Love, Come to Me(5)

“Well . . .”

“Don’t even answer,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I’ll tell you one thing, Lucinda. It’s clear even to a degenerate enemy of the Union that you’re much too precious to be used as food for a few miserable little perch and bass.”

She was reasonably certain that he was teasing her, but she didn’t know how to respond. It was alarming to have a stranger treat her so familiarly and casually, as if he already knew her. No matter what he had done for her or what restraint he had exercised last night, he made her uneasy.

“I would like to go home now,” she said uncertainly.

“I know what you would like to do. Unfortunately, Lucinda, you have a fever, and I might as well stuff you back down that hole in the river as let you go out. Also, it’s impossible for either of us to go anywhere. It’s still snowing. One of your famed Northern snowstorms has decided to pay a nice long call.”

“Oh, no. I can’t stay here. I can’t!”

“Is someone going to be looking for you? Your father?”

“No, he thinks I’m still visiting with my aunt and uncle in Connecticut. He doesn’t know that I decided to come back two days early. I took the train and then tried to walk back from the depot—”

“And landed yourself in the middle of the river. Honey, don’t you have someone to look out for you?”

“My father. And my fiancé, Daniel Collier. And neither of them would like it if they knew you were calling me that . . . that name—”

“But it suits you, honey.” He emphasized the word as if to irritate her, and his blue eyes sparkled as he gave her a lazy smile. “I suppose they wouldn’t be pleased to know that you were in my bed, either.”

“They can’t find out that any of this happened. I must leave. There must be some way—”

“Do you actually think you can keep what happened yesterday a secret?”

“I have to. I’ll be in terrible trouble with Father . . . and Daniel . . . Daniel will start a terrible brawl with you!”

“Think he’d get the best of me?” Heath asked thoughtfully.

It was doubtful. But that was hardly something she would admit. “I know he would. He was a hero in the war, and he was a sharpshooter, and he has closets full of medals.”

“Oh.” He paused thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose we could try to keep all of this a secret.”

“You’re not worried about my reputation at all. You’re worried about your own hide!”

“I’m afraid so. I’ve spent the last few years trying to keep it in one piece.” Lifting up his hands and forearms, he inspected them idly, then quirked the side of his mouth at her. Hesitantly she smiled back at him, really looking at him for the first time. How different he was from the men she was accustomed to. He was handsome, but it was a different kind of handsomeness than she was used to. There was something earthy and untamed about him, a quality that was unaltered by the fact that his clothes were perfectly made and obviously expensive. He was one of the largest men she had ever met. His shoulders were broad underneath his tailored white shirt. Gray trousers made without a cuff or crease were fitted to a lean waist. Deeply muscled thighs were spread slightly as he slouched in the chair.

Flushing guiltily, Lucy darted her eyes past his thighs, the buttoned-fly front of his trousers, his chest and shoulders, back up to his face. To her dismay, he smiled at her in a way that indicated he knew that she had been looking at his body in a way that no properly raised young woman should have. At least, not so indiscreetly.

His eyes were so blue, so vivid against his burnt-in tan that they were the color of pure turquoise. There was a thin scar that slashed across his temple, almost reaching the outward corner of his eye. It disappeared into a tracing of laugh lines that deepened when he smiled. A rakish touch, that scar; it lent character to his handsomeness. Turning her face away, she shifted around on the goosefeather mattress, trying to get comfortable. Immediately Heath stood up and reached across her for the pillow on the other side of the bed. “Here, I’ll put this behind your back—”

“No, I can do it—”

“I don’t want you lifting a finger, do you hear?”

Sliding an arm behind her shoulders, he lifted her up enough to tuck the pillow in place. For a few seconds Lucy was aware of nothing but the power of his body, and how ridiculously easy it was for him to support her weight. There was an attractive scent that clung to his skin and clothes, a fragrance of cleanliness, health, and vitality. It was the nicest thing she had ever breathed. Of course, she corrected herself loyally, he didn’t smell as good as Daniel, who wore fancy cologne that came all the way from New York.

As Heath let her down and resumed his lounging in the chair, she suddenly realized what it was about him that was so different from the men up North; he was completely clean-shaven. She was used to seeing men with sideburns and beards or mustaches. A crescent mustache like Daniel’s, or a handlebar with waxed tips, a horseshoe, or the kind of neatly trimmed vedette that most of the military men wore. But there was no such refinement about this man’s appearance. The line of his jaw was almost startling in its cleanness, as were the contours of his straight mouth. She wondered for one traitorous second what it would be like to kiss a man without a tickling mustache. You should be ashamed, Lucy Caldwell! she berated herself instantly.