"I'll hold his head, and you pour half the water in the bucket over it. We'll need the other half for rinsing." Susannah pulled up a nearby chair and sat, taking Connelly's head in her hands. He lay facedown, and his head was surprisingly heavy. She tried not to feel distaste at the griminess of his hair as it curled around her fingers or at the filthy state of his skin.
"Yes'm." Ben did as he was told. The warm water gushed over Susannah's hands and wrists as she held the dead weight of Connelly's head over the slop jar, one of which was kept beneath every bed in the house in case of need.
"What the bloody hell?" Something, presumably the water rushing over his head, roused Connelly with a ven- geance. Susannah gasped and sat back as, without warning, he braced his hands against the mattress and jerked his head from her hold. Though she quickly regained control of herself, Susannah was aware of the still-quickened pace of her heart at her bound man's unexpected resurrection. She watched warily as he levered himself into a sitting position. Streams of water ran down his face and neck and onto his chest. Blinded by the soaked curtain of overlong hair that plastered his face, Connelly shook his head, spraying droplets like a wet dog, and uttered an oath so foul that Ben, bucket suspended in his hands, swallowed and glanced wide-eyed at Susannah. Then Connelly brushed the offending strands back with both hands. Susannah unexpectedly found herself pinned by a pair of fierce gray eyes.
"It's all right. We're merely washing your hair," she said. Though her heart continued to pound, she tried to make her tone soothing. The color of his eyes, which she had not noticed before, came as a surprise. With his black hair and swarthy skin, she would have expected them to be brown. But they were the gray of the sea during a storm, cloudy and turbulent and changeable. Just now they were glaring at her as if he meant to leap on her at any moment and tear her limb from limb.
"The hell you are." The words were a throaty growl. It occurred to Susannah that perhaps he had forgotten who she was and the altered circumstances of his life. Certainly he could have no idea how he had come to be in this room and this bed. The realization reassured her. All she needed to do was make him aware of what had transpired and that dangerous look would vanish from his face. The key to handling him was to be gentle, so as not to frighten him. She would treat him just as she would any injured, snarling animal.
"You do remember me, and the auction this afternoon? I am Miss Susannah Redmon, and I . . ."
"No bloody woman is washing my hair!" His voice was hoarse, scratchy, furious, and its intonation was unmistakably British. He glowered at her as angry dark blood rose high in his cheeks. His shoulders were dauntingly broad and tensed as if ready for battle. His fists were clenched, and his torso was rigidly erect, though she guessed that it must be costing him considerable effort to keep it so. Thankfully, the quilt was puddled around his vital parts, but he was bare as a babe both above and below it.
Though she tried not to let her gaze rest there, Susannah could not help but observe his naked chest. It was wide and furred with a wedge of thick, curling black hair that narrowed to a thin line as it trailed past his navel to disappear beneath the quilt. The sheer masculinity of that hairy chest caused the tiny flicker of feminine awareness she had struggled with before to flame anew. Conscious of her pinkening cheeks, praying that he would not notice, Susannah dragged her eyes back up to his face.
Then she almost wished she had not.
With his soaked black hair pushed sleekly back from his forehead while the ends cascaded in a wild tangle to his shoulders and his bushy black beard obscuring the lower half of his face, he looked like the savage she had been busily assuring herself he wasn't.
Had she permitted herself to, Susannah would have felt just the tiniest tremor of alarm. After all, what did she know about this man? As Sarah Jane had pointed out, only that he had been convicted of attempted murder. And that he'd been beaten mercilessly for some unknown reason. Neither fact was reassuring. But she'd made her bed, as the saying went, and now she had no choice but to lie in it.
"Wash your hair yourself, then," she said, and, scooping up the cake of soap, held it out to him. Her tone was admirably cool despite her inner unease. When dealing with potentially dangerous creatures, she had learned that it was important not to let them get the faintest whiff of fear. And something told her that her new bound man was a very dangerous creature indeed.
7
Connelly looked warily from the soap to her face. Then, to Susannah's surprise he took it, rubbing it between his hands until it lathered, then rubbing the lather into his hair. He repeated the process until frothy white bubbles nearly covered the seal-black strands, then spread the lather over his face as well. His eyes remained fixed on Susannah for the most part, though they flickered occasionally to Ben. They were hard and narrowed and dark with suspicion. She was reminded once more of an animal at bay.
"Is there water in that bucket?" The raspy question was addressed to Ben, who blinked.
"Y-yes, sir."
"Bring it here, then."
With a quick glance at Susannah to secure her permission—she nodded almost imperceptibly—Ben carried the bucket to Connelly's bedside.
"Put it on the floor."
Ben complied, then stepped back. Connelly shot him a warning glare, then sent Susannah another one. Before she realized quite what he intended to do, he grasped the edge of the mattress with both hands and his upper body jackknifed over the side of the bed. He thrust his whole head into the bucket and stayed submerged for perhaps a minute. When he withdrew his head, tossing it, he again slung water everywhere as his eyes darted to Susannah and then Ben. Having apparently satisfied himself that they intended no threatening moves, he bent and wrung out his dripping locks over the bucket.
"Would you care for a towel?" Susannah held out one. Her extreme politeness under the circumstances sounded almost ludicrous to her own ears, but the effect she strove for was one of unthreatening calm. Those gray eyes gave her a distrustful look, but he took the towel and rubbed it vigorously over his head and face.
"Ben, fetch me a dry quilt. And a bowl of broth and a cup of water from the kitchen." Susannah's voice was quiet.
"Yes'm."
"And Ben—there's no need to tell my sisters that he has awakened. If they ask, you may tell them that the broth is for yourself."
"Yes'm."
Ben hurried to do her bidding. Left alone with the bound man, Susannah was conscious of feeling more than just a little bit nervous. But she camouflaged the sensation, masterfully, she thought, by bending to her medicine case and extracting from it a squat jar, a vial, and a roll of bandages.
"What's that?" He was regarding her with acute suspicion, even as he dropped the used towel to the floor. She noticed that he was careful not to rest his back against the iron headboard and guessed that it must be painful to the touch.
"Salve for your back, for one thing."
"What the hell do you know about my back?"
Susannah sighed. Dealing with him carefully and kindly was one thing, but allowing him to show her the rough side of his tongue was something else. It was time to establish, very gently, just who was in charge.
" 'Tis obvious to anyone who has seen your back that you have been severely beaten. The wounds are festering, and you may count yourself fortunate not to have contracted blood poisoning. This salve will take away the infection and the pain and promote healing. If you will lie on your stomach, I will apply it for you. And you will please put a curb on your tongue. We do not swear in this house."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is. Will you lie down? I do have other things to do this evening besides attending to you."
He looked from her to the medical necessities in her hand, seemed to weigh the matter, then did as she asked. As he sprawled on his stomach, Susannah noticed that he was careful to keep the now-damp quilt wrapped around his waist. At least he was not the sort who got a thrill out of displaying their private parts to women.
She ro
se and moved to the bedside table, where she put down the vial and the bandages. The other jar she opened, scooping out the white paste inside with one hand. Then she set the jar down and, leaning over the bed, proceeded to apply the salve liberally to Connelly's abused back.
"What the devil is in that stuff? It burns like hellfire!" He went rigid beneath her hands as the medicine started to do its work.
Susannah slapped an extra measure of salve on one particularly raw spot for good measure.
"Perhaps it will teach you that I mean what I say: in this house, such language as you just used is forbidden."
"What are you, some kind of nun?" From the sounds of them, the words were forced through his teeth.
Susannah was silent for a moment as she screwed the lid back on the jar and returned it to her medicine case. She picked up the roll of bandages.
"Would you sit up, please?"
He scowled warily at her over his shoulder, still grimacing from the sting of the medicine, but did as she asked.
"Can you lift your arms?"
Silently he complied. Susannah began to wind the bandage around his back and chest. With his eyes on her, the task was difficult. She was all too conscious of his gender and her own. He had nipples, hard male nipples that were flat and brown and as unlike her own as it was possible for two of the same species to be. The hair on his chest was thick and black and crisp, and it felt soft against her fingers. As she registered this she almost dropped the roll of bandages, rescuing it only with a clumsy save that made her feel like a fool. Glancing at him because she could not help herself, knowing her cheeks were brick red and afraid he might be able to guess the cause, she was unsettled to find that he was watching her almost mockingly.
"No, I see you're not a nun," he said.
The gibe made her blood heat with shame; hard on the heels of shame came anger. Susannah gritted her teeth.
"It is time we got something clear between us, I believe. I am the mistress here, and you are my servant. You will be well and kindly treated, but you will speak to me and my family with respect and abide by the rules of this house. I hope I am making myself understood?"
She finished her task as she spoke and tied the loose ends of the gauze in a knot at his side. He slewed his head around to look at her.
"And just what will you do should I choose not to be respectful or abide by your rules?" It was both taunt and challenge.
"As much as it would pain me to abandon a task I have undertaken, I would be forced to sell you to someone else. Mr. Greer, for one, would be glad to take you off my hands, I'm sure."
"Are you threatening me?" If there was renewed rage in his voice, and Susannah thought there was, he had no time to give it fuller rein, and she no time to reply. Ben entered just at that moment, carefully carrying a tray on which a steaming bowl and a tin cup were balanced. Over his shoulder was flung a quilt from the linen press upstairs.
"Where do you want I should put this, Miss Susannah?"
Susannah beckoned, and Ben brought the tray over to where she stood by the bedside table. With her back turned to screen her actions from view, she quickly unscrewed the lid of the vial from her medicine case and dribbled a little of the brownish liquid contained therein into the broth. She recapped the vial and set it down again.
"If 'tis food, give it to me," Connelly said.
Ben glanced at Susannah. Taking the spoon that rested beside the bowl, she quickly stirred the broth, then nodded. Ben set the tray down on Connelly's lap.
Good manners, if Connelly had ever possessed them, lost the battle to hunger. Taking the spoon from the steaming bowl, he dropped it on the tray, then picked up the bowl itself and carried it to his mouth. Both Susannah and Ben watched wide-eyed as he tilted the dish, pouring the contents down his throat so greedily that the bowl was emptied in a matter of minutes.
"Is there more?" he asked hoarsely, lowering the bowl and running his tongue over his lips to catch any stray drops.
"As much broth as you want," Susannah answered, feeling her compassion stir anew as she realized that the man was, literally, starving. "Though solids must wait at least until the morrow. You don't want to eat too much at first."
For a moment she thought he would argue, but he did not.
"Then bring me more broth," he said. Susannah nodded at Ben, though she really didn't think that Connelly would be awake for long enough to enjoy it. To recover fully, he needed rest as much as food. And, since she had to leave her sisters alone in the house with him and basically unprotected (young Ben didn't count), she had decided to take no chances in case he should feel inclined to mayhem. To ensure all of them a peaceful night, she had added a few drops of laudanum to his broth. It should take effect soon.
He swallowed some water and set the cup back down on the tray still half full.
"You were not deprived of water as well as food, I see." Susannah's observation was carefully neutral.
For a moment he just looked at her, as if uncertain how, or whether, to respond. Then he gave the merest suggestion of a shrug.
"Water is essential to life. Food, unless withheld for a very long time, is not."
As she had expected, within minutes his eyelids began to droop. He swayed, and one hand went out to steady himself against the mattress. Susannah reached over to lift the tray from his lap and set it out of harm's way.
"Were I you, I would lie down now and rest until Ben
returns," she suggested soothingly, turning back to plump his pillow with practiced hands.
Connelly managed to focus his eyes on her face for an instant, but Susannah could see that it was an effort. Then his lids closed, and he sighed.
"Feel—strange," he muttered, even as he permitted her to ease him over onto his stomach and down onto his pillow.
"No doubt you will feel better in the morning," she answered, but she doubted if he heard her.
"I've brought more broth, Miss Susannah," Ben said from the doorway.
Susannah straightened to look at him. "He'll not be wanting it after all, Ben. He's asleep."
8
It was well after two a.m. when Susannah finally felt able to leave the Coopers' farm. Old Mrs. Cooper had been washed, dressed in her best, and laid out in the parlor. Her daughters, Hannah Naisbitt and Miriam Skaggs, were at the house to give comfort to their aged father, who had finally been persuaded to retire to bed. Susannah's own father had prayed with the weeping widower, while the couple's middle-aged daughters and Susannah had done the actual work of preparing the corpse for burial. The family grieved for the loss of their loved one, but Mrs. Cooper had been old and frail and her death had long been expected. Thus the mood was one of quiet sorrow and acceptance rather than wailing tragedy.
Climbing up into the buggy with her father, glad that for once she did not have to drive home alone, Susannah stretched her tired back, wincing a little at the soreness of her shoulder. The bruise was already deep purple, and it made itself felt whenever she moved. It also reminded her of a problem she had managed, for a few hours, to push to the back of her mind—Connelly. She had yet to tell her father what she had done.
Glancing along the seat to where he sat, fragile in his black suit, white-haired, his back erect despite a weariness that must surely be as great as her own, she knew that the moment of truth was at hand. But he forestalled her.
"Walter Cooper asked that you play Milton's Hymn to the Creator at the service tomorrow."
Susannah nodded. "Mrs. Cooper loved that song. She asked me to sing it to her just last night."
"She was a fine woman. Heaven is the richer for our loss."
"Yes."
Conversation died. The muffled thud of Darcy's hooves against the dirt road was echoed by the plodding hoof- beats of her father's horse, Micah, who was tied behind. Except for the rustling of the wind in the trees and the shrill call of a nightbird from some distance away, there was no other sound. The silence would have been comfortable had Susannah not been on tenterhooks ab
out the confession she had to make. There was no good reason not to speak. The revelation would get no easier for being delayed.
Susannah took a deep breath. If it had to be done, then it was best done quickly, as her mother had often said. But still she hesitated, reluctant to spoil these few moments that she had alone with her father. For a moment, just a moment more, she would hold her tongue and savor the peace of the night. It was cooler now, the temperature having dropped some twenty degrees from what it had been that afternoon, and the smell of growing things and farm animals and salt water combined to add just the suggestion of a spicy tang to the air. Above, twinkling far out of the reach of a forest of tall pines, dozens of stars studded the deep blue satin of the sky. A half moon, frosty white, lit the dirt road, making it simple for Darcy to find his way home.
Which was fortunate, because her father's hands were slack on the reins, and his eyes, like hers, were on the sky above. But while she was indulging in a very worldly reluctance to broach an unpleasant subject, he was undoubtedly engaged in godly thoughts of the world to come. With his full white beard and rippling mane of hair turned to glowing silver by the eerie light, he looked like a Biblical prophet come to life. Susannah's heart swelled with a fierce love for him. He turned his head as if sensing her regard, and smiled his gentle smile at her before resuming his study of the heavens. Susannah, the knowledge of her transgression heavy as an anvil inside her, felt like the lowest worm alive.
"Pa, I bought us an indentured servant today. A man." Her words were abrupt.
For a moment she was not sure he heard or understood, but then his eyes dropped from their contemplation of God's wonders to fasten on her face.
Nobody's Angel Page 6
