Chasing the Sunset(6)

“What is it, Kathleen? Haven’t I told you a thousand times not to bother me while I am doing the books?” he shouted impatiently, hastily looking for somewhere to put the soiled handkerchief before Kathleen saw it and scolded. When no one opened the door, he gave up the hunt and threw open the heavy door with a dark scowl on his face, expecting Kathleen to be standing there bristling over his rough tone, ready to backhand him if he got any more out of line. A slight figure jumped out of the way with a startled squeak.

“May I help you with something?” he asked more gently, his black brows drawing together.

“I was told you need a cook and housekeeper,” the woman said quietly. “Ned sent me. I am Maggie Reynolds.”

Nick felt instant regret for his harshness; he could see her hands trembling as she held her brown shawl together in front of her. Her hands were thin, with long fingers, and he could tell even from here that they were chapped from hard work and rough use. She was taller than most women of his acquaintance, the top of her head reaching his chin. She was dressed in a high-necked, long sleeved, brown cotton dress that clearly had seen better days. Her lank brown hair was scraped ruthlessly into a bun at the back of her head, but wisps had escaped to frame her gaunt face.

She had the face of a shy elf, with a tiny, upturned nose, huge green eyes fringed with thick black lashes, a pointy chin and high cheekbones. She was achingly thin; she looked as if a high wind would blow her away, and still for all that, she was one of the most striking women he had ever seen. Nick felt a quick attraction that left him feeling as if he had been punched in the gut.

He forced the feeling down and studied her with unease. This woman looked to be one step away from starvation. The work here on the farm was hard and constant; he was not sure she was up to the job. She was also much younger than he had supposed. She did not look to be much above eighteen, and she was disturbingly attractive. With the exception of Ned and fourteen- year- old Tommy, who both lived in rooms above the stables, nobody else lived in on the farm. They all preferred to go home to their families at night. This girl was obviously nervous just standing in the same room with him. He regarded her dubiously.

“Hello," he said warmly, trying out his most charming smile. "I am sorry to be so rude. I am in the middle of doing my accounts, and that always makes me beastly,” He took a step forward and she instantly took a step back, her pale skin going even paler. He frowned. “I thought Ned said that he was coming with you.”

“He was,” she said softly. “But that chestnut mare has an inflamed hock and he needed to look in on her, and . . . and I decided to come on over without him.” Her pointy little chin rose

up a notch.

She swallowed visibly, and her eyes darted to him when he moved infinitesimally. He began to feel it was a cruelty even to stand here with her.

“Will you sit down?” he asked gently, indicating the chair in front of his desk. He backed away from her slowly, feeling a wave of unwelcome pity, opened the door to its widest point and then realized he was still clutching his ink-stained handkerchief. He sat down behind the heavy desk and dropped the soiled handkerchief onto the cluttered top of the handsome oak furniture.

She perched on the edge of her chair like a bird ready to fly away.

“Have you ever held this type of position before?”

Some strong emotion flickered across her face, much too quickly for Nick to get a grasp on it.

“No,” she said. Her voice was pleasantly husky and melodic. A soothing voice, he thought. “But I as much as ran our household from the time I was a child." She smiled a luminous smile that made Nick catch his breath. "My mother was an artist, and she often forgot about mundane things like food and laundry. I have been cooking, cleaning, and instructing others in their household tasks for all of my life."

"An artist," Nick said, intrigued. He had never heard of a woman who was an artist. Of course, his cousin Joanne was always telling him that women were able to do most anything that a man could. "What kind of artist?"

"Family portraits, mostly. Her father was an artist, too, and many of his patrons began to come to her after his death. She built a good reputation and had a small following. She was well thought of, and she took commissions as far away as Boston. "

Nick hesitated. "Miss Reynolds,” he began gently. "I am not sure that you are . . .”

But she interrupted the beginning of his polite speech to decline her services. "Mrs. Reynolds," she said, her voice firm despite the trembling of her chin. "I am a widow. And, of course, I also ran my household for my husband for the three years of our marriage."

Nick was taken aback. A widow! Involuntarily, he glanced down at her left hand to look for the ring. The glint of gold on her finger reassured him. This did change things. His neighbors would not accept a young, unmarried girl living in his household, but a widow was a horse of a different color. Mentally, he upped the age that he had given her in his head. If she had been married for three years, she must be older than he imagined.

“I am sorry about your husband,” Nick told her. "How did he die, if I may ask?"

“A tragic accident,” she said, and something in her voice made him glance up sharply. Her fine green eyes were filled with soul-deep despair. Nick felt his heart skip a beat and caught his breath in empathy, then her thick black lashes swept down to hide her expression. When she looked back up, her face was carefully blank. He wondered if he had only imagined the depth of emotion that made her eyes seem a bottomless well of swirling dark water. And if all of that turmoil of spirit had been there in her eyes and not his imagination, what had taught her to hide all that feeling behind a mask?

Maggie was shaken to her very soul. She was finding it very hard to look away from Nicholas Revelle. When Uncle Ned had told her about the job, she had not pictured this man at all. He was easily the most handsome man she had seen in her life. If her mother had been alive to see him, she would have been instantly motivated to paint his portrait.

His features looked as if they were carved for a sculpture by a master craftsman. The lines of his straight nose and firm jaw were perfect, and his cheekbones jutted high and proud in his dark face. He had eyes so dark they appeared black in this light, and his lashes as thick as paintbrushes. His mouth was long and perfectly shaped and Maggie wondered for an instant what his lips would feel like against hers and was shaken by a soul-deep sensual desire to run her hands through the rumpled black silk of his hair. Her thoughts and the compulsion scared her nearly into panic; she had had no desire to touch any man since her disastrous marriage. She studied him with wide eyes, because it was not only his face that so compelled her.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his crisp white shirt emphasizing his dark tan. He was wearing tight black breeches and the most disreputable riding boots she had ever seen. She stared at him, at his broad shoulders, at the powerful muscles in his biceps, his muscular thighs and narrow hips. This was a man who obviously worked in the out of doors a great deal, and he did not fit her preconceived notions of him at all. She had expected an effete dandy who let others do all the work while he kept all the profit.

This is a mistake, she thought in panic. I cannot stay here. She could hear him speaking, and mentally shook herself. Pay attention! she hissed silently. She could feel sweat dripping down from the high neck of her dress to pool between her breasts. She forced herself to concentrate.

“You would live in, of course. Kathleen Donaldson, a young woman from a neighboring farm, comes by days to help with the heavy work and anything else you need, but the bulk of the housework would be yours. You would be responsible for stocking any household items that we need and I would provide you a budget which we would go over monthly, altering as we both see fit. You would have to cook three meals a day for me and two others and a noontime meal for a staff of twelve.”

He grinned, unexpectedly, showing white, even teeth, and Maggie felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach. “If you could provide cakes and pies, that would be a bonus. I have a terrible sweet tooth, and I have a stableboy who is growing so fast he is about to eat me out of house and home, and I am sure he would appreciate it, too. Occasionally I have dinner guests and you would have to prepare a larger meal in the evening.” She nodded firmly. That was no problem. “Now about salary . . . “ He mentioned a sum that made her gasp. He looked at her quizzically. “If it is not enough, I could go a little higher, but not very much.”

“No!” she said quickly. “No, that is fine.”

“Let me show you where you will stay.”

He moved to take her arm without thinking and she jerked from his grasp so quickly that he found himself stumbling.

“Sorry,” she stammered. “You startled me, that is all.”

“Excuse me,” he said politely, and Maggie flushed when she saw compassion in his steady gaze. She mentally berated and called herself coward. Could she not even bear the feel of a man’s hand on her arm for mere moments?