Mischief and Magnolias (10 page)

“It isn't necessary,” he murmured, but even that short sentence told her he suffered more than he let on.

“Yes, it is. You're hurting.”

A long sigh escaped him as he slowed his pace even more. Through gritted teeth, he murmured, “Pain is good.”

Though she didn't want to feel it, she did. Empathy. Compassion. And the realization that she felt these emotions hurt her just as much as his leg hurt him. “You're a fool, Major. Anyone in their right mind would have rested long before now, would have said something.”

“Shae.”

There was a warning in the way he said her name, but she chose to ignore it. “You wait here. I'm going back for the buggy.”

“We'll both walk back.”

“Stubborn Yankee mule.” The words exploded from her without thought, without effort. Anger exploded from her, too. With him and with herself. Why should she care? “You really are—”

Dark brows slanted over his eyes, creating a furrow between them, the warm gray-blue darkening to polished pewter. “What did you say?”

“I called you a stubborn Yankee mule, but maybe I should have said ‘ass'!”

“Madam, you go too far.” His voice harsh, yet strained at the same time, he warned, “I would consider my next words very carefully.”

They were there, right on the tip of her tongue, everything she felt about him and his invasion into her home, the good and the bad, but the expression on his face stopped her from uttering a single one.

With an exasperated sigh, she turned away and started walking up the street. After a few moments, she stopped and waited for him to catch up, though she didn't look at him, not even when he took her hand, placing her slim fingers once more in the crook of his elbow. Beneath the fabric of his sleeve, she could feel the tension in his hard muscles and wondered what toll walking beside her right now took on him.

The buggy waited exactly where they'd left it, Jezebel's reins tethered to a metal post in front of the cobbler's shop, though each step he'd taken seemed to be a struggle. His breathing became more labored, and redness stained his features. From pain? Embarrassment? Exertion? Shaelyn couldn't tell. And she didn't ask. Nor did she apologize. She couldn't. The words were lodged in her chest like a boulder, weighing her down, but even if she uttered them right now, she doubted he would accept.

He didn't say a word as he helped her into the buggy and limped over to the other side. Perspiration made his face shiny as he climbed in beside her and settled himself with another grimace.

Shaelyn didn't speak either as he handled the reins, leading Jezebel and the buggy to Magnolia House. “Stubborn Yankee mule,” she murmured more than once, but beneath her breath so he wouldn't hear. The expression on his face did not invite conversation, nor did it invite insults. By the time they arrived home, sweat soaked through the major's uniform jacket and his eyes glowed, but not with humor. Indeed, he seemed feverish. And angry. Perhaps frustrated as well.

He brought the buggy around to the back of the house and pulled on the reins, drawing the vehicle to a stop. Shaelyn glanced in his direction, saw him close his eyes and draw a deep breath. He winced as he started to climb out of the buggy. Shaelyn slipped out of her seat and came around to his side of the vehicle. She reached up to grab his hand. “Let me help you.”

“I don't need your help,” he all but roared, pain not only showing on his face, but clear in his voice as well. “Stop fussing over me. I'm not an invalid.”

Shaelyn jumped back. Without warning, unwanted tears filled her eyes and she sucked in her breath. “Damn stubborn Yankee.”

He glared at her. The skin around his eyes had a yellowish green tinge. She'd seen that particular color before—on Papa's face just before he had an infected tooth pulled.

“Just full of pride, aren't you? Can't accept help from anyone, can you?” She returned his unflinching glare with one of her own. “Have it your way, Major. You always do.”

He turned away from her then, but not before she saw something flash in his eyes. An apology perhaps? She had no time to discern the look as he limped up the back steps and disappeared into the house, his body stiff, shoulders tight. She couldn't see his face, but knew pain radiated from every fine line around his eyes and mouth.

“He'll be all right, lass. Just give him some time.”

She glanced to her left and saw Jock rise from a rocking chair, a meerschaum pipe clenched between his teeth. He leaned against the veranda railing for a moment, then sauntered down the back steps. “Here, let me take Jezebel.”

“No, I'll do it. Why don't you check on him?”

Jock simply smiled, took the pipe from between his lips, and shook his head. “I'm not that much of a fool,” he said, his Scots brogue heavier than usual. “I've known him long enough to know he don't want no one with him now. And lass, he's embarrassed you saw him this way.”

Shaelyn said nothing. She couldn't. The lump in her throat didn't allow her to speak. Instead, she shrugged and strode away, leading Jezebel and the buggy to the carriage house, berating herself for a fool with each step she took.

She'd forgotten. Between the beauty of the day and the warmth of his smile, she'd forgotten she didn't want him here. Forgotten that she hated his intrusion into her life.

Didn't she? So why did she care that his beautiful eyes revealed his pain? Why did she feel hurt they had argued? That she'd called him a stubborn Yankee ass? Indeed, it would be best if he left Magnolia House and she never saw him again. Anything would be better than the utter desolation she felt now.

• • •

How stupid!

Remy pressed his lips together in annoyance and continued to massage the cramped, bunched muscle in his thigh, though his efforts had little effect. His leg throbbed, the pain more intense than it had been in a long time.

He leaned against the desk, where he poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a long swallow, hoping the heat from the liquor would help to relieve some of his stiffness, his soreness.

What made him think he could traipse about town? What made him think he was the same strong, powerful man he'd been several months ago? And could do the same things that man had done?

Ah, but he knew the answer. With Shaelyn beside him, her fingers pressed into the crook of his elbow, her face animated with laughter, he'd thought he could do anything.

Oh, how wrong he'd been.

What if General Sumner saw him like this? Would he be deemed unfit to command? Would someone else be put in charge? Here? At Magnolia House? Would Shaelyn and her mother be allowed to stay?

The questions crashing against each other in his head were almost as painful as his leg, which still wouldn't hold the weight of his body and gave out one more time. He almost fell to the richly patterned carpet, but managed, by sheer force of will, to maintain his balance. Leaning on his cane, he made it to a high-backed leather chair and collapsed within the buttery softness of the cushions.

He counted himself fortunate he'd been able to make it back to Magnolia House and inside before he tumbled to the floor, but not before Shaelyn had seen his pain, his weakness. What's worse, she'd shown sympathy, her eyes shining with unshed tears, her actions solicitous and caring…much more than he could take.

A long sigh escaped him before he tilted the glass and swallowed more of the dark amber brew. Warmth trickled to his stomach and spread outward as he leaned forward and removed the shoes from his feet. Another burst of searing pain shot through him, the rising tide of biting agony stealing his breath. He took another sip of whiskey, wiped the sweat from his brow, and prayed the keen throbbing would stop. He closed his eyes as the pain slowly receded.

• • •

Shaelyn rubbed her eyes in an effort to get them to focus once more. The candle on the bedside table didn't provide enough light for the task at hand. Despite the lateness of the hour and the strain on her eyes, she continued using small, delicate stitches to sew up the legs in Major Harte's undergarments.

As she plied the needle, she wondered what punishment he would think of for this prank and couldn't help the delicious shiver that snaked down her spine. Despite running into Millie, despite the pain in his leg, and the way the day had ended, she had enjoyed spending time with him.

In another time, in another place, she might have harbored the thought they might court. Handsome—and charming when he chose to be—Remington Harte was the kind of man her father would have chosen for her. Even more, Sean Cavanaugh would have liked him tremendously, as her mother did.

Ah, but this was war. His charm didn't matter. His good looks didn't matter. Neither did his kindness. After all this time, he was still an invader in her home, an unwelcome guest.

But was he really? If she admitted the truth…

Shaelyn drew in a deep breath and laid her sewing aside as the realization stung her. After laughing with him and listening to him speak with such love about his family, she had to admit he certainly wasn't the enemy she'd thought him to be when he first came to Magnolia House. He didn't have to show her the kindness he had. Indeed, he didn't have to let them stay. For that alone, she should be grateful. And she was.

And though he remained an unwelcomed guest, she couldn't say with any accuracy that his being here had made her life worse. In truth, things had become easier. Just a little. At the very least, she did not have to worry about putting food on the table. Major Harte had taken care of that burden by filling the pantry with a variety of goods, some of which she hadn't seen in a very long time.

The candle flickered on the nightstand beside her, the flames making shadows dance on the walls. She caught her own reflection in the mirror and studied the face staring back at her.

Never before had she felt this way. She'd always known exactly what she wanted, but…he confused her, muddied her thinking until she couldn't hold a coherent thought in her head if she so wanted. Her thoughts and emotions were jumbled now, colliding with each other, clicking off one another like billiard balls on a smooth felt table, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. One moment, she hated him. The next, she didn't, and if butterflies would stop fluttering inside her belly every time he looked at her, if she didn't feel a tingle and a surge of heat every time he touched her, maybe she could stop the whirlwind of conflict inside her head. Maybe she could stop caring about him.

He'd shut himself in the study as soon as they'd come home. Because he couldn't climb the stairs? Shaelyn had no way of knowing. He had refused dinner, refused to let anyone come into the study, friend or foe, simply requesting to be left alone. He hadn't come out by the time she'd finished cleaning the kitchen and retired for the night—to sew up the legs in his undergarments—which she now thought was juvenile and mean-spirited, but had been part of her plan, one that she had been determined to follow through to the end. At least, until he packed his bags and left Magnolia House. But that didn't mean she couldn't check on him, see if he needed anything. That didn't mean she was pleased to have him in her home. She wasn't, and would do anything to help his decision to leave.

She chewed at her bottom lip, unsure and uncertain, torn between what her heart wanted and what her head wanted.

An hour later, her vision so blurry she could barely see, her fingers cramped with the effort of removing all those tiny stitches, Shaelyn put her sewing kit away, neatly folded the major's undergarments, and rose from the bed. She stuffed her feet into worn slippers and her arms into a thin wrapper, tied it securely around her waist, grabbed the pile of undergarments, and took the servants' stairs to his bedroom.

Once in his room, she went quickly about her business. Opening the bureau drawer, the scent of fresh air and citrus assailed her nose.
His
scent, the one she could smell even when he wasn't near. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. The other officers smelled of bayberry, except for Jock, whose fragrant tobacco drifting from his ever-present pipe scented everything he wore.

Shaelyn tucked the major's undergarments into the drawer and left the room through the gallery doors. Beams of moonlight danced on the mighty Mississippi in the near distance. A slight chill in the air made her shiver and draw her wrapper closer.

With a sigh, she took the gallery steps down to the veranda and peeked into the study through the open French doors. Several candles were lit against the darkness, but she didn't see him. She entered the room on tiptoe and spotted him reclined in a big, overstuffed leather chair, one sock-clad foot on the tufted ottoman in front of him, the other on the floor. His right hand clutched the head of his cane, as if fused to his palm, his left lay across his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took.

A bottle of whiskey sat on the small, round table beside him. Even in the candlelight, she could see the bottle was empty, the glass beside it empty as well.

She came further into the room, intending…she didn't quite know what she intended…and tripped over the shoes he'd been wearing earlier. She grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling with a muffled “Heaven help me,” and continued to his side.

Without thought, she leaned over him and laid her palm against his forehead, as her mother had done when she was younger and not feeling well. No fiery heat seared her hand. His breathing seemed normal. The pain must have receded, just enough to allow him to rest. She ran her fingers down the side of his face, feeling the roughness of his whiskers and the softness of his skin beneath.

She straightened, moved quietly to the window seat, and moved one of the cushions aside. She pulled up on the panel beneath, grabbed a thin throw from the compartment, and put the cushion back in place.

Approaching him once more, she spread the blanket over him.
“I wish you would just leave,” she whispered, even as she tucked the flannel around him. “I want my life, such as it was, back.”