Mischief and Magnolias (20 page)

Jock stood behind the desk, the Bible open in his hand, the buttons on his uniform and the high polish on his boots gleaming in the sunlight coming in through the window.

“Dearly beloved,” he began softly, and every muscle in Shaelyn's body trembled as the man she called Uncle read the words that would make her Remington Harte's wife, his brogue almost musical.

One mistake. One moment of weakness and her whole life changed. The plans she'd made for her future flew away like birds on the wing as Remy repeated the words Jock intoned and slipped his ring from West Point, the one she had admired just a short time ago, over her finger. Too big for her, the heavy stone forced the circlet to twist, the diamond chip cutting into her flesh as she clenched her fist.

One mistake. And every one of the officers living in her home knew the circumstances of this impromptu wedding. She'd been found in the major's bed, and Major Harte had been forced into this marriage just as she had been. Embarrassment heated her face and made her tremble as Jock recited from the family Bible.

She glanced at Captain Bonaventure, who gave her a slight nod. No recrimination showed on his face. Instead, he beamed like an overindulgent uncle. Her eyes flitted toward Captains Williams and Beckett. Again she saw no reproach in their eyes, nor in the smiles stretching their mouths. She couldn't fathom the expression on Captain Davenport's face. Though his lips were curved in a smile, there was something about his eyes that gave her pause.

Her gaze slid to Brenna. Her mother returned her stare, unblinking. No sympathy whatsoever glowed in her eyes nor in her expression. No forgiveness either, which made Shaelyn's stomach clench. And yet, no one else would see what she saw. Brenna would remain charming and sweet and generous and pretend to the world that her daughter's marriage was nothing but planned.

Unsettled by the look on her mother's face, Shaelyn's focus drifted to Remy and her breath seized in her lungs. The charming grin he normally wore was nowhere to be seen; his lips pressed together so firmly, a white ring formed around his mouth and his eyes—no longer soft gray-blue—resembled polished pewter.

“I do,” Remy's voice jerked her out of her thoughts. She hadn't heard Jock intone the vows, only Remy's promise to obey those vows.

Her heart slammed against her ribcage as those same vows were directed to her. “Do you, Shaelyn Rose Cavanaugh…”

The rest of his words disappeared in the dull buzz droning in her ears. It was only when he stopped speaking, when he stared at her and mouthed the simple response that she realized she must answer. “I do,” she managed, although how she didn't know. Her throat constricted to the point where she could hardly draw breath. Perspiration, despite the icy chill taking up permanent residence within her, dampened her back, underarms, and trickled between her breasts.

“I now pronounce ye man and wife. Ye may kiss the bride,” Jock said the words then placed the Bible on the desk and waited. Shaelyn almost backed up a step as Remy turned toward her. As it was, she had to force herself to breathe as her husband—husband!—leaned forward and lightly kissed her cheek.

He wasn't the only one to buss her cheek. Each one of the officers did the same as they offered their well wishes then shook Remy's hand, congratulating him.

“If you'll all come into the dining room—” Brenna clapped her hands to draw everyone's attention and moved toward the door, “I have prepared a lovely meal to celebrate this occasion.” As her mother led the way out of the study, followed by Remy's officers, Shaelyn took a deep breath and glanced at the man still standing beside her.

“All I need are yer signatures,” Jock said, once more jerking her out of her own thoughts.

One of Remy's dark brows rose as his eyes gave her a slow, thorough perusal. “It has been said, Mrs. Harte, that some battles are hard won,” he commented, his voice a low, hoarse rasp. “But you got what you wanted.” He took the pen Jock handed him, signed his name with a flourish on the marriage certificate, then handed her the pen.

Instead of signing her name with the implement, Shaelyn wanted to stab him with it. “You think this is what I wanted? To be married to—”

“Go ahead. Say it.” When she said nothing, he supplied the answer. “A stubborn Yankee ass.”

“You're wrong, Major. This was not what I had planned for my life. You…you—This is all your fault. If you hadn't taken over my room…”

“Don't you dare say I took advantage of you.” Once again, he stiffened, holding himself rigid, and his eyes flashed a warning. “I only took what was offered. What else was I to think when you climbed into my bed?” An eyebrow rose, but the rest of his face seemed to be carved from granite. His voice was as hard as that cold stone.

How his words stung. He did think she'd done this on purpose, allowing them to be caught so he'd be forced to marry her. She didn't regret making love with him, or staying with him as he'd asked, but she regretted them both being forced into marrying.

“I hate you, Major!” It was mean and childish of her to say, but no more so than putting vinegar in his coffee or molasses in his boots. She really didn't mean it though. She didn't hate him and yet, she couldn't stop the words from falling from her mouth. “I'll hate you until I draw my last breath.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Harte.” Remy bowed from the waist and strode to the open door, his limp more pronounced, perhaps because he'd held himself so rigidly for so long. He stopped and stood still for a moment, his back moving as he drew air into his lungs, before he turned around and pinned her with his stormy blue eyes. “You may move your belongings back to your room. Your mother may move back upstairs as well.” He nodded briefly then quickly left, closing the door behind him.

It took less than a minute from the moment the pocket door slid closed before Shaelyn gave in to the tears she'd held at bay.

“Now, now,” Jock said as he came around the side of the desk. He opened his arms. Shaelyn immediately stepped into the comfort he provided. “Come now, Sassy lass, this is not the way to start yer married life.”

Shaelyn sniffed and tried to stop crying. “But I never wanted this, Uncle Jock. I didn't want…this.”

He stroked her back and his voice lowered. Shaelyn smelled tobacco on his clothes, the scent reminding her of how many times this gentle man had offered solace in exactly this way in the past. “He's a good man, lass. I've known Remy all his life, watched him grow from a boy to the honorable man he is, much as I watched you. Ye'll find none better.” He pushed her away a little and stared into her eyes. “I suggest ye make the best of it.”

“The best of it? With him? He hates the fact he was forced into this marriage as much as I was. Hates me.”

“And didn't ye just yell the same words to him?”

Ah, the voice of reason. She could always count on Jock to make her see what she didn't want to see. This time, his words had little effect. She might be married, might not hate Remy as she said she did, but that didn't mean she would share his bed. Or even be nice to him. Never again.

They said making mistakes is how one learns. Well, she learned. Her chin raised a notch as she pulled out of his embrace and signed her name to the marriage certificate. She stuck the pen in its holder, took a deep breath, and swept from the room.

• • •

I'm married
. The thought jolted Remy as he joined his men at the dining room table. He accepted their congratulations once more while he mused on the reality of his situation with some amount of incredulousness. No, it was not the way he had always envisioned his wedding day. In truth, he had hardly thought of it at all, instead planning to get as far ahead in the military as he could, and eventually return to his boyhood home in Kentucky when wearing a uniform no longer suited him…if he didn't teach at the Academy.

That had been the plan for his life. Marrying Shaelyn had not been part of that plan, but he hadn't had a choice. That option had been taken from both of them when he'd asked her to stay instead of letting her leave with the dawn. Remorse for his anger and for behaving like such an ass, as she'd already accused him of being, swept through him. He needed to take responsibility for his actions and not place all the blame squarely on her shoulders.

The object of his thoughts strolled into the dining room as if she hadn't a care in the world. The moment he saw her though, he knew it was an act. There were telltale signs of both her anger and nervousness. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed just a bit before she realized what she was doing and stopped. She also held herself stiffly, as if bending would break her. Tears had made her lashes spiky, but there were no signs of them now.

Remy glanced around the table and let out his breath in a sigh of relief—the carving knife was nowhere to be seen, although the tines of a fork could do some damage if she decided to stab him, though he didn't think she would. Slowly, he rose from his seat as she drew closer. The room grew silent. Not a sound was heard…no utensils clattering against each other, no indrawn breaths, no comments at all as his officers—and Brenna—stopped passing the meal around and watched with wide, curious eyes.

He pulled out Shaelyn's chair. She slid into her seat with a nod to the gentlemen around the table then turned slightly as he pushed in her chair.

“Thank you.” Her voice was prim, proper, and polite, but nothing else. Her response did not surprise him. He'd expected as much.

What he had not expected was her passion.

She had surprised him last night, first by being in his bed, then by how she responded to his every touch. She made love like she was born for it. He still bore the marks of her fingernails. And if he were telling the truth, he'd admit something had changed in him. Touching her, sinking into her warmth—making love to her—made him feel like he'd found where he belonged.

Perhaps being married to her wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen. Other marriages had started with less. He could and should make the best of it. Happiness was worth the effort, wasn't it?
She
was worth it, wasn't she?

He studied her now as she picked at her meal, pushing the green beans around her plate. She didn't look at him. She didn't look at anyone, but her cheeks were a pretty pink. Fine wisps of auburn hair teased her cheek and he resisted the urge to sweep them away from her face.

Yes, she was worth it.

His smile widened as he thought of ways to win her over. He'd been told he could be quite charming when he chose to be.

Let's see how long she'll hate me.

• • •

Shaelyn climbed the servants' stairs at the back of the house and wished her aching muscles on someone else.

So much for a wedding day. After the brief ceremony, which bound her to Major Remington Harte until death do them part, and the cozy luncheon her mother had prepared, she'd gone back to doing her chores. Nothing had changed except her name. She still washed uniforms and hung them in the sunshine to dry, dusted and polished and mopped. She'd also moved her mother's belongings back upstairs into the master bedroom.

Just before dinner, she had packed the major's belongings into his trunk and pushed the chest into the hallway. He could move his belongings wherever he wished—outside in the pigsty or Hades for all she cared. A tired smile spread her lips…
he
could sleep in the servants' quarters now.

Her arms laden with the last of her clothing, Shaelyn entered her bedroom and stopped short. Her breath seized in her lungs at the sight before her. And what a sight it was.

Remy sat up in bed, the glow of the lantern illuminating not only the book in his hand, but the dark hair covering his bare chest. Beneath the blanket pulled up to his waist, she could see that his legs were crossed at the ankles. He seemed relaxed and at ease, quite comfortable in her bed. She was also quite aware of how his muscles resembled corded steel and how they had felt beneath her fingers.

In truth, he looked more delectable than any man had a right to. Wanton desire surged through her quicker than she could snap her fingers, making her knees quiver. Her stomach clenched and blood rose to stain her cheeks. Was it only last night she had made love to him? Less than twenty-four hours ago?

With determination she didn't know she possessed, Shaelyn tamped down the wicked inclination to drop her clothes right where she stood and jump—yes, jump!—into bed with him, for despite their current circumstances, she wanted him again, wanted what she knew he could do to her.

Finding her voice, she asked instead, “What are you doing in here?”

“Reading,” he replied and gave her that crooked grin, the one that had melted her heart on more than one occasion. But not tonight. She tore her gaze away from his broad, muscular chest and noticed the open doors of the armoire in the corner. His uniform trousers hung neatly next to her skirts, as if they'd done so for years. There were other changes as well. His brush and comb joined hers on the bureau, and his boots were lined up beside her shoes on the floor.

He'd emptied his trunk, she realized, after she'd gone through so much energy and time to pack it. He'd also taken her side of the bed, a most unforgiveable sin.

“I thought…you said…” she stammered, unable to get the words out and finish a coherent thought. She took a deep, weary breath. “You're in my room.”

“Correction.
Our
room. We are man and wife now.”

“That doesn't…” She stopped before she said something she'd regret. She'd already done that once today, when she'd said she hated him. “I'd rather sleep on the floor.”

He did not move. He stayed utterly still for a moment, as if holding his breath. He released it slowly, his chest moving as the breath left his body. He gave a slight nod, closed his book and placed it on the bedside table, then pulled the covers back, inviting her to crawl into bed beside him.