by BJ Hoff
He was like a schoolboy with a crush. Why, he was as bad as Cavan Sheridan, though the boy seemed more or less cured of his infatuation these days.
Jack was seething at his own foolishness before he ever sat down to the table. Amelia’s dumplings were superb, as always, but his appetite had virtually failed him. He had deliberately taken the chair directly across from Samantha, rather than pulling up alongside her—his first inclination—thinking to avoid a disturbing closeness. It turned out to be a royal mistake because he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
The woman was not easy to ignore, after all.
He was, however, a bit curious as to the difference he detected in her tonight. For one thing, she seemed noticeably more relaxed around him than on previous occasions. Not that she had lost all of her reticence. She still confined her answers to his questions to quiet, succinct replies. And if she happened to catch him watching her, her eyes took on the same startled, uncertain expression he had seen all too often before. But for the most part, she appeared to find him less odious than usual, even meeting his eyes across the table once or twice instead of glancing about as if she were looking for a route of escape. And she actually smiled at him. More than once.
He blamed her smile for his undoing.
By the time they were halfway through the meal, Jack had all but forgotten his earlier chagrin about his own appearance, instead allowing himself the luxury of enjoying her appearance. She was absolutely delightful with that small, dusty smudge in the hollow of her cheek—of which she was almost certainly unaware—and the delicate tendrils of hair that had come undone to curl damply about her face.
Not for the first time, Jack found himself charmed by her voice. She had a wonderful voice, soft but with an unexpected intensity and an occasional winsome catch in it that somehow made him want to reach across the table and clasp her hand. With Rufus and Amelia, Samantha laughed easily, and Jack caught himself wishing he could evoke the same spontaneous mirth from her instead of the annoying gravity with which she seemed to regard him.
Still, her sober demeanor was a decided improvement. At least she no longer seemed to suspect that he might be the devil incarnate.
The storm that had delayed itself during the meal was now building in strength and rushing in on them. The room had darkened considerably, and both Amelia and Rufus made a hurried exit to close the windows and shutters throughout the house and draw in the awnings.
Samantha got up to raise the wicks on the oil lamps placed around the room. Through the one window that remained open, the wind whipped with a sharpness that felt wonderfully cool.
When she returned to her chair, she glanced across the table to find Jack Kane watching her with the same steady intensity that never failed to unnerve her. He had seemed different somehow this evening. Perhaps because of his slightly less than perfect appearance, a marked departure for him.
But his appearance accounted for only a part of the difference. Earlier, Samantha had detected something she hadn’t seen before in Kane’s eyes, in the set of his shoulders—even in his speech. Oh, he was in control, as always, with the same faint arrogance she had come to associate with him. And his gaze on her held the same hint of interest and regard she found so puzzling—and so disturbing. The hard, sardonic set of his mouth, the grim amusement with which he seemed to view life in general, the easy, rumbling voice that she suspected could turn to steel in a heartbeat—all seemed as usual.
But there was something else, something less confident, some hint of vulnerability she would never have expected to see in a man like Kane.
And it drew her to him as nothing else had before tonight.
During Rufus and Amelia’s absence, Jack told Samantha Harte about Avery Foxworth’s agreement to defend Maura Shanahan.
The surprised—but pleased—look in her eyes warmed him, and in that instant he was shaken to realize how much he wanted her good opinion.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this!” she said, her eyes shining. Just as quickly, her expression sobered. “But is he terribly expensive? The Society has a fund for legal aid, as I told you, but I’m not sure how much we can expect from them.”
Jack waved off her concern. “Don’t worry about the expense for now. Foxworth knows he’ll get paid. And by the way, he was going to see if he could arrange bail for Mrs. Shanahan yet this evening. Perhaps you can see her tomorrow at home, if you like.”
She tried to press him for more details about the financial arrangements, but Jack dismissed her questions, going on instead to tell her a little about Avery Foxworth himself. He was anxious that she understand that Maura Shanahan would be getting the best of legal defenses. At the same time, he didn’t dissemble about Foxworth’s somewhat unsavory reputation.
All the while, he was riveted by those incredible dark eyes watching him. The lamplight danced over her face, heightening the glow of her skin and casting golden highlights through her hair. Jack was seized by a sudden, fierce desire to reach across the table and pull her to him. He had never wanted a woman the way he wanted Samantha Harte, but it was a different kind of wanting than that to which he was accustomed. It was more than mere physical longing, more than the primitive urge to take and possess.
His blood pounded in his ears, and his pulse raced as he realized that no matter how desperately he desired this woman, what he wanted more than anything else was her approval—her respect. He wanted her to trust him.
He wanted her to need him.
Was he losing his mind? The woman was obviously more afraid of him than attracted to him. Even worse, he thought she might actually be repelled by him. Hardly the kind of responses he would like to kindle in her.
Just then, thunder exploded, and a powerful gust of wind came roaring through the open window. The curtains flapped, and the flames from the oil lamps flickered madly. A sudden onslaught of rain dashed against the house.
Samantha jerked and cried out. They both scrambled away from the table at the same time, rushing toward the window to close it. Jack hesitated a moment, fascinated, unable to resist the wildness of the storm. He could see nothing beyond the small patch of yard separating the Carvers’ house from that of the neighbors. The huge old maple trees were writhing, bending almost double in the wind.
Another crash of thunder shook the house, and a fierce blaze of lightning froze the scene outside in eerie incandescence. Jack reached to lower the window, but before he could, a bolt of lightning streaked in front of it, startling them both. Rain blasted through the open window, and instinctively Jack caught Samantha against him with one arm as he slammed the window down with the other.
She was trembling, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull her closer to steady her. The din of the wind and rain from outside was almost deafening, but it was nothing compared to the roar in his head as he stared down at her.
“Samantha?”
Her eyes were enormous, and she paled. Jack tightened his grip on her, suddenly unable to bear the thought that she might pull away.
His mind…his heart…everything in him was screaming as wildly as the night around them. He thought he would suffocate in the sudden closeness of the room and in her nearness. He could not drag his gaze away from her face, from her eyes glistening in the flickering light, holding him captive. For one mad moment, he thought he saw something in those eyes besides the usual aloofness. He felt a quickening of his heart, and without warning, all his former caution and resolve dropped away. He lowered his head, brought his face close to hers, his lips—
And then he saw the change that came over her features.
What he saw was a stark, chilling terror. Not merely revulsion, which would have wounded him badly enough, but a dreadful, stricken fear—a shrinking from him that made him want to moan with despair.
No woman had ever looked at him that way. He drew back, his desire instantly gone as shame and confusion set in. He released her, but she didn’t move. It was as if she were frozen where she st
ood. Jack took in the blank stare, the white, waxen texture of her skin, and for a moment he thought she might be ill or about to fall into some sort of seizure.
Finally her gaze cleared. As Jack watched, her shoulders sagged, and she seemed to go limp. He reached out to steady her, then dropped his hand away, remembering how she had looked at him.
Furious with himself and thrown badly off balance by the vehemence of her rejection, he could only stand and mock himself for being such a fool. He wanted to bolt from the room.
“Samantha…I’m sorry!” he said, his voice rough. “I…don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”
She stared up at him as if he had awakened her from a deep sleep. And then a wash of emotions began to play over her features—a slow, dawning awareness, mingled with something else, something akin to dismay or even humiliation. She began to shake her head slowly, over and over again.
Jack wanted to distance himself, wanted to be angry with her…wanted not to care. Instead, he couldn’t seem to stop apologizing. “I am sorry, Samantha. I didn’t mean anything wrong. I’ve had…feelings for you, almost since we met. I thought perhaps you knew, that you might even—I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t realize you felt so strongly…against me…”
She lifted a hand, and for an instant Jack thought she was going to touch him. Instead, she dropped her hand away, shaking her head. “No. You don’t understand.”
Her voice sounded strangled. Jack frowned down at her, bewildered. He held his breath, wanting to seize her hand, knowing he dare not touch her again.
“It’s not you,” she said in the same odd-sounding voice. “It’s me. It has nothing to do with you. Nothing.” There was a strange ferocity in her words, as if she was suddenly, unaccountably angry.
She was hugging her arms to her body as if to keep herself from falling to pieces. She started to turn, but Jack stopped her—not by touching her, but with the plea in his voice.
“Samantha? No, don’t turn away from me! Tell me what you mean.”
Her eyes were glazed with unshed tears, and Jack ached to kiss them away. Instead, he balled his hands into fists at his sides to keep from touching her. “I meant no harm, Samantha. I—regardless of what you’ve heard or what you may think—I would never do anything to hurt you.”
She looked away. “I—I think I know that. But—” she faltered, then went on. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand, but I can’t explain. I can’t…talk about this.”
A vicious, ugly suspicion had insinuated itself into Jack’s mind, a thought so vile he couldn’t give it any real credence. Perhaps he was only trying to rationalize her behavior, her response to him. And yet that response had seemed too violent, too unreasonable, even if she detested him. What he had seen in her face bordered on sheer horror.
What had been done to her that would account for such a violent reaction to him…to any man?
“Samantha…are you quite sure you can’t tell me?”
Still she refused to meet his gaze, but instead stood staring down at the floor. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me.”
Jack drew in a long, steadying breath. He had already made a colossal fool of himself, so what did it matter now if he did it again?
“All right. But, Samantha, if I may—let me say just one more thing. I’ve seen that you’re not entirely comfortable with me, and I think I understand why. And now I suppose I’ve gone and made things worse by my behavior—and for that I’m deeply sorry. I…ah—” Jack ran a hand through his hair, thoroughly annoyed with himself now. “I’m saying this badly, I know. I just want to be sure that you understand that I mean you no harm, no offense. If I’ve upset you or embarrassed you, I couldn’t be more sorry, and that’s the truth.”
Finally, she looked at him, searching his gaze as if she could somehow weigh his words. “It’s all right. It’s really not your fault.”
What he saw in her eyes made his heart ache. There was so much pain in her. He wanted to hold her, to somehow protect her from whatever secret torment seemed to bind her. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to heal her.
But heal her of what?
“Samantha, is this about your husband?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Jack watched her closely as he waited for her reply. She seemed to have gone perfectly rigid. A white line tightened about her mouth, and her features were as hard and cold as marble. So still was she that she didn’t appear to be breathing.
Jack sensed that she would withdraw from him, perhaps even run from him if he made the slightest move to touch her. Yet it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms.
Gradually, her features cleared. “Please,” she finally said, not meeting his gaze. “No more. I can’t…talk about this any more.”
Watching her, Jack knew it would be a mistake to press any further. “Samantha?” he said finally. “Would you—please—at least consider letting me be your friend? Just—your friend?”
She looked at him and opened her mouth to reply, but just then Rufus and Amelia came sweeping back into the room, and she turned away without answering.
Almost at the same moment, the children burst through the front door and came charging down the hall. Any further opportunity to speak with her alone was lost.
A few minutes later, Cavan Sheridan arrived with the carriage. When Jack tried to convince her to let them drive her home, Samantha demurred, explaining that Gideon had already planned to do so.
Although Jack was hesitant to insist, he kept his voice firm. “Rufus’s wagon is no match for this storm. I wish you’d ride with us.”
“Jack’s right, Samantha,” Amelia put in. “You’ll be absolutely drenched. You’d best go with Jack in his carriage.”
At last she relented, though with obvious reluctance, and only, Jack suspected, because she might have feared a scene in front of the others.
Outside, Jack caught her arm and said, his voice low enough that Cavan Sheridan couldn’t hear, “I’ll ride with Sheridan. I expect you’ll be more comfortable.”
She turned a look of dismay on him. “No! You’ll be soaked through.”
Jack shrugged. “I like the rain. I often walk in it.”
She studied him for a moment but said nothing.
Jack didn’t reply but helped her into the carriage and, closing the door, leaned into the window. “You didn’t answer me, Samantha. I’m asking you again—could you possibly allow me to be your friend?”
She regarded him with a long, searching look. Her eyes were solemn, measuring. But Jack’s hopes soared when she finally answered. “Yes,” she said, her voice quiet, her gaze still locked with his. “I think I’d like that, Mr. Kane.”
Joy arced through Jack like a shooting star. “That’s grand. And, ah, now that we’re to be friends, do you think you could possibly manage to call me Jack?”
She blinked, watching him. Finally, a ghost of a smile curved her lips. “Yes, all right…Jack.”
Jack’s heart suddenly felt lighter than it had for days. Weeks. “Good! And, Samantha? We really should be going over the plans for the new immigrant resettlement program soon. Do you suppose—now that we’re friends—we could get together for dinner tomorrow night and discuss some of the arrangements? I could call for you, say, about seven?”
“We just had dinner together,” she pointed out.
“Doesn’t count. It was unplanned.”
She lifted an eyebrow, and Jack thought for a fraction of a second that she would shrink away from him again. Instead she nodded slowly, saying, “All right. But if you don’t mind, I’ll choose the restaurant.”
He made a palms-up gesture to indicate his agreement. “Anywhere you say.” He paused. “Anything else?”
“Yes, actually, there is,” she said, pointing to the cigar in his pocket. “I’m afraid you’ll have to promise not to smoke one of those smelly things anywhere near me.”
Jack broke into a slow grin, slipped the cheroot from his pocket, and flicke
d it out into the street, in the rain.
40
OF SILENCE AND SHADOWS
And love can reach
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach
Than those by mortals read.
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY
The storm seemed to have passed, at least for the moment, leaving behind only a light, steady rain and cooler air. Jack breathed in the clean, wet scent of the night as the horse clopped along the quiet street. He didn’t mind in the least sitting in the open, for he welcomed the rain.
Sheridan, however, seemed uncomfortable with the arrangement. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you shouldn’t be sitting up here in the rain. Won’t you let me pull off so you can ride inside the carriage with Mrs. Harte?”
Jack turned up the collar on his coat and hunkered down to enjoy the ride. “Don’t fret yourself about me, lad. I’m fine. As I told Mrs. Harte, the rain suits me. Especially after a scorcher like today.”
“Yes, sir.” Sheridan didn’t sound altogether convinced, but he let the subject drop. “I almost forgot, sir—Mrs. O’Meara said I should tell you that there’s a letter, quite a thick one, she said, from your brother.”
“Ah! About time! I’ll be curious to see what Brady has to say.”
Silence settled between them. It occurred to Jack that Sheridan’s apparent awkwardness might not be entirely due to his employer’s presence up front. On impulse, he decided to broach the subject of Samantha Harte with the boy, partly because he felt the need to clear the air between them—and partly, he supposed, simply because he enjoyed talking about Samantha.
“Are the lessons with Mrs. Harte still going well?” Jack asked.
“Oh, yes, sir. She’s a fine teacher, as I’ve told you.”
