The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux

Jenny’s lips compressed, holding back words better unspoken, given her tendency to allow her temper full rein. Marshall was a baby, not fit yet for field work. And the son of a gentleman, to boot.

“He’s not too young to carry sacks out to us and help dump them in the wagon,” Shay told her, his words gentle, as if he sensed her thoughts. “He shouldn’t stand by and watch his mother work. He’ll learn to do his share, and probably feel better for it.”

“You haven’t the right,” she said, her words stiff with anger.

“Carl gave me the right. He asked me to come here, and part of my duty to him is to teach his son how to deal with whatever life sends his way.”

There was no rebuttal to that argument, Jenny decided, for if Shay told the truth, Carl had indeed bestowed upon him that duty. And Shay gave every indication of being a gentleman, no matter his appearance. His speech, his bearing, even the tilt of his head and the calm arrogance of his manner, gave testimony to his claim. Whoever his family, they had reared him well.

“I can’t turn down your help. I can’t afford to be proud,” she said quietly. “If Carl sent you, I’ll give you leave to do as he asked.”

Shay bowed his head, a movement she sensed signified his acknowledgment of her words. She’d accepted his help. Now to learn compliance. For six years she’d been in charge, controlled the work done on Pennington Plantation. A sense of relief washed over her as she looked at the man who’d offered—perhaps insisted—on taking that control from her.

For the life of him Shay didn’t understand how she’d talked him out of sleeping in the hayloft. Yet, here he was, in the house this morning. He stirred, then rolled over, thankful for the mattress he’d hauled from the attic by candlelight last night. It surely beat sleeping on the hard floor, and was a far cry from the burned-out house he’d slept in the past couple of days.

He rolled to his feet and listened to a rooster in the chicken yard. “At least one of us has something to crow about,” he muttered beneath his breath, pouring water from the flowered pitcher Jenny had pressed into his hands. He’d carried it, and the matching bowl up the stairs, unwillingly to be sure, but unable to deny her the right to do as she pleased in her own home. One way or another, he’d see to it that a bucket became available for his use today, and return the china to her bedroom, where it belonged.

In the meantime, he could enjoy the image floating through his mind, that of Jenny’s hand pouring water for her use. Of Jenny’s skin being cleansed by some floral scented soap. He lifted a towel to his face, inhaling the fresh aroma of sunshine clinging to its fibers. Maybe he’d settle for that, he decided. She didn’t need some fancy milled bar to make her smell good. Whatever she used to wash with reminded him of meadow grass and spring flowers.

His mouth tightened as he sensed the direction of his thoughts. Water splashed over his hair as he doused himself in the china basin, and he closed his eyes against the blue flowers that reminded him of violets and forget-me-nots. It was time to fill his belly with food and get out to the barn. The men would be waiting and he wouldn’t be deemed a laggard by anyone. Especially not three men whose cooperation he needed if he was to make any sort of a success of this venture.

They were waiting anyway, he discovered, stepping out onto the back porch. Isabelle had fed them earlier, before setting the table for Jenny and the boy. Whether he was to have eaten with the men or with Jenny, he didn’t know. But, she’d offered him coffee and a full plate once he’d made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They weren’t using the dining room these days, having turned it into a bedroom for the boy, and Jenny seemed to have taken over the smaller parlor as her own.

The furnishings in the big parlor were sparse, but comfortable, he’d noted yesterday. She’d obviously sold off most of her belongings. Probably to buy food and seed and whatever else they needed for survival.

Noah greeted him with a wave and led the way to the barn, where the mules were already harnessed and waiting. “My boys’ll rake up the hay and turn it so’s it’ll dry,” he told Shay. “You and me’ll finish the cuttin’.” Placing two scythes on the wagon, he reached for rakes, then looked over at Shay. “Unless Miss Jenny wants it done different.”

Shay shook his head. “Makes sense to me. We can’t put it up till it’s dry, and it can’t get dry till it’s cut. Let’s get at it.” He hopped on the back of the wagon, lifting one foot to the bed, and propping his arm across his knee. Noah’s sons were crossing the yard as the wagon rolled from the big, double, barn doors and they eased their way onto the lumbering vehicle, one on either side of Shay.

His greeting was met by identical nods, and he grinned. Aside from the blisters he’d managed to gain yesterday from the unfamiliar motion of the scythe, he was pretty much on a par with the three men, able to work a full day in the sun. The blisters would doubtless be a different matter by day’s end, he decided. Jenny might have some salve handy. He’d probably be ready for it.

What she had was a pair of gloves, old and worn, but welcome. Offering them to him at noon, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “I thought you might need these. I didn’t know how long it’d been since you’ve done any haying.”

“Not since last fall,” he told her, slipping the gloves in place. They rubbed against a couple of raw places on his palms and he adjusted them carefully. “This will help.”

“You’ve got blisters,” she surmised, reaching to touch his wrist. “Let me see.”

“No.” He stepped back from her, uneasy with the men watching. “I’ll let you take a look after we get done for the day.” Her nod was reluctant, but the smile appeared again.

It was still in place when he entered the house just before supper time. Isabelle stood before the cookstove and Jenny turned to greet him from the pantry door. “I’m glad you’re a few minutes early,” she said brightly. “I’ll just have time to take a look at your hands before we eat.”

Snatching up a box from the shelf behind her, she motioned at the table, and he obeyed her silent instructions, easing his weary body onto a chair. She sat close by, their knees almost touching as she reached for him.

Her skin was cool against his, her fingers slender, yet strong as she turned his hand over, then slid the glove from place. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the seeping blisters, surrounded by a reddened area, and she made a small noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You should have told me about them this morning,” she said reprovingly. “I’d have brought the salve and bandages out to the field. It wouldn’t be nearly this bad if we’d tended to it right away.”

His nape twitched as she bent to look closely at his hand, a stray lock of her hair resting against his wrist. One slender finger brushed lint from his palm and heat rose within him. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes against the demands of his body, aware of the evidence of his desire. An anguished groan rose in his throat and he swallowed it, anxious that she not hear the faint murmur escaping his lips.

“Did I hurt you?” Jenny’s voice was troubled, and she blew softly against his hand. “There’s lint stuck to your blisters from the gloves I gave you.”

Her breath was fresh, her skin dewed with perspiration, and the scent of woman rose to his nostrils. He’d endured much at the hands of the prison guards, had watched as flesh peeled from his feet in layers, been kicked and abused without cause. All of that faded into oblivion as he sank into the sweet torture of Jenny’s gentle touch.

A soft cloth wiped carefully, cleansing his palm, then washing his hand both back and front. She dried the skin and then her fingers applied salve to the damaged flesh with feathered strokes. She murmured words beneath her breath, some of them scolding, more of them grateful, as she recounted the hours he’d spent in the hayfield. At last, the soft cloth was pressed tenderly against his oozing blisters and a wide strip of bandaging was wrapped around his hand.

He inhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Her smile was teasing, her lips parted and, wonder of wonders, the woman was totally oblivious to his problem.

“You’re almost as bad as Marshall,” she said smugly. “I think all male creatures must be alike. They can cope with a broken nose easier than a blister.”

He gained his breath. “And how would you know about broken noses, Miss Jenny?” he asked. Then watched as she stripped his other glove off with care.

“Carl had a shovel fall from the barn wall once. It caught him right across the bridge of his nose, and he bled like a stuck pig.” Her hands repeated the cleaning process and he focused his thoughts on Carl’s bleeding nose.

“What did you do for him?” The salve covered his palm now and his gaze swept her profile, noting the freckles across her nose, the sweep of eyelashes against her cheek.

“It was a cold winter that year, and I made an ice pack from the horse trough.” Her hands stilled as she thought of that time, and a sad smile touched her full lips. “He wouldn’t let me pamper him.” Her eyes were bright as she blinked twice, then looked up at him.

I’d let you pamper me any day of the week. The woman was about as tempting as any female he’d ever met. No. More so, Shay decided as she rolled the remainder of her bandage, then pinned it carefully so that it would be tidy in the small box she held. Twists of paper, their contents marked with neatly printed labels filled one side. A cloth bag held an aromatic scent he could not place, though it seemed familiar. Probably herbs of one kind or another, he decided. A large tin of carbolic salve, a bottle of thick, creamy liquid and smaller bottles of camphorated oil and witch hazel made up the neat contents of her medical supplies.

“My mother used to have witch hazel,” he said. “She used it for all our bruises and cuts.” His mouth tightened, aware of Jenny’s interest, her eyes lighting at his words. Her hands paused, holding the roll of bandage suspended.

“Where did you live?”

It was a simple question, one he should have answered readily, and yet some need for anonymity clutched at his throat and he shook his head. “It’s not important.”

Her eyes dimmed, the light vanquished by his terse reply, and she bent to her task, swiftly tidying the box, then rising to replace it in the pantry. He watched, aware of the hurt he’d inflicted, and his jaw tightened. It was just as well. He was becoming too attracted to her. Attracted. What a pale word to describe the desire that even now continued to find expression beneath the covering of the oilcloth that draped across his lap.

“We’ll be eating in just a few minutes,” Jenny said brightly. “You’d might as well sit there. Isabelle is ready to dish up, I think.”

Murmuring agreeably, he glanced up to find Isabelle’s eyes fixed on his face. Her hands busy with the kettle she held, she glanced away, but not before he’d gotten the message her gimlet gaze sent flying in his direction. She was only too aware of his reaction to Jenny Pennington. And if looks could kill, Shay would be stretched out on the floor, waiting for burial.

Isabelle saw too much, Shay decided. Her next move would no doubt be to warn her friend against him. For all that she was a woman full grown, there was an air of innocence about Jenny that inspired a protective instinct in those surrounding her. Even the men in the field had watched him closely today when she’d offered the gloves for his use. Hell, he was halfway to being her champion already and he’d only known her for a couple of days. He’d protect her gladly, against any and all comers.

He’d work for her, plow his hard cash into her farm, and help her survive through another growing season. He’d stick it out until he was sure she was on her feet, safe and secure. And then what? Leave and not look back?

Not very damn likely. He’d probably be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Might as well add Jenny to the list of those he’d left behind. He had a notion she’d be haunting his dreams anyway. And then he realized something that caught him up short.

He hadn’t dreamed of the prison camp in Elmira, or of Carl’s death for the past two nights.

He’d worked, and worked hard, Jenny thought. There was no faulting the man’s ambition. And she’d gotten used to his presence here over the past weeks.

The barn was filled with the scent of hay, bits of it floating to the floor as two men worked in the loft above. Jenny covered the pail of milk she’d just coaxed from the cow and rose from the three-legged stool. Shay said there was enough hay in the loft to feed for the better part of the year. Part of the second cutting, come August, would be sold to neighbors who needed more than they raised for themselves.

For the first time in months, she felt rich. Rich with the knowledge that her animals had good pasture to feed on, that there was an abundance of hay in the loft, and there was a field of corn ready to hoe. Shay was talking about a second crop. A late planting would take them through the winter, he said, and she’d agreed, after noting Noah’s slight nod. In the meantime, the chickens were turned out to forage for themselves every morning. The pullets and young roosters were growing rapidly, and there were more hens wanting to nest, one of them determined to settle herself in the bushes near the house.

The sound of hammering caught her attention and she put the milking stool aside in haste. The man was up to something again, and it was barely past breakfast time. Sure as the world, he’d found another project to lay his hand to, and she hastened from the barn, following the noise of his labor. The remains of two old trellises lay on the back porch, Shay kneeling amid the fan-shaped designs, adding a strip of new wood. He caught sight of her and rose, watching as she walked toward him.

It made her quiver inside when he did that. Not that his perusal was intimidating or in any way worrisome. It was just that his gaze made her aware of herself. Aware of the way she walked, the way her hand dipped into her apron pocket, the way her hips swayed in rhythm with her steps. And he didn’t miss a shred of it. His lips moved just a little, the bottom one twitching a bit, and his eyes darkened, if that were possible.

She hadn’t been so studied, not ever in her life, as she had lately. Carl had paid attention to her, mostly in the bedroom, sometimes when he was feeling randy. But Shay was a different sort, more intense, more observant, and that intensity was focused on her, more often than not. As if each movement she made was unique, each word she spoke worth hearing.