Mischief and Magnolias (21 page)

“I would prefer that you sleep with me…if only for appearances' sake.” Remy cocked an eyebrow, but his smile remained. “However, if it will ease your worries, I have no intention of touching you.”

His words jolted her. “What?”

“Rest assured, Mrs. Harte, you are the last person I want to touch. Tonight…or any night.” And with those words, he blew out the lamp, casting the room in darkness except for the moonlight streaming in through the window.

Shaelyn heard rustling as he settled himself for sleep, heard something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, then nothing more.

Dumbstruck, she stood and stared for the longest time, unable to decide what she wanted to do. “Damn Yankee,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

This time, Shaelyn was certain she heard a small chuckle. “Are you going to stand there and call me names? We could, I'm sure, do that all night, but we have a lot to do in the morning. Come to bed, Shae.”

And still, she stood there, her clothes still in her arms, undecided, unprepared…unhappy, glaring at him. “A gentleman would…”

“I never said I was a gentleman.”

She jumped and a shiver rushed down her back. Did she imagine his voice was closer? Her heart thumped as she let out her breath. He wasn't closer. It was just her imagination…and her nerves. “All right, Major. You win.”

“Hmmm. I wouldn't exactly call this winning.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Shaelyn dumped the armload of clothes on the chair then stubbed her toe on the trunk he'd pushed back into the room.

He may have said he wouldn't touch her, but Shaelyn had her doubts. Too tired to argue with him, too sore deep in her muscles to want to sleep on the floor—or in the chair or back in the small, lumpy bed in the servants' quarters—she tugged open the bureau drawer and chose a nightgown, one that buttoned all the way up to her chin. The sleeves went to her wrists while the hemline dusted the floor. Nothing alluring in the least about this piece of flannel, she mused as she laid the nightgown over the privacy screen and slipped behind it.

Finished changing her clothes, Shaelyn sat at the vanity and began brushing her hair with scalp-scratching strokes before she plaited the thick, curling mass into one long braid that swung down her back. With a sigh, she finally crawled into bed, brought the blankets up to cover her shoulders…and scooted as close to the side of the mattress as she could, leaving an emptiness the span of the Sahara desert between them. She may have to share the same bed, but she didn't have to touch him!

“Sleep well, Mrs. Harte,” he murmured.

This time, she was certain she heard him chuckle!

Despite the rough beginning, Remy enjoyed married life…at least the first two weeks of it. And he loved sleeping next to Shaelyn. Without her realizing it, she brought a comfort to him as no other had been able to do, and the nightmares he generally suffered through were not as frequent. She crawled into bed now without argument, although she continued to hug the edge of the mattress, which simply amused him because no matter how hard she tried, at some point during the night, she would wander to his side of the bed in her sleep and they ended up holding each other, a fact that annoyed her beyond reason.

Feigning sleep in the mornings had become a favorite pastime for him as well, for as much as he loved sleeping beside her, he loved watching her when she was relaxed and not so guarded.

She rose early, whether she could hear Beelzebub's crowing or not, and slipped from bed after wrestling herself free of entangled blankets…and him.

This morning was no different…for either of them. He lay on his back, holding her close, while her head rested on his shoulder, her body pressed against his side. Her hand splayed across his chest, fingers hot against his skin, but not nearly as hot as her bare leg thrown over his, her nightgown bunched up between them. Remy lay still, and hoped she wouldn't move. Better yet, he hoped she would, but not to get out of bed.

With a heartfelt sigh, Shaelyn carefully disentangled herself and crawled from the bed. Remy instantly felt the chill without her beside him, even though she adjusted the blankets over him, which warmed his heart if not his body.

She lit a lantern against the darkness, but kept the wick low to provide only meager light, then gathered her clothing from the armoire. He watched every graceful move she made, mesmerized, until she left the room.

She returned shortly, fully dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, which she preferred, the flannel nightgown, which she also preferred, thrown over her arm. Through slightly closed eyes, he studied her as she untwisted the braid hanging down her back and brushed her long, shining tresses until they gleamed in the lamplight. A few quick moves and she twisted the light mahogany locks into a loose knot atop her head. He wished she'd leave her hair loose, like that night in the garden when he had pulled the pins from the heavy mass and weaved his fingers into the softness. His fingers flexed now, remembering how soft her hair had been.

The last thing she always did before she headed downstairs was dab a little perfume on the pulse spots behind her ears. Not a lot, as the bottle was nearly empty. The fragrance not only filled the room, but filled his mind with images, his heart with wonder, and his body with longing.

This morning, though, she surprised him. She added something new to her routine after she put the stopper back in the perfume bottle. Something unexpected. Remy kept his eyes half closed as Shaelyn turned from the mirror on the bureau and approached their bed. She hesitated as she stood beside him, as if undecided. He wished he could see her expression.

Instead, he concentrated on breathing normally and watched her face through the veil of his lashes, resisting the urge to grab her and bring her back to bed. She hesitated a moment more then quickly dropped a kiss on his lips before making a hasty exit.

Remy lay in bed after the door closed and grinned. Ah, was his prickly rose beginning to soften toward him? Simple kindness had brought them far from the days when he had first taken her home and her boats. What else could he do to complete the transformation and make her love him?

He sat up, thoroughly surprised by his own thoughts, but quite at home with them, too. Did he want his wife to love him? The answer came to him quickly.

Yes. Yes, I do.

His grin widened then he began to chuckle. It was the beginning of a good day. He was still smiling when she brought him his coffee.

• • •

Shaelyn headed upstairs after washing the breakfast dishes, intending to strip the bed and put on fresh linen, but the bed had already been made. Had Remy done that? It wouldn't surprise her. He'd been especially kind and solicitous since saying “I do,” but why would he make their bed if she needed to change the sheets? She pulled back a corner of the coverlet and realized the linens had already been changed.

What is going on?

She left her room through the French doors and strolled toward the back of the house. No one was in the yard, but from her vantage point, she could see the door to the little shed behind the carriage house stood wide open. Already, several sheets hung from the clothesline, pristine white, fluttering in the breeze.

Shaelyn traipsed down the back stairs and made her way across the yard, shivering a little, despite the warmth of the shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

A fire burned merrily beneath a huge cauldron in the shed when she slipped in through the open door. A tall, thin young man had his back toward her. He whistled a nonsense tune as he stirred the contents of the cauldron with a long wooden pole. The sleeves of his uniform were rolled to his elbows and he paused to wipe perspiration from his forehead several times before he lifted a sheet from the pot, using the pole, and dumped it in the galvanized washtub on the table next to him. He looked vaguely familiar, but then so many of the young boys in blue did.

“Who are you?”

The boy gave a guilty start and dropped the pole. A blush rose up his face as he turned to look at her. He couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. “Private Connors, ma'am,” he responded, his voice cracking.

“Private Connors, what may I ask are you doing?”

“I'm to do the laundry, ma'am.” He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed as he did so. The redness never left his face. “Major Harte said so. As'ed me if I liked goin' on the riverboats, which I don't—my stomach gets a bit queasy on them boats, ma'am—then as'ed me if I wouldn't mind doin' some chores at Magnolia House and here I am.” He picked up the pole, but didn't make another move, as if he waited for an order.

“I see.” She resisted the urge to smile at him. Poor thing seemed nervous in her presence. He stood ramrod straight although he studied the ground instead of her. “Have you seen Major Harte?”

The boy shook his head as his gaze rose from the ground to face her once more. He grinned, making dimples appear in his smooth cheeks. “No, ma'am. Not since earlier today.
”

“Thank you. You may carry on, Private Connors, and when you are done, you may come up to the house and have some pie.”

“Thank you, ma'am, already had some o' Miz Cavanaugh's fine pie. Wouldn't mind havin' more though. Best pecan pie I ever had.”

She left the boy to finish his chores and headed back toward the house. The kitchen was clean, but empty. Several bowls were on the table, each one covered with a dishtowel. A familiar sight and she knew what it meant. Her mother would make bread today. The bowls were filled with dough, beginning the rising process.

A thick, hearty soup simmered on the stove, scenting the air with the delicious aroma of chicken and vegetables. She wondered briefly if there would be dumplings, too.

Shaelyn stepped through the door into the hallway. “Mama?”

“In here, dear.”

She swept into the sun parlor and found her mother sitting in a ray of sunlight coming in through the window. She worked on a quilt stretched between the wooden rods of a quilt stand in the natural light, a cup of steaming tea on the small table beside her. In the past, she would have been in the company of other ladies, fabric spread out between them as they sat in a circle, gossiping as they sewed quilts for those in need.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Mama?”

Brenna glanced up from her work in progress, the needle poised above a multicolored ringlet. “No, dear, but thank you. With all the captains gone right now, there isn't much to cook. I do have some dough rising and soup already simmering. Perhaps you can help me later?”

“Just let me know when,” she said as she studied the design of the quilt. Her mother called it a double wedding ring. “I met Private Connors.”

“Isn't he a sweet boy? He and I had a long discussion earlier today.” She took a sip of her tea. “I thought it was rather sweet of Major Harte to have him help you.”

“Speaking of the major, have you seen him?”

Her mother put the cup back on its saucer and moved her spectacles further down her nose. Questions lurked in her crystal blue eyes, questions that remained unasked except for one, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine, Mama. I just wanted to ask him a question.”

She gave a slight nod then went back to her needlework. “I believe he's gone to Rosalie. I heard him mention something about the Gray Ghost and cut telegraph wires.”

Shaelyn nodded as she wandered around the room, then paused in front of the French doors and studied the small vegetable garden.

“Are you certain everything is all right, dear? There aren't any problems…” Brenna didn't finish the sentence.

Shaelyn added the rest of her mother's question silently…
with your marriage?
” and bit back the sharp response on the tip of her tongue.
Of course not, Mama. What could possibly be wrong with a forced marriage? Did you think it would be all peaches and cream once the ring was on my finger? The major hates me and I…I don't know how I feel.

She said none of that as she moved away from the door. “No, Mama. Everything is fine. I promise.”

Brenna smiled and pushed her spectacles back into position. “That's good, dear,” she said as she bent her head over the fabric. “I knew you two would work it out.”

Shaelyn said nothing as she left her mother to her needlework, something she'd never had an interest in, and wandered down the hall to the study. The house just seemed so quiet, and in the quiet, there was too much to think about.

Like the major.

And herself.

And the pretend marriage they shared in a real bed.

And the myriad of feelings rushing through her, all jumbled and confused and utterly frustrating.

So this is what being a lady of leisure feels like. How can they stand it? All the thoughts going through their minds, playing havoc with their emotions?

She'd never been a lady of leisure. There had always been something for her to do. Before the war, she'd had more steamboats and worked in the office, selling tickets to passengers, or in the warehouse, keeping inventory and such.

The truth? She was bored, didn't quite know what to do with herself. Or the thoughts screaming in her head. Private Connors had washed the bed linens. She had dusted just yesterday and scrubbed the floors the day before. Indeed, the house gleamed with cleanliness.

She couldn't even go down to her beloved steamboats…both were gone—the
Sweet Sassy
to Memphis with Captains Becket and Williams and the
Lady Shae
to St. Louis with Captains Bonaventure and MacPhee. There were no letters she needed to write, and reading one of the many books in the study didn't interest her at the moment. Shopping didn't interest her either. There was nothing she wanted. Or needed.

Except something to do.

They didn't need her help at the warehouse. Beside, she didn't want the risk of running into Captain Davenport. Ever since she had usurped his authority on the
Brenna Rose
, he regarded her with disdain or downright hostility, but never in Remy's presence. When the major was present, Davenport treated her with the utmost respect, which only served to deepen her distrust of the man.