Conor's Way (33 page)

Conor let out his breath in a slow hiss.
Their luck had just run out.

For the next seven days, Conor picked peaches
from dawn to twilight. He was glad of the long hours he spent at
the task. During the day, he wasn't close enough to Olivia to touch
her, and during the night, he was too exhausted to get himself all
desperate thinking about touching her. He went to bed every night
right after supper and fell immediately asleep. No nightmares about
the Mountjoy, guilt over his pending departure, or erotic dreams
about Olivia tormented him in his sleep. He was just too tired.

The work was also making him stronger. He
knew, when the time came, he'd go back into the ring in prime
shape. When he thought about leaving, guilt and relief flooded
through him in equal amounts, battling for control with equal
force; so he didn't think about leaving. He got through the days
like he always had, one at a time. It was his way, the only way he
knew.

When all the peaches had been picked and
packed in barrels of sawdust, he loaded them onto the two wagons
Olivia brought out from town. He had to pile them high in the
wagons to fit them all in, and he tied them down securely with
ropes. The next morning at sunrise, Olivia took the girls over to
the Johnson farm, where they would spend the next two days. When
she returned, she went into the house and fetched a small
carpetbag, and they started for Monroe, each driving a wagon.

Conor was glad of the arrangement, preferring
the comfortable distance that separate wagons put between them. But
since she led the way, he spent the entire morning watching her,
and by midday, he suspected that about fifty more miles of distance
would probably be required before he could truly feel comfortable
again.

When she took off her bonnet, the sun shot
red lights through her brown hair and made him remember the feel of
it in his fingers. When she let go of the reins to raise her arms
overhead and arch her back in a languorous stretch, he envisioned
her naked amid a tangle of sheets and pillows. When they stopped to
eat the dinner of sandwiches she'd packed, sitting in the cool
shade of a grove of pine trees, he watched her undo the top two
buttons of her dress, with a comment about the heat, and he felt
himself coming apart.

He wished now he hadn't offered to take her
to dinner in Monroe. That had been a stupid idea, indeed: To sit
across from her, wanting her like crazy, and not being able to have
her because he seemed to have developed some ridiculous notion of
propriety where she was concerned.

Just a few more
days
, he told himself, as he snapped the
reins and started the wagon moving again; it was just a few more
days. Then he'd be quit of this place for good. He'd head for New
Orleans first, he decided. He'd go down to the Irish district and
take on all comers at Shaugnessey's. With his winnings, he'd go on
a binge of whiskey, cigars, women, and card-playing that would
shake off any thoughts of Olivia Maitland, and reassure him that he
hadn't picked up a permanent case of scruples from her.

He watched her reach back to rub the
stiffness from her neck with one hand, and he imagined doing that
for her, starting at her neck and working his way down. He imagined
it over and over.

It was a very long trip.

***

They pulled into Monroe late that afternoon.
After Olivia had haggled with Silas Shaw, the owner of the cannery,
over an acceptable price for her peaches, the wagons were unloaded,
and she tucked the precious cash that would see her through another
year securely in the top of her high button shoe. Conor drove the
wagons to the livery stable across from the Whitmore Hotel and left
them to be boarded, then went to the hotel to get them rooms for
the night. Olivia went to Danby's Mercantile and bought eight panes
of window glass to be delivered to the Whitmore in the morning,
then went to the hotel to meet Conor.

She found him in the lobby waiting for her.
When she signed the register, Olivia did not miss the speculative
look the clerk gave her at the realization that they were obviously
not married, but apparently together, a notion Conor did not dispel
when he asked where they might dine. Heat flamed her cheeks, and he
responded to her reproving glance with a grin. She snatched her key
from the clerk without a word, and followed the bellboy who carried
her carpetbag upstairs.

Half an hour later, Olivia slid gratefully
into the full-size bathtub brought up to her by the maids, who then
filled it with water cool enough to refresh her after the heat of
the day, and warm enough to wash away the travel dust and sweat.
She indulged in a long soak, then washed her hair, wrapped a towel
around it, and stepped from the tub.

She rubbed her body dry with the towel, then
pulled on the lacy petticoat and chemise, fastened the hooks of the
corset, and slipped the green silk dress over her head.

She sat down at the dressing table and
brushed out her hair, which was still slightly damp and starting to
curl, then she put it up in a loose twist at the back of her head,
that left several tendrils loose to curl around her face. Conor had
told her he liked her hair that way the Sunday she had given him a
shave. She secured the style in place with two combs, and she
thought of how he'd taken her hair down that day in the kitchen.
The memory still made her tingle.

Olivia smoothed down the folds of green silk,
glad that she'd brought it. She tried to remember the last time
she'd worn a lovely dress or felt the delicious swish of delicate,
lacy undergarments beneath, and she could not remember. It had been
too long ago. Far too long.

She rose and took several steps back to get a
good look. She studied her reflection in the mirror, and she was
surprised. She did not look at all like herself. She looked rather
pretty.

She stood there, staring at
her reflection. Conor had insisted on taking her out to supper, and
she decided that tonight she was not going to sit on the shelf.
Tonight, she was not going to be drab Olivia Maitland. She stared
at the bodice that skimmed her shoulders and dipped into a vee
above her breasts. While still more modest than most, it was rather
daring for her, but she didn't care. For once in her life, she
wanted to be daring, perhaps even a bit shocking. Just this once,
she wanted romance, and this might be her only chance. She thought
of Conor's smoky blue eyes, and that tingle ran through her
again.
Just this once
, she thought, hugging herself. She'd have the rest of her
life to regret it.

***

When Olivia opened the door of her room,
Conor's throat went dry and he was suddenly seized with the
overpowering need for a shot of whiskey. His gaze ran down the
line of her body, coming to an abrupt halt at the shadow of
cleavage above the silk bodice of her dress. Perhaps two shots. How
the hell was he going to get through an entire evening of small
talk with her when the only thing he could think of was kissing her
soft skin?

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Wrong?" He shook his head. "I'm stunned," he
said with a laugh, trying to be glib about it. "You're so
beautiful, every man downstairs is going to envy me."

He could tell by her pink cheeks and hesitant
smile that she didn't really believe him. "It's the dress," she
murmured.

"No, it's not." He cast another glance over
her gown. "Although, the dress is a definite improvement, I must
say."

"You look very nice, too," she said almost
shyly, gesturing to the new suit he wore.

He ran a hand over the charcoal-gray
waistcoat. After paying for his room, a haircut, and a bath, he'd
laid out three dollars for the clothes. "At least they fit. And I
think I still have enough left over to buy you a meal."

"You don't have to," she said. "I can pay my
own."

"Perhaps you can, lass, but you won't." He
offered her his arm. "Shall we, Miss Maitland?"

She slipped her arm through his and they went
downstairs to the hotel restaurant. They dined on clear soup,
salmon with dill sauce, asparagus, and peach russe. It was
delicious, and perhaps a bit more luxurious than the fare from
Olivia's kitchen, but Conor decided it wasn't better.

After their meal, the waiter returned to ask
if the lady would care for coffee, adding that perhaps the
gentleman would require a drink and a cigar. Conor replied without
a moment's hesitation. "Irish whiskey, if you please, and a Havana
cigar."

"Very good, sir." The waiter departed with a
nod, and Conor watched Olivia bite her lip and look down.

"It bothers you," he said.

"It doesn't."

"Olivia, it's written all over your face. I
forgot that you don't approve of whiskey. I'll send it back."

"No, don't. Please." She looked up at him
earnestly. "Please feel free to drink your whiskey and smoke your
cigar, if you like."

Despite her words, he knew she was
uncomfortable. "Why does it bother you?"

She hesitated, then looked down at her plate.
Her fingers toyed with the napkin across her lap. "My father drank
whiskey," she said in a small voice. "Bourbon. Quite a lot of
bourbon, actually. He did not handle it well."

She was twisting her napkin into knots, and
she seemed to realize it, for she stopped and smoothed the linen
across her lap. "When I was a little girl," she went on, "it wasn't
so bad. Mama didn't approve of spirits, so he didn't drink in front
of her. He had a special hiding place for his bourbon. She knew, of
course. Everybody did. But he kept it under control for her sake.
After she died, he didn't bother with a hiding place anymore. He
drank openly, and as often as possible. It could be
rather...embarrassing."

Conor suddenly understood a great deal.
"That's why there were no balls and parties."

"Yes. My brothers were away at university
most of the time, and of course, I couldn't go to any social
gathering without an escort. So, I didn't go very often, and when
I did, it was usually with my father. After several embarrassing
incidents, we stopped being invited." She paused, then added, "My
father had a very difficult time dealing with my mother's death. He
felt lost without her, and he became very dependent upon me in some
ways, almost possessive. Men who approached my father about
courting me were turned away."

"Did you ever resent it?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But he was my
father."

The waiter reappeared. He set a cup of coffee
before Olivia and a tumbler of whiskey before Conor, along with a
small silver tray that contained a cigar and a pair of cigar clips.
Conor took a sip of the Irish, but somehow it had lost its appeal.
He set the glass down.

She took a sip of coffee, then began running
the tip of her finger around and around the rim of her cup. "Then
the war came, and all the boys went to fight. Many of them didn't
come back. The slaves all left, of course, and the plantation went
to rack and ruin because there was no one to work it but me. Then
we got word that both my brothers had died at Gettysburg."

Her hand stilled, and she lifted her chin to
look at Conor across the table. "That, I think, was the final blow
for Daddy. I watched my father deteriorate from a vigorous,
strong-willed figure to a bewildered shell of a man, and there was
nothing I could do to stop it. I tried to take care of him, I tried
to help him, but I couldn't. That's why he fell off that ladder and
broke his back. He was drunk, and I think he wanted to die."

There was no disapproval in her voice, no
anger or resentment. Just tired resignation and an aching hint of
something that tore at Conor because he understood it well.
Loneliness. With their disparate lives, their opposing values,
their completely different experiences, they had something in
common. He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers in
a comforting gesture that surprised him. It surprised her, too. She
looked down at their hands and, slowly, she turned hers over to
entwine their fingers. "Thank you," she said.

"For what?"

"For listening. I've never talked to anyone
about this before."

She smiled at him, and his desire to comfort
her changed instantly to desire of a different kind. Something of
what he was feeling must have shown in his face, for her smile
faded and she stared at him with sudden intensity. "Do you really
think I'm beautiful?" she asked.

He froze, staring into her wide eyes, feeling
as if he were drowning in sweet, melting chocolate.

"I think we'd better call it a night." He
slowly, reluctantly pulled his hand away. "'Tis a long trip back
tomorrow, and you'll be needing some sleep."