Love, Come to Me(8)

Lucy looked up at him quickly, her mouth full. In just a fraction of a second his mood had changed. Although his question was casual, the interest in his eyes was not, and the new realization made it difficult for her to swallow. There were several ways in which he could make this entire situation very difficult. She just hoped that he wasn’t the type to take advantage. “I had to apologize to someone,” she said shortly.

“Daniel Collier?”

“Yes. I had an argument with him, and then I left to stay with some relatives in Connecticut without making up to him.” How strange. After thinking about him for days without end, she had actually forgotten about Daniel for the last hour or two. “I just had to tell him I was sorry for arguing with him, and I couldn’t wait.”

“It takes two to argue. Why don’t you wait for him to apologize first?”

“Oh, but it’s only fair that I apologize first. I’ve always been the one to start the arguments. Ever since we were children.”

“Oh. I should have guessed that,” Heath said, grinning at her. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t take long for him to forgive you for just about anything. Not if you put those big eyes of yours to good use.”

“It takes a few days,” Lucy said gravely. “He’s a very serious man. Things mean a lot to him. But after we talk and I tell him I’m sorry, and we come to an understanding, I know he’s forgiven me when he reaches over and takes my hand, and I know that in a day or two he’ll have forgotten all about—”

“Takes your hand?” He seemed to be amazed. “That kind of making up is hardly worth the trouble of getting into an argument. What exactly is it that you two fight about?”

“That’s none of your business,” Lucy said, affronted by his criticism of her relationship with Daniel. “If you’d ever met Daniel, you would understand what an honorable man he is. He’s quiet and thoughtful, and that means he cares far more deeply than someone who is loud and brags about his own feelings!”

“Yes, yes. I know . . . still waters run deep. Tell me, are you planning on getting married soon?”

“Yes. Soon. We haven’t set the date yet, but we’ve been engaged for three years, and we both agree that it’s time for—”

“Three years? You’ve been engaged since the war ended?”

“You don’t have to repeat everything I say!”

“Incredible,” Heath muttered. “I’ll say one thing. You Northerners are a different breed, all right. Don’t know which is worse, him wanting to wait that long or you being willing to wait.”

“We’re waiting until Daniel has enough money to buy a nice house and support a family. He doesn’t like to leave things up to chance. He wants the best for me.”

“He’s not afraid some other man will come along and take you for himself?”

“No man could.” Her voice rang with sincerity. “No one could ever take me from Daniel.”

“I’m sure both you and he believe that . . . but the odds don’t look good on it, not when you’ve been dragging it out for three—”

“I’m finished with this soup,” Lucy said sharply, handing the tray to him. “You may take it now.”

He closed his mouth and took the tray from her, his eyes brimming with quiet laughter. Just before he left the room, he glanced at her and winked, and Lucy realized ruefully that he had been enjoying himself immensely at her expense, teasing her and laughing at her stiff-backed pride.

The next day Lucy looked outside the window and found to her relief that the day was clear and bright.

“Mornin’.”

She spun around and then smiled at Heath. He was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes traveling over her until they reached her slim ankles and bare feet. Then he threw her a dark, irritated look, and she made the discovery that he was handsome even when he was scowling.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Hell’s afire, what are you doing out of bed with nothing on your feet?”

She scampered back to the bed, hunting for the wool socks and yanking them on hurriedly. “There’s no need to use such language with me.”

“Are you trying to make yourself sick?”

She smiled at him, ignoring his testy mood. “I’m not going to get sick. I’m perfectly healthy, and I’m going home tomorrow. Just look outside.”

“So that’s why you’re so happy. Can’t wait to go back and apologize to your fiancé. How does humble pie taste, Lucinda . . . sweet or tart?”

“A big slice of it wouldn’t hurt you any.”

Reluctantly he grinned back at her. “Probably wouldn’t.”

“And a nice, long bath,” Lucy continued hopefully, “wouldn’t hurt me any.”

“Probably right about that, too.” He got her a fresh shirt and handed it to her, conspicuously careful not to brush her fingers with his.

“Just think,” Lucy said brightly. “Tomorrow night you won’t have to sleep in the parlor again. You’ll have your bedroom back.”

“But I don’t mind you sleeping in my bedroom.”

After giving him a reproving glance, she turned away from his innocent smile and left the room. Heath went downstairs to build the fires up and make sure that the rooms were extra warm, while Lucy luxuriated in the bathtub, vigorously plying the cake of soap on her skin and hair. When she appeared in the parlor, pink and flushed and damp, he spared her not even a cursory glance, as he became preoccupied with bundling her in a chair by the fire and weighting her down with quilts. The room was filled with light and a curious sense of companionship. Lucy separated the tangles in her hair with her fingers and then ran a comb through the drying chestnut tresses while Heath pored over a stack of tattered newspapers.