Conor's Way (9 page)

Christ, it hurt. He made a desperate grab for
the bedpost. Clinging to it like a lover, he waited until the pain
had ebbed to a dull ache before going any further. Then he pulled
himself off the bed.

Nine days after his body had been pummeled to
mush, Conor stood on his feet—clutching the bedpost and holding on
for dear life—weak, bruised, and bare-ass naked in the morning
sunlight. That was how she found him.

"Merciful heavens!"

He glanced up to find Olivia standing in the
doorway with a breakfast tray in her hands, shocked at the sight of
him wearing nothing but a swath of linen bandage around his ribs.
Hell, he didn't know why she should be shocked. She'd stripped off
his clothes; she must have seen him naked, bruises and all.
Although, perhaps not, he amended, studying her expression. She'd
probably kept her eyes closed the whole time.

She backed out of the room, blushing and
staring down at the tray in her hands. She mumbled an apology and
something about finding him some clothes, then rested the tray
against her hip to pull the door shut with her free hand.

Just for fun, he might have remained standing
there until she returned, but his legs were shaking like jelly. He
eased himself back down onto the bed and collapsed, pulling the
sheet over his body so her maidenly sensibilities wouldn't be
offended. He wanted his breakfast.

After a few minutes, he heard a light tap on
the door, then it opened just a fraction. He heard her voice
through the opening. "Mr. Branigan?"

"Yes, Miss Maitland?"

There was a long pause, then she said, "Have
you...that is, are you..."

He knew perfectly well what she was asking,
but she sounded so tentative, he couldn't resist having her on a
bit. He pretended not to understand. "Am I what?"

Another long pause, then, "Are you
decent?"

Now that was a question for debate. His
stomach growled, and he decided to stop teasing her. "No, but I'm
safely under the sheets."

The door opened wider, and she peeked at him.
Satisfied that he was speaking the truth, she entered, but she
wasn't carrying his breakfast tray this time, much to Conor's
disappointment. A large basket was hooked over one arm, and she
carried a basin of steaming water in her hand. Draped over one
shoulder were several garments. "I've brought you some things."

Her acute embarrassment aside, there was
something different about her today. She looked softer somehow,
prettier. Instead of wearing her hair in a plain coil at the nape
of her neck, she had it swept up in a soft and intricate puff that
looked ready to tumble down at the slightest provocation. The
battered hat had been replaced by an absurdly small bonnet of
yellow straw and white ribbon. The collar of her plain gray dress
was still far too high for his taste, but she had softened it with
some sort of white, lacy thing that draped her neck and shoulders.
He approved of the change.

"How pretty you look! You should wear your
hair that way all the time."

The blush in her cheeks deepened at the
compliment, but she did not look at him. "That wouldn't be very
practical," she answered, setting the basin and basket on the
table beside his bed. "I'm afraid the hogs and chickens wouldn't be
impressed."

He grinned at that. "So why is today
different?"

"It's Sunday. I'm taking the girls to church.
You'll be here alone until this afternoon." She slid the clothes
off her shoulder. They landed in a pile beside his hip. "I've
brought these for you. I hope they fit."

The linen under-drawers and shirt and gray
wool trousers were of fine quality, the clothes of a wealthy
gentleman; but the once-white linen had yellowed with age, and all
the garments smelled musty, as if they'd been packed away. He
wondered who they belonged to.

He glanced at Olivia, but she still wasn't
looking at him. She was studying the contents of her basket with
great fascination, her cheeks still pink. "I've brought your
boots," she said, holding up the pair for him to see before she
bent to place them on the floor beside the table. "I've washed your
socks, and they're in here, too. I've also brought soap and water
so you can wash, and I thought you might want to shave, so there's
a shaving kit," she added. "And a mirror. And a toothbrush. And
some soda. I—"

"Olivia." He interrupted her rambling as his
stomach growled again. "Would you happen to have any breakfast in
that basket?"

She made a vexed exclamation and dropped the
shaving kit back in the basket. "Your breakfast! I forgot all
about it." She shot him an apologetic glance. "It's probably stone
cold by now. I'd better make you a new one."

Seizing on the perfect excuse he'd given her,
she departed in a rush.

After she'd gone, Conor turned his head and
gazed longingly at the steam rising from the basin. Hot water, a
toothbrush, a razor. Heaven on earth.

He sat up and reached for the water, but his
tired body rebelled at even that small exertion. Water sloshed over
the sides of the shallow basin as he pulled it onto his lap. He
brushed his teeth and washed as best he could, moving with
agonizing slowness. By the time he had lathered his face and picked
up the razor and mirror, his hands were shaking with the
effort.

He held the mirror up only long enough to get
a good look at his bruised and battered face, then his arms fell to
his sides and he leaned back against the headboard, exhausted and
frustrated.

Damn
. He couldn't do it. He'd worn himself out just standing up,
and now he couldn't even shave. But when he heard a knock on the
door, he forced himself to lift the mirror and try again. He had
started this, he was going to finish it.

***

When Olivia entered the room with his
breakfast, she realized with one glance that he had overdone it.
His hand was shaking as he brought the razor to his cheek, and she
hastened to his side at once, her earlier embarrassment forgotten.
"Here, let me help you," she offered, setting the tray on a nearby
chair and leaning across the bed to take the razor from him.

He jerked his hand back to prevent her. "I
can do it myself. I don't need any help."

He sounded so grouchy, she bit her lip to
keep from smiling. She straightened and stepped back to let him
have his way. During the past few days, she'd done a lot of
thinking about Conor Branigan and what he had told her, and she had
reached the conclusion that his explanation about prison had been
the truth. During his delirium, she hadn't understood most of what
he'd said, but he'd muttered something about treason, and she knew
by his scars and his nightmares that he must have been severely
punished, possibly even tortured. He had grit, she admitted,
watching him struggle. Grit and pride.

He managed two strokes with the razor before
he cut himself. "Bloody hell!" He dropped the mirror to press a
finger to the cut on his chin.

"It's very hard for you to accept help from
anyone, isn't it?" she asked softly. "Why?"

He glared at her, and she knew he hated
questions almost as much as he hated being fussed over. She ignored
his scowl and moved to stand beside him again. "Let me do it."

He shook his head.

"You'll never get your strength back if you
push yourself too hard," she pointed out, and she knew she'd won
with that argument. He let her take the razor and the basin of
water.

"Lean back," she ordered. She set the basin
on the table, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "Leave this to
me."

She tilted his head to the opposite side for
a better angle, and brushed the razor down his cheek, scraping away
stubble and soap carefully.

"I don't know that I trust you with a razor
in your hand," he said when she paused to rinse the blade. "Sure
and you're thinking to mend my sinful ways by slitting my
throat."

She grasped his chin and tilted his face
upward. "The thought occurred to me," she said, beginning to shave
beneath his chin. "But then we'd end up in hell together for
eternity," she added, "and I don't much fancy that."

"Which don't you fancy?" he countered wryly.
"Hell or me?"

Her hands stilled for a moment, and the sight
of him leaning against the bedpost flashed through her mind. "Stop
talking," she admonished, firmly pushing the vision away, "or I
will end up slitting your throat."

He obeyed without argument, and she resumed
her task, feeling him slowly relax. His eyes closed, his breathing
deepened, and it pleased her that, despite his words, he trusted
her to that extent. She studied his face as she worked, and she
couldn't help thinking again that he was a very handsome man. If
only he weren't so wicked.

"There," she said, and leaned back to survey
her handiwork. "All done."

He opened his eyes, and she handed him the
mirror. "Not bad," he was forced to admit, rubbing a hand across
his jaw.

"I used to shave my father," she said. "After
his accident, he couldn't do it himself."

"What happened to him?"

She took a deep breath. "It was just after
the war. He fell off a ladder and broke his back." She stood up and
turned to rinse the razor one last time. "He died about six weeks
later." She paused and looked at Conor. "He never liked accepting
help either."

Conor handed her the mirror. "Thank you," he
said quietly.

"You're welcome."

He smiled at her, and she decided that maybe
he wasn't such a wicked man after all. She turned to put the razor
back in its case.

"Olivia?"

She glanced down at him. "Hmm?"

He gave her a lazy look from beneath thick
black lashes, and his smile widened into the devil's own grin. "I
don't suppose you'd care to help me get dressed, love?"

***

Carrie was fidgeting, and Olivia couldn't
blame her. As a preacher, Reverend Allen was a sore disappointment
to the people of Callersville, but the old fellow was so nice,
nobody had the heart to tell him so. His monotone voice droned on,
accompanied by the buzzing of several flies and the soft snoring of
Ellie Hathaway, who was ninety years old and known to doze off
about midway through the sermon. "Carrie, sit still," Olivia
admonished in a whisper to the child beside her.

"I can't," Carrie whispered back. "My foot's
asleep."

Olivia sighed. Giving up, she turned her
attention back to the sermon, but the reverend went on talking
about Eve and the serpent in one long, unbroken sentence, and she
soon found her mind wandering to something much more interesting
and much less pious than the sermon.

Conor Branigan. She could see him as clearly
as if he were sitting before her now, handsome as the devil,
stubborn as a mule. She could see the exhaustion in his face and
the determination in his eyes as he'd tried to shave. She could
hear the low, almost seductive pitch of his Irish voice and smell
the clean, pungent fragrance of shaving soap. She could still feel
the heat of his skin against her fingers.

For heaven's sake, she was in church. Olivia
felt herself blushing with shame as she remembered that fact, and
she quickly lowered her head, hoping no one was watching her. He
must be the devil, to make her think such things, especially in
church. She closed her eyes, but instantly she pictured him again,
leaning against the bedpost, and she quickly opened her eyes. She
glanced around, desperate for something to occupy her
attention.

To her left, Miranda was asleep, her head
resting against Becky's shoulder. Becky was listening to the
sermon, or at least trying very hard to do so. Jeremiah Miller sat
beside her, as he always did.

Olivia glanced to her right and noticed that
Carrie was still fidgeting, tapping her feet together.

Across the aisle, Jimmy Johnson and Bobby
McCann were playing the rock and scissors game, much to the chagrin
of Bobby's mother. They were obviously no more interested in the
sermon than she was. Jimmy's mother was absent, of course, confined
by pregnancy to her home and garden, a custom Olivia privately
thought was rather silly. Since the Lord had designed women to have
babies, she doubted a pregnant woman in church would have offended
Him much.

Olivia watched the two boys, and she supposed
the rock and scissors game was better than saltwater taffy in the
pews. They wouldn't dare, not with the Chubb sisters right in front
of them.

The Chubb sisters were the moral backbone of
Callersville, spinster ladies who knew the proper etiquette for
every situation, who still believed that unmarried women under
thirty-five never went about unchaperoned, and who staunchly
refused to acknowledge that the war had ended their way of
life.

Olivia knew she didn't rate very high in
their estimation. She went about unchaperoned all the time. They
had strongly advised her against adopting the Taylor girls, as she
was an unmarried woman and such a course of action would not be
proper. Olivia had ignored their advice, and had endured their
looks of censure and sighs of disappointment ever since.

She had shamelessly
advertised for an overseer, a breach of propriety that had been the
talk of quilting parties for weeks. Ladies, Martha Chubb had
informed her, did not advertise for farmhands.
Of course not
, Olivia thought
acidly. Ladies wore gloves to protect their white hands, and ate
tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and never bothered about
how the fences got fixed or the crops got harvested. "What would
your mother say about this, Olivia?" was their favorite phrase, a
phrase that always made her squirm.

She looked at the Chubb sisters, thought of
Conor Branigan, and shifted guiltily in her seat. Not wanting to
think about it, she turned her gaze toward the front of the church.
Vernon Tyler sat in his usual place, the very front pew, his Yankee
wife beside him. Olivia forced herself not to grind her teeth. The
hypocrite. Everybody knew he ran the cockfights out of an
abandoned barn down Longstraw way and the prizefights out of a
tent in Jackson Field. He made a hefty profit on the betting, but a
chunk of that money ended up in Reverend Allen's collection plate
every Sunday, so there were very few sermons on the evils of
gambling.