In the Arms of a Hero. Beverly BartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
years ago. Never had Faith aimed such venom in his direction. Seldom had she even shown a sign of anger, and rarely had she disputed his word or challenged his opinions.
A new light shone from her blue eyes, a sharp, knowing glance aimed in his direction, as if she judged him and found him wanting. Her hair was loose around her face, soft tendrils clinging to her forehead and temples. The ends were caught up in a braid that failed to subdue the curls and waves of gold.
A golden hue almost matching the color of her horse, he noted, glancing from woman to mare. The woman who had been his, the woman he’d called his sweetheart.
“Pain is what I feel when you deny my touch, Faith. When you glare at me with distrust and hatred in your eyes.”
“You call that painful?” she asked, a subtle undertone suggesting wry humor. “You don’t know what painful is, my friend. And neither does your doting mother.”
“And you, Faith?” he asked, aware that her eyes held not a trace of softness. “Have you suffered? Or has leaving our home alleviated your pain? Were you able to leave the past behind and get on with your life?” He hadn’t meant the sarcasm to be so biting, and he sighed, wishing those final words unsaid.
And so he apologized once again. “That was uncalled for. I recognize that you’ve carried scars.”
“Really?” Her own sharp retort revealed her doubt about his sincerity. “What would you know about my scars, Max? Your main interest in life is your business and the money you’re capable of adding to your bank account.”
“Is it? Was I so bad a husband, then?”
Her brow furrowed, and he recognized the signs. Faith was cogitating, developing an answer. And, he feared, the longer she considered her words, the worse the picture she would paint of him.
“Look,” he said quickly. “Can we put this whole rehash of things on the back burner? At least long enough for me to have a cup of coffee. Maybe even a bit of breakfast?”
She swung her gaze from the horses, which had run in tandem to the far side of the pasture, to meet his again. “You haven’t eaten this morning?”
He shrugged. “I saw the sheriff as soon as I got up. The man at the hotel pointed him out to me as he was leaving the dining room there. By the time we spoke, and he had me put my signature on his ridiculous piece of paper, I knew he was pulling my leg. There was no doubt in my mind he knew exactly who you were, once I described you in detail.
“I decided to follow him, but it took me a few minutes to get a horse from the livery stable on the other end of town. Then it was a chancy thing, staying far enough behind him so he wouldn’t look around and see me dodging among the trees and taking shortcuts through the brush.”
Max lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not at my best when I’m hungry, Faith. Will you take pity?”
Her look was scornful, and her sigh told of patience at its end as she led the way to the house. “A piece of toast and a couple of eggs wouldn’t be beyond me, I suppose,” she said, climbing the steps before him.
Her slender form was garbed in heavy cotton, and yet she was as appealing as she’d ever been when dressed in silk and lace, he thought. Possibly even more so. There was a maturity about her that held his interest, a beauty gained by the years, perhaps even abetted by the struggle she’d undergone in this place. He’d admired her three years ago, and been smitten by her lovely face and figure before their marriage began. How could he help but be even more intrigued by the woman she had become since he’d last seen her?
She’d been young, twenty-two years old, with the promise of acceptance from Boston society and a husband who held her in highest esteem. And yet she’d still been not much more than a girl, hurt by circumstances that fate dealt out in a cruel fashion, and unsure of herself and her place in the world in which they lived.
She’d changed, he decided. Faith was a woman, full grown. The promise of beauty she’d worn like a shimmering shawl of elegance had become a deep-seated, golden radiance that illuminated her as if sunshine itself dwelled within. Her eyes were intelligent, the small lines at the corners adding a certain maturity to their depth.
Her hair had lightened considerably, probably from hours spent in the sun, he thought. And she was lean, her youthful curves shaped by whatever work she’d been doing into sleek, feminine contours that drew his eye to the length of her slender form.
And then she was gone from sight, entering the dim kitchen, and he hastened to follow. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the shadowed interior, and watched as she walked unerringly to the stove against the far wall. A coffeepot sat on the back burner and she pulled it forward, then lifted a skillet from where it hung amid a collection of pots and pans, all neatly arrayed against the wall.
“Two eggs?” she asked, turning to him as one hand reached for a bowl of brown eggs on the kitchen counter. A heavy cupboard adorned one wall, glass doors above displaying dishes, solid doors beneath apparently concealing foodstuffs.
“Yes, two is fine. Three would be better, but I’ll settle for what I can get.”
She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I can afford to feed you.” Her hands were deft, unwrapping and slicing a loaf of bread and placing two pieces on the oven rack. The eggs were cracked and dropped with care into the skillet, to which she had added a scoop of butter from a dish on the table.
“Do you bake your own bread?” he asked, settling in a chair, stretching his legs full length and crossing his boots at the ankle before he placed his hat on the edge of the table.
“The nearest store is close to an hour’s ride away,” she said, “and they don’t carry a selection of bread. The ladies hereabouts bake their own.”
“And the butter?” he asked. “You know how to make that, too?”
“Any fool can learn how to lift a dasher and let it fall into a churn,” she told him. “The difficult part was finding a neighbor with a cow.”
“Why didn’t you buy one of your own?” he asked idly, his gaze fixed on the neat economy of her movements as she set the table before him, turned the eggs in the pan and rescued the toasted bread from the oven.
“A little matter of money,” she said. “Mine is in short supply.”
“Where do you get your milk, then?” he asked, intrigued by her methods of survival. She’d never been so complicated a woman during their marriage.
“I told you,” she said impatiently, serving his eggs and placing the toast neatly on the edge of his plate. “I barter for what I need. There are a couple of neighbors close enough to swap milk for eggs, or garden produce. Right now, I get my milk from Lin’s cow.” She looked up quickly to meet his gaze.
“Lin is Nicholas Garvey’s wife. I taught her how to milk her cow, and since I have chickens, and she hasn’t had time to develop much of a flock yet, I provide eggs for their table.”
Max nodded, picking up his fork. The woman was downright resourceful. “And how about your staples? You know, the everyday things you need in order to put food on the table.”
“I have a big flock of laying hens,” she said. “I carry eggs to town once a week, and I do sewing and mending for folks. Then there’s my garden.”
“You raise your own food?” The eggs were good—fresh, with bright golden yolks. And the bread was finely textured and browned with a delicate touch. He spread butter on the piece he’d torn off, and tasted it. “Someone taught you well,” he announced.
“Trial and error, for the most part. Though I had a neighbor, while I was still a squatter, who shared her yeast with me.”
“A squatter?” His face froze, as if he was stunned by the term.
“Yes, a squatter. Not a pretty word, is it, but it applied to me. I lived in a cabin in the woods on property not my own.”