeing the bowl and cloth in Macgorrie’s gnarled fingers. “But there is no way in hell that I’m letting you bathe me like I’m some kind of invalid.”
“Well, what else are ye, man? Ye’ve not left this bloody bed for three days.”
Josh pointed to the closed bedroom door, pleased to discover that he had the strength to lift his arm. Yesterday, when he had finally regained consciousness, he’d been too weak to even blow his own nose.
“It’s that redheaded tyrant who’s to blame. She’s keeping me prisoner.”
Macgorrie nodded knowingly. “She’s a strong-willed one, she is.”
“Do you see how she refuses to bring me even a scrap of clothing? It’s unseemly, I tell you .”
“That’s because yer clothes are in scraps. I had to cut them off ye. And she knows it’s the only way to keep ye from gettin’ outta bed.”
Josh’s glare could have singed the white whiskers from Macgorrie’s chin. “You could bring me something else to wear.”
“Oh, no, ye’re not getting me into trouble. I’m scared of what the lass might do. She made it perfectly clear—ye’re not to get up until she gives the word.”
“Well, hear these words, Seamus Macgorrie: You’re not bathing me,” Josh repeated, snatching the wet cloth from the man as he approached the bed.
Macgorrie waved his hand in front of his hooked nose. “Well, someone is going to have to see to it.”
“I can do it myself.” And Josh proved the point by wiping his bare chest with the damp towel.
“Fine. And while ye’re taking care of yer stench, I’ll bring in fresh linens.”
“Might I at least have a pair of drawers?” Josh demanded.
“Faith, I never knew ye to be such a prude,” was the Irishman’s parting shot as he left the room.
Although he had to pause more than once to catch his breath, Josh did succeed in bathing himself. Afterward, despite his exertion, he actually felt better, well enough to think about food.
In timely answer to his prayers, a soft knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” he called, sitting up in anticipation. He wanted to believe he was eager for a meal, but the sudden stirring of his stomach had little to do with conventional hunger.
In came Penny, her hair piled in charming disarray, her eyes a brilliant leaf green, albeit shadowed from evident lack of sleep. On a tray, she carried the ever-present cup of broth.
“What’s that?”
“Beef broth,” she cheerily replied.
His brows drew together, causing him to flinch slightly as his stitches pulled. “Thanks very much, but I’m ready for some real food. Ask Macgorrie to rustle up a lamb chop, will you?”
“No solid food yet. According to the medical handbooks, you are to remain on liquids until tomorrow.”
“Medical—” Josh sputtered. “Why the hell are you reading medical handbooks?”
Her smile brimmed over with unruffled tolerance. “Because I can.”
Silenced for the moment, Josh could only scowl as she took a seat beside him.
“I don’t want broth.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’m starving, for God’s sake. I need food.”
“Well, then.” She lifted the spoon in invitation. “Here you go.”
“I told you. I don’t want that.” He knew he was behaving like a peevish child, but he hated being so damned helpless.
“I don’t think you realize just how sick you have been. A lamb chop might sound appealing, but I doubt you’re ready.”
“I’ve recovered much faster than you realize,” he retorted, adjusting the bed linens to better disguise his body’s very healthy reaction to her thigh near his. Then, wrinkling his nose, he peered into the unappetizing broth. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll make you a bargain.”
One auburn brow rose speculatively.
“I’ll drink that god-awful stuff if you finish your story.”
“You must truly be bored.”
He reached for the steaming cup.
She hesitated before handing it to him. “What do you want to know?”
“What did you do once you arrived in Boston?”
She took a long, deep breath, as though she were dusting off her memories. “Lewis found work cooking in a saloon, the Pig and Whistle. Unlike me, he knew his way around a kitchen. I washed dishes, mopped floors, ran errands. He and I shared a little room abovestairs—”
“You shared a room?” Josh interrupted.
“For heaven’s sake, I was just a scrawny little thing—about eleven, I guess—so what did anyone care? At least, no one in that part of town gave it much mind. Anyway, by the time Lewis died, I was working as a serving girl, so Mr. Bailey, the owner, kept me on.”
Josh sipped from the cup, his expression reflective. “I still don’t see how a serving girl from the Pig and Whistle became my daughter’s governess.”
“Ah, that was simply good fortune. You see, Mr. Shakely, a regular customer, had at one time or another worked for the Boston Primary School Committee. He also happened to be a distant cousin of Seattle’s famous widow Murphy. So when Eliza decided to advertise for a schoolteacher, Mrs. Murphy sent the letter of inquiry to Mr. Shakely.”
“And he passed it on to you?”
Penny glanced to her lap. “He knew how desperately I wanted to get out of Boston.”
“Why were you so desperate?” Josh asked, as she slid from the side of the bed.
“Have you been to Boston?”
Her flippant tone didn’t fool Josh for an instant, but he chose not to press her. It was easy enough to imagine what challenges a young, pretty girl working and living alone above a tavern might have faced.
“Where are you going?”
She had collected the empty cup and was headed for the door.
“Well,” she said slowly, casting him a teasing, sideways smile, “since you’ve been such an obedient patient, I thought I’d see if I might find that lamb chop for your dinner.”
Josh wanted to ask her to stay, but bit his tongue as the words surfaced. What the heck was the matter with him? He was acting like a needy child . . . or a lovesick swain.
Penny was still smiling when, through the window, she saw a figure briskly approaching the house. With her hand on the knob, she opened the door as a gentleman, fortyish and heavily bearded, raised his knuckles to knock.
“Good afternoon.”
“Afternoon, ma’am. Mr. Swensen here to see Mr. Cooper.” He doffed his straw hat, his demeanor businesslike yet friendly. To Penny’s eyes, he looked like a barrister or an accountant. Not like the typical man one found working in Seattle.
“I am sorry, Mr. Swensen, but Mr. Cooper is not able to receive guests today. May I help you?”
The man handed her an envelope. “If you’d be kind enough to see that he gets this right away. Mr. Cooper had asked me to take care of booking a passage on the Mary Woodruff and she’s pulling out tomorrow. I meant to get this to him days ago, but my courier boy was down with the measles and I plumb forgot about it.”
Penny felt her smile grow stiff as she accepted the proffered envelope. “Yes. Of course.”
“Thank you, ma’am, and have yourself a nice day.”
Penny murmured a faint good-bye as she shut the door. A chill raced thr
ough her. The Mary Woodruff.
With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope, certain what she would find there, but praying that she might be wrong. That the papers were meant for someone else. Her heart sank, and she felt as if she had taken a punch to her middle.
She was going back to Boston.
Although Josh got his lamb chop for dinner that night, he couldn’t enjoy it. Macgorrie delivered the meal without volunteering information as to Penny’s whereabouts, which forced an exasperated Josh to inquire outright, since he’d not seen her since midday.
“Where’s my jailkeeper?” he finally asked, cutting into the juicy chop.
“She’s gone over to the widow’s to visit with Eliza.”
“So I guess she believes I’m going to live?”
“I guess so,” Macgorrie agreed, with an unconcerned shrug of his stooped shoulders.
By late evening, Josh was wondering if he was strong enough to fetch her from Mrs. Murphy’s himself. Unfortunately, however, he had to discard the idea when even threats of dismemberment failed to persuade Mac to bring him clothing.
“All right, Macgorrie, I can see the woman has put the fear of God in you, but let me tell you this: If I don’t have a pair of trousers waiting for me when I wake up in the morning, there’s a certain son of Ireland who’s going to have hell to pay.”
The other man merely rolled his eyes, muttered something about “bullyin’ an old cripple,” and then shuffled out of the room.
Josh woke with a start. He had been dreaming about Penny, and in the dream he had felt ridiculously happy. They had been standing together in an open field. Penny had been wearing the ivory dress and had been smiling. For him. Then, beneath the bright summer sky, she had begun to remove the ivory dress. Slowly. For him.
And suddenly he had come awake, disoriented and aroused, to the heavy blackness of a cloudless night. The dream had seemed so real to him that he would have sworn he could smell the lavender water that she wore. He lay in bed for two heartbeats before he realized that it was not merely his imagination.
His hand snaked out and grabbed hold of a wrist. She gasped.
“What are you doing?” he asked huskily.
