In His Eyes(48)

He considered her for a few seconds and then lowered himself into a chair next to the settee Sibby occupied without a word.

“Miss Ella…?”

She leaned near Sibby. “Yes?”

Sibby squeezed her eyes tight. “I do hurt somethin’ fierce.”

Ella patted her shoulder. “I am terribly sorry, Sibby. I wish there were something I could do to ease your pain.”

“Well….” Sibby drew a shuddering breath and then clenched her teeth.

“Well what?”

“I got some laudanum in a tin in the back of my drawer,” she whispered.

Laudanum? Where had Sibby gotten such a thing? Medicine was nigh impossible to find, most of it being used for the soldiers if they were able to get any past the lines. Ella dismissed the thought. Sibby had likely stored away all manner of remedies that belonged to her mistress. Why should she be surprised? It seemed very little of the war had tainted Belmont.

She gave Sibby’s shoulder a squeeze. “Very well. I shall bring it to you.”

Sibby turned her face back into the cushion. Ella rose and grasped her skirts. As she turned to leave, her eyes slid over the major and the odd expression on his face. Then his focus snapped to her, and their gazes locked.

Something in that moment sent a fire sparking through her middle and flying to every inch of her limbs. She backed away, terrified though somehow unable to force herself free of the intense gaze that watched her. He continued to brazenly stare at her until she whirled around, spraying droplets, and hurried from the room. And even then she could still feel the embers of his eyes following her.





Westley tapped a finger on his chin and eyed Sibby where she lay on the settee. The conversation he’d overheard near the kitchen returned to him. It seemed unlikely the hushed tones and Nat’s absence were unrelated.

He rolled his shoulders. Or perhaps he merely saw shadows where none existed. It could mean nothing that Sibby had medicines—a rare commodity, especially this far south—she may have just been able to keep some hidden. And as for Nat’s absence, they were free people and could move about as they chose. Still, the suspicion niggled.

“Sibby?”

She sniffled. “Yes, suh?”

“Where is Nat?”

The tightening of her neck and shoulder muscles gave Westley a clear indication of her stress over a simple question. He narrowed his eyes.

Sibby fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve. “He, uh, done went to fetch some flour for me.”

Westley sat back in his seat, not wanting to dub her a liar, but not believing her, either. He intended to question her further, but the babe coughed again. Westley shifted his weight and peered over the edge of the cradle. Nestled in a lovingly prepared nest, a tiny round face with rosy cheeks beneath dark little eyes stared up at him.

Who had fathered this child? And under what circumstance? He looked nothing like his mother, so he must favor his sire. Unless….

Westley leaned closer. Unless he wasn’t hers either. Shame seeped into his chest. Could it be possible that Miss Whitaker had somehow rescued the child rather than birthed him? In the heat of their argument, Sibby had said that the boy wasn’t Ella’s. Had he wrongly assumed things about her? It would certainly explain the inconsistencies.

The child wriggled a fist free from the coverings and waved it in the air at Westley. His mouth curved. “A young fighter, are you?”

He felt, rather than saw, Sibby turn eyes upon him. Still, the little human held his attention. So innocent, this babe who had not yet been tainted by a cruel world. A pity that would not last for long. Growing up in a war-torn land with only an unwed mother to care for him would soon force many unpleasant things upon the child.

The boy gurgled, making happy little noises and swinging his fist, and Westley clenched his hands. A right shame, indeed. A sudden cough ripped the happy look from the cherub’s face, making his features scrunch. As the cough subsided, the babe began to cry.

Westley frowned and peered closer at him.

“Ain’t you gonna pick him up?”

Westley glanced at Sibby, who tilted her head back to regard him.

He scratched his head. “Well, I….”

“I can’t be liftin’ him myself, so you is gonna have to do it.”

Westley regarded her a moment, her face painted in an odd emotion he could not place. She thrust her chin toward the child. Westley clenched and relaxed his fingers. It seemed there would be no other option.

He gained his feet and reached into the cradle, his hands appearing much too large and cumbersome. How to lift the boy without causing harm? Westley shifted his weight to his good leg and bent closer, trying to get an arm under the baby. The little fellow squirmed, his cries gaining intensity and causing Westley’s anxiety to spike as though he were saddling up for a skirmish.

“Just scoop him up, Major Westley. You ain’t gonna break him.”

Damaging him was precisely what Westley feared. He ground his teeth and put both hands under the child. With the tiny head cupped in his hands, he lifted the baby from the cushion. Then he stood there, paralyzed, with the infant lying on his upturned forearms. He bounced his arms gently, and the boy’s cries softened. “Here now, little fellow. There’s nothing to fear. Your mother shall return shortly.”

The soft, soothing words spoken in a gentle tone Westley didn’t know he possessed flowed from his mouth and, to his utter amazement, calmed the crying. The baby looked up at him, blinking dark eyes as though he knew he held Westley under his spell.