by Jill Barnett
“I don’t want to marry you! I want to marry John Cabot! He’s rich, you fool!”
“I have enough money to support you, George. And you don’t even have to pull your dress to your waist to wrangle an offer out of me. I told you before. I can marry you.”
“You can go to hell.”
He dropped the towel on the table with an angry thud and he stood, towering over her. “Aye, and you can go right on your back on that table.”
She wasn’t afraid of him. “That’s your way of doing everything, isn’t it? If you can’t get what you want, you just take it. I wonder if you know how very much I despise you.”
He didn’t say anything. But seconds later he grabbed her so quickly she never saw it coming. His mouth was on hers before she could take a breath.
He groaned painfully, pulled back and swore. She shoved him away from her and wiped her mouth. She didn’t care that he’d stopped, that he’d hurt himself. He’d humiliated her.
They just glared at each other. The air between them turned wicked. He took a step toward her.
She grabbed the nearest thing: her fork.
She waved it in front of his bruised face. “Stay back.”
His gaze flicked from her to the fork and back to her again.
“You touch me, you come near me, and hell and all its tortures will be heaven compared to one minute with me and this fork.”
She backed away from him. Then she was running up the stairs and away as quickly as she could.
Eachann dumped the rocks out on the table. He spent a minute or two filling the towel with fresh cool rocks, then he stuck it back on his face, scowling at the world in general.
David closed the door to the cellar with a hard slam that made Eachann turn around, the towel still pressed to one side of his face.
David just stared at him, dumbfounded. “Did I hear that right?”
“What?”
“On her back on the table?”
“It would be a good place for her.”
David gave a short laugh. “You’re a fool.”
Eachann’s expression grew belligerent. “She’s causing trouble.”
“The trouble isn’t her. The trouble is you. You’re confused.”
“I can’t wait to hear why,” he muttered.
“You’re treating the wrong ache.”
Eachann scowled at him from his one good eye.
“That cold towel shouldn’t be on your swollen face. You ought to put it between your legs.”
Chapter 30
I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing.
—Jonathan Swift
Amy awoke to the sound of pacing. She blinked a few times because everything was a bright blur.
The first thing she recognized was Calum. He walked from the bureau to the window, then back to the bureau, back to the window, then back to the bureau. He never looked at her because he was staring at the floor as he walked, his hands shoved into his pockets.
It was like watching a metronome.
He stopped at the window and removed his spectacles. He began polishing them with the curtain. He held the glasses up to the light, then polished them some more.
After hooking the stems over his ears, he used a finger to shove them into place on the bridge of his nose. His hands went back into his pockets and he just stared outside.
The windowpanes were as foggy on the inside as the air was outside. A drop of moisture dripped down the glass. Calum reached out and caught it with a finger, lifted it into the misty daylight and seemed fascinated with the way it ran around his finger.
For some reason Amy couldn’t explain, she wanted to watch him waste time a little longer. He began to draw vertical lines in the window mist. Then he did horizontal ones. He filled in the squares with little markings she couldn’t make out.
She wondered if he was even aware of what he was doing. He seemed so far away, so preoccupied, as if his head were in some different place, a place that must have been bleak and dismal if she were to go by his expression.
She wanted to go touch him. He looked like he needed touching. She knew what it was like to feel lost in your own skin. And that was how he looked. Lost inside.
She got up carefully, and as silently as a mouse she padded over to where he stood. He was leaning against the window frame with one broad shoulder while he wrote intently on the glass.
She reached out and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin.
He hollered so loudly he scared her half to death and she screamed.
“Amy?” His hands closed over her shoulders.
A second later he was holding her so closely that her palms were flat against his chest. She looked up at him.
His face was unreadable. His eyes were dark and watchful.
She reached up and touched his jaw. It was rough and prickly with black whiskers that shadowed the hollows of his cheeks and grew so thickly on his chin.
He still stared down at her. His gaze seemed to soak her up; it went from her eyes, to her nose, and then he stared at her mouth for the longest time.
There was a flash of naked longing in those dark eyes of his. She doubted he even knew it was there.
But she did and she lifted her face toward his.
His lips touched hers, just barely, lightly, as if he had to test the feel of them, as if she would crack in two if he kissed her too hard.
As kisses went, it wasn’t a long one or a passionate one. It wasn’t practiced. He didn’t rub his lips on hers really hard like William did.
It was just a gentle intimate touch of their lips.
Calum broke off the kiss and looked down at her, his expression suddenly confused and almost angry-looking.
She placed her fingertips to his lips. “You kissed me.
“Aye.” His voice was little more than a rasp, as if admitting what he had done was difficult for him.
“Are you angry?”
“No. But I should not have done that, Amy-my-lass.”
She liked it when he called her that. It sounded special and different, something that was only for her. “Why shouldn’t you have kissed me? I was willing.”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh.” She looked away, stared down at her bare toes. “You didn’t like it.”
“I like it too much.”
She smiled and looked up at him again, moving her mouth toward his. “Good. Let’s do it again.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to do it again. He looked like he wanted to shrink into the ground.
She realized what she had said. It was like being with William again. She wished the floor would just open up and swallow her. Suddenly she felt as gauche as William and his cruel friends had thought her to be.
She could feel Calum’s gaze on her, so she turned away. “I’m sorry. I understand. I make those kinds of mistakes all the time. I . . . I.” Her voice cracked. She was going to cry.
He swore under his breath, then ran a hand through his hair. He turned back to her. “Amy.”
She stayed where she was.
He reached up and took off his glasses and tucked them in his pocket. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. He kissed her again, harder this time and longer before he pulled back. “Open your mouth.”
She blinked up at him. “What?”
“I said ‘Open your mouth’.”
“Why?”
“So I can kiss you.”
“You just kissed me.”
“I know.”
“My mouth wasn’t open then.”
“I know.”
“Then why do I have to open my mouth?”
“Because I’m going to put my tongue inside.”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing. “That’s really funny, Calum. Really funny.” She began to giggle. She looked up at his face. He’d kept it so serious and that made her laugh even more. “You know, I think that is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I mea
n just think about how stupid and silly that is.” She shook her head and repeated, “Put your tongue in my mouth.” She broke into another fit of giggles.
She patted him on his cheek. “I’m glad you can make me laugh. And you can stop trying to look so serious. It worked.”
“But Amy—”
The door opened and Georgina came inside.
“You’re up!”
Amy nodded. With a moment of regret she felt Calum’s hands slip away from her shoulders.
Georgina came toward her. “How is your side?”
“It hurts. Why?”
“A gunshot should hurt.”
“A gunshot?” She blinked, then placed her hand on her ribs. It wasn’t as sore as her side felt last night. It had been a sharp pain, like a cramp that was constant. This was just a dull aching like when you pulled a muscle or ran into something really hard.
Georgina just stared at her as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Amy looked to Calum. His face was suddenly flushed. He fumbled with his spectacles for a moment.
Georgina placed her hands on her hips like a mother hen. She gave Calum a look that said she thought he was an idiot. “You didn’t tell her?”
“There wasn’t time.”
“How can you not have time to tell her what happened? It’s not that difficult. She wakes up and you say four words. ‘Amy. You were shot.’ “
When he didn’t respond she turned back to Amy. “You’re wearing a bandage.”
Amy felt sheepish.
“You didn’t feel anything?”
“Well, yes, but not in my side.” As soon as she said it, she thought she heard Calum bite back a small groan.
They all stood there in rather telling silence.
Finally Georgina shook her head and started to guide Amy back to the bed. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“I’m okay. Really. I am.”
“No, I want to check and see if you are still bleeding and then you need something to eat.”
“I’ll leave you two alone.” Calum moved to the door so swiftly you’d have thought he was being chased by the hounds of hell.
But when he opened the door, he paused and looked back at Amy with the oddest expression.
She smiled and gave him a little wave of her fingers.
He stood there as if he wanted to say something serious and important.
She waited, but a second later he just turned and left.
Chapter 31
Nothing that is can pause or stay;
The moon will wax, the moon will wane.
The mist and clouds will turn to rain,
The rain to mist and cloud again,
Tomorrow will be today.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The fog stuck around for two full weeks.
During that time, Georgina Bayard had thought up, practiced, and discarded over a hundred truly hard-to-swallow excuses to give John Cabot about where she had been.
Eachann MacLachlan’s face had healed, but his obnoxious personality had only gotten worse. Amy Emerson learned that people did kiss with their tongues. And Calum MacLachlan had developed a new chart: one to graph and do analysis on the course of seduction.
When the fog finally left the Maine coast, it did so quickly. It was almost as if someone had snapped their fingers and poof, it was gone as suddenly as the Emerson heiress.
Along with the clear blue sky and the ocean breeze came news to Arrant Island that The New Hebrides had landed in Bath with the last shipload of Scots immigrants. Calum spent the morning loading the supplies on the coaster. Eachann was at his stables. Amy moped around the house and Georgina lolled away the morning in the bathtub.
Georgina stood by the tub and dried herself off. She wrapped a thick towel around her, while she tried to decide what to wear.
She had two choices of clothing: both of them bad. She wasn’t sure which one made her look less like a dairy maid.
She held up the skirt and shirtwaist. They were brown. Ugly dirt brown. She held the dress up and stood back and looked in the mirror. My God . . . who could wear this color? It was a shade somewhere between barn straw and pea soup, and when she held it up to her face it turned her skin sallow and yellowish gray. Even her eyes didn’t look like they had color. The dress turned them from blue to dull gray.
By process of elimination—a short process—she wore the shirtwaist and skirt. She brushed her hair until it was slick and shiny and the same glossy black color of a brand cabriolet, the kind with carmine trim and silver moldings. The perfect carriage. She would have John buy one just to carry her to her wedding.
She braided her hair and then twisted it up, pinched her cheeks and bit her lips. She was ready. She left the bathing room and walked down the hallway.
From behind one bedroom door she could hear Amy crying. She knocked on it firmly, then just opened it without an invitation. Amy was lying across her bed with her face buried in her arms. She was sobbing for all she was worth.
“For heaven’s sake, Amy, you’ll make your skin blotchy and your nose bright red.”
“I don’t care,” Amy whined into the mattress.
“Well I do. Get up.”
Amy rolled over and rested one arm dramatically over her eyes. “I have nothing to get up for.”
That million or so dollars in the bank would get me up. Georgina stood there.
After a moment of silence Amy peeked out from under her arm. She stared at her for the longest time, then said, “You look pretty.”
Georgina patted the tight twist in the back of her hair. “Yes, well, as good as one can look wearing clothing the color of barn fodder.” She dug into the pocket of her ugly skirt and pulled out a clean nose rag. “Here, dry your eyes. We’re going home. Thank God. There’s no reason to cry.”
“There is for me.”
Good grief. The woman has a bank full of money and she doesn’t even want to go home to it.
Georgina would go home and roll in it or spend an hour with her little blue bank book pressed to her heart. She scowled down at Amy. She’d been sulking ever since she got up and saw the sunshine. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing to go back to.”
“How many homes do you have?”
She sighed as if it were such a burden. “Seven.”
Georgina rolled her eyes. “Seems to me one of those might be preferable to this.”
Amy was stubbornly quiet.
Apparently not. Georgina tried another tactic. “What about your executors? By now they’ll be frantically trying to locate you.”
“Yes, they probably will. But not because I matter. They’ll just bribe someone else to take me off their hands. I don’t care if they ever find me.” Amy’s expression was mulish, a look Georgina certainly knew well. “I don’t want to go home. My homes are cold and empty. I don’t want those attorneys to handle my life anymore.”
“Look, Amy, you’ll be fine. I have a splendid idea. After I marry John Cabot, I’ll make it a point to introduce you to someone who won’t marry you for your money.”
“I don’t want to marry some rich man.”
“Think about this. If you marry someone who has more money than you, then you won’t have to worry about someone marrying you for your money.”
Amy’s face grew very distant.
Georgina waited, then asked, “Are you listening to me?”
Amy glanced up at her. “I was just thinking. If someone doesn’t know I have any money, then they can’t marry me for it, can they?”
Georgina had a sinking feeling. “No, but why would you want to marry someone poor?”
“I didn’t say someone poor. I just don’t want money to get in the way.”
“Get in the way?” Georgina began to laugh. “I wish.”
Amy sat stiff as a pine tree. “The executors control what I do, but if I could gi
ve you my money I would.”
Georgina stopped laughing. “You really mean that. You would give it to me, wouldn’t you?”
Amy nodded. “But they’d never let me even try.” She took a deep breath, looked Georgina straight in the eye and said, “I’ve made a decision. If I’m going to marry anyone, I want to marry Calum.”
Now Georgina wanted to cry. She plopped down on the bed next to Amy. “I was afraid of this. This is not a smart decision for you.” When Amy said nothing she asked, “How does he feel?”
“I don’t know how he feels.” Amy had a lost look, but then she brightened. “He likes to kiss me.”
“If kisses meant a life-long commitment there would be no such thing as a spinster.” Georgina thought about Amy’s situation for a second, then asked, “Are you certain this is what you want?”
Amy nodded.
“Absolutely certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you’ll just have to get him to bring it up. The trick is to make him think it was his idea.” Georgina pulled her knees up on the bed, linked her hands over them, and got comfortable, figuring this kind of lesson could take a while. She looked at Amy and said, “Let me tell you all about men.”
Amy leaned closer, ready to listen. Her expression was intent enough Georgina figured she really did want Calum MacLachlan. She began her sage woman-to-woman advice with the world the way she saw it.
“First of all, you must understand men.”
Amy groaned like someone had twisted her fingers off.
“Don’t get all worried.” Georgina raised a hand. “They aren’t that complicated.”
“They seem complicated to me.”
“They aren’t. Here’s a perfect example.” Georgina gave her an easy smile. “How many men chase after homely women?”
“None.”
“Unfortunately, that’s right. Men want a girl to have beauty instead of brains.”
