Matt was late for supper; the others had started without him. He took time to wash up and change into a clean shirt, then remembered who it was who had to wash and iron his clothes, and wished he hadn’t.
“You do too much,” he said by way of greeting.
“I beg your pardon?”
They were both turning red in the face. Crank was grinning all the way back to his gills, and Annie sat in the tall chair with the tray Peg had fashioned for her, slapping her food, spattering it to kingdom come.
“Ironing. It’s too hot to iron.”
“Too hot to cook, too,” Crank put in.
“You want to eat raw fish, you go ahead, but I want Annie’s food good and done.”
What with passing this and passing that, the tension eased, but by the time Crank stood to dish up the molasses pudding, Matt still couldn’t look across the table without thinking about what he’d done last night.
And what he fully intended to do again tonight, as soon as the household was settled.
Later, Rose tried to pretend it was no great thing, having him come to her bed again. They were married, after all. Husband and wife, although he didn’t feel like a husband. At least, not like the only other husband she’d known.
“Think it’ll live?” he asked, adjusting the window now that the wind had swung around.
“I shoveled some of the barn scrapings into the hole. Luther said before he left if I used ma—material from the oldest pile, it would be all right.”
Matt knew about as much about manure as he did about roses, but he nodded sagely. “Should be. I think you’re supposed to water it now and then.”
She swallowed visibly. “I will.”
“Well. It’s been a long day.” He stretched and pretended to yawn, which made him feel even more like a fool than he already did. How the devil did a man approach a decent woman? Diving into the bed on top of her didn’t seem like the proper tactic. How had he done it last night?
Damned if he could remember. All he knew now was that it was like nothing he had ever experienced before. If he weren’t careful he might find himself agreeing to take one of those shore jobs Dixon had mentioned, just so he could have her in his bed every night.
“Matt?”
He wheeled away from the open window. “What? Are you too sleepy? If you’d rather not, I don’t mind. That is—”
“Why don’t you come to bed?”
He awoke in the night and lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling, feeling the northeast wind blowing across his naked skin, feeling his arm tingling where the weight of her head cut off circulation, the small fist curled on his chest, the slender thigh she had drawn up over his crotch.
He shifted his hips so that his pecker was no longer trapped. It sprang free, tall, throbbing, in search of the same mind-numbing pleasure it had already experienced twice tonight.
She was probably too tender. He’d used her hard.
“Mmm…” She mumbled something in her sleep, and he stroked her hair back from her face. Was she too warm? Too cool? Was her neck half broke from propping her head on his shoulder?
“Rose,” he whispered. “Roll over, you’ll get a crick in your neck.”
After a moment she answered him. “No, I won’t. Is your shoulder sore?”
It was. A head must weigh near as much as a watermelon, but he’d be damned before he admitted it.
She turned over on her side and poked her bare bottom against his hip, and that was even worse. Once last night, twice tonight—things were getting out of hand. He really owed it to her to tell her what he’d done before things went any further, but how could he tell her when he wasn’t sure himself? If Bagby had dragged his heels, she might still be his wife. And if she was, then she would stay his wife. But if he had to marry her all over again, he’d do it, and the sooner the better.
He rolled onto his side and curled around her backside, looping an arm over her body, but he couldn’t find a comfortable position, not with his rod standing out like a flagpole.
She sighed, and then she turned over again, and this time she was facing him, and his flagpole knew just where to go.
He lifted her, swung her up so that her thighs hugged his sides, maneuvered her into position and settled her astride him. Neither of them spoke a word, but he groaned. And she gasped as he eased himself into her hot, slick depths.
“Oh, my,” she said when he thrust upward against her. And, “Oh, my,” again when she caught the rhythm and thrust back. It was touch and go for a while, hit and miss, but near the end, he grabbed her shoulders and held her still while he drove into her, quick, quicker, quickest.
And then he shuddered—might even have cried out. When she collapsed on top of him, he held her close and felt like laughing, crying—or maybe dying.
From the next room, Annie whimpered.
“Did I wake her?” He could barely think clearly, much less speak.
“She’ll go back to sleep if we’re quiet.”
Placing his mouth against her ear, he breathed, “I’ll be quiet if you will.”
She giggled, and he placed his hand over her mouth. When he felt her teeth score his callused thumb, he tucked his forefinger between her lips and moved it slowly in and out, with no real notion of why he did it, he only knew he wanted her in all the ways there were. Given enough time, he would have her in all those ways. Perhaps together they might even discover a few new ones.
But first he was going to have to tell her what he’d done.
No more was heard from Annie. He whispered, “Are you cold?”
“Hardly,” she whispered back. “Did you ever back up to a fireplace?”
“Don’t think so.”
“You’re like a hardwood fire.”
“Honey, I’m hard and I’m hot, but I don’t think there’s anything wooden about me.”
“Hush,” she whispered, her body trembling with suppressed laughter, which didn’t do much to help his control.
“Are you sore?” he ventured, half hopefully.
“A little bit. Sort of, um—stinging.”
“I could—” he began, hardly knowing what he’d been about to say, but she caught his arm and held him back when he went to get out of bed.
“No, please—don’t leave. It’s just that—well, it’s been a long time since—”
“Since you were widowed.”
He could feel her nod her head, and he wanted to know more. Wanted to know everything about her. If he’d been sure of his rights—not that he had a right to her past—he would have pressed, but as it happened, he didn’t have to.
“I don’t know what Bess told you about—well, about my first marriage. I’m not even sure how much she knows, but I lost a baby.”
His arms tightened instinctively. “Lost it?”
“She was born prematurely, the night my husband died.”
He started to speak, thought better of it, and finally said, “I’m sorry.” It was inadequate, but what was a man supposed to say? He was just beginning to understand how devastating the loss of a child could be. If anything happened to Annie…
“Yes, well…Annie helped heal my heart.”
The simple statement made his eyes sting. His arms tightened, but this time there was nothing at all sexual about it. He held her until the wind fell off just before daybreak, and the rain started. It came down in a heavy drone, silencing the questions, the half-formed thoughts that churned in his mind.
They both slept until Annie let the world know she was wet and hungry and not at all happy about either condition.
By the time Rose had Annie ready for breakfast, Matt was nowhere in sight. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about their new relationship, much less how he felt about it. Or if he felt anything at all.
The nicest thing of all was that they’d laughed together. Lain in bed in each other’s arms and laughed.
Well, perhaps not the nicest thing, she thought in a rush of warmth.
“Comp’ny coming,”
Crank sang out just as Rose, still in her wrapper, buttoned on Annie’s gown.
It was early for company. Even the mailboat didn’t usually arrive until mid-afternoon. Perhaps John…or Sandy, she thought.
It was neither.
Chapter Sixteen
Rose saw no reason to hurry. Through her bedroom window she could see Mr. Dixon’s black gig with the canvas sunshade and wide wooden wheels for driving through sand. It was a strange-looking vehicle, but practical for the terrain.
Opening the clothespress, she pawed through her meager selection of gowns. The blue, or the yellow again? They were both getting a bit sun-faded. The pink silk was out of the question. It had been another of her infamous bad choices.
As it happened, Rose shared a birthday with the daughter of her parents’ best friends. The two girls, although never friends, had been forced to share their birthday celebrations. On the last such occasion, Serena had worn a new wasp-waisted pink taffeta with a flounced skirt and a daring neckline. Not surprisingly, she’d been the belle of the ball, with everyone exclaiming over how pretty she’d looked in pink.
Rose had prevailed on her mother to have a gown made in the same shade, of a similar style. Unfortunately, the low neckline had accentuated her own lack of bosom, the strawberry-ice color, her sallowness. She’d worn it only once, miserably aware all evening of how unflattering it was in both cut and color. Before she could dispose of the wretched thing, her parents had been killed. Someone—the maid, no doubt—had packed it away when she’d gone into mourning.
She decided on the blue voile. What difference did it make? It was only Mr. Dixon to see Matt.
Matt. Oh, my. Grinning, she quickly pulled on a pair of white cotton stockings and reached for her shoes. “Don’t fret, sugarpuss, you’ll have your googoo as soon as Mama puts on her shoes.”
“Googoo!” Annie called her cereal googoo, which Rose thought described it perfectly. While Rose laced up her white kid high-lows, Annie went through her repertoire, which expanded daily. “That’s right, precious, say Ma ma.”
At first Rose had felt guilty about encouraging her, but Annie was going to have to call her something. And since Matt had obviously forgiven her and decided to keep her, then Mama was the logical choice.
She was halfway down the hall on her way to breakfast when she heard the sound of a shrill voice that made her think of a fork scraping against a tin plate. It wasn’t Mr. Dixon, she’d heard his voice before. It definitely wasn’t Matt.
Mrs. Dixon? If she’d ever heard the woman, she couldn’t recall, and anyway it was awfully early to be paying a social call.
“—fetch her in a minute.” That was Matt.
Fetch who? Me?
Well, if she must, she must. “Come along, sugar, we’ll pop in and pay our respects and then slip away for breakfast. You’re my excuse not to linger.”
She paused outside the door long enough to smooth the braid she’d anchored at the back of her head, straighten Annie’s tiny collar and fix a smile on her face. “Good morning, Mr. Dixon, Mrs….”
The smile faded. This was definitely not Mrs. Dixon. The woman couldn’t be a day over twenty. Although the eyes…
There was something old, almost calculating, in the violet-blue eyes that confronted her. Rose turned to Matt for guidance, finding none. His face had that familiar shuttered expression. Drawing on the training of a lifetime, she stepped into the room and, holding Annie against her shoulder, extended a hand.
Matt said in a curiously flat tone, “Rose, I believe you’ve met Mr. Dixon. Miss Riddle, Mrs. Little-field.”
Mrs. Littlefield?
She felt the first quiver of unease. Wasn’t it time to end the charade?
The next thought that flew through her mind was that Matt had sent for someone to take care of Annie before he’d discovered Rose’s identity, and the someone had finally showed up.
“Miss Riddle,” she murmured politely. Matt would send her away, surely. They didn’t need her. Besides, she had the look of a troublemaker, Rose could tell that much right away.
Her smile was forced as she said, “And this is our Annie. Say bye-bye, darling. Annie’s late for her breakfast, so if you’ll excuse us?”
“Oh, so this is Cat’s precious little Annie!”
Before Rose could react, the woman rushed forward and tried to pry the startled child from her arms. Annie grabbed handfuls of blue voile and started to whimper. Rose backed away. Undeterred, the woman tried again. “Here, give her to me. Oh, you sweet thing, you.”
By then Annie was shrieking in Rose’s ear. Matt said, “Dammit, begging your pardon, ma’am, but I told you to wait.”
“Now, Miss Riddle, be patient, the baby don’t know you yet,” said Dick Dixon. There were wide wet circles under the arms of his rumpled gray suit.
Rose, shielding the howling baby with both arms, glared at the other woman, then at the two men. “Will someone please tell me just what’s going on here? Who is this woman, Matt?”
“This is Annie’s aunt from Beaufort. She only recently heard about what happened to her sister and she’s come for Annie.” Matt repeated what he’d been told by the magistrate, but he was obviously as shocked as Rose was. “I’ve explained that Billy—beggin’ your pardon again, miss, but Billy was Annie’s father, not Murdoch, and Billy gave her to me before he died.”
“Well, that’s just too bad, because Cat was my sister, and whatever she left is mine, ai—isn’t that right, Mr. Dixon?”
Dixon looked as if his stomach hurt. “Now, that would be a fact, in the ordinary turn of events, but like I tried to explain last night, Miss Riddle, this is not an ordinary situation.”
“I don’t care if it’s ordinary or not, Cat wrote me all about her house, and it’s mine now.” She turned as if to appeal to Matt. “I was fixin’ to stay there when I got in, but it was late and Mr. Dixon said I couldn’t because there was people living there, so I had to sleep with him and his wife.”
Not literally, Rose sincerely hoped. Matt looked as if he didn’t know quite what to make of her.
“Can you beat that? Strangers livin’ in my house, and me not even knowing about it?”
“As I explained, Miss Riddle, Abner’s folks—” Dixon began. He was sweating profusely.
“I don’t care whose folks they are, Cat was that old man’s widow, so what was hers is mine now, so you can just tell ’em for me to get out. You’re a magistrate, they have to do what you say. You tell ’em I’m fixing to sell my house, and I want ’em out today!”
“You see, miss, the thing is—”
“And tell ’em I said not to steal anything, neither, ’cause Cat says old Abcess gave her everything.”
“Abcess?” Rose and Matt echoed the word together.
“That’s what Cat called him. Anyhow, he’s dead, so all his stuff was hers, and now it’s mine, ’cause I’m her next of kin.” She shot Dixon a triumphant look. “I do know my rights.”
“Well now, as I tried to explain last night, Miss Riddle, there’s not all that much, er—stuff. And in the absence of a will, I’m afraid what little there is belongs to Abner’s next of kin.”
Miss Riddle opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes, a truly lovely shade of blue, went from Matt to the magistrate and back again while Rose watched, fascinated and increasingly convinced that this woman didn’t want Annie any more than Annie wanted her. Rose made up her mind on the spot that she could have whatever worldly goods her sister had left behind, but under no circumstances could she have Annie.
“Didn’t you tell her?” Matt asked Dixon.
“Tell me what? That Annie gets it all? I’m her aunt, what you might call her guardian, so I guess it’s up to me if I want to sell the house and put the money away for Annie’s future.”
A helpless look on his pudgy face, Dixon turned to Matt. “I tried to explain, but evidently I didn’t do too good a job of it. Like I said, when the letter came addressed to Murdoch’s woman a few months afte
r the fact, so to speak, it was handed over to me. I took it upon myself to inform Mrs. Murdoch’s next of kin of the unfortunate incident, and explain how you’d taken the baby and how Mrs. Littlefield had stayed on after Bess left to look after her, and that she—that is, Miss Riddle—shouldn’t worry on that account.”
“And I can see you’ve taken real good care of her, too, Captain Powers. Can I call you Matthew? You can call me Tressy. It’s really Theresa, but everybody calls me Tressy. Anyhow, now that I’m here, we won’t need Miss Littlething anymore. I can take over. You just show me what to do, I’m a real fast learner.”
Matt’s scowl deepened. Standing off to one side of the room, Rose thought irrelevantly that if only Bess were here, she’d be scribbling madly in her notebook, plotting her next fanciful tale.
Oddly enough, Rose wasn’t worried about losing Annie. The Riddle woman wanted a crying, teething baby about as much as she wanted a bad case of poison ivy. She most definitely wanted something, though, and might even try to use Annie to get it.
Over my dead body, Rose vowed silently. Having made more than her share of disastrous choices these past few years, she was finally learning to respect her instincts. At the moment, those instincts whispered that Tressy Riddle would bear close watching.
Miss Littlething, indeed.
“Didn’t Dixon tell you how your sister died?” Matt asked bluntly.
Dixon said hurriedly, “I believe I indicated that the deceased had expired shortly after giving birth to a daughter.” He sent Matt a helpless look.
“You want the unvarnished truth? Your sister took herself a lover while her husband was away. Murdoch came home to find his wife lying in bed with a new baby, and knew damned well it wasn’t his. He shot his wife, brought the baby here to the Point, where he shot his wife’s lover and then turned the gun on himself.”
For a full minute no one spoke. The stark horror of such a tragedy lay like a pall over all four adults. Only Annie seemed unaffected. Squirming in Rose’s arms, she switched to her I-want-breakfast howls.
“In a little while, sugar,” Rose whispered, bouncing her in her arms. “Miss Riddle, I’m so very sorry,” she said, and meant every word of it. No amount of sympathy, however, could change her mind about Annie.
The Paper Marriage Page 19
