The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux
Jenny nodded at Shay. “Go ahead.”
He glanced at the sink in the corner. “You mind if I wash up?” At Jenny’s nod of agreement, he rose, then stepped to the drain board where a bucket of water rested, pouring a small amount into the wash pan. Isabelle provided a bowl of soft soap and a towel, and in moments, Shay was back at the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the knife and spreading butter across a slice of bread.
“Isabelle baked this morning,” Jenny told him, pouring cream in her coffee, then adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar. A bowl of stew appeared in the middle of the table and Jenny reached for the serving ladle. Shay nodded as she cast him an inquiring glance, and she served a generous portion on his plate.
The steam rose and he inhaled it, then spoke his satisfaction. “This is much appreciated, ma’m. I haven’t had a hot meal in a couple of days.” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a bite of potato and began eating. His gaze scanned the room, settling on Isabelle, who watched from near the stove. “You’ve already eaten?” he asked.
“When I fed Marshall.” Her answer was curt, but he seemed uncaring, returning to his food, picking up his cup to drink. After a few moments, his first hunger apparently appeased, he leaned back in his chair. “You’re alone here?” he asked.
Isabelle glanced up at the shotgun over the door and Jenny shook her head, then brushed her mouth with a linen napkin. “No, there’s Isabelle’s husband and their two sons. They’re working in the hayfield. And you’ve seen my son.”
He nodded, chewing long and hard on the crust of bread he’d chosen, then bent to his dinner once more.
“Do you think my boy looks like Carl?” she asked after a moment. “His folks are gone, over three years now, but his mama said Marshall was the image of his daddy.”
“Hard to say,” Shay temporized.
“Carl had the same brown eyes. But then you know that. Having seen him more recently than I. Mine are blue.” She paused for a moment, but the words would not be halted, falling from her lips as if she must somehow reinforce Carl’s memory through the small child he’d left behind. “Marshall’s hair is streaked from the sunshine now, I know. But you should see it in the winter. It darkens up, without a trace of red in it like—” Jenny hesitated, aware of rambling on. She lifted her cup and sipped at the bitter stuff. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she felt her throat close as she asked the question she’d held within her heart for the past half hour.
“How did he die?” Her hands fluttered, then settled in her lap. “Did he suffer long? Was there a doctor in the camp?” She looked up at him and winced at the forbidding look he wore. “Please, Mr. Shay.”
The woman was trembling, her mouth twitching at the corner, her chin wobbling. Damn, she was about to cry again, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. Enough that he’d put this visit in limbo for so long, now he had to dredge up all the memories and break her heart all over again.
“There were a couple of doctors in camp, but we tried not to let the Union army know who they were. They’d have been taken out and put to work in the army hospital for the northern troops.” He shrugged, curling long fingers around his cup. “There wasn’t any medicine anyway, ma’am. We all just did the best we could.”
“You said you were with him?” she asked, biting at her lip. “He spoke of us?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told you he sent his love, to both you and the child.” That hadn’t been exactly how it happened, but instinct told him she would be soothed by the words. Her eyes filled with tears and they overflowed, dampening the bodice of her dress as they fell. His gaze rested there.
“Mr. Shay?” Her hand lay on the table now, reaching for him, yet even as he watched, her fingers curled into a fist. “Did he say anything else?”
He shook his head. Take care of them. The words that haunted his dreams had brought him here, on a roundabout route, to be sure. But here he was, and here he’d stay until he was sure she was safe, had enough to eat, and that the boy was taken care of, had some sort of future in the offing.
“Have you got any crops in, ma’am?” he asked. “Is there any livestock in the pastures?”
“The kitchen garden’s planted, of course, and it’s almost time to plant corn, maybe next week or the week after. After the hay gets put up. We’ve a cow in the barn, and a good flock of chickens. There’s three hens setting on nests. We’ll have chicks soon, and fryers in a couple of months.”
“Horses?” he asked.
“A team of mules. They’re in the corral, waiting for me to take them back to the hay field later on. And a mare to pull the buggy.”
“Nothing to ride?”
“No, the Yanks took most of the horseflesh hereabouts with them when they passed through. We were lucky to keep what we did. Noah and the boys hid the animals in the woods. We penned up the chickens in the root cellar and put a washtub over the door when the army came through. I thought they were going to burn the place, but—” She hesitated and glanced at Isabelle, whose mouth shut reprovingly.
“They left us alone, and went on without torching the house and barn.” Beneath the freckles dotting her cheeks, Jenny’s face was pale and her gaze focused steadily on the tabletop between them.
His instincts told him she’d left much unsaid. Her hired help, or whatever relationship the woman had to Jenny, was keeping secrets, as was the girl across the table from him. She wasn’t much more than a girl, yet she’d borne up beneath the load she’d been called to carry, and borne up well. Her dress was ill-fitting, tight across the bodice, as if it had fit a younger, more slender female. Well-worn, and washed until the faint pattern of flowers had submitted their color to soap and water, it looked on the verge of being fit for the ragbag.
Yet, she wore it well, and he had a fleeting glimpse of what it must have looked like, years ago when both dress and woman had been untouched by the desolation of the war.
Jenny looked up at him, her dignity once more in place, only damp spots on her dress remaining of the tears she’d shed for the memory of her husband. “Will you stay the night?” she asked politely.
“I can sleep in the barn.” He glanced out the window to where the shabby outbuildings were drenched in sunshine. “I have a bedroll, ma’am. Is there hay left in the loft?”
“No, but there will be in a couple of days, once it dries in the field. The men are out there cutting it now.”
“Can I give them a hand? I’ve done my share of swinging a scythe in my day.”
“And where was that?” she asked, her eyes lighting with interest.
“I was born and raised here in the south, ma’am.” And that would be enough for now, he decided, rising and reaching for his hat. “I’ll just ride my horse out to where the men are, and put in a few hours’ work. Maybe I’ll do enough to earn my supper.”
“Wait,” Jenny said quickly. “I’ll take you out in the wagon. Noah won’t know who you are.”
“I’ll tell him,” Shay said politely. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”
And it was. Coming upon the three men, their heads covered with straw hats, their arms swinging in unison to the mournful notes they sang, he’d sat astride his stallion for long minutes. One of the younger men had noticed him first, glancing up, and then halting midswing. The older man, Noah probably, turned to face him, taking his hat off and nodding slowly.
“Sir?” The tone was polite, yet wary, and Shay slid from his horse. A hundred feet or so separated them, and his steps were unhurried as he watched the three men.
“I’m here to help,” he said. “Carl Pennington sent me.”
A visible shiver went through the shortest of the three men, and he turned quickly to the eldest of the group. “Pa?”
Noah stepped forward. “You knew Mr. Carl? In the army?”
Shay nodded. “I was with him when he died.”
Noah looked him over well, his shoulders straightening, his head erect. “Took you long enough to get here, I’d say, mister.”
Shay nodded his agreement. There was no arguing that point. “I’m here now.”
“You wanta use the scythe or start rakin’?” Noah asked.
Shay held out his hand. “I’ll give you a break. You can rake, if that’s all right.”
Hand outstretched, he waited as the older man scrutinized him, and then, with a nod at his two helpers, walked the few steps it took to face Shay.
“These here are my boys, Caleb and Joseph. Miss Isabelle’s my woman.” He held out the scythe and Shay took it from the callused hand.
“I’ll just tie my horse,” he said. A glade of trees edged the hayfield on three sides, telling wordlessly how the field had been wrenched from the woods surrounding it. Shay led his horse into the shade and slid the bridle from his mouth and over his head, then reached into his saddlebag for a halter. He put it in place, adding a long lead line before he loosened the saddle cinch.
“You can work at keepin’ the grass mowed,” he murmured to his stallion, leaving the animal knee-deep in lush greenery. The scythe fit his hand as if he’d only yesterday laid it down, and in moments he was adjusting his swing to the momentum of the other men. The sun beat down through his dark shirt and sweat beaded his brow, burning his eyes as it dripped from his forehead. Tying his kerchief around his brow relieved that situation, and he moved forward, enjoying the flex of muscles unused to the physical labor of harvest.
For a while the singing stopped, and then Noah took it up again, timing his rake to the rhythm he set, his sons following suit. The scythe sliced hay smoothly, and Shay silently thanked whoever had spent long moments with a stone, sharpening its blade. The men surrounding him worked as a team, apparently accepting his presence.
Shay thought of those he’d known, worked with, played poker with, then ridden away from during the past years. All the while heading back to where he’d lived as a boy. The ranch in Kansas had been the latest stopping place. Until circumstances had sent him on his way, and he was once more traveling. Finally with purpose.
It was time, he’d decided. Time to face the past, time to find the woman and child Carl Pennington had spoken of. Maybe time to finally heed Carl’s plea. He’d never agreed to his friend’s request, but those dying words had haunted him for too long.
Now, whatever he could do to help Carl’s wife, whether it be by the sweat of his brow, or the gold in his pocket, he’d do his best. The thought of Jenny, copper hair shimmering in the sunlight, brown eyes soft against his scarred face, was enough to make him eager for suppertime to arrive. And that thought caught him up short.
He was here to help Carl’s widow, not take advantage of her. It would be easy to look on her as an available woman. Honesty nudged him to admit he already had. She might be available, but not to a man like Shay. He’d soiled his hands beyond redemption, and touching Jenny Pennington…His body hardened at the thought, and he swung the scythe with a jerk, spoiling the rhythm he’d set. It hit the ground and vibrated in his hand, and he halted, lifting his face to the sun, closing his eyes against the radiance.
She was there, burned into his memory, waving locks of hair tempting his fingers, gentle eyes melting his defenses. And scattered across the fabric of her dress, luring his gaze to the curves defining her breasts, were tears she’d shed for Carl Pennington.
Chapter Two
Giving the man run of her house was not wise. Even as Jenny heard his boots on the curving staircase, she knew she’d probably made a mistake. True, his chosen room was on the second floor, and her own was the old library near the front door. Also true was the fact he’d offered to sleep in the barn.
To which she’d demurred. It was not proper to send a gentleman to sleep in the hayloft when perfectly good rooms were standing empty in the house. Even if those rooms were stripped bare of furnishings and cold during the short months of winter. He wouldn’t be here that long anyway, she comforted herself.
Standing at the foot of the curved staircase, she cocked her head to listen as his footsteps moved on down the uncarpeted hallway upstairs, and stopped. Not the master suite, she decided, with a sitting room attached. She backed up a bit, peering past the balcony, seeking a glimpse of his tall figure. The only rooms that far down the corridor were the smaller bedchambers, designed for children, yet it seemed he’d chosen one of them for his own.
“Miss Jenny? What’re you doing?” Isabelle’s soft voice from behind her had Jenny rounding about quickly, her cheeks flaming.
“Just looking after our guest,” she muttered.
“Looking at him, is more like it,” Isabelle said, her own gaze following the path Jenny’s had taken. “And ain’t he a fine one to watch.”
“He’s chosen to stay in one of the smaller rooms, I believe. I can’t think that he’ll be comfortable with just a bedroll, but he insisted.”
“There’s a couple of mattresses in the attic, if you want Noah to bring one down for him,” Isabelle offered. “He’d might as well be as comfortable as we can make him.”
Jenny nodded, walking toward the back of the house. The kitchen was warm, the stove throwing off an abundance of heat, and she opened the back door, allowing air to flow through the room. “For someone who didn’t take to him…” Her words slowed, and then she turned to face her friend. “I thought you didn’t like him,” she said quietly.
“Haven’t decided about that yet,” Isabelle told her. “But I decreed right off the bat he was a prime specimen.”
“He looks a bit the worse for wear, I think,” Jenny said, her words mumbled into the apron she pulled over her head. “And he probably won’t be here long enough for me to change my mind.”
Isabelle nodded wisely. “We’ll see.” She handed Jenny plates and silverware, then turned back to the stove. “Noah says the man’s a hard worker.”
Finished with setting the table, Jenny walked to the back door. Her hands lifted to her forehead, brushing back tendrils of hair that defied her best efforts at tidiness. “He’ll soon tire of working long hours and getting nothing in return.”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I think you’ve got it all wrong.” From behind her, Shay’s deep tones denied her theory, and she spun to face him, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
“I didn’t hear you, sir. You startled me.” It seemed the man called Shay could move silently when the mood struck him.
He was quiet for a moment, watching her from beneath lowered brows. “Maybe I should have knocked. But then, the door wasn’t shut,” he said finally. “As to what I overheard, I beg to differ with you.” His hands folded into fists, then rose to rest against his hips. “I’m here to fulfill an obligation to a friend. Receiving a reward doesn’t enter into it.”
“It’s a good thing,” Jenny returned starkly. “A floor to sleep on and three meals a day will be the limit of your pay.” Her words sounded harsh to her ears and she bit at her lip, ashamed of herself.
“Miss Jenny, don’t forget the mattress,” Isabelle reminded helpfully.
Jenny cast her a grateful look, softening her tone. “I’ll have Noah help you bring a mattress out of the attic for your room,” she said. “Isabelle reminded me that we put a couple of them up there.”
Shay nodded, relaxing his stance, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other flexing open against his thigh. “I’ll take care of it later on. For now, I’ll just need a container for water, so I can wash in the morning, ma’am.”
Buckets were in short supply, the two in best condition being used for milking the cow. Jenny thought of the rough wooden ones in the barn and dismissed the idea. There was no choice, she decided. A guest must receive preference.
“I’ll give you the pitcher from my room,” she told him. “There’s a basin with it.”
“I won’t take yours,” he said sharply. “Surely you have a kettle I can use.”
She shook her head. “Most everything is gone, sold piece by piece. We only have enough to cook in, nothing extra.”
His eyes narrowed, taking in her dress, the scuffed toes of her shoes and the worn apron she’d slipped into only moments past. “You haven’t spent much on yourself, have you?”
A flush climbed her cheeks and she felt her jaw tauten as he took inventory of her clothing. “I’m not complaining. We’re getting along.”
“For how long?” he asked bluntly. “You need something besides a field of corn and a couple of cuttings of hay to get you through the year. Where’s your cash crop?”
“They’re still buying cotton,” she told him proudly. “And ours has always been some of the best in the parish. We’ll be planting ten acres pretty soon.”
“Not enough of it to support you,” he said, and the truth of his judgment pierced her to the quick.
“There’s no sense in planting more than we can harvest,” she told him. “And with only the five of us to pick…”
“There’ll be four men this year, and the boy can help out,” he told her, amending her words.
Jenny’s lips compressed, holding back words better unspoken, given her tendency to allow her temper full rein. Marshall was a baby, not fit yet for field work. And the son of a gentleman, to boot.
“He’s not too young to carry sacks out to us and help dump them in the wagon,” Shay told her, his words gentle, as if he sensed her thoughts. “He shouldn’t stand by and watch his mother work. He’ll learn to do his share, and probably feel better for it.”
“You haven’t the right,” she said, her words stiff with anger.
“Carl gave me the right. He asked me to come here, and part of my duty to him is to teach his son how to deal with whatever life sends his way.”
There was no rebuttal to that argument, Jenny decided, for if Shay told the truth, Carl had indeed bestowed upon him that duty. And Shay gave every indication of being a gentleman, no matter his appearance. His speech, his bearing, even the tilt of his head and the calm arrogance of his manner, gave testimony to his claim. Whoever his family, they had reared him well.
“I can’t turn down your help. I can’t afford to be proud,” she said quietly. “If Carl sent you, I’ll give you leave to do as he asked.”
Shay bowed his head, a movement she sensed signified his acknowledgment of her words. She’d accepted his help. Now to learn compliance. For six years she’d been in charge, controlled the work done on Pennington Plantation. A sense of relief washed over her as she looked at the man who’d offered—perhaps insisted—on taking that control from her.
For the life of him Shay didn’t understand how she’d talked him out of sleeping in the hayloft. Yet, here he was, in the house this morning. He stirred, then rolled over, thankful for the mattress he’d hauled from the attic by candlelight last night. It surely beat sleeping on the hard floor, and was a far cry from the burned-out house he’d slept in the past couple of days.
He rolled to his feet and listened to a rooster in the chicken yard. “At least one of us has something to crow about,” he muttered beneath his breath, pouring water from the flowered pitcher Jenny had pressed into his hands. He’d carried it, and the matching bowl up the stairs, unwillingly to be sure, but unable to deny her the right to do as she pleased in her own home. One way or another, he’d see to it that a bucket became available for his use today, and return the china to her bedroom, where it belonged.
In the meantime, he could enjoy the image floating through his mind, that of Jenny’s hand pouring water for her use. Of Jenny’s skin being cleansed by some floral scented soap. He lifted a towel to his face, inhaling the fresh aroma of sunshine clinging to its fibers. Maybe he’d settle for that, he decided. She didn’t need some fancy milled bar to make her smell good. Whatever she used to wash with reminded him of meadow grass and spring flowers.
His mouth tightened as he sensed the direction of his thoughts. Water splashed over his hair as he doused himself in the china basin, and he closed his eyes against the blue flowers that reminded him of violets and forget-me-nots. It was time to fill his belly with food and get out to the barn. The men would be waiting and he wouldn’t be deemed a laggard by anyone. Especially not three men whose cooperation he needed if he was to make any sort of a success of this venture.
They were waiting anyway, he discovered, stepping out onto the back porch. Isabelle had fed them earlier, before setting the table for Jenny and the boy. Whether he was to have eaten with the men or with Jenny, he didn’t know. But, she’d offered him coffee and a full plate once he’d made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They weren’t using the dining room these days, having turned it into a bedroom for the boy, and Jenny seemed to have taken over the smaller parlor as her own.
The furnishings in the big parlor were sparse, but comfortable, he’d noted yesterday. She’d obviously sold off most of her belongings. Probably to buy food and seed and whatever else they needed for survival.
Noah greeted him with a wave and led the way to the barn, where the mules were already harnessed and waiting. “My boys’ll rake up the hay and turn it so’s it’ll dry,” he told Shay. “You and me’ll finish the cuttin’.” Placing two scythes on the wagon, he reached for rakes, then looked over at Shay. “Unless Miss Jenny wants it done different.”
Shay shook his head. “Makes sense to me. We can’t put it up till it’s dry, and it can’t get dry till it’s cut. Let’s get at it.” He hopped on the back of the wagon, lifting one foot to the bed, and propping his arm across his knee. Noah’s sons were crossing the yard as the wagon rolled from the big, double, barn doors and they eased their way onto the lumbering vehicle, one on either side of Shay.
His greeting was met by identical nods, and he grinned. Aside from the blisters he’d managed to gain yesterday from the unfamiliar motion of the scythe, he was pretty much on a par with the three men, able to work a full day in the sun. The blisters would doubtless be a different matter by day’s end, he decided. Jenny might have some salve handy. He’d probably be ready for it.
What she had was a pair of gloves, old and worn, but welcome. Offering them to him at noon, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “I thought you might need these. I didn’t know how long it’d been since you’ve done any haying.”
“Not since last fall,” he told her, slipping the gloves in place. They rubbed against a couple of raw places on his palms and he adjusted them carefully. “This will help.”
“You’ve got blisters,” she surmised, reaching to touch his wrist. “Let me see.”
“No.” He stepped back from her, uneasy with the men watching. “I’ll let you take a look after we get done for the day.” Her nod was reluctant, but the smile appeared again.
It was still in place when he entered the house just before supper time. Isabelle stood before the cookstove and Jenny turned to greet him from the pantry door. “I’m glad you’re a few minutes early,” she said brightly. “I’ll just have time to take a look at your hands before we eat.”
Snatching up a box from the shelf behind her, she motioned at the table, and he obeyed her silent instructions, easing his weary body onto a chair. She sat close by, their knees almost touching as she reached for him.
Her skin was cool against his, her fingers slender, yet strong as she turned his hand over, then slid the glove from place. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the seeping blisters, surrounded by a reddened area, and she made a small noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have told me about them this morning,” she said reprovingly. “I’d have brought the salve and bandages out to the field. It wouldn’t be nearly this bad if we’d tended to it right away.”
His nape twitched as she bent to look closely at his hand, a stray lock of her hair resting against his wrist. One slender finger brushed lint from his palm and heat rose within him. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes against the demands of his body, aware of the evidence of his desire. An anguished groan rose in his throat and he swallowed it, anxious that she not hear the faint murmur escaping his lips.