job had been a simple one: shake the dust and cobwebs from the heavy draperies and open all the windows to air out the parlor.
The servant drew aside the draperies to see what had caused such an uproar. “Why, it’s just a dead mouse, little missy. He cannot hurt anyone.”
His words, meant to reassure, only caused her to squeeze her eyes tightly shut and begin to weep and wail.
Nathaniel abandoned his post and hurried over. Seeing the mouse, he wrapped his soot-covered arms around the little girl, as he’d seen Dulcie do a hundred times, and pressed her face against his filthy shirt. Over her head he explained to a startled Robert, “When the soldiers came, Belle and her mother hid in their cellar for weeks. They had nothing to eat, so her mother was finally forced to cook whatever they could catch. Mice mostly. And then her mother died, and Belle was alone…” With all the wisdom of an eight-year-old, he patted Belle’s head clumsily and whispered, “Don’t cry, Belle. You’re not alone now. Like Dulcie said, you’ll always have us.”
Watching the scene, Robert swallowed, then seemed to take an inordinately long time clearing his throat. At last he commanded imperiously, “You may go back to your chore, Nathaniel. Little missy, you come with me.”
The little girl trailed behind his stiff figure, out of the parlor, along the hallway and into the kitchen, at the rear of the big house. While she stood trembling in the doorway, Robert crossed the room and lifted the heavy black kettle from the fireplace.
A wave of terror twisted Belle’s dainty features. In her mind’s eye she could already see this fearsome man cooking the dead mouse and forcing her to eat it as punishment for failing to complete her chores.
“Come here, little missy,” he called sternly.
With slow, jerky movements she made her way to the table, where he stood waiting.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Trembling violently, she did as she was told and watched as he placed a steaming cup in front of her.
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Tea,” he said. “When Miss Bessie finds the day… upsetting, I always fix her tea.”
The little girl stared at him, then at the cup. While she watched, he produced a plate on which rested two precious cookies still warm from the oven.
“When you finish your tea and cookies,” he said, “you will find me in the parlor.” And with that he strode from the room.
Throughout the long afternoon, Dulcie drove herself, beating rugs, scrubbing floors until they shone, rubbing Fiona’s bloodied sheets on a scrubbing board until her knuckles were raw. And all the while she kept hearing Cal Jermain’s taunting words. You may earn your keep, Miss Trenton. But you will never earn our trust.
What did it matter to her what that cruel, ignorant clod thought? As the sun made its arc across the sky, she snapped the sheets off the line and struggled to fold them in the stiff breeze. With each snap of the laundry she told herself that she cared not even that much about Cal Jermain’s opinion.
When the last sheet was folded, she grabbed up the huge wicker basket and turned, only to find the object of her venom standing shirtless by the well, washing himself in a bucket of cold water.
For the space of a heartbeat she could do nothing more than stare at the ripple of muscles across his back as he plunged his arms deep into the water and splashed it over his face. Then, forcing herself to move, she started past him. At that moment he turned toward her.
“Miss Trenton. Earning your keep, I see.”
She lifted her chin and held her silence. But as she took a step, his hand suddenly shot out, stopping her in midstride.
Shock waves vibrated through her at the strength of his touch. Perhaps it was the heat of the afternoon. Or exhaustion. But whatever, she lashed out at him in a tone usually reserved for Yankee soldiers and villains.
“Unhand me, Mr. Jermain.”
Cal had intended to do just that. In fact, he had just broken his self-imposed rule against touching. But now that she was as mad as a spitting wildcat, he changed his mind. He enjoyed seeing her lose that infuriatingly cool composure. A hint of a smile curled his lips. “And if I don’t?”
“How would you like to explain to your aunt how a basket of sheets happened to be dumped over you?”
Caught by surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. “Now how do I know you’re serious?”
“You need only continue holding me, Mr. Jermain, and you will find out.”
His laughter died, though his lips still curved invitingly. “By God, Miss Trenton, I think you’d do just that.”
“Then you had best release me.”
“I could.” His voice lowered to a seductive purr. “Or I could call your bluff.”
Using his good right hand, he hauled her roughly against him. She was so astonished by his actions, she dropped the basket, aware of nothing but a pair of dark eyes looking into hers. And lips, still carved in a dangerous smile.
And then his mouth was on hers and she forgot everything except the feel of his lips. Rough. Bruising. Hungry.
His hunger fueled her own. She knew that she should be offering resistance. Instead, her arms hung limply at her sides.
She heard a sound and realized it had come from deep inside her throat, like a growl of pain. Or pleasure. He answered with a moan of his own.
She was lost. Lost in the dark, mysterious taste of him. Lost in feelings unlike any she’d ever known before. Feelings that sent her pulse racing and her heart soaring. Feelings that whispered over her senses, seducing, arousing, making her forget everything except this man and his dangerous, intimate kiss.
Cal couldn’t seem to find the will to stop. Holding her, kissing her, stirred up feelings he’d thought buried forever. He had the strangest urge to go on kissing her until night crept over the land and the two of them could get lost in the darkness.
The hunger gnawed at him, causing an ache in his chest. God in heaven, what was happening to him? Calling on all his willpower, he lifted his head, dropped his arms and took a step back.
Dulcie’s eyes snapped open. In their depths he could read confusion—and something else. A slumbering sensuality. And then a sudden return of temper.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Trenton.” He was surprised at how difficult it was to speak.
“For which offense are you apologizing, Mr. Jermain?” Dulcie struggled to ignore the dryness in her throat. “The kiss? Or your cruel words?”
“I apologize for both, ma’am. I had no right.”
Without taking time to think, she lifted the wicker basket and dumped the contents over his head.
“Apology accepted,” she called over her shoulder as she turned and raced toward the house as quickly as her trembling legs would carry her.
