Halfway Home, page 22
On the other hand, if she had lied simply to trap herself a husband, he would send her packing so fast her boot heels would smoke. It had been the Moyer woman who had set him to thinking about an annulment. The thought hadn’t set well at all. Had made him mad as hell, in fact. He had gone too far to salvage Sara’s good name to now deliberately ruin it, no matter what she had done.
Besides, the truth was—and it complicated things all out of reason—he liked the woman. No matter what she was or what she had done, she had more grit than most men he knew. The average woman with a roof over her head would have stayed put and suffered the consequences. Not his Sara. She had far too much pride.
She was kind, too—that much he did know. And loyal.
Not to mention so damned desirable that half the time, she had him clenched up hard as a hickory bowsprit, just thinking about what was under those prim gowns and all those layers of underpinnings.
An annulment . . .
Did that carry the same stigma as a divorce? Not having known anyone whose marriage had been legally set aside by either means, he wasn’t sure. At any rate, before he considered either course, he would allow her a hearing, which was only fair. No one had ever said of Jericho Jefferson Wilde that he was not a fair man.
With that worthy thought, Jericho allowed himself a tot of French brandy to celebrate. He even toyed with the notion of logging his decisions, the way he had done when he was captain of his own ship. He would reach a decision, act on it, then log the action taken. It was an orderly process. He was by nature an orderly man.
“Then how the bloody hell did you get yourself in such a disorderly mess?” he muttered. Unfortunately, he was coming to realize more with each passing day that the world he lived in was not an orderly place.
Downing his brandy with no appreciation for its quality, he swore for a while and then poured himself a second drink, half tempted to pack his seabag and set out for the nearest port.
* * *
Having declared herself officially recovered, Sara lost no time in assuming her duties. In a council of war with Hester and Maulsie, it was determined that Hester would continue to serve as housekeeper, a position she had held since working her way up from second kitchen maid. She would have two helpers and a man available for heavy work whenever necessary.
Maulsie would run the kitchen with the aid of one or possibly two girls. Sara made a mental note to speak to Jericho right away about securing the needed help.
Big Simon was, strictly speaking, not her problem. Mr. Moyer, whom she had yet to meet, had charge of the outside help, but Simon had special talents and special disabilities, and Sara made up her mind to speak to the overseer at the first opportunity.
But first she would have to speak to Jericho.
Which she would just as soon put off as long as possible.
Not until she came to Ivadelle did she admit defeat. Was the woman a guest, or a servant—or something else altogether? Was she to be a permanent fixture?
Whatever she was—and Sara wasn’t at all certain she truly wanted to know—they were going to have to come to terms. Sara had been taught to respect her elders, and for the most part, she did. She had failed when it came to Noreen, and now Ivadelle was making it all but impossible. She had yet to be around the woman for more than two minutes without being made to feel clumsy, stupid and unattractive.
One would almost think it was deliberate.
Silently crossing the foyer, she whispered, “Never put off until tomorrow what scares the bejabbers out of you today.” It didn’t help. Not until she was about to knock on the study door did she remember her shoes. Or lack of them. However, if she ran upstairs to fetch them now, she might never screw up her courage enough to come down again.
So she rapped on the door and then opened it a crack before Jericho could tell her to shove off, which was what he told Hester whenever she tried to clean his precious sanctum.
“Jericho, I need to speak to you if you can spare me a moment.”
Interrupted in the middle of staring blindly out the window at his fallow fields, Jericho scowled, having found it an effective tool when he’d been handed his first command at a time when he’d been barely old enough to grow a beard.
“Man can’t even call his home his own,” he grumbled. Then, turning away from the window, he said, “Well, don’t just stand there, damnit. Come in, take a chair. Might as well get it over with.”
Judas priest, she was something to behold. Even in that mud-yellow frock, with half her forehead stained from fading bruises, there was a quality about her that defied description. Exotic, he called it in his mind for want of a better word. Something to do with the shape of her eyes and her coloring, and the way light seemed to glow right through her.
“In here? Mmm, Hester said—”
“Is Hester in command here?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then come aboard and step lively.” Jericho pointed to a straight chair, taking perverse pleasure in seeing her scurrying to obey like the lowliest cabin boy.
Still in her bare feet. The wench had more brass than a British admiral. “Speak up, speak up, I don’t have all day,” he barked.
“Yes, well . . . it’s about Hester,” she began, and he waited, “Miss Renegar, that is.”
“I do know my housekeeper’s name.” He was unable to repress a gleam of amusement, and she caught it. What’s more, he knew the minute she did. Some of the steam went out of her pipes.
Clever little piece, she didn’t miss a thing. “What’s she done now? Crossed swords with that battle-ax of yours? I’ll tell you here and now, Hester stays. She’s been here since before I was born, and as far as I’m concerned, she’ll be here until she takes her place on the hill.”
The hill, Sara surmised, was the graveyard. It might be all of three feet higher than the surrounding territory. She had gone to pay her respects to the family when she had first arrived. Jericho went there, too. She’d seen him from her window, stalking through the woods with Brig trotting along behind him.
“Well. It’s not much of a hill, if you ask me,” she retorted, wondering how to regain control of the discussion. She had thought for a moment there that he might be relenting.
“You’re right.” This time there was no mistaking it. There was a definite thaw in the atmosphere. Taking a deep breath, Sara plunged ahead before he pokered up again. “First, about Hester. She needs help. This house is too much for one woman, even without the laundry and the cooking. I’d like to hire on two women to help her, and at least one girl for Maulsie in the kitchen. Maulsie’s a grand cook. Hester hates cooking.”
She waited for an argument, and when none was forthcoming, launched her next topic. “Now, about Big Simon—”
“Squared away. He knows his duties and is satisfied with conditions. You might as well know, I hire, I don’t buy. Free blacks and slaves don’t do well together.”
“Oh. Um—well, I agree. Now, as I was saying—”
“You need help in the house. That’s not unreasonable. It’s a big place, and it hasn’t had the care it needs in more than a year. My sister couldn’t afford it.” It pained him to admit it, which was one of the reasons he did. He didn’t believe in sparing himself. “Hire on as many hands as you need. You’ll want to send off to Elizabeth City. I’ll make arrangements. Now, is that all?”
“Not exactly.” Sara screwed up her courage. “About Ivadelle—Jericho, how long—”
He left the window, and for the first time, Sara got a good look at his face. In the weak November sunlight, he looked tired. Older than she knew he was. “Leave Ivadelle to me, if you please.”
Well, there was no point in arguing, she did know that much.
“Are you done?” He sounded every bit as yielding as that big iron stove in the kitchen.
Sara nodded. And then she thought better of it. “No, I’m not done. I’d like to thank you. For dragging me out of the swamp, I mean. When I fell out of the buggy.” She worried her lower lip, and then plunged ahead. “I might have already thanked you for that, I don’t remember, but I do appreciate it. And, um—you sat up with me right at first. Thank you for that, too.”
“Hester’s an old woman. She can’t stand every watch.”
“No. I mean, yes, of course.” Get out before you make a great big fool of yourself, Sara!
“Is that all?”
No, it wasn’t all! She wanted to say, what about the , last time you came to my room, when you nearly made love to me? What about that? Was it only a mistake?
“I suppose so,” she said grudgingly. Rising, she brushed the creases from her skirt. “Thank you for your time.” She was tempted to add, sir, but didn’t quite dare. The very idea of treating her this way. She had, married him in good faith, and now he treated her as if she were no more than a stray cat wandered in from the alley.
Not that they even had an alley, but all the same . . .
“Sit down, Sara. You had your say. Now I’ll have mine.”
Halfway to the door, Sara froze. Her head lifted as if she were balancing a heavy, jeweled crown. “I’d just’ as soon wait, if it’s all the same—you probably have dozens of things . . .”
“Sit!” he commanded, and sit she did.
Chapter Eighteen
Now she was in for it. A dozen reasons for Jericho’s seething anger ran through Sara’s mind. One thing above all stood out. He had never truly meant to come back home. If he survived the duel—and he very nearly didn’t—he must have planned to go back to sea, leaving her to keep his house in order and him free to take up with all those fancy women that greeted every ship that came into port.
Oh, she knew about them. Every decent woman within a hundred miles of any seaport had heard about what went on when a ship docked after weeks, or even months, at sea.
Only first he’d had to see her settled, and then one thing had led to another, and now they were stuck with the hasty bargain they had struck back at the Halfway Hotel.
“Why did you do it?” he demanded.
Puzzled, she repeated, “Do it?”
“Were you all that eager for a husband, Sara?”
What the dickens was he going on about? Archibald? “I told you why I ran away. And that Archib—”
He cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Why did you lie to me?”
Twisting her hands in her lap, Sara wondered what lie he was talking about. To her knowledge she hadn’t told him a single untruth. Not that she couldn’t lie with the best if the occasion called for it, but in this case, it simply hadn’t. Her gaze focused on his boots as they paced a tight pattern on the bare oak floor. She pleated her skirt, trying to think of an inadvertent lie she might have told that would account for his present attitude.
“Well? Are you going to tell me Doc Withers was mistaken?”
This was getting preposterous. “Mistaken about what? He said I’d heal and I’m healing. I’m as strong as a horse and ready to take up my duties this very minute, but if you’re going to complain because I’ve wasted nearly a week, then you’ll just have to trust me to make it up t—”
“Trust you!”
More puzzled than ever, she wondered if he could have struck his head when he’d fallen after Titus had stabbed him in the back. It was all she could think of that might explain his weather-vane disposition that could veer from mild to stormy in the blink of an eye.
“For mercy’s sake, Jericho, you’ve been huffing and snorting all week. If I’ve done something to offend you, why, then just tell me what it is and try to make amends.”
The boots stopped pacing. He was standing so close he was practically treading on her toes. Sara jerked her feet back under the chair and gave him back scowl for scowl. She refused to be intimidated, having had enough of that commodity to last her a lifetime.
“All right, all right, so you married in haste and now you’re repenting!” she exclaimed. “Is that my fault?” She wasn’t by nature given to violence, but right now she wouldn’t mind having a go at him with the handiest weapon she could find.
Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be one.
“I’m what?” he drawled.
“Repenting! Regretting! Whatever you want to call it. I’m sorry if you didn’t get quite the bargain you were hoping for, but, then, if you’ll remember, I never promised you anything but to lo”—she gulped, then continued—“to honor and obey and look after your household.” His brows lowered until his snapping black eyes were nearly hidden, but she refused to let him interrupt until she’d had her say. “You knew when you married me that I was plain as a mud-dauber’s nest, so you can’t claim you were cheated there. I did tell you I was sensible, and I am, only I hadn’t counted on being laid up for a week. And then there’s Ivadelle—”
Her mouth snapped shut. She truly hadn’t meant to mention Ivadelle, but the woman stuck in her craw like a mouthful of shad bones.
“Ye-ess? What about Ivadelle?” Jericho purred. He was leaning against the mantel, one arm stretched along its surface as he toyed with a six-forked candelabra. His face was in shadow, which meant that Sara couldn’t see his expression, but he fairly reeked satisfaction.
What the devil did he have to feel so blooming smug about? “Ivadelle? Well, she—well. Once we hire a cleaning woman, we won’t need her, that’s what. She doesn’t do all that much dusting, anyway, if you ask me.”
“Not that I recall asking, but Ivadelle isn’t here to do the dusting.”
“No? Then why is she here? No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”
Sara hunched her shoulders, wishing she had never brought up the subject. Wishing she had never come to Wilde Oaks in the first place. Never laid eyes on Jericho Wilde.
No, she didn’t wish that. For whatever reason they’d been thrown together by fate, and she could never regret a single moment of what had happened since. Loving him one minute, wanting to lop off his head the next.
“Well. You go right ahead and build your—your love nest if you want to. I don’t care what you do with her as long as I don’t have to trip over her everywhere I turn.” For good measure, she hoisted her chin in the air, which was a tactical error, because it gave her a better look at his face, and—
And he was laughing!
Sara surged to her feet. Unfortunately, she stepped on the hem of her gown, lurched forward and would have fallen on her face had not Jericho moved with the speed of lightning and caught her in his arms.
He was still laughing, which was a rarity in itself, but even before she could push herself away, his laughter faded. “Sara,” he said, his arms hardening around her. “Why did you lie to me? I would’ve married you anyway, since I’m as much to blame for ruining your reputation as Ricketts was.”
She had trouble enough breathing, much less speaking coherently. “L-lie? But I explained all that. I never lie—that is, not unless it’s absolutely necessary to spare someone’s feelings, but in this case I didn’t—lie, that is—because I truly didn’t know about his wife, else I certainly never would have—”
“You told me there might be a babe. Doc Withers says that’s impossible.”
“Well, there you are, then. You won’t have to give your name to Archibald’s baby, and I won’t be waddling like a wagon full of watermelons, too fat to do my work.”
His hands went to her shoulders where his fingers bit into her tender flesh. It hurt. When he began to shake her, she kicked out and then moaned as her unshod toes connected with his leather-clad shin. “Stop that!” she managed to protest. “We both know you’re stronger than I am, you don’t have to prove it! Just because you’re my lawful husband, that doesn’t give you leave to treat me like a—a—”
“Like a lying, conniving female? How else should a man treat a woman who inveigled him into marrying her by claiming she’d been bedded and might be carrying a child?” His eyes were condemning, but his hands had gentled instantly.
“Well, how was I to know I didn’t catch? I could have, you know. Right now, you could be facing the possibility of housing and feeding a whole litter of little Ricketts, and you’d have no one to blame but yourself.”
Jericho shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Would you care to explain your reasoning?” he asked mildly.
Sara tried desperately to think of a devastating retort, but nothing came to mind. She’d never been quick that way. “No,” she whispered.
“I thought not. Madam, if you’re going to swell with any man’s child, it will be mine.”
She swallowed hard and stared at the eye-level button on the front of his collarless shirt. It was still hanging by a thread. She was fairly certain the shirt had been washed since that memorable night, but Hester’s eyes weren’t what they once were. He could be missing a whole raft of buttons and she probably wouldn’t have noticed.
Did he mean that bedding was to be a part of her wifely duty?
One part of her dreaded the notion. Another part, one that had been a complete stranger to her until quite recently, leapt eagerly in anticipation.
Forcing herself to remain calm, she said, “Well, at least the hurting part’s over and done with.”
“I beg your pardon?” He slipped his hands from her shoulders until they rested on her hips, and then he leaned back against a bookcase, bringing her into dangerously close contact with his . . . parts.
Sara nearly strangled. She could feel her face burning, but somehow she managed to hang onto her composure. She was no longer an ignorant girl, after all. “You probably don’t know this,” she confided earnestly, “but with women—well, it’s different. At least I think it is. But maybe men feel pain the first time, too. Was it that way with you?”
It was Jericho’s turn to gape. “Sara, didn’t your mother ever, um—explain things to you?”
“You mean about the marriage act?”
