“You naughty cat,” she scolded in a whisper and flipped a corner of the quilt to cover him. No need to upset Greg with the sight of the cat. Who knew what the man would do.
Greg balanced a large tray. He looked around for a clear place to set it down, shrugged and found a space on the floor near the bed.
“Before you ask, I had a slight mishap in the kitchen. Here is your bowl, egg and fork. I’ll be right back.”
Catherine stared after him. His robe was stained with dark wet spots. What had he done? She glanced at the tray and saw he’d made tea. She leaned over the edge of the bed for a closer look. The liquid appeared almost black.
She glanced into the bowl he had handed her. There was only one egg, not the two she requested. Catherine thought of the crash she had heard. And the dark wet spots on his robe. He couldn’t have dropped the large bowl of eggs. Or had he? Lord, the man did need a keeper.
He returned while she puzzled over using the one small bowl to separate the yolk from the white of the egg. He was dressed in a badly creased white shirt tucked into dark brown trousers.
He set the rags on the side of the bed and looked into the bowl. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get a raw egg down without help. Vile tasting. But never fear. I have come to your rescue.” He held up a silver flask. “I couldn’t find any spirits in your pantry. I brought you some of my brandy.”
“Sarah doesn’t allow any liquor in the house. And I don’t drink—”
“Well, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that you did. No lady does. But this is strictly for medicinal purpose.”
“Mr. Mayfield—”
“Greg.”
“Greg, then. I need your help. Please hold out your hand.” She cracked the egg on the edge of the bowl and deftly caught the yolk in one of the shells. A few times of flipping the yolk back and forth in the shell halves and Catherine had enough of the egg white. She handed the yolk-filled shell to him and proceeded to whip the egg white into a froth.
Greg, staring down into the blob of yellow cradled in the palm of his hand, felt his stomach turn over. He glanced around for somewhere to put the shell and its revolting contents. He settled on wrapping it in the napkin on the tray.
He lifted up the cup of tea he had made for her and watched in fascination as she dipped the rags into the egg whites. What the devil was she going to do?
Catherine looked up at him. “How sincere were you about helping me?”
He eyed the bowl and its contents. He thought of his action causing her further injury. He swallowed.
“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
“Then put the cup down, for I need you to wrap my ankle.”
Greg pushed the tray out of his way and knelt on the floor. He took the bowl from Catherine. He could see how swollen the ankle was.
“I’ll try not to hurt you, but you must instruct me. I’ve never done anything like this.”
Catherine believed him. What she doubted was that he’d never knelt before a woman. He was absently stroking her calf, unaware of the shimmering warmth his touch imparted. He almost made her forget the pain throbbing as her foot hung over the bed.
“Catherine.”
“Yes?” She started and found that she was leaning very close to him. Shadows and lamplight loved his face, for they played upon the curves and angles with a most flattering hand.
“You were going to instruct me?” Didn’t the woman have an ounce of conscience? If she leaned any closer, he’d need to be a saint to resist the temptation of her lips.
“You don’t know how to…” Kiss. The word almost slipped out. Flustered, she looked down at her dangling foot. “The arch. You begin wrapping around the arch.”
The beaten egg white was cold. His hands were hot in comparison. Catherine blamed these sensations for the breathless quality of her voice.
“Now wrap it once around the ankle, then again over the arch and back again. Not too loose. No, no, that’s much too tight.”
“Make up your mind!” he snapped. Greg couldn’t blame her. It was all his fault. And it had nothing to do with being present in her bedroom. He’d viewed his share. It wasn’t even the sight of her dimpled knee or shapely calf or dainty toes that made him testy. It could be blamed on his unwillingness to hurt her, and the simple knowledge that touching her played havoc with his heart rate. He declined to think about other body parts that were reacting at an alarming rate.
“How this slimy mess is going to help your swelling flesh is beyond my understanding.”
“It works. Mary did it all the time. The egg white hardens the cloth and somehow draws out the swelling. I need to do this once a day for a few days and then my ankle will be good as new.”
Once a day? He’d have his hands on… She uttered a low cry. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Think, man. Think about what you’re doing. He neatly smoothed the edge of the cloth in place and leaned back on his heels.
“Done. Now what?”
“Now I say thank-you most kindly and bid you good-night.”
“But you haven’t had your tea.” He offered the cup to her.
It was black. Black with an abundance of tea leaves that had settled to the bottom of the cup. Catherine looked at him with amazement. Could he have dumped the entire tea canister in one cup? She knew the cost of tea leaves was beyond his concern, but it wasn’t beyond hers. About to berate him, she stopped when he smiled and nudged her hand upward.
“Go on, drink it. Suzanne’s a great believer in the restorative power of hot tea. But I’ll confess to you, she enjoys the brandy with it.”
“Suzanne?”
“Yes. But if you don’t like spirits, I do have some laudanum. I think you could do with some sleep.” He gently lifted her leg back onto the bed and rose to his feet.
Catherine took a tentative sip of the tea. It was strong enough to stand a board on end. And there wasn’t a place to dump it out. It was a thoughtful gesture, one she wouldn’t have expected of him. If she didn’t drink it, he would be insulted, even hurt. She couldn’t do that to him.
Greg returned from his room with an amber glass bottle, which he removed the cork from, and then spilled a few drops of the brandy into her cup.
“Doc Rockefeller’s magic cure, obtained from the celebrated cancer specialist himself.”
Catherine lowered the cup. “Cancer?”
“Is the question in your voice meant for me? I don’t have cancer. Doc just made this up for me. He’s an excellent pitchman. Charges twenty-five dollars a bottle for his cancer cures. I bankrolled him once and he’s never forgotten.”
“Does he cure—”
“Heavens no. Bunch of herbs and laudanum. Can’t hurt. Certainly to anyone in pain, it’s a comfort. But a cure, never.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. Bitterness coated her mouth. She took another swallow and thought of the sacrifice she was making to salve his pride. What the devil was wrong with her?
She swallowed again and handed him the cup. “I can’t drink any more.”
“Then you rest. I’ll borrow your lamp.”
“Where are you going?”
“There’s a small matter in the kitchen that requires my attention.”
She nodded as if this were a perfectly acceptable explanation. He’d broken the eggs! And gracious knew what else. Damn! Why did this have to happen to her now? The man would wreck the place before she regained her feet.
But he didn’t say a word about leaving.
On that comforting thought, she fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
Greg stared out the kitchen window, then rubbed his already red-rimmed eyes. There! He wasn’t mistaken. He had seen movement near the barn. If it wasn’t for the lighter streaks easing night from the sky, he would have missed it.
Exhausted from the unaccustomed task of cleaning the kitchen, Greg didn’t relish the thought of tackling a thief, nor did he think he had the strength left. But he thought of Catherine and knew she couldn’t afford any losses. It was u
p to him to protect her and her property.
The thief was good. He could barely see the barn door move. He waited a few minutes to give the fellow enough time to think himself secure. Quietly, Greg opened the back door.
Thought he could go around stealing from a helpless widow, did he? Well, this was one thief who’d get a surprise.
Upstairs, Catherine crawled back into bed after dealing with the awkwardness of using the chamber pot. Her ankle throbbed, but she had to admit that whatever was in the potion Greg had given to her, it did help the pain.
But she had reached the conclusion that she wouldn’t be running around today or anytime soon.
Lord Romeo, asleep within the folds of her shawl at the foot of the bed, suddenly lifted his head and growled. The slamming of the back door filled the house along with shouts.
She couldn’t imagine what the commotion was about and swore at her helpless state.
She needn’t have worried. From the tramping footsteps racing up the stairs, she would soon know what had happened.
Greg stopped short at the top of the stairs. “Are you awake?” he called out. “And decent?”
Catherine pulled the quilt up to her chin. “Come in.”
Greg walked in holding Ramon by the arm.
“Ramon! What are you doing to the child?” she demanded.
“I caught him stealing into the barn before civilized people are awake!”
“I imagine so,” she answered calmly. “I asked him to come help with chores.”
Greg glared at the boy, who cheekily grinned at him.
“You might have warned me he would be on the premises. I might have done him harm. And he could have explained that he was here by your invitation,” he stated in an aggrieved tone. “All I got was mumbling in a heathen tongue.”
“Ramon’s from Mexico. He’s also part Apache. When he’s frightened, he lapses into a mixture of both languages. Obviously, you scared him.”
Greg switched his glaring green eyes to her. He thought of his sprint across the yard, the care he took to keep to the shadows, his heart racing. And then the near miss with the pitchfork the boy wielded with such skill. And she dared accuse him of scaring the boy?
“Well, you did scare him, didn’t you?”
“He’s recovered enough to find all this amusing. That grin hasn’t left his mouth. I, however, Mrs. Hill, don’t enjoy finding strangers lurking about before dawn.”
Catherine wiggled beneath the quilt, trying to raise her upper body so she could see Greg. He had hay clinging to his hair, his shirtsleeve was torn and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. But he was right about Ramon. The boy was grinning.
She motioned the boy closer and whispered to him. He nodded, and with a last look for Greg ran off.
“I sent him—”
“Did I ask?”
“No, Mr. Mayfield, you didn’t.” Her voice was as cool as could be. It rankled that he had become formal again, forcing her to be the same. How can you be formal with a man who kissed you senseless? Her independent streak supplied the answer. Anything this man did, she could do better.
“I didn’t want you to think I was whispering about you. Ramon has gone to fetch his mother. Obviously, I will not be able to do much today.”
“I should have asked first. How are you feeling?”
“Cross,” she snapped.
“A dead man could see that,” he returned with a smug smile. “And there is no need to hire someone. I managed last night to take care of you.” Didn’t do so well for myself, he thought. A few stolen kisses resulting in a sleepless night as if he were a youth out of knickers.
“Don’t be insulted,” Catherine said. “I was thinking about you.”
“You were?” He was cheered by the thought. And deflated in the next moment.
“Of course. Ramon’s mother will cook for you. You are my guest. I need to provide food. It will only be for a few days until I’m able to get around.”
If Catherine had thought him formal before, his voice was positively glacial now.
“If you insist, then I will pay the woman. And the boy.”
“Why? You’ve already paid for room and board.”
“No argument, Mrs. Hill. It’s the least I can do since I caused your injury. I will take care of all the expenses until you are well. Now, since you have no need of me, I’ll—”
“I didn’t say that. You’re so…so male. Touchy as a ruffled hen. And stop giving me orders in my home.” But there was little heat in her tone. Catherine saw that he did look exhausted. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
Greg straightened. He ran a hand through his tousled hair and came away with bits of straw, which he clutched in his hand. The straw brought fond memories of a Georgetown hayloft and one Penelope Grady’s inventive experiments.
Catherine found herself annoyed that his thoughts had strayed. But she felt guilty, too. Nothing had gone right from the moment he had arrived. An olive branch was needed.
“Shall we begin once more?”
Greg glanced up at her. “If you like.”
“Good morning…Greg.”
His smile was worth the risk of using his first name.
“And a good-morning to you, Catherine. Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee?” she asked. Her thoughts ran to other practical needs. Hot water to wash. Clothing. A change of her bandage.
“Coffee is something I can manage.”
The room seemed empty when he left. Catherine discovered that he liked to sing. She couldn’t make out the words or recognize the tunes, but his baritone voice was pleasant to hear. She was humming, too, when Lord Romeo rose, shook off the folds of the shawl and hopped down to the floor. Without a backward glance, he sauntered from the room with his tail held high.
“Come back here!” Catherine yelled. She had forgotten to tell Greg the cat needed to be let outside. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the pillow around her ears.
Tense as a fiddle string, she waited to hear the commotion from the kitchen. And she waited. She eased the pillow away. Silence. But Greg was no longer singing.
What was going on down there?
Below, Greg was staring at the stove, which was coughing billows of smoke into the kitchen. The back door was open, and the windows. He frantically waved a towel about to dispel the cloud of thickening smoke obscuring his vision.
Lord Romeo darted out the door with Greg unaware of his nemesis’s presence.
“Who the hell knew how hard it was to start a fire!” He cursed and swore and waved the towel in widening flaps. “I can manage that,” he growled in mimic of himself.
Coughing, eyes tearing, he ran outside, drew in lungfuls of clean air, then returned to clear the smoke. He couldn’t very well run upstairs and ask Catherine what he’d done wrong. After all, a man had his pride.
“Blast the damn thing to hell!”
Catherine heard that shout. Something was wrong. She knew it was something serious, too. When the first faint whiff of smoke entered her room, alarm spread through her.
What had he done now? Set her kitchen on fire?
The idea impelled her from bed. She managed the wardrobe on a cross between a hop and a hobble. She grabbed the first gown that came to hand and struggled into it over her nightgown. Pain shot from her bandaged ankle when she forgot and put her weight on it.
Using the same awkward gait, she traversed the hall, but the stairs loomed as a monstrous obstacle. The smell of smoke was no longer faint. If she needed a spur, that was it.
When she reached the kitchen doorway, she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry.
Gregory Mayfield no longer resembled a citified gentleman. His white shirt with the sleeves rolled up was soot-spattered and clung to his body in large wet circles. He kicked the stove and cursed it to hell.
Layers of smoke hovered in the kitchen despite the back door and window being open. Catherine, eyes tearing, leaned against the door frame, trying to catch her breath
from her exertion. Water dripped from the stove to the floor, where it pooled among the scattered kindling from the wood box. Her blurred gaze traveled upward to discover the cause. Just as she surmised. The damper was closed.
What had possessed the man to do such a thing then try to light the fire? Didn’t he know anything?
“Open…the damper,” she yelled. She coughed and had to wipe her eyes.
He spun around, a wild, glazed look in his eyes. “Damper? What the hell is that? Never mind. Tell me how you summon the fire brigade.”
Panic and fury mixed in his voice. Catherine could not offer a bit of sympathy now. “Where in tarnation do you think you are? We don’t have a fire brigade. Not unless you think a line of people passing buckets might help.” Lord, patience. Lots of it. Please.
“I’m in the wilds of some nightmare land,” he snapped.
“And you may die there if you don’t open the damn damper. Up on the stovepipe. The small L-shaped piece of metal. Turn it. And hurry.”
Greg spied the very piece of metal he had turned, thinking it was crooked. He twisted it back into place, feeling an utter fool as he turned to face Catherine. But he was angry, too. At her, and at his sister for putting him here.
A woman had to rescue him from another domestic crisis. Well, they were better at that. But Suzanne would pay for this. Somehow, someway.
The smoke was already beginning to clear. “How did you get down the stairs? And why, for heaven’s sake? What are you doing here?”
“I might,” she responded, waving a hand in front of her face, “ask you the very same thing?”
“You wanted coffee. And you didn’t answer my questions.”
“Ah, the coffee.” Catherine looked at the mess. “The beans I buy are already roasted and ready to be ground. Heat water and—”
“Don’t insult me. I know that much. The coffee was not the problem, madam. Your stove is another matter.” He flapped a towel in the air, but now that the stove was drawing properly, the smoke was fast disappearing.
And with it went his anger. “I apologize. I know nothing about stoves. Or the workings of a kitchen. They are the province of women. And now I know why.”
Catherine Page 9
