The Rebel Wife Read online

  She gripped the edge of the bench, using it as leverage to drag her lips away. Something sharp jabbed her finger. She flinched but remained silent. Better a splinter than a broken heart.

  “What’s wrong, Kitty?”

  She brushed the back of her hand over her lips, trying to scrub away the last trace of his kiss. She feared it was a taste she’d never forget. “You don’t want to do that, Jack.”

  “Why not?”

  He was the grandson of a rich and powerful man—lived in a world where she, the daughter of a poor overseer, didn’t belong. Besides, if he knew what Bart had done to her, she doubted he’d want to kiss her, much less allow her to stay in his granddaddy’s dignified home.

  He took her hand in his. “You can’t deny it, Kitty. I can see it in your eyes. You want me as much as I want you.”

  “You shouldn’t want me. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “Look at me.”

  She moored her gaze on the pearl buttons parading down his crisp, linen shirt. If she got another glimpse of those tantalizing lips, she’d be lost.

  “Look at me, Kitty.”

  His tender plea dug into her resolve. She lifted her head, making sure her gaze avoided his mouth. A wiser choice, but not by much. So much fire burned in his one eye, she’d worry if he had both.

  He plucked a rose petal from her hair. “I know exactly who you are. You’re strong and fiercely loyal. You know what you want, and you’re not afraid to go after it, no matter what the consequences.”

  He was oh-so-wrong about her not being afraid. She had a mile long yellow streak when it came to him. “Jack, don’t do this.”

  “I’ve tried, but I just can’t fight it any longer.” He leaned toward her as if to kiss her again.

  She pressed trembling fingers to his lips to stop him. “Don’t. Please. Our trip to Elmira will be difficult enough. We don’t need the added strain of foolish emotions.”

  “Foolish...” His expression hardened. “You still don’t trust me, do you? After all we’ve been through.”

  “Jack—”

  “Fine. I won’t push my attentions on you again. Ever.”

  ****

  The stomp of boot heels trailed her into the parlor. She slowed as Jack brushed past her and headed for the sideboard. Little good their stroll did. He was just as puckered now as he had been before they’d gone outside. Maybe more.

  “Mister P had to go upstairs, Miss Carleton,” the housekeeper said from the other side of the room. “Said he’d be back shortly for your game.”

  “Thank you, Sally.”

  “How was your stroll?”

  “The stroll was lovely.” It was when they stopped strolling that the trouble started. “Beautiful evening. The rose garden—”

  “Badly needs pruning.” Jack snatched up the brandy decanter from the sideboard. “Seems to have gone to hell like a number of things around here. Old man too cheap to hire a gardener, I guess.”

  “Here now.” Sally planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t you go disrespectin’ your grandfather that a’way, Master Jack.”

  “Just pointing out the obvious.”

  “Maybe you ought t’ be pointin’ your attention inward.”

  “And maybe I ought not to have come here at all.”

  “Hmmmph. Sounds like some folks could use somethin’ to cool down a mite. I’ll go make up some lemonade.”

  He yanked out the stopper and poured a generous dose into a glass. “I need something with more bite to it than lemonade.”

  Louisa shook her head. Sally was right. He needed to cool down. Maybe some time alone would help. “Sally, I need your help with something. I’ll just come along with you to the kitchen.”

  She followed the housekeeper down the hallway and into a brightly lit chamber. Copper pots and baskets dangled from a rack suspended over a work-roughened table bearing knife marks and stains, but scrubbed clean. A black cast iron stove sat in one corner of the room, a pine hutch the other. It reminded her of Spivey Point and the happier times she’d spent cooking with Belle. But the Porter kitchen did little to cheer her now.

  “What was it you needed, Miss Carleton?”

  She held up her bloodied hand. “I cut my finger. Will you bandage it for me?”

  “’Course I will. Pull that chair up to the table and have a seat. We’ll see to it.”

  She scooted the ladder-back chair across the floor and sat while Sally gathered a basin of water, clean cloths, and a small basket. A sweet smelling pie cooling in the center of the table had her mouth watering. “That pie sure smells good. Apple, isn’t it?”

  “Yes’m. Master Jack’s favorite. He’d eat the whole tin by hisself if I let him.”

  “It’s my favorite, too. Add a dollop of cream on top...mmm-mmm.”

  “Got a crock in the cellar. We’ll have pie and cream after your checker game.” Sally set her supplies on the table, then turned up the lantern wick. “Let’s see that finger.”

  She extended her hand, and Sally dabbed at the dried blood with a wet cloth. Her dark hands were gentle, yet firm, just as Belle’s had been during the many doctorings she’d performed on her wayward charge. Her heart twisted. How was Belle faring? Were her new employers treating her kindly? She gripped the edge of the seat with her other hand. One day, they’d all be back together, her and Jeb and Lance and Belle. She’d see that happen, or die trying.

  “Are you treated well here, Sally?”

  “Better than most, I s’pose. Mister P’s more bark than bite.” Her brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field. “Why you askin’?”

  “Jack arranged for a friend of mine to come and work here once he’s well enough. I just want to make sure Jeb won’t be mistreated. He’s no longer a slave, and I’d like to see him stay that way.”

  “Well enough? Is he ill?”

  “He was shot while trying to help me get to my brother.” She swallowed around the lump that had sprouted in her throat. “He’s recovering at the Yankee prison hospital in Point Lookout.”

  Sally gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll see to it your Jeb is looked after.”

  “Thank you, Sally. That means a lot.” She released her grip on the chair seat. Until she could come back for him, Jeb would have a comfortable home with good, caring people. It was one less worry to plague her thoughts.

  The housekeeper stilled her wiping. Her frown deepened. “Looks like there might be a small sliver of somethin’ just ’neath the skin. How’d you pick up a splinter? You was s’posed to be walkin’.”

  “The bench. In the quad.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Jack suggested we sit and enjoy the bay breeze. I was sitting there...” Hanging on for dear life as he leaned in, big and close and strong, to kiss me. Heat rushed into her face. “I must’ve slid my hand across the wood.”

  Sally, shrewd as an old fox, studied her for a moment, apparently considering the truthfulness of this account. She gave the finger a squeeze, and a hiss of pain escaped Louisa’s lips.

  The housekeeper glanced up. “Hurts you, does it?”

  The splinter she could handle. What hurt was the pained look on Jack’s face and knowing she’d caused it. Knowing she had no choice. Tears stung her eyes. “A little.”

  Sally fished around in her basket, setting out bandaging, a needle, and a small pair of forceps. She clamped down on Louisa’s hand. “Here we go. Hold still while I work out that splinter.”

  Poker hot pain seared her finger at Sally’s probing, and she clenched her teeth to keep from yelping. It was one thing to be doing the doctoring, quite another being doctored on.

  “Somethin’ gettin’ under your skin can cause all sorts of grief,” Sally muttered while working.

  You can say that again. There wasn’t a pair of forceps large enough to pry Jack from under her skin.

  Sally cut her a sly glance. “Best to get it out in the open where it can heal.”

  Clever. Very clever. But
she had no desire to talk about her feelings for Jack. It would only remind her of what she couldn’t have. She took the wisest course and kept her mouth shuttered.

  Sally released her hand. “There, splinter’s out.”

  Finally. She flexed her fingers, working out the soreness. “Feels better already.”

  “Good. We’ll put some salve on it, and it should mend just fine.”

  “Salve? What kind? Seems like my nanny had a concoction for every type of injury imaginable.”

  “I have a batch of chickweed mixed with rosemary oil and a bit of comfrey. Eases the pain and helps with the healing.” She gathered up the basin. “Look in my basket and take out the jar marked chickweed while I dump this.”

  Louisa slid the basket closer and eyed the multi-colored jars nestled inside. Tarnation. Why couldn’t the woman just ask for green or blue? Colors she could handle. She shifted the jars until the labels faced up. As always, the letters bunched and twisted. She squinted and tried to make sense of the words.

  “Hard to read my chicken scratchin’s, ain’t it?” The housekeeper wiped her hands on a drying cloth. “It’s the blue one.”

  Cheeks flaming, she hauled the blue jar from the basket and set it on the table. Nothing was more frustrating and embarrassing than not being able to read. “Where’d you learn about medicines?” she asked, steering the conversation to a safer topic.

  “I worked for a doctor before hirin’ on with Mister P. Helped with his patients along with doin’ the cookin’ and cleanin’.” She dabbed salve on Louisa’s finger. “Good thing I learned such things. Master Jack got into more scrapes as a young-un. I remember one time he cut his foot on a piece of broken glass. Took eight stitches. Poor fella was green for days after that.”

  Glass had sliced his foot back then. Today, she’d cut him. Had him thinking she still didn’t trust him, because she was too spineless to tell him the truth.

  “He’s lucky to have you,” she managed past the guilty lump in her throat.

  “Somethin’ more than this little bitty cut has you upset. You want to tell ol’ Sally ’bout it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  “You shouldn’t let things fester. Not wounds of the body nor the soul. No good ever comes of it.”

  The familiar words tugged at her heartstrings. Belle had said the same thing while trying to coax her to talk about Bart Lawrence. Hadn’t done any good back then. Wouldn’t work now either.

  Strained male voices carried from the hallway. She glanced at the open doorway, her heart near to breaking at the thought of Jack in distress.

  “Is it Master Jack what has you upset?”

  Drat. She’d best take better care with her emotions, else she faced more pointed, personal questions. “He’s part of it.”

  “Don’t take his crustiness to heart. He comes by it honest. Let him be for a bit. He’ll be smilin’ agin by mornin’.” Sally tore off a strip of bandaging and wrapped it around the now seeping wound. “He’s a good boy, Jack is.” She laughed softly as she tied off a knot. “Good man, I reckon I should say. Hard to think of him that way sometimes, ’specially when he gets that mischievous look on his face.”

  She knew the look. That captivating boyish gleam that had sparked in his eye when Socks tossed her on her backside. The look that made her stomach do odd little flips.

  “I can still picture him clear as sunlight the day he left for college,” Sally added. “He was so proud and cock-sure of hisself. Gonna take on the world, that boy was.”

  Just like the young men in Richmond on enlistment day. All fired-up and ready to march off to war. To save the world. Or at least their little portion of it.

  Sally wagged her head as she gathered up her medical supplies. “I remember the last time he left here. He was gonna take on the world then, too, only it weren’t so good a time round here.”

  “When was that?”

  “When Master Jack took his job writin’ ’bout the War. Mister P won’t at all happy about it. They had a terrible row afore Master Jack—” She cut off with a frown.

  Uh-uh. You’re not clamming up now. “Is that what has them quarrelling? Jack’s newspaper job?”

  “It’s not mine to say. Done said too much now, and I doubt either of them gentlemen would ’preciate it.” She reached out and patted Louisa’s cheek. “You’re just too sweet and easy to talk to. I can see why Master Jack brung you here.”

  “He brung...uh...brought me here because I needed a place to stay.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Jack’s just helping me find my brother. I’m sure he’d be as kindly to anyone in need.”

  “Uh-huh. Kind ain’t but half of it, if I know that boy at all.”

  “I admit we’ve become friends...” She let her words die off. That sounded feeble even to her own ears, and if that raised gray eyebrow was any indication, Sally wasn’t fooled either.

  Before the housekeeper could question her further, Louisa swung the conversation back around. “It’s a shame about those two. Jack and Mr. Porter, I mean. Such a waste of time being angry. If my granddaddy were alive, I’d want to spend every possible moment with him.”

  “Oh they spends time together. Every now and agin, Master Jack comes round an’ stays for a day or so. I swear it’s just so they can sit and stare daggers at each other. Men. Hmmph. Makes you wonder what the good Lord had in mind.”

  A dull thud sounded, like the shutting of a door deep in the house. Time for her to face the music.

  Louisa rose to her feet. “I ought to be getting back to the parlor. Don’t want to keep Mr. Porter waiting. Thank you for doctoring my finger.”

  “Just like Master Jack, I’m always glad to help a person in need. Enjoy your game, miss.” She grinned, her smile wide and bright against her rich coffee-colored skin. “But you watch Mister P...he cheats.”

  Chapter Ten

  Fool. What had possessed him to take his anger out on Kitty? She had trust issues. He knew that. A few days in his company wasn’t going to allay her fears, no matter what trials they’d overcome together. She needed time to learn to trust him. Why was it he could control his emotions around everyone except those closest to him? He shifted in the desk chair, seeking a more comfortable position for his rear and his conscience. He’d make it up to her—somehow.

  He returned his focus to his journal and the notes he’d penned earlier. Lawrence vendetta against the Carleton’s. Why? When? Who involved? Still on-going? What of their father’s death? Was it questionable as Kitty believes?

  He tapped the pen against his lip, thinking, then jotted another notation. Any connection to the Lawrence involved in shady dealings at Fort Delaware and Camp Douglas? He had a hunch there was. The more he learned about the Carleton situation, the more certain he was his article about federal prisons was about to turn into a full-blown unveiling of government corruption.

  The soft pad of footsteps echoed in the hall, then a familiar gowned figure filled the doorway. His blood heated as it always did at the sight of her.

  Kitty entered the study, toting a tray. “I thought you might like some tea and pie. It’s apple. Your favorite, so Sally says.”

  She was all the sweetness he needed. He wanted to tell her but held the words on his tongue. Such a confession would only send her scurrying for the door.

  He closed his journal and stood. “Apple is my favorite. But you didn’t have to bring it to me.”

  “It’s no problem. When you didn’t come back to the parlor, I offered to carry some dessert to you.”

  “Sally could’ve brought it.”

  Her chuckle skimmed in pleasant waves over his skin. “She was busy riding herd on your granddaddy. He tried to light a cigar in her parlor, and she chased him into the garden.”

  “I see you figured that one out.”

  “Figured what out?”

  “Who rules the roost around here.”

  “Oh...yes.” She placed the tray on the desktop. “Those
two are quite an interesting pair.”

  “That they are.” He glanced at her hand and spied a bandage wrapped around her middle finger. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  She crooked her swaddled finger and gave a wry smile. “Just a little scrape. Wish I could use it as an excuse for my poor checker playing.”

  “You didn’t fare so well against Grandfather?”

  “He won all three matches.” One corner of her lovely mouth wilted. “Papa would be shamed. I’m normally pretty good at checkers.”

  “Odd. Grandfather usually lets his opponents win at least one game before he starts cheating.” He’d engaged in enough matches with the old fox to know.

  “I didn’t notice any plucking going on. But then again, I was having a hard time concentrating.”

  “Oh?” Was she thinking about him? His thoughts certainly centered on her.

  She tipped the pot and poured tea into a cup. “Is your granddaddy a lawyer by any chance?”

  “No. He runs a shipping firm. Why?”

  “Man asks more questions than a magistrate. Figured he had to be a lawyer or something.”

  “Inquisitive was he?”

  “If by that you mean he poked his nose where it didn’t belong, then yes, he was inquisitive. He thinks I forced you into helping me. As if I can control what you do or don’t do.” She lifted the sugar bowl lid. “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Neither, thank you. I’m sorry you were subjected to his cross-examination. He doesn’t trust my judgment. Never has. Tries to run my life, and usually causes more problems than he solves.”

  “Well, he wants to keep me away from you and your money. I got that warning, loud and clear.”

  “Now that’s a laugh.” Her expression fell, and he held up his hand. “Not you. The money. I don’t have any. I’m poor as a church mouse. At least until I get this prison article written and submitted.”

  She glanced around the room at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined with hundreds of leather-bound books. One lacy eyebrow lifted. “Poor as a church mouse, huh?”

  “I don’t own any of this.” He gave a cynical grunt. “Or the money to have such luxuries. Old man cut off my allowance as soon as I accepted a job with The Herald.”