She placed two fingers against his lips. "I don't want to hear about the other women you've been with any more than you wanted to hear about other men in my life."
Sam wondered if she realized what she was admitting. In order to feel jealousy, she had to care about him. He was amazed how good that possibility made him feel. An unsettling thought crept in on the heels of that good feeling, though. Was he getting deeply enmeshed in something he might not be able to get out of? Or might not want to get out of?
"When are you returning to Maddox?" he asked, seeking safer ground until he knew where he stood.
"Tonight. I usually spend the weekends there. My two assistants, Myra Overton and Belle Watling, work in the shop on Saturdays, so I don't stay in the apartment on Friday nights. I've found that when I do, I end up in the shop."
"You do your detective work at Maddox on the weekends?"
"Mostly. Occasionally I've stayed there during the week, if business is slow and I don't need to make candy in the evenings."
He planted his hands on her hips. "Do you want some company?"
She met his gaze. "To search for the journal or to stay over the weekend?"
"Both." His thumbs stroked back and forth across her lower stomach. "As for time, we won't be filming much at night. I can be with you then."
"Sam, a friend of mine who does food setups for advertisements and occasionally for feature films has told me what the schedules are like. The hours can be backbreaking when everything runs smoothly and even worse when there are problems. Your film has to be your first priority, not searching for something that might not even exist."
He gave her an odd look. "My priorities have changed since I met you."
"You don't sound too happy about that."
He leaned down to kiss her briefly. "I'm not sure what I am when I'm with you. One of these days I'm going to have to figure it out."
"Or let time take care of it."
"What does time have to do with our relationship?"
"Think about it. Time is the one thing we're eventually going to run out of when your film is completed."
For a man who was known for sticking to schedules and hating to waste time, Sam suddenly wished he could just stop all the clocks. Minutes and hours were ticking away, drawing the day that he would finish the Battle of Fredericksburg closer and closer.
Like Scarlett in Melanie Southern's favorite book, Sam decided, he would think about leaving Brett and ending their relationship tomorrow.
He kissed her again. "Help me with the dishes, then we'll get going."
Hours later Brett watched the transformation happen and still didn't believe it was happening. When she'd arrived at Maddox Hill a little after six that evening, there hadn't been any vehicles parked in the space for visitors' cars and buses. Since the house was closed to the public at five o'clock, she would have been surprised to see any, but that was before her agreement with Sam. She had expected to see some of his crew or Darren or Sam himself already there. When he'd left her that morning, Sam had said he was going to round up the crew and send them out to the plantation. She hadn't heard from him or seen him the rest of the day.
She had carried her satchel of personal belongings up to her room, and there she had happened to look out the window. A large van had been pulling up to the first barn. Movement farther up the lane had drawn her gaze, and she'd seen a white truck with the Wild Oats Productions logo sprawled across its side. The truck drove ponderously toward the second barn.
After that, Brett witnessed a steady stream of vehicles of all kinds and shapes. Since none of them came to the house, she felt relatively comfortable taking a shower without fearing some stranger would come strolling in. Ten minutes later she walked out of the steamy bathroom and glanced through the window that faced the meadow behind the cookhouse.
She blinked, then looked again. The reenactors had wasted little time setting up their encampment. Several rows of A-tents had been erected and men in gray uniforms were walking around. She knew from Myra's descriptions of previous reenactments that the men always wore their uniforms, and the women and children were always attired in appropriate mid-nineteenth-century clothing.
Several men had made fires in pits and had set black kettles to one side of the flames. A number of rifles had been arranged in clusters in tepee fashion, their bayonets pointing into the air. Haversacks and knapsacks were on the ground or hanging from tent poles.
Brett marveled at the speed and efficiency of the reenactors and was beginning to understand why Sam had been so pleased about their assistance.
She walked over to another window and looked out at the barns, where an astonishing number of cars and vans were parked. Like bees around a hive, people were dashing here and there, some carrying wiring, lights, and boxes of all sizes.
She didn't see either Sam or his producer friend, Darren Fentress.
They wouldn't be in their rooms since she hadn't shown them which ones they were supposed to use. Which reminded her, she had better check to make sure the housekeeper had prepared those rooms. Brett had called Mrs. Arthur that morning to tell her about the impending invasion. But first, she'd better get dressed.
Five minutes later, as she was tucking the tail of her dark blue shirt into the waistband of her jeans, she heard footsteps in the hall. She had one sleeve turned up and was starting on the other one when she heard Sam call her name.
Actually, he yelled her name. She shouted back, "What!"
Her door opened almost immediately. Sam stood on the threshold holding a carryall, a look of disappointment on his handsome face. "Damn, you're dressed."
"I thought it was preferable to have something on with your crew in the house." Her eyes widened when he set the carryall inside the door. "What is that?"
"I travel light."
"What makes you think you're going to travel in here?"
He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping at the queen-size canopied bed covered with an antique brocade spread. "I plan to travel as far as your bed later tonight."
"You expect to sleep here?"
"Is this where you'll be sleeping?"
"Yes."
"Then it's where I'll be."
"Sam, you can't sleep here."
"Why not? The bed is big enough."
Brett walked quickly to the window and gestured outside. "What about all those people out there?"
He shook his head and grinned. "There isn't enough room for them too."
"That's not what I meant."
"Darren's fixing up some sleeping areas in the barn for those who don't have their own trailers." He joined her at the window and looked down at all the activity. "Some of the crew have made plans to camp out with the reenactors."
"Bivouac."
"What?"
"It's bivouac, not camp out."
"Whatever. As I told you earlier, we'll need four bedrooms." He named the members of the crew who would use the rooms, including Darren. He didn't mention himself. "You said that wouldn't be a problem."
"I thought one of the rooms would be yours."
He leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms over his chest. "What's the matter, Brett? Are you regretting last night?"
She took a few steps away before turning back to face him. "Of course not. That isn't the issue."
"Then what is?"
"You might be used to this type of thing, Sam, but I'm not."
There was a cool edge in his voice. "Exactly what type of thing are you talking about?" he asked, a cool edge to his voice. "The fact that we're sleeping together?"
"As I've mentioned at least a hundred times, everything you do is news. All I had to do yesterday was go to the bank, and I heard where you were and what you were doing. I had enough notoriety after my mother's death, and I hated the invasion of my privacy, the questions, the innuendos, the rumors. Everyone I know in town is going to have a field day once it's known I'm your latest mistress."
He moved so quickly, Bre
tt didn't have time to react or retreat. He gripped her upper arms and held her firmly in front of him. "I'm thirty-eight years old, Brett. I'm not going to lie to you and say I've never been with another woman, but for your information, I've never had a mistress. I have to put up with the garbage the press prints about my private life if I'm seen with a woman, but I won't tolerate you thinking I'm some sort of sleazeball sex maniac who has to have a lover on every film location."
Brett was astounded to see the hurt expression in his eyes. Knowing she could cause him pain was a humbling experience.
"I'm not ashamed of being involved with you, Sam. Please don't think that. But our feelings won't matter to those people who will enjoy talking about us."
"Our feelings are the only ones that do matter. We can't be responsible for what anyone else thinks or says."
"I know everything you're saying is true. I just had a picture in my mind of the expression on your crew's faces at the breakfast table in the morning."
"People are going to talk about us no matter what we do, Brett. I could sleep in town at the hotel, and you could stay out here, and they'll still think whatever they want, whether it's true or not."
Brett knew he was right. The shock of discovering his intention to stay in her room was wearing off, and in its place was a growing excitement that she could sleep in Sam's arms every night until he left Fredericksburg. She could have a few magical memories to recall after he completed his film and left town. Having to endure a few sly looks and people whispering about her as she passed by would be a small price to pay for the time she could spend with him.
She reached up to touch his face. "I'm sorry, Sam. I guess it was the shock of seeing you put your case in my room."
He placed his hand over hers. "I shouldn't have taken it for granted you would want me to stay with you. But we aren't children, Brett. We don't have to live by anybody's rules but our own. I want to be with you. My schedule during the next couple of weeks is going to be hectic, and about the only time we'll have to be together will be at night. I don't want to give up even an hour of being with you if I can help it."
Brett wished with every fiber of her being that she could believe he was as emotionally involved with her as he was physically drawn to her. Now that it was too late, she wondered how big a mistake it had been for them to become lovers before getting to know each other better.
Taking her silence as consent, he slipped his arms around her. "I should have discussed the sleeping arrangements in more detail with you. I admit that after last night, I had the impression you wouldn't mind repeating the lovemaking we shared."
"So it wasn't just sleeping you had in mind when you put your case in my room?"
He bent his head so he could nuzzle the soft curve of her neck. "Lord, you drive me crazy, Red." He felt her tremble when he nibbled her shoulder, then soothed the spot with his tongue. Lifting his head, he framed her face with his hands. "And it's not just terrific sex, Brett. I like being with you. I enjoy hearing your voice and the comfort I feel when you're in the same room. No woman has ever had that kind of power over me before."
His admission was more arousing than the feel of his hard frame pressed against her. And she had an admission of her own to make. "The way you make me feel scares me, Sam."
"What are you afraid of?" he asked with a puzzled frown. "I'm not going to ask anything of you that I won't give in return. We're good together. We have a number of interests in common. Those things are a good start."
How could she tell him she was very much afraid that she was falling in love with him? she wondered. He'd given no indication that he wanted that sort of commitment from her. Nor that he was willing to give her one in return.
"I've been accustomed to controlling my own life, making my own decisions," she said. "Then you entered my life, smiled that devilish grin, and touched me more than physically. In the span of only a few days, I've not only fallen into bed with you at the first opportunity, I've allowed you and your crew to take over Maddox Hill. I don't seem to know my own mind."
He shook his head. "None of those things are wrong, Brett." He stroked his thumbs across her bottom lip. "I've never felt anything more right in my life. Trust me and trust yourself."
She laid her head on his chest and felt his arms holding her securely against him. If they could only stay like this instead of having to face others and the future.
SEVEN
As Brett turned onto the lane leading to Maddox Hill the following evening, she thought of the difference between coming home to an empty house and knowing Sam would be there when she arrived. She reminded herself not to get accustomed to the warm feeling of anticipation that was tingling through her and quickening her heart rate. The day would come when the house would again be empty except for her dog and Mrs. Arthur.
But they weren't Sam. And Sam would soon be gone.
And she was desperately afraid her heart would be broken.
She glanced in the direction of the encampment as she drove by. The scene looked similar to the way it had been the previous day and early that morning. Men in gray uniforms were walking around the tents, sitting on the ground, or clustering around fires where some women were cooking. People in modern-day clothes were strolling around the barns and equipment trailers. No one seemed to be in a hurry, so Brett concluded the day's filming must have been completed ahead of time.
She smiled when she thought of the shooting schedule tucked away in her purse and the way she'd received it.
When her alarm clock had gone off that morning at six, she was alone in the bed. The only signs that indicated Sam had spent the night with her had been the indention in the pillow next to hers, and the page torn from a memo book that had been left on the pillow, along with a copy of that day's shooting schedule. Underneath a phone number, Sam had written: This is my beeper number. Call if you need me. It was signed with the letter S, followed by a wavy scrawl that apparently was the rest of his first name. The postscript he'd added had made her smile. Why can't you look like a hag in the morning instead of gorgeous, tousled, tantalizing, touchable, and… Never mind. This is driving me crazy. Later.
She'd carefully folded his note and put it and the shooting schedule in her purse to take with her.
The other members of his crew who were staying in the house were also gone when she got up. According to the schedule, everyone was to report to the Sunken Road by seven, so the house had been quiet and still when she'd walked down the stairs at six-thirty to make coffee. The only reminder of the extra people staying there was the menu for dinner that Mrs. Arthur had left on the kitchen table for her to approve.
Now, Brett thought as she parked her car, it was evening again and she would see Sam.
When she entered the kitchen, Hank, Sam's head cameraman, was standing next to Mrs. Arthur in front of the stove. He had a dish towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans and was stirring gravy in a deep pan on a front burner. Both he and Mrs. Arthur greeted Brett, then went back to their discussion. Or rather, disagreement.
Deciding this was too good to miss, Brett stayed in the kitchen to greet her dog and eavesdrop. As soon as Ashley saw her, he clumped out of his box and, his long drooping ears flapping back and forth, waddled across the floor to her. She fussed over him, hiding her smile as she listened to Mrs. Arthur recite the ingredients she'd used to prepare dinner, then she declared emphatically that it was not called Yankee pot roast. The recipe had been in her family for several generations, she told Hank, and she would certainly have remembered if any of the women in her family called it a Yankee anything. In a voice that was pure Bostonian, Hank recited back at her his mother's recipe for Yankee pot roast, which did, Brett thought, sound nearly identical to Mrs. Arthur's recipe.
She left them to it and walked down the hall with Ashley plodding along behind her. The dog even made the effort of climbing the stairs to her room, although at a much slower pace.
She tried to ignore her disappointment when she opened the
door of her room and found it empty. She had been looking forward to seeing Sam all day, but apparently she was going to have to wait a little longer.
Ashley finally entered her room and crawled under her bed while she gathered clean underwear and showered to remove the sweet smell of chocolate from her skin and hair. Ten minutes later she changed into a pair of tan drawstring pants and a white embroidered shirt that she tied in a knot at her waist.
As she was putting on her shoes she heard a noise above her head and stopped tying the laces to listen. A tapping came from the far corner of the room, up by the ceiling. The sound couldn't have been made by an animal, unless the squirrel or owl wore at least size-ten shoes. Someone was walking around in the nursery, and it was not a child.
The tapping came again, this time about five feet from where she'd heard it originally. After taking a moment to finish tying her shoe, she stepped over to her bedside table and took a ring of keys and a flashlight from the drawer. A hand-woven tapestry covered half of the adjoining wall, and she lifted the edge closest to her and ducked behind it.
The hinges worked silently as she unlocked the hidden door and pushed it open enough for her to slide through. Inside the passageway, a steep set of stairs led to the nursery above. Flicking on the flashlight, she directed the beam to the steps in front of her. She listened for the tapping noises, and at first didn't hear anything but her own breathing. Then the sound continued, louder now that she was in the hidden passage.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she aimed the flashlight toward her feet. The lever she was looking for was two inches from the bottom of the top step and barely an inch away from the wall on her right. Using the toe of her shoe, she depressed the metal lever and heard the grinding of the gears that controlled the panel. She placed her hand on the wall as it swung away from her and stepped around the end.
Inside the nursery, she stopped and stared at the man kneeling several feet away. He stared right back at her.
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