Mischief and Magnolias (8 page)

“My father always said it wasn't enough to own these beautiful steamboats. One should know how they work and should be able to do every job on board.” Pride replaced her anger. “My brother and I learned everything we could from Papa. I can pilot and navigate as well as or better than any man. I can read the maps, stoke the firebox, paint and polish, and I can fix the engine.”

Such dignity radiated from her, he stopped listening as she spoke of all she could do. Admiration for her fortitude and ingenuity made him smile. He could picture her, grease on her hands and in her hair, perhaps a smudge on her smooth cheek, as she wielded a wrench. He saw her at the wheel, her hands gripping the solid wood, or studying the maps spread out on the table in the pilothouse.

Could he trust her to not tamper with the engines and leave them at the mercy of the Mississippi's strong current?

He studied her, saw the pride and passion on her face. Without a doubt, she'd never do anything to damage her riverboats. Oh, she might put vinegar in his coffee, but her steamboats? Never. And so he asked, “Would you consider continuing to maintenance your steamers? For me?”

The question caught her by surprise. Her lips parted and her eyes widened for a moment before they narrowed. “Why should I?”

Remy grinned at her, mesmerized by the way her chest seemed to puff out, exposing the silken tops of her breasts above the décolletage of her gown. “Why wouldn't you? Knowing how you feel about your riverboats, why would you trust anyone else? Especially if he happens to wear blue?”

She seemed to consider his offer, drawing her lower lip between her teeth as she thought, the sight erotic and spellbinding. After a moment, she inclined her head. “Yes, I will.”

Those three words, spoken so softly, touched him in a way he hadn't thought possible, and he couldn't help smiling at her.

• • •

Shaelyn let the breath ease from her lungs. There was undisguised pleasure in the softness of his blue-gray eyes, although why that should matter, she didn't know. The last thing she wanted to do was please him. She didn't want to see him smile because of what that smile did to her. She didn't want to see the lights dancing in his eyes either. She still hated his intrusion into her home…into her life…and wanted him gone from both.

She turned away and left him standing at the bow, aware that his gaze followed her, causing her heart to beat a little faster in her chest and her blood to pound in her ears. Confusion and bewilderment swirled through her mind to cloud her judgment.

This is ridiculous! He's just a man. A man I don't want in my house. And I've only known him two days!

Shaelyn scowled as she climbed into the carriage and took her seat to wait for the officers, anxious to be home and away from
him
. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply in an effort to tamp down the alien feelings arising within her.

After a moment, her breathing returned to normal, her heart rate slowed, and she thought she'd succeeded…until the major climbed into the carriage and sat beside her.

Shaelyn didn't know which was worse…seeing his handsome face and charming smile across from her, or feeling the heat from his body from shoulder to thigh pressed against her as he made room for the other men.

And there was heat. Seeping through his uniform, burning her, making her so
aware
of him as a man and not just someone who'd upset the plans she'd made for her life. Now, more than ever, she wanted him gone.

She turned her head and stared at her riverboats as the carriage moved toward home, ignoring the major as well as the other men. The officers talked among themselves, a conversation she was glad she didn't need to take part in.

By the time Magnolia House came into view, perspiration had trickled between her breasts and dampened her back, and his scent had invaded her brain in the same way that
he
had invaded her home. Shaelyn couldn't wait to get out of the carriage and away from him, but such was not to be.

As the carriage halted, Remy climbed from his seat and stepped down. He turned and raised his hand to her. Shaelyn glanced at his face. A charming smile curved his lips and his eyes, the color of a storm-filled sky, glittered with amusement and something else she didn't want to define. Her gaze lowered and focused on his big hand and long, strong fingers. She had no choice but to accept his offer of help, but as soon as their fingers touched, as soon as his warm hand clasped hers, the tingling in her belly began all over again. Worse, the vision she'd seen of them—together in her bed, his mouth laying claim to hers—flared to life as well.

Shaelyn sucked in her breath, certain he saw that vision too, but how could that be?

“Thank you, Shae, for a lovely morning and for showing us your riverboats.”

Oh, his voice was too deep, his touch too warm for comfort. Shaelyn slipped her hand free from his and raced into the house, hoping to find blessed escape from the feelings that threatened to overwhelm her senses.

Shaelyn groaned as Beelzebub crowed right beneath her window. Mean and ornery, his name fit him well. Stars still shined in the night sky as she cracked open one eye and glanced in that direction.

“Blasted rooster can't tell time,” she mumbled as she glanced at the clock on the bedside table ticking away the hours. Three forty-five. Another groan escaped her, but despite being exhausted from cleaning up after a houseful of men for the past several days, she knew she'd never be able to go back to sleep. If she closed her eyes, she might dream of
him
again, as she had done every night since they'd met. “Might as well begin the day,” she mumbled with a sigh as she tossed back the light sheet she slept beneath and climbed from bed.

She washed, brushed her teeth, and dressed, then wandered to the kitchen. Behind the closed door of Brenna's temporary room, she heard the soft sounds of her mother's ladylike snore. She prepared coffee and set it on the stove to boil, then gathered the officers' boots and brought them to the table, which she covered with old newspaper.

One by one, she brushed off the caked-on mud and brought each boot to a high-gloss shine. In truth, she didn't mind this task so much. It allowed her mind to wander while her hands were busy, but perhaps that was a mistake too.

More so than ever, she wanted these men out of her house, out of her life. Especially the major. Not because of the color of his uniform, but because of what he made her feel—sensations that were strange and frightening and thrilling all at the same time. She reminded herself she was spoken for.

In truth, the major seemed to be kindness itself—and his kindness was killing her. Slowly. Little by little. Day by day. The longer he stayed, the more confused she became. The tingling in her belly remained constant, a low buzz that warmed her blood and spread to her limbs. Her heart thundered in her chest every time he looked at her, and she found his gaze on her more often than not.

And the things she saw in her head! She couldn't close her eyes without seeing him—
them!
—arms and legs tangled within the sheets. She'd never, not once, thought of herself and James like this. Truthfully, she hardly thought about James at all, not since a tall, handsome major had come into her life and filled her mind with images and ideas she shouldn't have.

Even now, as she polished his boots, the visions were clear—his dark head bent toward her, his lips and mouth taking possession of hers, touching her, tasting her, his big hands caressing her body.

Shaelyn groaned in frustration and put all her concentration, all her efforts, into polishing his boots and trying to remember how much she wanted him gone from her home.

Finished, her fingers now stained with the blacking she used, the rag in her hand equally black, the surface of his boots shined in the lamplight and reflected her face, as did all the others. A devilish thought came to her and she couldn't help smiling. She rose from her seat and went into the pantry. Spying the object of her desire, she pulled the jug from the shelf and returned to the table, where Major Harte's boots waited. Removing the cork stopper, she poured molasses into his boots and tried not to giggle as she imagined his face when he felt the sticky, gooey mess.

• • •

After enduring only one of the cold baths Shaelyn had prepared for him, Remy struck that particular chore from her list and used the rain bath instead. He loved it. Loved how the water sluiced down his body, loved the feeling of being clean.

He flipped the lever, turning the water off, and opened the door so he could grab a towel hanging from a rack between the rain bath and the clawfoot bathtub. None of his officers utilized the contraption except Jock, who loved it as well—in the evenings, one could hear the Scotsman's voice raised in song as he bathed beneath the flowing water. The rest of his men preferred an old-fashioned soak in the clawfoot bathtub.

He dried off then wrapped the towel around his waist and moved to the sink. Steam coated the mirror and he wiped it away, then smoothed shaving soap on his face with a horsehair brush. Several strokes with a straight-edge razor later, he removed the excess soap and dried his face.

Haunted blue-gray eyes in the mirror studied him closely as a long sigh escaped him. Being clean did not stop the memories from assaulting him. How could it when the constant throbbing in his thigh reminded him every day of the carnage he'd seen, the friends he'd lost? Or the smell of death and the moans of pain as he lay in the hospital bed, struggling to save his leg, struggling to live, as the men around him died from their wounds?

He sucked in his breath and closed his eyes for a moment, trying in vain to erase the vivid images rushing through his mind. Shutting out his reflection did nothing to relieve the ache in his heart. Despite his efforts, the pain increased as the memories flashing before his eyelids grew in intensity. Not only could he see the past, but he could hear it and smell it as well. The sharp report of gunfire, the sound of bullets whizzing past his ears, the nervous whinnies of the horses, the screams of his men as metal hit flesh and bone. He could still see their faces, hear their voices. And the maniacal laughter that had rung out before a bullet screamed past his head.

Only two had survived the ambush—himself and General Sumner. The rest of his small contingent had perished in the blood-soaked mud, the smell of copper invading his nose as he too lay in the mud, his leg twisted beneath the weight of Soldier Boy's heavy body.

He opened his eyes, took another breath and let it out slowly, then did it again. After a few moments of deep breathing, he managed to still the images flashing before his eyes.

Towel wrapped around his waist, he limped into the bedroom and finished drying himself, mindful of the scar throbbing in his thigh.

He inspected the puckered skin and sighed. Ugly and swollen, the jagged line pulsed as if it had a life of its own, and yet he remained grateful to still have his leg. He could walk, despite the pain, and still breathed when so many others did not.

It had been close though. The surgeons at the makeshift field hospital had wanted to take his leg, declaring the bone protruding from his thigh too damaged to ever support his weight again. He remembered begging the doctor holding the saw in his hand, bargaining with him, promising him the moon and the stars and every cent of his worth if he would put the saw down. He'd made promises to God, too, and whoever else would listen. When infection set into the wound, it had nearly killed him. If it wasn't for the timely intervention of General Sumner, Jock, and his father, he wouldn't be here now. They had kept a vigil, the three of them taking turns feeding him broth, keeping him clean and cool, and urging him to fight to survive.

Coming so close to losing his life had changed him in so many ways. Accused of being arrogant and self-centered in the past, he now chose the other road, and though sometimes it was hard, he tried to remain kind, tried to see humor where little existed, tried to take the feelings of others into consideration when he made decisions.

With effort, Remy pushed the memories from his mind, except for his promise to learn the identity of the traitorous bastard who'd betrayed them to the enemy.

He dressed in his uniform then brushed his hair back from his forehead. He didn't inspect his reflection in the mirror, afraid the visions might assault him once more.

Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots closer. A slight smile crossed his face as he inspected the shine. Shaelyn Cavanaugh may resent him for being here, her attitude described as prickly at best, but he certainly couldn't find fault in the high gloss on his boots.

He slipped his left foot into the boot. His smile disappeared as the oddest feeling came over him. Something wasn't right. His foot, encased in a heavy wool sock, had become wet, his toes sliding against each other as he wiggled them.

He removed his boot and inspected the sock. Thick, dark-brown syrup coated his sock and plopped to the floor one sticky drop at a time.

Molasses!

He should have been angry, should have raised the roof with the sounds of his displeasure, but none of that happened. As he studied the sock dripping molasses, a rumble of laughter rose from his chest. He couldn't help it. Vinegar in his coffee, cold baths, now molasses in his boots. What would the feisty, spirited woman think of next?

He almost couldn't wait to find out.

Exchanging his molasses-covered sock for a fresh pair from the drawer, he finished the last of the coffee Shaelyn had brought him earlier—stone cold but vinegar free—then padded down the stairs in his stocking feet, boots in hand, and sought out the vixen who dared so much.

Remy strolled through the dining room and noticed the table had been set. Warming trays were on the sideboard, one already filled with grits, another with cornbread, a third with small link sausages perfectly browned.