Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (12 page)

“I know.” The catch in her voice betrayed her own passion. “Don’t apologize, Martin. I didn’t stop you.”

Martin gathered his scattered wits and struggled for words. “I haven’t touched a woman since Eleanor passed, and you, you’re so… I shouldn’t have asked you to dance. I should have known better.”

Chelle’s voice steadied. “There’s something between us, Martin. We can’t pretend there isn’t.”

“You’re right, but I was a cad to act on it. Lass, don’t let this stop you from comin’ to see Leah. I’ll stay out of your way.” Martin glanced back toward the hall. Every minute they lingered here would put another nail in the coffin of Chelle’s good name. “We’d better not go back inside together. People will notice. I’ll go first.”

He left her standing there. They’d only been gone a few minutes, but that was too bloody long. Curious eyes turned his way as he strode into the hall.

Jason gave Martin a sharp look as he took back his fiddle. “You know how to pick ‘em, lad. Watch yourself. She could be trouble.”

Martin snorted as he rosined his bow. “Don’t be daft. She’s just been enjoying herself tonight. Is there a law against that?” Angry with himself for snapping, he drew his bow across the strings. “Come on, folk are waiting.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Chelle strolled up to the hall, sat on the steps and took a few slow, calming breaths. She had no intention of getting involved with Martin, but she still wanted to relive the memory of his kiss. What kind of a woman did that make her?

Before she could gather her thoughts the door opened behind her, releasing a gust of warm air. Two young women stepped out, drawing their shawls around their shoulders, their faces glowing. One, a buxom, hazel-eyed brunette, flashed Chelle a bright smile. “It’s hot in there, that’s for sure and certain. Mind if we join you?”

With her feelings in chaos, Chelle certainly did mind, but she could hardly say so. She gestured to the space beside her. The dark girl and her blonde companion sat down and settled their skirts around them.

“We haven’t met, so I’ll warrant you’re the American girl who’s come to Mallonby. Welcome.”

The brunette’s voice matched her smile, Chelle thought, bright and insincere. “Thank you. Yes, I’m Rochelle McShannon. Are you from Carston?”

“Aye. I’m Delia Putnam, and this is Win Fuller. Are you enjoying the dance, Miss McShannon? You certainly aren’t in any danger of being a wallflower.”

So these girls had been watching her. They’d probably seen her and Martin disappear. Chelle put on a smile and wished them both to the devil. “Yes, I’m enjoying it very much.”

“The music’s certainly good tonight. It’s a treat to have Mr. Rainnie playing, though I’m surprised to see him here so soon after losing his wife. And you… I understand your mother passed on a few weeks before you arrived here. I’m sorry.”

The false sympathy in Delia’s tone grated on Chelle more than the veiled insinuation that she should be home in mourning. She instilled some sweet venom in her voice. “Thank you. Mr. Rainnie and I got acquainted when his daughter lived with my family. As you say, it is a treat to have him playing tonight. He’s a good dancer, too, but then I’m sure you’ve danced with him before.”
If you had, I’d wager you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.
“I understand his wife was from Carston, so you and she would have grown up together, or perhaps she was a year or so behind you.”

If that were true, it would make Delia several years older than she looked. Her smile turned icy. “Mrs. Rainnie was several years older than me, actually. I’ll warrant it’s not really so surprising to see Mr. Rainnie here when it comes to that. He always did have a roving eye.”

“And he’s a good catch, too, with a fine farm. I don’t doubt that a good many Carston and Mallonby girls set their caps for him before he married, and will again now that he’s widowed.” Chelle stood and threw a grin Delia’s way. “I must go in. It’s chilly out here.”

Back inside, Chelle found a seat and caught her breath. It wouldn’t do for her to look flustered. When new sets formed for the next dance, her first partner, Lester Barrow, reappeared. She danced the rest of the evening away with a succession of partners, but she didn’t dare look at the platform.

What had happened between her and Martin was as wrong as the war that had brought her here, for him as well as for her. Chelle’s old world in Georgia would never be the same. She no longer fit in there, and she certainly didn’t fit in here.

But she fit in Martin’s arms. Oh, she fit there, far too well.

Chapter Twelve

Martin knew sleep wouldn’t come easily that night if it came at all. He stepped into the dark house, pulled a chair close to the stove and sat there in its warm glow, waiting for the storm of feelings inside him to settle, but they didn’t. The memories that had come rushing back at the dance, the feel of Chelle in his arms, were all too much for one night.

Finally, he gave up, stoked the stove for the night and tiptoed upstairs to Leah’s room. She slept soundly, her face barely visible in the light of the low-burning lamp.

As much as the child resembled him, Martin saw Eleanor’s looks in Leah more and more each day. The shape of her mouth was his, but her full lips were her mother’s. She had his square jaw, but the makings of Eleanor’s gently rounded chin. More than that, Leah had her mother’s vivacious spirit along with Martin’s dogged stubbornness. Her smiles and laughter were so like Eleanor’s they stabbed him to the heart sometimes, reminding him why he’d almost let Leah go to others.

Could he ever feel about another woman the way he’d felt about Eleanor?

No. The pull between him and Chelle was physical, nothing more. Martin only hoped she could forgive him for playing the cad.

She’s not for you.
He left Leah’s room and crossed the hall to his own. About to draw the curtains and undress, Martin glanced out the window toward the village and froze in place.

An orange glow lit the sky beyond Mallonby. The ominous brightness grew and spread as he watched. It had to be a fire, and there was only one building within miles large enough to burn like that. Martin hurried downstairs and out to the byre, bridled Major and started down the lane at a gallop.

Lamplight shone from every window in the village by the time he got there, but the streets were empty. He tethered his horse in front of the store and jogged up the long slope toward the mill. Most of the village men were already there, waiting and watching in the yard.

Flames shot from the windows of the back end of the brick building, where the raw, lanolin-rich wool was stored. Onlookers had formed a human chain down to the river, buckets at the ready, but the heat near the building was too intense for them to get close.

Martin spotted John Watson, Westlake’s agent, nearby and shouldered his way through the crowd to reach him. “Is there anyone inside?”

“Nay. Smoke’s pourin’ into the production room from under the warehouse doors. It’s too dangerous.”

“Has anyone seen the watchman?”

John frowned. “I haven’t, but he must be here somewhere.”

Martin scanned the crowd in the torch-lit yard and saw no sign of Ethan Bowes, the mill’s elderly night watchman. Surely Ethan would have been the one who sounded the alarm, but where was he now?

If he’d gone back into the warehouse to try to fight the fire, he was already lost, unless he’d found some kind of refuge. Martin had never been on the production floor of the mill, but he’d been inside the warehouse many times when he brought in his fleeces. There was a small office on one side where delivery records were kept. A brick-walled corridor separated it from the storage area, a corridor with no exit. If Ethan had gotten trapped by the fire, he might have shut himself in the office. Martin put a hand on John’s arm. “I’m going round to have a look in the delivery office window, just to be sure.”

John nodded. “I’ll come along.”

They hurried around the front of the building. The moon lit the yard on the other side. The heat wasn’t as intense there, with the corridor separating the outer wall from the fire. Martin and John made their way along the wall until they came to the office window. Smoke obscured their view of the small room, but Martin caught a glimpse of white near the floor, possibly a shirt cuff. “He’s in there!” Martin picked up a nearby brick and smashed the window. It wasn’t big enough to crawl through, but they’d passed a larger one on their way. “Come on.”

With John following, he ran down to the river. They stripped off their shirts, wet them and tied them over their mouths and noses. When they returned, Martin broke the larger window, cleared away the glass with the brick, laid his folded coat on the sill and crawled through, with John following behind him.

Thick smoke and stifling heat filled the corridor. Eyes stinging, Martin shook shards of glass from his coat and pulled it on. He crouched low and felt his way along the wall until he came to the office door. “Still with me, are you, John?”

“Aye.”

He opened the door. Ethan lay huddled on the office floor. Much of the smoke in the room had escaped though the broken window. Enough moonlight came in to show burns on the older man’s face and arms. He must have tried to fight the fire. Martin crawled to him and laid a hand over Ethan’s heart. “He’s alive.”

John crawled up beside Martin. “He must have passed out before he could break the window.” He wiped his sweaty face and glanced upward. “Let’s get out of—”

A thunderous crash drowned him out. Martin’s throat constricted with shock. “Bloody hell! The ceiling’s giving way.” He shrugged out of his coat, draped it over Ethan’s head, then slung the older man over his shoulder. Thankfully, Ethan was lightly built, not much of a burden.

Martin paused in the office doorway.
Christ.
A smoking pile of brick and wood lay in the corridor where part of the ceiling had fallen. A thick wooden crossbeam on top of the heap burst into flames as he watched, blocking their only path of escape.

The acrid air burned Martin’s lungs, even though he breathed through his wet shirt. He coughed and wiped sweat from his eyes. Unbearable heat poured into the corridor through the hole in the ceiling. If he didn’t move that beam now, they weren’t going to get out.

He coughed again and fought to speak. “Here, John, you take Ethan.” Martin got the watchman settled over John’s shoulder, covered them both as well as he could with John’s jacket, then took his own coat to protect his hands and arms. The protection only lasted a moment. He closed his nose to the stench of his own scorching hair and skin, shut his mind to the blinding pain in his arms and the heat against his bare chest as he shoved the burning beam aside, then he and John stumbled over the smoldering mess toward safety.

If the fire hadn’t already flashed by, they wouldn’t have gotten out. When they reached the blessedly clear air by the broken corridor window, Martin took Ethan again while John crawled out. Between them they shoved and pulled the unconscious man through, then Martin followed. He stumbled to the river and plunged in to cool his burns, then collapsed on the bank, coughing and gasping.

They’d made it.

* * *

Driving home from the dance, Chelle listened to Brian and Jean’s banter and forced herself to join in now and then. She couldn’t wait to close the door of her room and stop pretending nothing was wrong.

Martin had made a quick escape when the dance ended, as Jason had to drive him home before heading back to his own farm. The McShannons lingered to chat with some of Brian’s and Jean’s friends. Luckily for Chelle, Brian and Jean had been too wrapped up in each other to notice the byplay between her and Martin. They didn’t get out alone together very often.

Halfway to the village, they caught the tang of smoke on the air. It smelled heavy and greasy, not like coal or peat. The fire’s glow blossomed in the sky as they drove toward Mallonby.

“That’s got to be the mill.” Brian sent the horses along at a canter. Jack and Colin met them in the yard. They jumped into the cart and headed for the fire, leaving the women to sit through what was left of the night.

The men didn’t return until dawn. Chelle, Jean, and Caroline hurried out to meet them. Chelle’s father held her off when she ran to hug him. “There now, lass, I’m black as a chimney sweep.”

“I don’t care. Was anyone inside?”

He rubbed at a sooty streak on his face, making it worse. “Aye. The night watchman was trapped inside, and the smoke got to him. Nobody thought to look for him; everyone assumed he was somewhere in the crowd. Lucky for him, Martin and John Watson thought of him and got him out.”

“Martin—”

“The watchman had some trifling burns and breathed in some smoke. Martin got some nasty burns on his arms. I don’t know how bad.”

Stomach churning, Chelle forced herself to speak calmly. Her father was watching her; he’d always read her too well. “What started the fire?”

Holding Jean and little Peter close against his chest, Brian answered. “I doubt we’ll ever know. There’s not much left inside the warehouse for evidence, but a few oily rags in the wrong place would have been enough. There’s a few grumbling that the watchman was likely smoking on the job, but there’s more that think it was set.”

Set?
Chelle’s mind reeled. Had Martin been hurt, perhaps seriously, in a fire deliberately set? She couldn’t take it in. “But who would gain from that? Not the mill hands, certainly. And the mill was making a profit so the Westlakes wouldn’t want it shut down.”

Tight-lipped, Caroline slipped her arm around Jack’s waist. “I’ll warrant the mill was insured, but that won’t help the folk who are out of work. Well, we’ll likely never know, as you say. Brian, Jack, Colin, come in and get out of those clothes. Chelle, come along, lass, and let’s get breakfast started. It’s a mercy no one was killed.”

It took all of Chelle’s self-control to wait until the next day to go to the farm. Martin might not want visitors, especially her, but she had to see that he was on the mend. As soon as breakfast was cleared away and the dishes done, she announced that she was going for a walk and braved her father’s keen glance on the way out.

She walked fast until she reached the farm lane, then stopped to catch her breath and calm herself. She didn’t want to appear on Martin’s doorstep looking like she’d run to see him.

Jessie came to the door, a worried crease in her brow. “Now then, Chelle, come in.” At Jessie’s heels, Leah held out her arms and said something very loosely translatable as “Up, Chelle.”

“Clever girl, you’re talking!” Pulse still racing, Chelle lifted Leah and hugged her. “Jessie, how badly is Martin hurt?”

The crease in Jessie’s forehead deepened. She nodded toward the sofa. “He’s asleep. Doctor Halstead has me giving him laudanum for pain. The burns on his hands aren’t much, but the ones on his arms are bad enough. They’ll scar, and he’s running a bit of a fever.”

Chelle swallowed a lump in her throat, handed Leah to Jessie and stepped into the sitting area. Martin lay on the old horsehair sofa, a blue-and-white patchwork quilt thrown over him. Both his forearms were swathed in bandages. His brows had been singed, and a few minor burns showed on his flushed face.

Jessie came to stand beside her. “They nearly didn’t get out. He’s lucky.” She studied Chelle for a moment, a thoughtful look that made her face heat. “Will you sit with him for a while? I have work to do upstairs. I’ll take Leah with me.”

When the sound of Jessie’s feet on the stairs died away, Chelle knelt on the floor next to Martin. She didn’t intend to wake him, but he shifted and opened his eyes. They were glassy from laudanum and dark with pain. “Just like a bad penny. You keep turning up.”

His voice was raspy from the smoke he’d inhaled.

Chelle manufactured a smile and restrained an urge to lay her hand over his on the quilt. She couldn’t let him see how shaken she was. “I guess so.”

Martin’s mouth quirked in a slight smile. His eyelids drooped as the drug worked to pull him back under. “I’ve never thanked you… for giving Leah back to me.”

Chelle looked down at his strong-featured face, a face accustomed to hiding his feelings. She remembered how he’d looked at her with bitterness in his eyes, the day they’d met. Now, underneath his obvious pain, she saw affection. “You would have come to it yourself eventually, Martin. You always loved Leah. You just needed time.”

He blinked, fighting to stay awake. “I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure.”

Chelle shook her head. Anyone who knew Martin well would know better than to think he’d reject his child for life. “I am.”

“Perhaps, but thank you… just the same, lass.”

His gaze locked on hers. Perhaps it was the drug talking, but Chelle couldn’t look away. Not when he touched her cheek. Not when his fingers slid into her hair.

Jessie might come downstairs at any moment, but Chelle couldn’t pull back. She leaned down and brushed her lips over his, once, twice, just a whisper of contact. Martin sighed, fisted his hand in her hair and held her still while he captured her lower lip between his. His tongue touched the corners of her mouth, coaxing her to open for him. It was slow and gentle, not like the passionate kiss they’d shared at the dance, but it made Chelle’s blood run thick and hot. When it ended, she saw a glow in Martin’s eyes that burned through the drug.

“Chelle, you didn’t just give Leah back to me. You’ve… given me more than that. I can’t explain, but—”

“You don’t have to, and you don’t owe me anything. That’s what friends are for. Now close your eyes.”

She waited until he drifted back to sleep, then gently pulled her hand from his. What had she done? She should have been the one to stop this. Martin wasn’t himself. She’d already proven that she wasn’t ready to be a wife, let alone a mother, so she had no right to accept—no,
encourage
his kisses.