The Wedding Bargain

“It is time for some refreshment. You must be thirsty after such heavy labor. I have some fresh-made lemonade. Would you like that?” She was talking to fill in the gap, feeling as timid as a young maid.

Rafe had a short length of an oak log set up on a sawhorse of crossed stakes and was squaring it with the blade of his ax. The ax was so sharp that when he took the bit in his hands and pushed it against the wood, long, even shavings curled up as though he were using a drawknife.

He looked around at her, and his golden eyes seemed to take in at one glance everything about her, from her freshly ironed coif to the shoes on her feet.

“Lemonade?” The question was gentle, as if he understood what she really wanted to say.

Looking into his gleaming eyes was a task now, and after one glance, she wrenched her gaze away. She couldn’t meet those all-knowing eyes. She wasn’t ready. She’d never been ready for this…this invasion, this presence, this devil on the hunt for her inner self.

Only her body resisted her mind. Charity knew her figure hardly showed to advantage in the high-necked, longsleeved, drab gown, but the movement of her breathing made the fabric emphasize the shape of her full breasts. It was as if he had touched her there.

To make matters worse, her disturbed senses were responding, her breasts straining against their covering. She stole a glance to see if he’d noticed. He hadn’t. He’d resumed shaping the oak log.

“Do you want some?” she asked, nettled by his silence.

“Leave it. I’ll have some by and by.” He kept on thrusting the edge of his ax against the oak, producing the long, curling, pleasant-smelling shavings.

“If I do that, Betsy Ann is like to tip over the jug and spill it all,” Charity told him with considerable relish. “Raccoons are mischievous animals at the best of times, and we have pampered and spoiled Betsy Ann. Now the naughty creature thinks she can do what she likes. And not do what she doesn’t fancy,” she added tartly, thinking of how the pet raccoon had chewed through her tether this morning, brandished her striped tail in defiance and disappeared into the shrubbery.

Rafe straightened and eyed her coldly. Lines cut deeply into a face carved from chalk, the lips a chiseled slash. Just standing there, he gave the impression of controlled strength and energy. This was belied by his face, which was drawn and pale, the ragged scar adding a further dimension to the lines already etched into his features. He lifted his ax and tried the edge with his thumb.

“A ‘coon doesn’t like to be tied, any more than does a man.” He turned over the oak block and began squaring the other side.

Charity paled slightly at the implication inherent in the bondman’s words. She drew a breath, caught her lower lip in her teeth.

“I’m sorry.” She filled a horn beaker with the cool liquid. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your circumstances.”

For a long moment he looked at her, a searching scrutiny that was centered on her face and more especially her eyes. Charity refused to meet them, refused any hint of an answer to the question in them. She was still conscious of the ax in his left hand; it hung loosely, its blade resting on the tip of his boot.

Without a word, Rafe took the beaker in his right hand and swallowed the contents in one long gulp. The sleeves of his homespun shirt, rolled up to the elbow, revealed both the power of his forearms and the sensual shimmer of hair glistening with perspiration.

Charity took a deep breath. This man wasn’t going to harm her. She had to stop acting so anxious around him. She replaced the beaker in the basket. The silence grew unbearable and she had to speak. “You are bleeding again. Let me see.”

Rafe raised his dark eyebrows but held the palm of his right hand toward her, and Charity bit back the sudden wild longing to bend her head and press her lips into it.

“It’ll heal soon enough.” His voice rasped over her head.

She realized that her senses were full of the man. His bulk. His dark hair, carelessly tied back in a queue. His shirt with its damp masculine scent. His big, capable hand, resting on hers. The heat of the brief contact shot through her.

She lifted her right arm, and her fingers touched the contour of his scar, tracing it. She began hesitantly, searching for words to excuse her unusual behaviour. “It’s just that yesterday…”

“Ah, yesterday. I wondered when we would come to that!” He laid aside the ax.

Now that her uneasiness had dissipated, there was another kind of tension building. She couldn’t be near Rafe without feeling it. For some reason, this revelation gave her the courage to continue.

“Rafe…” It was the first time she had used his name, and she felt a shiver pass through him. His glance dropped to her mouth. She knew he was just as aware of her as she was of him. “It’s difficult for me to explain, but yesterday something happened that…”

The flawless blue sky suddenly tilted on its axis, twisting into a sea of green, as Charity was spun around like a top. Her upper arms felt as though they were in a vise. She winced as pain shot from her elbows to her shoulders.

“What are you saying, woman? What happened between us?” Rafe’s teeth almost snapped together as he spat out the words, his eyes narrowed to an amber gleam. Christ! He knew something had happened!