Night had descended by the time they left the tavern, but a mild breeze had sprung up from the south. Its fragrant warmth was intoxicating to Shemaine, who, not too many days ago, had almost despaired of ever savoring fresh air again. She accepted Gage’s assistance in mounting to the seat of the wagon, and receiving his drowsy son from him, cuddled the boy on her lap as his father stepped away to free the horse’s tether. But a muttered oath from Gage made her glance up in sudden worry.
“Is something the matter?”
“The mare has thrown a shoe.” Gage ground his teeth, knowing only too well what that would entail. He sighed pensively. “There’s no escape from it, I fear. We’ll have to pay a visit to the Corbins before we can leave for home.”
Shemaine shuddered at the thought of having to face Roxanne again, but she said nothing, for Gage was apparently suffering similar qualms. “Should we get down so you can unhitch the wagon?”
“You can stay where you are for the moment. I’ll lead the mare to the smithy’s and unhitch the wagon once I get there.”
Upon reaching the blacksmith’s shop, at the far end of town, Gage helped Shemaine down and then handed Andrew back to her. He unharnessed the mare and led the animal to a covered lean-to where a glowing heat could still be seen radiating upward from a brick-hewn forge.
A large man with a ponderous belly hobbled out the front door of the log cabin with the aid of a makeshift crutch. Holding his broken, wood-splinted leg carefully aloft, he made his way to the edge of the porch and braced himself there on his good foot as he peered intently into the night-born shadows that surrounded the visitors. His gruff voice seemed to boom through the darkness. “Who’s out there?”
“It’s Gage Thornton, Mr. Corbin. My horse threw a shoe.”
Hugh Corbin responded with a loud, angry snort. “ ‘Tis a poor late hour of the night for ye ta be makin’ your way here with a horse that’s lost a shoe. Any levelheaded man would be at home where he belongs, but ye’re not such a man, are ye?”
“Are you able to help me or not?” Gage questioned gruffly, ignoring the insult.
“I guess I’ve no choice in the matter if I want ye out of here,” Hugh retorted irascibly. “Let me fetch a lantern from the house.”
Having recognized Gage’s voice in the brief exchange, Roxanne stepped out the front door with a lantern that she had hurriedly lit. Her hair hung loose down her back, and she had hastened to don a wrapper over her nightgown.
“Get some clothes on!” Hugh barked at his daughter as he sought to take the lamp from her.
“I’m wearing clothes!” Roxanne snapped back, snatching the light beyond his reach. She quickly descended the steps and almost ran toward the blacksmith shop, making no effort to accommodate her father’s hitching gait. In the lantern glow, her eyes seemed animated and full of joy until the aura of light spread beyond Gage to the slender form standing a short distance from him. Then the gray orbs took on a steely hardness. She had hoped that Shemaine would still be incapacitated after her ordeal and that Gage had reconsidered his options after her warning that morning and was there wanting to apologize. But Roxanne now realized such a notion was farfetched. The cabinetmaker was as stubborn as her father.
Sauntering close to the bondslave, Roxanne swept her with a malevolent perusal. “Well, Shemaine, I see you’ve recovered well enough. But then, perhaps you weren’t really hurt after all. Perhaps it was just a ploy to extract a bit of sympathy from your master.”
Shemaine smiled blandly. “Imagine what you will, Miss Corbin. I’m sure nothing I say will change your mind.”
Raising her chin to a haughty level, Roxanne smirked. “You’re right, of course. I’d never pay much heed to what a convict has to say.”
Roxanne whirled away, and with the breezes billowing beneath her wrapper, it seemed as if she floated toward the man to whom she had once offered her heart and who, after the months of devoted service she had given him, had cruelly rejected her gift of love. In a hushed, hurt tone she confided, “I thought you had come to make amends, Gage, perhaps even to tell me that you’d be getting rid of your bondswoman. But I see you intend to be obstinate. True to your inclinations as always, aren’t you?” She shook her head regretfully. “A pity . . . for your sake as well as your son’s.”
Sensing a threat in her words, Gage fixed her with a harsh scowl, but he remained mute, preferring not to get into another hassle with her or anyone else while Shemaine was near enough to hear. It seemed the whole day long he had been involved in one confrontation after another, and all he wanted at the moment was to go home and enjoy a nice, peaceful evening alone with his son and his bondslave.
Limping to the forge, Hugh rested on his crutch as he barked at Gage. “Stoke the embers and make yerself useful if ye want me ta shoe yer horse. I can’t do it alone.”
“I’m able to do it myself if you’d prefer,” Gage offered. “All I need from you is the loan of your equipment.”
“Ye’ll pay the same no matter who does it,” the elder informed him brusquely. “So don’t think ye’ll be using me as your dupe.”
“I hadn’t intended to,” Gage rejoined tersely. With a slowly steeping resentment brewing inside of him, he began pumping the billows to push air into the forge.
The smithy pivoted about to settle a speculative stare upon Shemaine, pricking her mettle with his disparaging perusal. Turning stoically, she carried Andrew to a large tree stump some distance from the blacksmith shop and sat down upon it, hoping that she had gone far enough to be safely off the Corbin property, for she had already concluded that she liked the blacksmith no better than his daughter.
Cuddling the boy to her, Shemaine began to sing to him as she rocked back and forth. Gradually Andrew relaxed in her arms until his eyelids sagged. A sigh slipped from his parted lips, and he fell asleep, snuggled close against her soft breast.
Hugh fought an inner conflict with himself as he watched Shemaine gently nurturing the boy, but he was powerless to subdue the raging turmoil that roiled within his heart and mind. Tormenting impressions spewed upward from the murky depths of long-buried memories, vexing him sorely, and he turned on Gage, bedeviled by a darkly brooding envy. “Ye’ve bought yerself a fine-lookin’ convict there,” he jeered in scorching reproof. “No doubt, with ye ownin’ her, ye’ll be gettin’ yer manly cravings appeased at the snap o’ yer finger, so’s I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be havin’ second thoughts ’bout weddin’ me girl.”
Gage had been leaning over the forge, examining the horseshoe he had been heating, but at the man’s words, he lifted his eyes to Roxanne. The woman grew unsettled beneath his sharply pointed stare and, turning away, busied herself suddenly by hanging the lantern on a nearby post. Gage’s angry scowl reverted back to the smithy. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Corbin, if you think I have ever asked your daughter to marry me. Since that is definitely not the case, I really don’t see that I owe you any explanation about my reasons for buying Shemaine. In short, Mr. Corbin, it’s none of your damn business.”
“Ye arrogant libertine! I’ll teach ye ta show proper respect for yer elders!” In a spitting rage, Hugh seized the small end of the crutch in his hand and, holding it like a club, hopped forward on one foot, intending to give the younger man a proper thrashing.
Slowly straightening to his full height, Gage raised a condescending brow as he regarded the elder. “If you mean to hit me with that, Mr. Corbin, be assured that I won’t stand here and take it meekly. I’ll finish anything you start, believe me.”
The cold gaze piercing the lantern-lit gloom cooled Hugh’s temper effectively. The memory of the pain he had suffered when the horse he had been shoeing sat on him and broke his leg was too fresh in his mind for him to willingly invite further injury. Finding no graceful way of retreating from a confrontation, he flung up a hand in a vivid display of temper and snarled, “Finish what ye’re doin’ and then get out of here. Me girl and me don’t want ye and that filthy li’l slut around here, do ye hear!”
It took a fierce effort of will for Gage to curb the goading temptation to drive his fist into the man’s face. All the reasons for refraining from such an assault were there before him, so obvious a simple dolt could recognize them. Hugh Corbin was twice as old as he was and, at the moment, lame. If he punched the elder, he’d be no better than Jacob Potts battering Cain. No matter how much he longed to at that precise moment, he just couldn’t hit a crippled old man!
“Shemaine is not a slut, and I take great exception to you calling her that,” Gage ground out. “My only regret right now is that I must finish shoeing the mare. Otherwise, I’d tell you to go to hell.” He snorted in contempt as he thought about it. “But why should I waste my breath? As mean as you are, you’re bound to go there anyway.”
The air fairly crackled with tension as the two men glared at each other. Hugh wanted to launch an assault right then and there, but he just couldn’t dismiss the dreadful prospect that he might come to further harm. For once, better judgment took precedence, though he still chafed beneath the harsh bit of fermenting animosities.
Hobbling around, Hugh returned to the porch with a halting gait and clumsily took a seat on the edge. From that vantage spot, he could keep watch until the shoeing was complete. Though he had never had a reason to believe that Gage Thornton would ever cheat him, Hugh trusted no man with his possessions. Once he received the coins due him, he would send the cabinetmaker on his way.
Leisurely Roxanne meandered back to a spot where she could see Gage more clearly. Leaning against a post, she scanned his downturned face above the glowing coals and was amazed that even now she yearned to look into that fine, handsome countenance and declare her love. It would take nothing more than a gentle smile from him to encourage her. But even as she admired his noble visage, Roxanne saw his brows gather in a harsh frown, as if he were annoyed by her close attention. The idea set spurs to her temper. “What are you going to do, Gage? Fight every man who insults your convict?”
“If I have to!” he retorted sharply without glancing up.
“You’re a stubborn man, Gage Thornton, and I right now, think you’re a fool. Shemaine doesn’t deserve your protection.”
Though her words incensed him, Gage refused to yield his gaze to her. “Your opinions really don’t concern me, Roxanne. They never have.”
His words assaulted her as brutally as any slap across the face, and Roxanne felt her temper soar at his blatant indifference. How many times throughout the nine years she had known him had she guilefully offered herself to him? And how many times had he failed to notice? Or had that been a deliberate ruse on his part? It had driven her nearly mad wanting him the way she had and then being politely dismissed each and every time, as if he were unable to think of her as his mistress . . . or his wife. She could not imagine him being so insensitive to his bondslave. Oh, no! He had other plans for the convict!
“You intend to take that trollop into your bed, don’t you?” Roxanne demanded, her voice fraught with emotion. “That’s been your desire from the first moment you saw her, to fornicate with that slut!”
“What if it has been?” Gage barked angrily, seeing no difference between father and daughter. Despite his qualms about pushing the woman closer to the crumbling precipice of an irrational jealousy, he deliberately whipped her ire into a slavering frenzy as he braced his palms on the brick buttressing the forge and leaned forward to fix her with a probing glare. “Tell me, Roxanne, is it really any of your business what I choose to do with Shemaine in the privacy of my cabin . . . or, for that matter, my bed?”
The corners of Roxanne’s mouth twisted downward in an ugly grimace, and in the depths of her throat, a low gurgling growl was born. With all the fury of a woman scorned, it burst forth in a horrendous shriek. The hem of her robe swirled around her bare legs as she whirled and, like a wraith in the night, fled back to the cabin. Racing past her father, she stormed through the front portal. The resounding crash of the door slamming against the jamb made Hugh Corbin duck his head and grimace as if he fully expected the porch rafters to fall down upon him.
On the long ride home, Shemaine sat quietly on the wagon seat beside Gage, holding his sleeping son in her arms. The moon had risen above the trees and cast its silvery glow upon the land, enabling Shemaine to see the ominous scowl that drew the man’s magnificent brows sharply together. She dared not ask what was troubling him. It went against all propriety for a bondslave to inquire into the personal thoughts, inner turmoil and feelings of her master, but she could not help but wonder what the Corbins had said that had caused his mood to turn so bleak. She had been aware of the quarrels that had arisen. Indeed, she would have had to have been completely inattentive to miss the threat that Hugh Corbin had made with his crutch or the rage that Roxanne had exhibited just before she had fled back to the cabin, but the wind had snatched away their words, sweeping them into oblivion. Still, Shemaine was of a mind to think, inasmuch as the first altercation had begun shortly after Hugh had eyed her, that the argument had started because of something he had said about her.
Even in the meager light of the lunar orb, Gage felt the museful stare of his indentured servant resting on him, but many miles were traversed before he could trust himself to glance her way. Finally doing so, he found himself staring into shining, moonlit eyes. “You are troubled, Shemaine?”
“I only sense your anger, Mr. Thornton,” she murmured timidly, “and wonder what I might do to soothe it. I perceive that somehow I am to blame.”
“It’s not your fault,” Gage stated emphatically.
No, he thought pensively, the difficulty had started soon after his arrival in Newportes Newes. It hadn’t taken Roxanne long after meeting him to develop an obsession to become his wife. She had woven her wily tricks to entrap him in a forced marriage, feigning innocence as she brushed herself against him in provocative ways, clearly hoping to arouse his bachelor’s starving senses. Recognizing his own vulnerability as a man with unsatisfied carnal needs, he had been extremely cautious to ignore any and all overtures, even at the cost of seeming thick-witted. After all, he had not fled England and pretty Christine just to dally with a woman he couldn’t bear to look at the morning after. Judiciously he had busied himself elsewhere.
When he had wed Victoria some years later, Roxanne had shut herself up in her father’s house and grieved as if the end of the world had come. At length, she had emerged from her den of gloom. Even so, she had treated him for a time with all the contempt and hatred that a defiled maiden might have heaped upon an unprincipled roué who had callously thrown her aside after stripping away her innocence. Her bitterness after being spurned had eventually subsided, giving way to yearning looks, wavering smiles and, finally, subtle overtures, until he had come to dread and even abhor her visits. Victoria had failed to see through Roxanne’s subterfuge. Nor had he cared to enlighten her. His wife had merely felt sorry for the spinster and, in her gentle way, had been the best friend Roxanne had ever had.
After his wife’s death, Roxanne had once more proven herself determined to take over that intimate position in his life. By being immediately at hand at the time of Victoria’s fatal fall, she had obviously thought she had been provided with some strange sort of leverage by which she could force him to the altar. Though unspoken, the threat had been there all along. She would tell the truth or even lie, but this time she meant to have him . . . or he would have nothing at all.
Having fully comprehended what he chanced by thwarting Roxanne’s aspirations, he had gone to the London Pride literally to buy back his own freedom and to set the course of his life on a different bearing than she had mapped out for him. He had anticipated beforehand that Roxanne would have difficulty accepting his purchase of a bondslave. No doubt, in her mind, any woman he bought would be just another usurper, perhaps in the same way she had imagined Victoria had been. Sad to say, Roxanne had lived up to the precise letter of his expectations.
Hugh Corbin had been just as difficult, and Gage knew it was not beneath the man to use Shemaine’s presence as an excuse to pick a quarrel with him. The smithy would have snatched at limp straws if they had provided him with such leverage. Hugh’s hatred of him was clearly conveyed in every spitting word the man issued.
“In the eight or nine years I’ve known him,” Gage reflected, glancing aside at Shemaine, “Hugh Corbin has been surly and contentious, but recently he has become almost intolerable, about as mean and ornery as Ol’ One Ear. He’s free with his insults and seems to go out of his way to provoke me, especially when I’m with my family . . . or, as I saw tonight . . . with you. Once, not very long ago, I caught him watching Andrew with a strange, haunted look in his eyes. It unnerved me considerably. I don’t know what the man might be capable of . . . if he’d ever take his spite out on a young child, but his actions worried me. Several times in the past, Roxanne asked me to let her take Andrew home with her so he could stay the night, but I just couldn’t bring myself to give my consent. I dared not trust her father.”
“Mrs. McGee told me that Mr. Corbin had wanted a son of his own,” Shemaine rejoined softly. “The only one he fathered arrived stillborn four years before Roxanne was born. Perhaps when he sees you with Andrew, Mr. Corbin is reminded of his own failure to sire a son. It might well be envy he feels toward you instead of hatred.”
The brooding rage that had vexed Gage’s mood for the last hour began to slowly dissipate as he considered her conjecture. From his past experiences with the smithy, he had to admit that her supposition had merit. Though he had met the cantankerous blacksmith and his then-nineteen-year-old daughter shortly after his arrival in the colonies, it had only been within the last couple of years that the man had displayed such a serious aversion to him.
Gage shook his head in wonder, berating himself for not having considered the idea before. It had taken a girl younger than a score of years to enlighten him to the possibility. He marveled at her insight. “You’re very perceptive, Shemaine. Far more than I have been. I just couldn’t understand why Hugh had taken such a dislike to me.”
“Perhaps you were too close to the situation to recognize his jealousy for what it is,” she suggested, glancing up at him. What she saw warmed her heart considerably. His expression had softened and his lips now bore the slightest hint of a smile. He turned to meet her gaze, and she held her breath as his eyes caressed her face. Then they swept downward to the small head cradled against her breast.
“Your arms must be getting tired.” Gathering the reins in one hand, Gage lifted his free arm and laid it along the upper portion of the seat behind her, carefully avoiding the mistake of touching her and frightening her off to the far side. “Why don’t you slide close to me and lay Andrew’s head in my lap? ‘Twill relieve the weight on your arm, and then you’d be more comfortable.”
Shemaine was more than willing to ease her cramping muscles, but when she sought to move, she realized she lacked the strength to lift the boy and herself at the same time so she could scoot across the seat. After several aborted attempts, she confessed in helpless defeat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton, I don’t seem able to.”
Clamping the reins between his legs, Gage wrapped his right arm behind her waist and slid his left hand beneath her knees. It required no real effort on his part to resettle her snugly against his right side. His arm remained as a sturdy support behind her back as she withdrew her own arm from under the boy’s shoulder and eased the small dark head into Gage’s lap. A deep sigh escaped Andrew, but he never woke.
Gage glanced down at his sleeping son, seeing the small, upturned face bathed in soft moonlight. Long lashes rested in peaceful repose upon the boy’s cheeks, but with his jaw slackened in sleep, his mouth soon fell agape. Shemaine reached across and very gently laid her hand alongside the boy’s cheek, placing a thumb beneath the tiny chin and closing the small mouth. Immediately Andrew stirred, flopping over on his right side toward his father as he flung an arm across Shemaine’s, entrapping her arm and the hand that was caught between his cheek and the elder’s loins.
A shocked gasp was torn from Shemaine as she sought to extricate herself from the tightening wedge into which her hand had been caught. Though restrained no more than a fleeting moment, a grueling eternity might as well have passed before she managed to drag her hand free, in the course of which she heightened a multitude of sensations that had already been sharply stimulated in the man.
The hot blood had surged through Gage with swift and fiery intensity at the very instant of her hand’s entrapment, making him achingly aware of his ravaging desire. Now, long moments after her hand had been safely clasped within her other, the ravenous flames still pulsed with excruciating vigor through his manly loins, searing holes in the thin wall of his restraint. With every fiber of his being, he was acutely aware of the elusive fragrance of his bondslave filling his head, that same which he had breathed in with intoxicating pleasure every time he had touched or drawn near her that day. It was the sweet scent of a woman, one which he had not even been cognizant of having craved until this very moment. Her soft bosom drew his sweeping perusal, and when he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, he found himself staring into widened eyes filled with dismay. Even in the meager light, he thought he could detect her cheeks deepening to a vivid hue beneath his scrutiny.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry!” Shemaine’s strangled whisper seemed to fill the night, attesting to her shame. Though she clutched the offending hand against her breast, she could still sense the branding heat of his maleness against the back of it, the unexpected firmness that had grown rapidly pronounced, leaving her breathlessly aware of the bold, mature difference between the man and his son. Despite the instincts that urged her to hold her silence and pretend it never happened, Shemaine implored his pardon, hoping to banish any notion that it might have been a deliberate act on her part. “I didn’t mean to touch you, Mr. Thornton.”
Facing the shadowed road once more, Gage made no comment, but clicked to the mare, urging her to a faster pace. It was nigh impossible for him to ignore the soft, womanly form beside him and, more difficult by far, the memory of her hand brushing deliciously hard against his manhood.
Settling into a regular routine would probably take time, Shemaine decided after the morning meal a week later, since her primary concern, as her master had pointed out, would be taking care of Andrew. Even so, between cooking and attending the needs of the boy, she found herself accomplishing far more than she had previously thought herself even remotely capable of.
Gage had received word from his primary customer in Williamsburg that delivery of the new furniture would have to be delayed for an indefinite time. The workmen were still trying to complete his house, and he could not accept the furnishings until the rooms were ready. In the meantime Gage had started work on the dining room pieces he had recently contracted for in Newportes Newes. In the evenings he drafted out the plans, drawing patterns for the arms and legs of the chairs and designing a new sideboard. During the daylight hours, he worked with his men on several other pieces, but frequently he could be found aboard the ship, helping Flannery with some of the more precise work.
Before leaving the cabin on this particular morn, Gage had announced that he would be working on the ship for most of the day. If she were of such a mind, he told Shemaine, she could bring Andrew and victuals enough for the shipwrights and the cabinetmakers around noon, and they could all enjoy a midday repast on the deck of the ship, as it promised to be a fine, sunny day.
“Ring the bell by the front steps when you’re ready to come to the ship,” Gage instructed after she had assured him that she would be able to do such a thing, “and I’ll send someone to fetch the food.”
Shemaine immediately accepted the challenge of preparing a tasty feast to satisfy the appetites of hardworking men. While roaming around the immediate area several days earlier, she had ventured into the root cellar which her master had dug into a hillock near the cabin. It was there that Shemaine and Andrew went to collect carrots, onions, and an assortment of other vegetables for the venison stew she would make. It would be her own version of a hearty Irish dish that Bess Huxley had often made for Shemaine’s father. In no time it was simmering above the fire.
Shemaine had set bread dough to rising earlier that morning. After punching it down, she separated it into smaller loaves and placed them near the warmth of the hearth for a second rising. She peeled a goodly number of potatoes and put them in a kettle to boil. Then she proceeded to make a spice cake. While the latter was baking, Shemaine busied herself doing other tasks around the cabin.
The laundering techniques of a chore maid had been an integral part of the instructions that she had received while still under her mother’s tutelage, if for no other reason than to learn firsthand how to manage a houseful of servants. Shemaine had no trouble recalling the advice that she had once been given. With Andrew’s eager assistance, she stripped the sheets from the beds and washed them along with several linen towels, a few of the boy’s garments and the shirts which she had found in Gage’s armoire soon after her arrival. She hung the clothes outside where they could catch the breezes and the full light of the sun. While they dried, she aired the pillows, swept and damp-mopped the recently scrubbed floors, polished the furniture and generally cleaned the interior until it gleamed, all the while making a game of the chores to keep Andrew entertained. She even began to teach him a counting song and laughed with pleasure at his pronunciations. He was delighted with it all and giggled uproariously, trying hard to mimic her.
For the outing on the ship, Shemaine collected a goodly supply of utensils, tin plates and cups from the storeroom, added a tablecloth and napkins that she had found among the kitchen linens, and packed them all in a basket, along with the cake that she had frosted. She cut the bread, tied it in a clean cloth, and set part of it aside for Andrew to carry. A jug of cool cider was drawn up from the well, and the kettle of stew from the hearth was covered and placed with everything else at the edge of the front porch. Lastly she whipped and flavored the potatoes, spooned them into a dish with a lid, and wrapped a small quilt around it to keep them warm.
A few moments after Shemaine rang the bell hanging from the post near the front steps, a tall gangly young man sprinted up to the cabin to help carry the supplies and food back to the ship. As he halted pantingly on the steps, he tipped his hat politely and grinned, transforming his rather rugged face into a very likable one. Shemaine was sure he had the deepest blue eyes and the blackest hair she had ever seen, even in Ireland.
“Morn’n, miss,” he bade cheerily. “I’m Gillian Morgan. The cap’n sent me ta fetch the vittles back ta the ship.”
Shemaine’s fleeting frown revealed her bemusement. “The captain?”
“Mr. Thornton, I mean, miss,” Gillian readily explained. “Exceptin’ he don’t like ta be called that. But seem’s as how Mr. Thornton is the master-builder what designed the ship and the man what pays our wages, not ta mention him bein’ ’bout ten and three years older’n meself, me pa raised a fair ta middlin’ fuss over the idea o’ me callin’ Mr. Thornton by his Christian name. So’s me an’ Pa dubbed him the cap’n.”
“I see.” Shemaine nodded and smiled. “Mr. Thornton did tell me that he has an aversion to people calling him by his proper name, but I can’t bring myself to be so familiar with the man that I would feel right using anything else.”
It was Gillian’s turn to be confounded. “An aversion?”
“Loathing . . . or dislike,” Shemaine explained, and cocked her head curiously. “Has Mr. Thornton ever explained why he doesn’t like being addressed by his proper name?”
“Well, he just said that when he was still buildin’ ships for his pa, he’d work alongside other men doin’ the same job as them, but his pa always insisted they call him Mr. Thornton, ’cause he was the proprietor’s son. The cap’n hated it, for sure.”
Shemaine gestured to the covered kettle of stew and the quilt-bound bowl of potatoes. “We’d better get this food to the ship before it cools or Mr. Thornton will be hating us!”
“Aye! Chewin’ our hides, he’ll be,” Gillian offered in chuckling agreement. “He definitely has a way o’ lettin’ us know when he’s riled.”
“He isn’t mean, is he?” she questioned apprehensively.
“Nay, not mean, just particular ’bout the work we do for him. He expects the best we can give him. Ye’ll do well ta do the same, miss.”
Shemaine released a soft, fretful sigh. “I will surely try.”
She hung the cloth that had been tied around a loaf of bread over Andrew’s arm and took his other hand as she picked up the basket. Gillian loaded himself down with the kettle, bowl and jug, and then led the way as she followed more slowly with the child. When they came near, Gage came down the building slip to meet them and, lifting Andrew, took the basket from her and escorted her to the partially finished deck.
The four cabinetmakers and the older shipwright were already waiting on board with amiable eagerness to make her acquaintance, having hinted (and teased) loudly enough that it was about time that Mister Thornton stop his worrisome fretting over losing her to one of them and commit himself to making the introductions. Gillian took Andrew from his father and started wrestling and rolling about on the deck with the boy, evoking shrieks of giggling glee from the youngster as Gage finally performed the formality. Shemaine recognized Ramsey Tate as the man who had been helping her master outside the cabinet shop the day following her purchase. Sly Tucker, a large, rather portly man with reddish-blond hair and a bushy beard, was another full-fledged cabinetmaker. The two apprentices were close in age, perhaps no more than two or three years past a score of years. One was a German by the name of Erich Wernher, an even-featured young man with dark hair and eyes; and the other was Tom Whittaker, a handsome colonial with tan hair and gray eyes. Flannery Morgan was a grizzled old man with nigh as many wrinkles in his weathered face as the night sky had stars. Yet he had a sharp wit that could easily set the others to guffawing in loud mirth.
Each and every one of them showed Shemaine the proper respect due a lady, which she readily assumed was in deference to their employer. They rushed to lay planks across carpenter benches as she brought out a tablecloth and then, after the linen had been spread over the makeshift table, helped to lay out the plates and cups. Because he doubled as a circuit rider on rare occasions, Sly Tucker offered grace before the meal. Raves of delight and appreciation soon followed as the workers began to devour the stew they had piled on the potatoes and to wolf down the bread. The jug of cool cider was handed around several times to fill the tin cups, quenching the thirst of the men. By the time the spice cake was passed, some of them had begun to groan in mock agony.
For the first time since being bought by Gage Thornton, Shemaine found herself able to eat the portion of food she had taken on her plate, but the weight of it on her stomach made her drowsy. She yearned to take Andrew back to the cabin for his afternoon nap, but it was obvious, with Gillian near at hand, that the boy would not be willing to leave soon.
Gage had chosen to sit on a keg of nails at the end of the makeshift table, and when he finally pushed away his plate, he tilted the keg back slightly, leaning against the roughed-in structure of the rail. From that particular vantage point, he was able to consider his men and the enjoyment they had derived from the meal. He was sure at the moment that Shemaine could have been a warty old toad and his men would have admired her just the same for her talent with food.
Gage allowed his men a few moments of rest before they returned to their labors, for it was evident they needed it after such a hearty meal. The younger men were given the chore of collecting the dirty dishes, the empty kettle and the last bit of food, which they carried back to the cabin while Shemaine remained on deck with Andrew for a few moments longer. She wandered around with the boy, admiring the fine workmanship of the craft as Gage discussed the difficulties they were having with some improperly seasoned compass timber that Gillian had brought up from the shed.
“ ’em shakes’ll be splittin’ on us afore the week is out, Cap’n. We’ll be havin’ ta take ’em out soon an’ replace ’em,” Flannery Morgan advised his employer.
“Then do it if it must be done,” Gage replied with simple logic. “ ‘Twould appear we’ve no other choice.”
Andrew spied a gull soaring close over the forward part of the ship and ran ahead in hopes of catching it. Shemaine followed quickly behind, but as swift as a little mouse, the boy started climbing across boards in his eagerness to get close. The bird hovered temptingly above him, as if to tease the child. Struggling against her own lethargy, Shemaine scrambled after him, jumping over timbers and crossing braces as she made her ascent. She was amazed that such a little boy had so much energy and such skill at climbing, but just as abruptly, Andrew’s interest was drawn elsewhere, and he began a rapid descent to the main deck, where a frog leaped across the planks. Pausing to catch her breath, Shemaine found herself well forward of the deck and, much intrigued by the view, stepped close to the precipice. Glancing down, she could see large rocks piled around the bracing stocks, but when she looked outward, the scenery was lush and beautiful around the cabin.
“Dammit, Shemaine!” a voice bellowed, nearly causing her to stumble from her lofty perch. “Get down from there! Get down before you fall!”
Shemaine realized that Gage was already racing toward her, and before she could adequately obey, he was beside her, catching her arm and snatching her away from the edge. After gaining the main deck, he caught her shoulders and gave her a harsh shake as he rebuked her angrily.
“Don’t ever go up there again, do you hear! It’s not safe! Just stay away!”
Shemaine nodded fearfully, shaken by his rage. “Y-yes . . . of c-course, Mr. Thornton,” she stammered, fighting tears of pain. His fingers clasped her arms so tightly she suffered no uncertainty that she would later find herself bruised. Wincing, she sought to shrug free of his steely grasp. “Please, Mr. Thornton, you’re hurting me.”
As if startled by his own ferocity, Gage dropped his hands away and staggered back a step. “I’m sorry,” he rasped in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
Turning crisply on a heel, he left her and strode briskly from the deck of the ship. Like statues of stone, Shemaine and his men watched him make a hasty descent of the building slip. Then, as if the banshees of hell continued to dog his heels, he stalked rapidly toward the cabinet shop, and a moment later the distant slamming of a door sounded like thunder in the silence created by his departure.
Shemaine turned to Gillian with a perplexed frown, shaken by the rage her master had displayed. “What did I do? Why was Mr. Thornton so angry with me?”
“Don’t ye go frettin’ yerself that the cap’n was vexed with ye, miss,” the young man murmured, seeking to allay her fears. “ ‘Twas the sight of ye on the prow what frightened him. ‘Twas where his wife had climbed afore she fell ta her death.”
Shemaine clasped a hand over her mouth, smothering a groan of despair. How could she have blundered so badly?
“Why don’t ye take Andy back ta the cabin now, miss?” Gillian suggested. “I’ll bring whate’er is left.”
Shemaine accepted his advice and led Andrew from the ship. She was grateful to find that the younger men had rinsed off the tin plates and cups in the river and had left them in the basket beside the door. It took only a few moments to wash them in soapy water, scald them, and clean the kitchen.
Bringing in the fresh-scented sheets and pillows from outside, Shemaine made the beds and finally lay down with Andrew on her own cot in the loft. She read to him until he fell asleep. With his small head resting on her shoulder, she lay for a long time staring at the ceiling as she recalled Gage’s angry reaction when he had seen her on the prow of his ship. Though she could understand his sensitivity about the way his wife had met her death, in that brief passage of time, during which he had railed at her and shaken her, she had glimpsed a painful torment in those eyes that she had never noticed before. He was indubitably a man haunted by a dreadful memory, perhaps a deed he had done or failed to do, which had not yet faded into liberating forgetfulness. What was there about the accident that she had not been told? What terrible thing, beyond the death of a young wife and mother, had happened that day that had had the power to rend a man to the depths of his soul and leave him roiling in anguish?
Mulling over the many possibilities exhausted Shemaine mentally, for she could find no simple answers to her questions. With a troubled sigh, she laid an arm over Andrew and curled up beside him, submitting herself to the drowsiness that had crept stealthily over her.
Ramsey Tate approached the cabinet shop and preceded his entrance with a light rap. At a muttered call from within, he swung open the door and stepped inside, closing the portal quietly behind him. His employer stared broodingly out of a window with a sharp frown creasing his brow, and a stern glance in his direction did little to reassure Ramsey that his presence would be tolerated.
“Sly an’ the other men are afraid ta come in here, thinkin’ they’ll disturb ye,” the older man said uneasily. “They sent me in ta ask if’n ye be wantin’ them ta return ta work.”
Gage snorted irritably and tossed a darker glower toward his chief cabinetmaker. “What do you think?”
Ramsey flicked his bushy eyebrows briefly upward. “Aye, I told ’em as much, that ye’d be wantin’ the work done as usual, no matter how gloomy an’ sour yer mood might be. I need not tell ye how ye frightened yer woman. She was sure she had done somethin’ ta offend ye ‘til Gillian told her ye were just grievin’ over yer wife.”
Gage deliberately ignored the man’s probing chatter about Shemaine. He knew better than anyone that he had alarmed the girl, but the sight of her leaning forward over the prow had seared his brain with harrowing visions of Victoria doing the same. In a fleeting moment reality had become entangled in a web of tormenting illusion as he suffered through another nightmarish reenactment of the death scene, those damnable paralyzing images that had persisted since his wife’s death, snatching him up from the depths of sleep to send him prowling about his room like a caged animal. Only this time, it had been Shemaine hurtling helplessly to the rocks below while he had seen himself leaning over the prow, watching it all happen from above.
“My disposition has nothing to do with my expectations,” Gage retorted at last. “I expect the men to finish the day out and give me a fair exchange for their wages. I’ve checked the way they’ve laid out the patterns on the wood for the new pieces, and I think there’s much to be desired in the grains they’ve selected and designated for my inspection. I would have burled wood for the doors and matching grains for the drawers.”
“Perhaps ye’d like ta show us what ye want,” Ramsey suggested, not unkindly. He knew that neither he nor any of the other workmen could envision the finished product as well as the master woodwright. He also recognized that work could serve as a healing balm for what was tormenting Gage Thornton, at least until he decided to take himself a woman.
“Call the men in here,” Gage bade sharply. “I’ll show them what I want.”
“An’ the Morgans?” Ramsey queried uncertainly. “They’ll be wantin’ ta know if ye’ll be goin’ back ta work on the ship today.”
“Flannery has to replace some planks,” Gage stated curtly. “He’ll not need me for that chore.”
Wiping a hand across his eyes, Gage released a dismal sigh as the man left. By dint of will, he dragged his thoughts away from that nagging, frightfully deceptive scene of Shemaine falling to her death. He could only wonder about himself, if he would ever find release from the tumult that continued to rage within him, at times leaving him feeling sorely bruised and battered.
That evening the occupants of the cabin enjoyed a hearty soup for supper, and while the dishes were being washed, Gage read to Andrew and then put him to bed. When he returned to the kitchen, Gage found Shemaine awaiting him.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you today on the ship, Mr. Thornton,” she murmured softly. “I didn’t realize how your wife had been killed.”
A brief quirk at the edge of his mouth was all the smile Gage could manage. “It just frightened me to see you so close to the edge and to think that Victoria may have gone up there in much the same way.”
“I have nothing pressing to do at the moment, Mr. Thornton,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you’d feel better if you were able to talk about it.”
Her gentle suggestion seemed full of compassion, and he could not bring himself to offend her by refusing. “I wasn’t there when . . . my wife . . . fell,” he replied haltingly. “I had brought Andrew back here to the cabin to clean some tar off his fingers after he had gotten into the oakum on the ship. While I was here, I heard Victoria scream. She sounded frightened. Barely an instant later I heard other screams. I left Andy in his bed and ran to see what had happened. When I got back to the ship, I found Roxanne sobbing in hysterics over the dead body of my wife. She said she had just nudged her canoe into the shallows when she heard Victoria scream. When she reached the ship, she saw my wife lying on the rocks below the prow. The fall had broken Victoria’s neck, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to revive her. I built a pine box to put her body in and took her into town to be buried in the church cemetery beside her parents.”
He refrained from mentioning what he had been subjected to once he reached Newportes Newes. It certainly hadn’t helped that in prior years he had set himself against certain inhabitants of the hamlet by daring to point out the foolishness of several laws they had pompously proposed for their area. Thereafter, they had looked upon him as an antagonist, and their vindictiveness had become apparent soon after Victoria’s death. British authorities had concluded that their interrogation of him was nothing more than a mean-spirited inquisition and had further suggested that his wife could have climbed to the prow herself and merely slipped. While most of the townspeople had agreed, defaming gossip had continued to boil over the dark, odious caldron of hearsay and defamation.
“After the accident, I felt as if I had descended into a dark dungeon from which I would never emerge,” Gage continued. “But grief has a way of easing with the passage of time. Caring for Andrew helped me over the hurdle.”
“You have a delightful son, Mr. Thornton,” Shemaine assured him gently. “Andrew would win anyone’s heart.”
“He’s been a blessing to me in many ways.” Gage sighed. An awkward moment of silence passed between them, then he inclined his head toward the back corridor. “If you’d like to take a bath now, Shemaine, you may. I don’t intend to work at my desk tonight, so you’ll have time to enjoy yourself at your leisure.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thornton,” she replied, smiling. “Going without a bath on the London Pride was rather torturous for me, to say the least. I appreciate being clean more than I ever gave heed to before. I’d like nothing better than to indulge myself in a lengthy soak.”
“Then, by all means, do so,” Gage encouraged. “I’ll read for a while here in the kitchen, so I’ll probably still be up when you finish.”
Shemaine scurried about to prepare her bath, pouring three buckets of hot water into the tub and bringing two more in from the well. After Andrew’s nap that afternoon she had read to him for a time on the back porch and then later, while she watched him play, had folded freshly laundered clothes. She had stacked everything in a basket, placing the towels on top, but in her haste to start supper and bathe Andrew before the meal, she had left the basket beside her chair on the back porch. While toting in the last pail of water, she carried in the wicker receptacle, leaving it atop Gage’s stool before dumping the water into the tub.
A moment later Shemaine settled into the steamy water with a deep sigh of appreciation. It was not the fanciest of tubs or the gentlest of soaps, but she reveled in the bath as if attended by serving maids of the royal court. Indeed, she stayed in the tub so long her fingers and toes began to wrinkle and the water took on a decided chill. Only then did she consider leaving it.
Shemaine pushed herself to her feet and reached for a towel. Grabbing a corner, she swept it from the basket, noticing a strange weightiness to the linen. In the next instant, cold icy horror congealed within her, wrenching a startled gasp from her as a large snake plummeted to the floor. It promptly started hissing and twisting as it righted itself onto its stomach. The reptile’s eyes fixed menacingly on her, and its tongue flicked excitably from its fanged mouth as it hissed a warning. Its knobby tail rose in agitation and began to shake, emitting an odd, rattling sound.
The snake’s head shot forward, and with a frightened scream Shemaine rapidly retreated out the back side of the tub. She heard what sounded like a chair overturning in the kitchen and footsteps running to the portal. Gage shouted her name in an anxious tone, but she had no time to answer as the serpent lunged toward her again, wrenching another cry from her. Clutching the towel to her, Shemaine stumbled back against the desk just as the kitchen door was flung open.
The adder, tenacious in its zeal to catch her, had slithered around the tub and was near the door when this new menace appeared. The reptile turned abruptly, striking out as the man stepped through the portal, but Gage leapt back, out of harm’s way, and raced to the storeroom. When he returned, he held a long, wicked-looking knife in his hand. The viper eyed him warily, seeking a chance to sink its fangs into him. Gage eluded another attack, and when the snake recoiled, he was ready. Stepping quickly forward, he brought the wide blade down, chopping through the snake’s skull and pinning the partially severed head to the floor.
Shuddering, Shemaine clutched the now dampened towel to her as she observed the bizarre coiling of the reptilian body in the throes of death. Gage opened the back door, and then, scooping the flat side of the knife beneath the serpent’s mangled head, clasped his other hand around the scaly body near the tail. Lifting the reptile from the floor, he carried it out beyond the back porch.
Shemaine sagged in weak relief against the desk, still a-tremble and unnerved. It was a long moment before the thought occurred to her that there might be another snake in the basket. She had no knowledge of whether reptiles grouped together. But surely another one would have made its presence known by now.
Shemaine’s breath eased outward in a long sigh of relief as she recognized her disquiet. She was simply letting her imagination run wild. She was safe now, she reassured herself. Her master had killed the snake, and if any more were in the basket, then he would kill them, too.
Water splashed on the porch, making Shemaine realize that she had wasted a chance to escape with her modesty reasonably intact. Clutching the towel to her, she started to race toward the stairs, but when she heard footsteps approaching the open door, she froze in sudden dilemma. She could not leave her cubbyhole without exposing her nakedness to Gage. But if she stayed, the brevity and dampness of the towel would afford her little protection, for the linen only partially masked the front of her. Nervously Shemaine chewed a lip as she eyed the basket, on the far side of the tub. A second towel would provide her better covering, but could she grab one in time?
Gage stepped through the portal, ending her debate, and in desperation Shemaine wedged herself between the wall and the desk, clasping an arm over her breasts and laying the other aslant her abdomen. It was the best she could do. Even so, her fluttering heart would not be calmed.
A wealth of emotions swept over Gage as he noticed his bondslave seeking haven behind his desk. He was totally amazed that she hadn’t yet taken flight. With a shoulder, he nudged the door closed behind him and advanced with measured tread into the corridor, diligently lending his attention to drying water spots off the knife with an oiled rag that he kept for such purposes in a box near the portal. Pausing beside his bondslave, he stroked the cloth along the now gleaming blade, conveying a casualness that he strove hard to maintain.
“You were lucky, Shemaine,” he announced. The faltering limits of his will were sorely strained as he sought to keep himself distracted. He knew well enough what the sight of her scantily clad form would do to him. Yet, for the life of him, he could not abandon the tantalizing situation he now found himself in. “The snake was poisonous. It could have killed you. Or at the very least made you ill. Do you have any idea how it got in here?”
Shemaine could not still the nervous quaking that had seized her. She was too exposed to feel anything but trepidation with a man in the room. Indeed, her uneasiness troubled her tongue as she offered an explanation. “The s-snake must have found its way into the b-basket of clothes I left on the porch this afternoon. I w-would assume it curled inside the towel to s-sleep.”
“You should be thankful it didn’t try to strike while you were bringing in the basket.”
Shemaine raised her gaze hesitantly to his, and Gage felt inclined to meet it. That simple act proved his undoing. Whatever noble intentions he had meant to manifest in her presence, no matter how scant they may have been, were hacked asunder as his male instincts rose up like some fierce, sword-wielding barbarian on a black charger. He was a man famished for want of a woman, and his hungering eyes devoured the delicious sights as if he contemplated his first meal after a lengthy fast. Heretofore he had cursed the scarcity of the linens, finding them limited in their usefulness for toweling a man’s body dry, but tonight he was greatly appreciative of the fact that this one, in particular, was narrow enough to be extremely generous.
His gaze ranged eagerly downward from creamy shoulders to her ripe breasts, temptingly squeezed upward by an encompassing arm. The top of the towel was only partially visible above her silken limb, and its furrowed edges did little to hide the cleavage deepened by the pressure of confinement. Indeed, from his height, he could see down into the makeshift bodice where the cloth slanted briefly away from the tantalizing fullness. His advantage allowed him a minute glimpse of a pale pink hue, making him anxious to view the whole of it.
Where her arms did not hinder his perusal, the dampened cloth revealed every curve and hollow as it clung cloyingly to the womanly terrain, liberally hinting of the sweet delights it veiled. Her whole side, from her right breast downward past the towel that ended at a shapely thigh, lay bare to his wandering gaze. In truth, her skin was as soft and fair as he had imagined it would be. And he was sure it would be just as delectable and sweet to taste.
His eyes smoldered darkly as they swept upward again, making Shemaine painfully aware of just how vulnerable she was. She could not quell her violent trembling or tame the unceasing frantic thudding of her heart. Indeed, the desire blazing in those brown orbs would have made a warrior maid feel threatened. Fully cognizant of her master’s greater strength, she could entertain no hope of holding him off if he decided to throw her down and have his way with her.
The moment dragged on beyond endurance, doing much to provoke Shemaine’s Irish temper. Her ire finally displayed itself in a blunt question as she vented her frustration with his brazen scrutiny. “Would you mind if I get some clothes on now, Mr. Thornton?” Shemaine gave him a copious serving of sarcasm as she prodded. “If perchance you haven’t noticed, this towel leaves much to be desired as sufficient clothing.”
“Your pardon, Shemaine,” Gage apologized with a brief, amused twitch of his lips. “The sights are so lush and pleasurable, I nigh forgot that you might be distressed over your lack of attire. Please forgive me.”
Shemaine raised her chin to a haughty level, wondering if he made light of his ogling because she had voiced no objection until now. Lest he feel encouraged by her tardiness, she cut keenly through to the heart of the matter. “Aye, I am distressed, Mr. Thornton, but ‘tis what I see in your eyes that makes me fear what will come of this. If you do not intend to dishonor me, sir, I beg you leave now before you reconsider.”
After another totally encompassing perusal, Gage inclined his head in a gesture of compliance and stepped to the interior door. Passing through the portal without pausing or glancing back, he closed it gently behind him. A moment later she heard what sounded like a chair being righted in the kitchen.
“Warts off a toad,” Shemaine fussed, flinging away the treasonous towel. Saucily waggling her head, she mimicked her master’s jaunty excuse in a hissing whisper. “I nigh forgot you might be distressed over your lack of attire, Shemaine. Ohhhh, Mr. Thornton! What deceptive wiles you practice!”
She snatched on her nightgown and slipped a robe over it, knotting the narrow sash firmly about her slender waist though she had grave doubts that any garment would be adequate defense against the lust that she had glimpsed in those lucent eyes. She was rather naive about the prurient appetites of the opposite gender, but she was perceptive enough to know that when a man looked at a woman the way Gage Thornton had just looked at her, he definitely had mating on the mind.
When Gage folded back the bedcovers and slipped between the sheets a short time later, the delightful air-freshened scent permeated his senses, making him aware of a definite change that his pillows and linens had undergone since his departure from bed that morning. Whatever Shemaine had done, it soon became apparent to him that Roxanne had been far too busy chasing after him to do the same. He found it immensely pleasurable to fluff the goose-down pillows beneath his head and inhale their sweet fragrance. Truly, after spending the whole of the afternoon in brooding contemplation, he realized he had become quite relaxed and was ready to taste the sweet succor of sleep, like a babe who had just been suckled. But then, he couldn’t quite keep his mind from dwelling on the stirring vision of Shemaine’s ripe breasts swelling upward above the towel or the delicious fantasy that any man might linger over, the thought of savoring their fullness with warm, wanton kisses.