Now and Forever (83 page)

"I--"

"Abigail!" Cook's clarion call rang out from the downstairs hallway. "I'm givin' you the count of ten, missy, before I toss your stew to the pigs."

"Cook gave William's supper to the dogs last week," Abigail said in a horrified tone of voice as she turned toward the door.

"Wait a minute!" Dakota said. "What about the sewing basket?"

"In there," Abigail said, pointing toward a large cherrywood armoire.

She ran from the room in a flutter of pigtails, leaving Dakota alone in Devane's bedroom suite.

In Devane's bedroom.

Talk about temptation.

"No," she said out loud. Talking to herself was getting to be a habit. "I don't need to know if he wears boxers or briefs."

No, she didn't
need
to have that bit of information, but that didn't mean she wouldn't give ten IQ points to know the answer. But at least she knew her limitations. If she so much as touched a knob on that armoire she'd be sunk.

What she should do is walk through the adjoining door to her room and lock it after her and forget all about that armoire and whatever secrets he had hidden inside.

And what about Lucy? The doll's lucky if it makes it to the end of the week.

"What about her," she muttered. It's not like the doll was entered in a beauty pageant. It wouldn't kill Lucy if she waited awhile longer for cosmetic surgery.

But think about poor little Abby. Wouldn't she just love to come back and find Lucy as good as new?

Sooner or later Devane was going to pack Abigail off to that boarding school in Boston, and the only thing the kid would have to remind her of home was this sorry-looking hunk of rag and wool.

She eyed the armoire. Who said she couldn't open the doors, remove the sewing basket, then close the doors again without taking a peek at whatever else was stowed away in there?

It wasn't exactly a Herculean task.

All it called for was a little self-control.

"Okay," she told herself. "In and out."

She opened the doors and was greeted with an array of drawers and cubbyholes that reminded her of a rabbit warren. The first drawer she tried was empty. So were the second one and the third. And the fourth. Every single drawer was empty.

What on earth was with the man? Didn't he believe in personal possessions?

She peered inside the cubbyholes at eye level and below, then reached up and stuck her hand into the cubbyhole on the upper right-hand side. The flimsy interior of the armoire surprised her. She'd always believed shoddy construction was a product of the age of indifference.

Her fingers closed around a cold piece of metal that felt like a drawer pull or latch of some kind. She tugged, but met with considerable resistance. Curious, she raised up on tiptoe, changed her grip and--

"What in bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Devane! Her heart almost burst through her chest. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on people? You almost gave me a heart attack!" She sounded amazingly defiant, considering the fact she was up to her guilty elbows in his stuff.

She withdrew her hand from the cubbyhole, then pointed toward the rag doll resting on the foot of his bed. "I'm looking for the sewing basket. Lucy needs some repair work."

"Take care what you say, madam. You are not speaking to a fool."

She marched toward the bed and grabbed the rag doll. "Look for yourself. Her head's falling off, her shoulder's ripped."

"And how is this your concern?"

"It isn't," she shot back, "but it should be your concern. This doll is your daughter's favorite thing in the entire world and it's falling apart."

"You are a seamstress then, madam?"

"No, I'm not a seamstress, you--" She stopped. Calling him a supercilious jerk didn't seem a wise thing to do.

"Finish your sentence," he ordered, arms folded across his muscular chest. "I am sure I have been called worse."

"Don't bet on it."

#

The last time Patrick had encountered such ferocity his opponent had topped six feet in height and carried a loaded musket. In truth, he considered himself lucky that Mistress Dakota did not have access to arms for he had no doubt she would use them against his person.

He met her fury with anger of his own.

"Explain yourself, madam, if you can."

"I did explain myself." Her words were clipped. "Perhaps if you paid more attention to your daughter and less to yourself, you'd understand how important Lucy is to her."

"The child is no concern of yours."

"And apparently she is no concern of yours either."

"Tread softly, madam, for you are on dangerous ground."

She poked him in the chest with a beringed forefinger. "I don't care what you think of me, Mr. Devane. I'm going to be out of your life as soon as the snow stops. But Abigail is your child and you owe her better than this."

"Abigail is not--" He stopped. What was it about the woman that brought his emotions so quickly to the surface?

Her gaze never left his and he had the unsettling feeling that she saw into his black soul.

Still there was something strangely appealing about the woman who stood before him, prepared to do battle. Her soft dark eyes were lit from within, burning with the fires of righteous anger. She was a woman of passion, this short-haired wench with the sharp tongue and quick wit. A man would be well-pleased to have such a partner at his side.

Susannah had cared for little but her own immediate pleasures. French perfumes. Fancy dresses made of satin and lace. Endless hours spent primping before the glass in her drawing room. The sweetness of her disposition had been directly related to the number of compliments he saw fit to bestow upon her. The thought of the beauteous Susannah trudging through mud and snow to follow him into battle was as laughable as it was unlikely--for many reasons.

He had oft heard stories of women whose courage matched or surpassed the courage of men in Continental uniform. Women who donned masculine garb and followed their beloveds into the fray. Until this moment he had naught believed such a woman existed.

 
There was much about Dakota Wylie to make him believe.

She known Abigail for less than twenty-four hours and already she'd risked his considerable wrath in defense of the child. Abigail's own mother had not seen fit to do that.

An elaborate ruse
, a voice inside him cautioned.
She seeks to insinuate herself into your household for her own nefarious purposes.

Her story had been rife with inconsistency. At one point she seemed to forget the very husband she'd claimed to have loved and lost. Yet the one thing that never varied was her desire to find her friends--and the passionate determination with which she said it.

Her arrival was well-timed,
the voice continued.
She appeared with the storm that keeps her captive in your home.

A coincidence or the carefully laid plan of a woman more cunning than any he had ever known?

Grimly, he determined to uncover the truth.

#

"Don't you dare walk out!" Dakota snapped as the louse turned away.

If Devane actually thought they were through talking, he had another think coming. She hadn't traveled two hundred years to be insulted by a man who didn't know the name of his daughter's favorite doll.

He continued toward the door with the stride of a man who knew what he was about. She might not be a raving beauty who brought men to their feet, but she was a human being and she deserved at least a modicum of respect.

"Devane! Don't you dare walk out of this room before I--"

"Once again you speak too soon, madam." He slammed shut the door to the bedroom then turned back toward her.

Life as she knew it ground to a sudden stop. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I am doing as you wish." He strode toward her, all menace and--to her dismay--devastating sensuality.

"You haven't heard a word I've said."

"I have heard all of the words, Dakota Wylie, and the time has come for silence."

"I don't believe in silence," she said as pulse points sprang to life all over her body. "Silence is vastly overrated."

"And how would you know that, madam, when you practice it so rarely?"

"I'm a talker," she agreed, taking a step back. "Talking's good. Talking bonds people together."

He moved closer still. "There are other ways to bind a man and woman together."

"What?" She tried to take another step backward but found herself pressed up against his bed.

The expression in his eyes was nothing short of dangerous. "You play the innocent," he observed. "An interesting diversion, but unnecessary given the circumstances."

She scrambled onto the mattress and scooted toward the other side. "I'm in mourning," she reminded him.

"Are you, madam?"

"Of course I am." She summoned up a suitably mournful expression. "I would appreciate it if you left me alone now."

He arched a dark brow. "Moments ago you wished me to remain."

"I've changed my mind," she said. "Feel free to go."

"Your company intrigues me. I choose to stay."

"I want to be alone." It had worked for Greta Garbo. Too bad she didn't have as much success. She reached the other side of the mattress, only to find herself wedged between the bed and the window.

He rounded the foot of the bed. "A husband should know certain things about his wife."

"I'm not your wife."

"To the soldiers you are."

"Fine," she said. "I'll remember to look subservient when I'm downstairs."

"Your late husband," he said, moving closer. "Did he find your sharp tongue an obstacle to happiness?"

"My husband loved me as I am." Or would have if she'd ever managed to find herself one.

"And how long were you married to this patient man?"

"Your own tongue is sharp as well, Mr. Devane."

"You have not answered my question."

"My marriage is none of your business." Her back was pressed against icy-cold panes of window glass. Talk about a metaphor.

"
You
, madam, are my business."

"Don't be absurd! As soon as the snow stops, I'll be out of your hair."

"You have an unusual manner of speaking, but your meaning is clear."

"Good," she said. "Then we have no problem."

"No problem at all," he said smoothly. "You will leave when I say it is time for you to leave and not before."

"Excuse me, but you don't have any rights over me."

"This is my house. That gives me the right."

"No wonder you hate those soldiers downstairs," she snapped. "If they win the war, you won't be able to pretend you're king anymore."

"A man will always be king in his own house."

She choked back the laughter. "Oh, Mr. Devane, how I wish I could see your face when you find out."

"Explain your meaning, madam." His expression had darkened menacingly.

Once again she'd taken things a step too far. Women's liberation was still a long way off.

"I'm tired," she announced with as much haughty disdain as she could manage. "I wish to rest."

His gaze drifted toward the bed. "Your idea has much to recommend it."

She watched, astonished, as he stretched out across the bed, his huge leather boots stark against the embroidered spread, and patted the spot next to him. She had a quick vision of herself arranged amid the bedcovers, looking all soft and feminine and artfully backlit, while he dropped to his knees in speechless adoration.