The Wedding Bargain. Emily French
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baked bread. Rafe stood in the doorway and scanned the place slowly.
It was a long room, with a fireplace and closed bread oven at the end. A neat pyramid of chopped wood filled one corner, and a round pine table and slat-back chairs nestled in another. There were shelves along one wall and a step-back hutch opposite. Two high windows allowed the light to filter in.
Cooking utensils hung above the hearth; a woolen throw draped one of the chairs. A basket of mending lay on a shelf beside a bowl of potatoes and a bunch of leeks. Jars of apple butter, pickles and plum jelly packed the shelves.
Clean as a pin and shiny bright, the kitchen was lovingly cared for. The homey clutter was somehow comforting. It told Rafe a lot about Charity Frey.
The object of his thoughts was standing by the fireplace preparing tea. She swirled hot water round in the pot, emptied it into the ashes in the hearth and took a brown pottery tea crock down from the mantel. He walked slowly down the length of the kitchen and stopped a little behind her.
“Fresh bread!”
A choking sound passed her lips as she swung to face the bondman. He sniffed the air with such obvious delight that Charity felt much of her ill-humor fade. He was too close, so near she could see the darker motes in his golden eyes. When he looked at her, those eyes seemed to take in at one glance everything about her, from her hastily pinned hair to the sturdy shoes on her feet.
She knew her color was still high, but her coif was securely fastened, and the muslin scarf that now crossed her bosom demurely covered the square neckline of her gown.
He was wearing a linen shirt, pulled tight across the shoulders, the front gaping to reveal crisp, dark chest hair. The ruffled cuffs ended a couple of inches above his bandaged wrists. Hiram’s knee-length breeches fit him no better. The fastenings remained undone because of the sturdy nature of the bondman’s legs.
It would seem, from the easy way he walked, that the buckled shoes were a comfortable size. He had eschewed the woolen stockings, however. Perhaps the knit would not stretch over the thick ankle dressings?
He leaned forward, his gaze on her parted lips, a kissing distance away. A mocking smile played over his mouth. “What would I have to do to get a slice?”
“This is not a game of forfeits.” She put out her hand to push him away, then snatched it back. She did not want to touch him.
He surveyed her gravely for a moment, then bowed low, but his voice quivered with hidden laughter. “I did not think a Puritan lady would think of, let alone speak of such things.”
The heat from his closeness was making her knees weak, and Charity wondered if he could sense their trembling. She swallowed and said a silent prayer for help.
“Must you make a jest of everything?” She twisted her head away sharply, but not before she saw his lips part in a grin, which for an instant showed a gleam of white teeth.
“It helps when things are not going as planned. Are you always so shrewish, or is it that you’ve not broken your fast yet?”
Her temper was cooling but it smoldered still. Charity opened her mouth to utter another rebuke, but the kitchen door banged open. Benjamin and Isaac charged in, bringing with them a rush of fresh, sweet air. She turned to them in relief. “I’ve boiled you each a nice fresh egg for your breakfast, boys, so don’t be too long about washing your hands. Take a seat, Master Trehearne.”
Without a word, Rafe came and sat down, and she poured his tea. A slice of baked ham, a pat of butter, a bit of comb honey, a spoonful of plum chutney and a scrap of cheddar cheese were separate and distinct temptations alongside his egg. As though this were a normal family breakfast, and he was the head of the household!
The thought was unsettling. Particularly when he couldn’t remember anything after attempting to play the hero after the auction. Vague memories haunted him. He could still sense that soft, faintly perfumed warmth around him.
For a fleeting, arousing instant, he had an erotic vision of the woman lifting his head, pillowing it against softness unrestrained so that he could feel one of those firm, widely separated, twin fire points probing into the flesh of his cheek.
Which was absurd.
Charity cut thick slices of the crusty bread and set them on a plate beside two mugs of milk for the boys. Her slender fingers trembled as she set the jug on the table. She peeked at Rafe and found him staring at her. The heat of his eyes was a palpable sensation, and a small, expectant shiver ran along her nerve endings.
She quickly bowed her head in prayer.
During the blessing, Isaac exchanged a glance with his twin. Both bright heads were bowed, but to an astute observer the slight quiver of the boys’ lashes betrayed their intent.
“Thanks for the doctoring. I appreciate the trouble you went to.” Busy buttering his bread, Rafe addressed Charity briefly.
Holding her teacup between her hands, she blew on the hot tea. Watching him over the rim of the cup, her eyes crinkled a little against the steam. “I did it for me as much as you. A crippled bondman would be useless.”
Rafe picked up his own cup. He sniffed at the contents before he sipped experimentally. “Doesn’t it worry you that I could be unsafe, even dangerous? Mayhap my purpose is as sly and avaricious as any other man who seeks land and fortune,” he said silkily.
There was no doubting the veracity in the softly spoken words. His low-pitched voice came as a gentle caress and sent an eddy of sensation curling through her stomach.
Charity felt a childish urge to strike out at this man, at the world. Until yesterday morning she had felt, if not emotionally complete, at least sanguine that at last she could cope with whatever the Lord required of her. The past and its hurts were behind her. Mystic Ridge was hers. She was confident she could guarantee her sons a secure future She knew her way forward in life.
And now this smiling devil, whom she herself had thoughtlessly brought into her own life, had come to torment her. To arouse long-forgotten or suppressed, unwanted emotions and feelings to churn uncomfortably inside her.
Irritated by her reactions, Charity savagely hacked another slice off the loaf. She forced a tight smile. “As the proverb says, I am snared with the words of mine own mouth. I’m not sure that I considered the matter thoroughly, but then I didn’t have any choice!”
He drained his cup, grimacing briefly. The empty cup was turned upside down. She offered him more bread, but he shook his head.
“Thank you, but no. I’ve already lingered too long. It’s time I was attending to the chores.” Rising to his feet, he shoved the chair back to the table and straightened. He looked at Benjamin over her head. “But that was the best cup of tea I’ve had in years.”
A frisson of alarm leapt along Charity’s spine. She recalled Isaac pouring the tea, Benjie fussing with the cups for a second. It made her go hot and cold again as she thought of it. She poured him a fresh cup.
It was as the tithing man had predicted! Without a man’s guidance the boys were headed for perdition. Her stomach curled at the idea of having to confess their misdeeds at meeting. “Do you like children?” she asked breathlessly.
Rafe Trehearne swallowed the tea before answering. He seemed cautious, as though he had invaded foreign territory and was about to face some kind of enemy.
“Used to be one myself, but since then haven’t had much to do with them.” He tilted his head to one side, and his golden-colored eyes lit with inner laughter. “Why?”
Charity firmly suppressed the little flicker of irritation that immediately assailed her. She made a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of one hand, clenching the knife she held. “You have not accused either of the boys of indulging in an untoward prank, or suffering an excess of rebellious spirit.”
“I’ll grant you that tea and salt don’t blend well, but ‘twas only a lark.