Mischief and Magnolias (17 page)

“My mother taught me,” he said, his deep rich voice as vibrant as the chords he played. “I know you play. Who taught you?”

His eyes twinkled, his crooked grin firmly in place, and it hit her suddenly. When had she grown to like this man, this intruder into her home? When had he stopped being the enemy and become…something more? Was it the afternoon they'd spent together? Was it when he told her about the
Brenna Rose
and she saw the pain and devastation on his face? When he offered—and she accepted—his comfort? Or when she read the letters he'd written to the families of Captains Ames and Falstead?

When?

Could she pinpoint the exact moment when she started to feel affection for him, affection that had nothing to do with the constant ache low in her belly?

“Mama. It was an enticement. Well, blackmail, really. If I wanted to be able to help Papa with the steamers, I had to practice piano for at least an hour. That was, of course, after I finished my chores and schoolwork. Mama placed high importance on education.”

How could she keep a thought in her head and chatter about mundane things when all she wanted was to kiss him once more, follow through on the dreams that invaded her sleep night after night?

Did he feel it too? Did he want to hold her as much as she wanted to embrace him? Caress him? Kiss him?

The front door opened and closed and she heard the dulcet tones of her mother and the heavy Scottish brogue of Jock as they came home from their afternoon outing. Closer than ever, they didn't bother hiding their feelings for one another, and there was no need. Shaelyn heartily approved. Jock's footfalls as he strode down the hallway toward the kitchen covered her mother's lighter footsteps.

And still, she couldn't take her gaze from Remy, from the warmth showing on his face. Her eyes widened as he stopped playing, rose from the bench, and approached her, his expression somewhere between wonder and intention. For an insane moment, she thought he'd read her mind and would take her in his arms, but he simply took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the slightly reddened skin of her knuckles. The soft glow of his eyes, however, told her he wanted to do more than just kiss her hand.

How easy would it be to fall into his arms and touch her lips to his?

“Oh, there you are,” her mother's voice broke the spell.

Shaelyn jumped, startled, and snatched her hand away. She jammed both hands into her apron's pockets to hide their trembling; however, that did nothing to stop the blush from staining her face. She quickly took a step away from the major.

“I just bought the loveliest…” Brenna stopped speaking and looked at the both of them. Beneath the sharp perusal of crystal blue, Shaelyn felt as if her face were on fire. “What's going on in here?”

“Nothing, Mama. We were…that is, the major was… Nothing, Mama.”

“I see.” A perfectly formed brow rose over Brenna's eye and the hint of a smile played on her lips. “Well, come along.” She motioned with one gloved hand. Shaelyn glanced at her feet then at Remy, and finally moved toward where her mother waited in the doorway. Brenna continued speaking as if she didn't notice Shaelyn's hesitation. “I bought the nicest roast at Mr. Gaviland's. We'll have mashed potatoes and carrots and gravy. And of course, some of my biscuits and for dessert…” She held up a box tied with string. “Mrs. Blake's famous sweet potato pie.”

• • •

Dinner seemed to go on and on, as did dessert. The men around the table, rejuvenated from an afternoon off, didn't run out of words as they told jokes and amusing anecdotes of what their lives were like before the war. At any other time, it would have been a lovely evening. But not tonight.

Shaelyn listened with half an ear as she pushed the remains of her pie around her plate. She sighed and tried, once more, to drag her gaze away from Remy's hands. They were all she could stare at, ever since she'd seen them splayed over the piano keys, making beautiful music. His long fingers ended in clean, short nails and all she could think about was those fingers pulling the pins from her hair, caressing the side of her face, or touching some other part of her that longed to be touched.

She glanced up from his hands and found his gaze riveted to her, his eyes warmly glowing, the crooked smile she adored lighting his face. Her breath froze in her lungs and a hot flush swept through her body, heating her from the inside out.

Abruptly, she rose from the table and started collecting the soiled dishes. Brenna laid her napkin beside her plate and began to rise, but Shaelyn stopped her. “I'll take care of it, Mama. You relax.”

Brenna resumed her seat and poured a bit more coffee into her cup. “Thank you, dear.”

Conversation around the table continued. Not one of them seemed to notice when Remy rose and grabbed his plate, but Shaelyn did. She sucked in her breath as her heart beat out a frantic tattoo. She had hoped to escape to the kitchen, where she didn't have to see Remy's smoldering eyes or charming smile, but her plan had just backfired…in the most alarming way. Instead of escaping him, she'd been thrown closer to him.

Just make the best of it. Don't look at him. Don't encourage him.

And yet, even as she reiterated the words in her head, on her last trip into the kitchen, she almost dropped the plates in her hand. The sight before her made her suck in her breath.

How could she ignore him?

Remy had removed his jacket and now stood at the sink, his broad back covered only in a pristine white shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, a shirt she had laundered many times. His muscles rippled as he rolled up his shirtsleeves then sunk his hands up to his elbows into the hot, soapy water filling the sink.

There was something to be said about a man who wasn't afraid to wash dishes.

Memories flooded her and for a moment, her vision blurred with tears. She could clearly see her mother and father, standing in front of the sink, side by side, talking quietly of the day's events as one washed and the other dried. Though there had been servants before war broke out, her parents had enjoyed doing this one task together. Her mother always said it reminded them of the days when they'd had nothing but each other, the
Brenna Rose,
and dreams.

“Are you all right?”

Startled, Shaelyn jumped. At what point had Remy turned from the sink and approached her? Her gaze rose to his face as he reached out and smoothed the wetness away from her cheek with his thumb. The breath she'd been holding released in a rush and her heartbeat—dear God!—her heart was going to pound right out of her chest. “Yes, of course,” she managed over dry lips and even drier throat, then, in order to gain some semblance of control, she handed him the stack of dishes in her hands.

With a smirk, Remy took the soiled plates and laid them gently in the sink before he handed her a dishtowel then picked up a dishcloth and began to wash. They worked in companionable silence while Shaelyn listened to the conversation in the dining room. She grinned when she heard her mother's laughter, sweet and pure, as she took the clean plate Remy handed her, dried it, and put it away.

Her gaze drifted to him, and she almost smiled at the expression on his face, then forced herself to stop looking at him. She didn't want to be drawn to him and yet…she couldn't help herself. And this, standing side by side while his hands were in soapy water, just confused her more. What other officer, be he Union or Confederate, would wash dishes, especially in a home he'd overtaken?

In an effort to avoid looking at him, her eyes fell upon a ring on the counter. She'd seen it before, of course, on his finger, but never had the opportunity to inspect it. She did so now, under his watchful, curious eyes.

The stone was onyx, if she wasn't mistaken, with a small diamond chip in the middle. Around the stone were the words West Point. On one side, the initials USMA were engraved. Below the initials were two sabers crossed. On the other side, an eagle with an olive branch in its talons. Inside, almost faded, she read the inscription
Honor Above All
and his initials REH.

“That ring commemorates my graduation from West Point,” he said as he leaned against the counter and watched her with that crooked grin plastered across his face.

“It's lovely.”

“Thank you. I designed it myself. We all did. Cadets are given free rein to create our own rings, within reason, of course.” He was too close and smelled too wonderful and the look in his eye conjured thoughts she shouldn't have…

Shaelyn put the ring back on the counter where she'd found it and concentrated on drying the plates that were stacking up. Eventually, Remy returned to washing, but the silence between them had grown uncomfortable.

“I thought your family distilled whiskey,” she blurted out in the hopes of filling the disquieting silence.

Remy grinned as he looked at her. “We do.”

“So how is it that you attended West Point? How is it that you don't work with your family in…”

“Kentucky,” he supplied, then quirked an eyebrow and his grin widened. “I'm lucky my eyebrows grew back after than incident with the still.” He wiggled his eyebrows for effect. Shaelyn couldn't help smiling at him, couldn't stop drowning in the pure pleasure of his voice.

“No, the whiskey business isn't for me. Never was.”

“So why West Point?” she asked again. “Why the military?”

“I was twelve when I met Charles Foster, my mother's brother, but I'll never forget that day. It was the first time I'd ever seen a military man in full uniform. From the moment he stepped off the steamer onto our dock and I saw how his brass buttons and the stars on his collar shined in the sunlight, I was impressed. More than impressed. He regaled me—us really, but I thought he was talking just to me—with stories of West Point and his time there with the other cadets.”

A sigh escaped him and his voice lowered, but he continued talking as he washed, handing her one plate at a time.

“From that moment on, I wanted to attend West Point, just like him. I wanted to be a general just like Uncle Charles. Father made me wait. He thought twelve was too young for life decisions, so I waited.” He turned toward the table behind them, which now had all the dessert plates and coffee cups piled high on a tray atop it, and her eyes followed every move he made. She hadn't heard anyone come into the kitchen, hadn't heard anything except the sound of his voice and the beating of her own heart. Remy gently placed the dishes beneath the soapy water and continued washing. And talking.

“My mind was still made up when I turned sixteen, but to prove I was serious, I contacted a friend of my father's, a congressman, and had him nominate me. Between the congressman's recommendation and my uncle's influence, I was accepted at the Academy. I loved being there. Even though it was my first time away from home, I didn't become homesick. How could I? We were busy from sunup to sundown and I loved everything about it—the discipline, the camaraderie between the boys, the knowledge imparted by our instructors. I made some everlasting friendships during my time there, met some fascinating people. For me, it was the best decision I ever made.”

His eyes glowed with warm memories. The smile on his face charmed her, crooked as it may have been. The tone of his voice seeped beneath her skin, settling in her bones and zinging straight to her heart. By the time the dishes were done, Shaelyn was a mass of bristling nerves.

It had nothing to do with their conversation and everything to do with his nearness and the smell of sunlight and citrus faintly clinging to him. Apparently, she couldn't be in the same room with him any longer without desire—yes, desire for him—coursing through her veins, heating her blood. Wanting him had become something she could no longer deny, no matter how hard she tried.

Once more, she wanted—no, needed—to wrap her arms around him, dishtowel and all, and draw him closer so she could taste his lips.

He leaned against the sink and studied her, those eyes of his staring deep into her soul…or so she thought. Was he thinking the same thing? Did he desire her as much as she desired him?

Coward. Just kiss him like you want to.

The voice in her head taunted her, daring her to do what she wanted…

Shaelyn swallowed hard. “I have some laundry still on the line.” She ducked her head in an effort to tear her gaze away from him. “I should bring it in.”

“Of course,” he said, and tilted his head. “Good night, Shae.”

She beat a hasty retreat outside, filling her lungs with crisp, cold air, hoping the shock of the chill beyond the warmth of the house would jolt her out of the heat simmering within her.

It didn't work. Her hands still trembled as she pulled the clean laundry off the line and folded each item before placing it in the wicker basket at her feet. At least the kitchen was empty when she came back into the house, set up the ironing board, and heated the irons.

Ironing done, clothes hung up in the mudroom until the morning, Shaelyn left a lamp in the middle of the kitchen table lit as she made her way to bed, too exhausted to think. Or so she thought. But as she changed out of her serviceable skirt and blouse, unhooked her corset, and shrugged out of her chemise and drawers, Remy filled her mind—his smile, his warmly glowing eyes, his hands…and everything else.

“Stop it!” she chided herself for the course her thoughts were taking. Exasperated, she tugged a thin nightgown over her head, slipped beneath the covers of her narrow bed, and closed her eyes.

And dreamed of him, touching her, caressing her, kissing her.

She awoke with a start, her heart thumping a wicked beat in her chest. She'd never be able to go back to sleep.

With a groan, she rose from her bed. The sound of the clock chiming midnight followed her down the hall to the study, where she hoped a boring book and perhaps a sip or two of whiskey would get her mind off the unreasonable yearning surging through her. But even that was a mistake. The study now smelled of citrus and sunlight, just like Remy.