Counterfeit Lady (James River Trilogy 1)

Self-consciously, Nicole walked across the room to the coffeepot. It was obviously a man’s room, paneled in walnut, the bed enormous, taking up most of the room. Clay’s clothes were thrown about over chairs and tables so that she could hardly see the furniture. There were two cups by the coffeepot, and she knew without asking that Maggie had assumed they’d be sharing the drink. Pouring a cup of coffee, she took it to him where he sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt unbuttoned, as he pulled on his boot. She couldn’t help a lingering look at his chest, deep tan and thickly muscled.

“Thank you,” he said as he took the cup and watched her turn back to the coffeepot. “Still afraid of me?”

“Of course not,” she said as she poured another cup of coffee, but she didn’t look at him. “I’ve never been afraid of you.”

“I was just thinking that maybe you should be. I like your hair like that. And what’s that thing you have on? I like that, too.”

Turning, she gave him a radiant smile. Her hair hung down her back to her waist. “It’s a nightgown,” she said, thinking that she was glad she hadn’t covered it with a robe. The high-necked, sleeveless bodice was made of cream-colored Brussels lace, and the thin silk that fell away from the high waist was almost transparent.

“I’m late this morning. Here.” He held out his cup and saucer to her in a commanding way.

She took it from him, still smiling, but she didn’t move away as he pulled on the other boot. “How did you get that scar by your eye?”

He started to say something, but as he looked at her he stopped, his eyes twinkling, his mouth soft, unlike its usual grimness. “A bayonet wound during the Revolution.”

“For some reason, I get the feeling you’re laughing at me.”

He leaned closer to her. “Never in my life would I laugh at a beautiful woman standing by my bed wearing only her nightgown,” he said, running one finger across her top lip. “Now put that down,” he said, nodding to the cup and saucer she held, “and get out of here.”

Smiling, she obeyed him, but stopped when she had her hand on the door that connected her bedroom to his.

“Nicole.”

She froze.

“I have a couple of hours of work to do, then I eat at about nine in the kitchen.”

A nod was her answer as, without turning, she went into her own room and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. He had said her name and said she was beautiful. Laughing at herself for being a silly schoolgirl, after hurriedly dressing in a simple, sturdy gown of brown calico, she left the bedroom to go downstairs.

All morning, Nicole searched for the twins. She’d expected to find them still asleep, but their beds were empty. She asked people on the plantation, but everywhere she got only shrugs, and no one seemed to know where the children were.

At seven-thirty, she went to the kitchen, made crêpe batter, and set it aside to allow the flour to absorb the milk. Afterward, she spent another hour searching before, quite frustrated, she returned to the kitchen. She made crêpes while Maggie peeled and sliced peaches that were so ripe and juicy they fell apart in her hands. Nicole generously splashed the peaches with almond liqueur that was made on the plantation and wrapped the peaches in the thin, delicate crêpes, drizzled them with honey, and added a dollop of whipped cream.

When Clay appeared in the kitchen, Maggie and her three helpers left, mysteriously finding other work they had to do. Nicole set the plate of peaches and crêpes before him, and he got one bite before she asked the question she’d repeated at least twenty times that morning.

“Where are the twins?” When she saw Clayton calmly continue chewing and his shoulders begin to lift in a shrug, she got angry. Pointing the fork she held at him, her voice raised. “Clayton Armstrong! If you dare tell me you don’t know where they are, I’ll…I’ll—”

Looking up at her across the corner of the table, his mouth full, he took the fork out of her hand. “They’re around somewhere. They usually come in when they’re hungry.”

“You mean they have no supervision? They’re just allowed to run free? What if they were hurt? No one would even know where to look for them.”

“I know most of their hiding places. What is this? I’ve never had anything like this. Did you make it?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “But what about their schooling?”

Clay was giving his full attention to the plate of food in front of him and didn’t bother answering her.

Snarling and muttering something in French under her breath, Nicole grabbed the plate of crêpes from under his nose and held it aloft—over the slop bucket kept for the pigs’ food. “I want your attention and some answers. I’m tired of getting no answers.”

Clay bounded over the edge of the table and threw his arm around her waist, her back to his chest. When his grip had forced all the air from her lungs and she was helpless, he grabbed the plate of crêpes and set it safely on the table. “You shouldn’t interfere with a man’s food.” He was teasing, but he didn’t release her. Only when he felt her body start to go limp did he allow her any air. “Nicole!” he demanded, and turned her around in his arms. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He held her close to him, but lightly, as he listened to the return of her normal breathing.

Nicole leaned against him, hoping he would never release her.

Turning her gently, he helped her sit down. “You’re probably hungry. Here, eat some of this,” he said, putting a second plate of peaches and crêpes in front of her before retrieving his own.

Nicole sighed heavily, and she caught a teasing look from Clay, as if he could read her thoughts.

After breakfast, Clay told Nicole to follow him. He stopped in the shade of a cedar tree by the servants’ quarters where a very old man sat whittling slowly. “Jonathan, where are the twins?”