Now she faced another disaster in her life, but this time she was lying to herself that there wouldn’t be an ending. She was a Frenchwoman, and Frenchwomen were noted for their practicality, but she was behaving like some silly, romantic child.
She had to face the fact that she’d fallen in love with Clayton Armstrong. She didn’t know when it had happened, maybe in that first meeting when he had kissed her. All she knew now was that her thoughts and emotions, her very life, had begun to pivot around the man. She knew she wanted to provoke his anger so he’d hold her in his arms, and she wanted to parade in front of him in a thin little nightgown.
Pulling her knees up and putting her forehead on them, she felt like a woman of the streets because of the way she acted, but she knew she would do anything to have him touch her, hold her.
But what did he think of her? She was not his Bianca, as he’d called her that night on the ship. In a short time he would rid himself of her, and when she walked away she might never see him again.
She had to prepare herself for the end. These past few days had been wonderful, but they had to stop. She’d loved her parents a great deal, but they’d been taken from her, and later she’d transferred her love to her grandfather, and again she’d been left alone. Each time she’d given her whole heart, and when it had been torn out of her she’d wanted to die. She couldn’t let it happen again. She couldn’t let herself love Clayton so completely that she couldn’t bear seeing him finally with the woman he loved.
Glancing up at the dark windows of the house, she saw a red glow that could only be the tip of Clay’s cigar. He knew she was down here, knew she was thinking of him. She knew she could get herself into his bed if she wanted, but she wanted more than a night with him, as sweet as it would be. She wanted his love, she wanted him to say her name the same way he had said Bianca’s.
Standing, she walked back to the house. The upstairs landing was empty, but the smell of cigar smoke was strong.
Chapter 6
NICOLE LOOKED OVER THE TOP OF THE BOOK SHE WAS holding to watch Clayton walk toward the house. She saw that his shirt was torn, his trousers and boots muddy. When he glanced her way, she looked back at her book, as if she hadn’t seen him.
She and the twins were sitting under one of the magnolia trees at the southwest corner of the family garden. In the three weeks since the night she’d sat alone by the pool, she’d spent a great deal of time with the children—and very little with Clay. Sometimes she could have cried when he had asked her to join him for dinner or breakfast and she had pleaded fatigue or someone who needed her help. After a while, he’d stopped asking. He began to eat more meals in the kitchen, with Maggie for company, and sometimes he didn’t come back to the house at night but slept in the quarters with his men—or women, for all Nicole knew.
Janie was still very busy in the loom house getting ready for winter, and Nicole spent several afternoons with her friend, who never asked questions like Maggie did.
Inside the house, Clay stood for a long time at the upstairs hall window looking out at the garden and at Nicole sitting with the children. He didn’t understand her sudden coldness to him, why she’d changed from a laughing, friendly woman to one who was always tired, always working.
Striding across the floor of his bedroom to a tall chest, he removed his torn, muddy shirt and carelessly tossed it across a chair. The drawer he opened was full of clean, ironed shirts, and as he went to grab one he paused and looked around him. For the first time since his brother had died, his room was clean. His dirty clothes were taken away and returned clean and mended.
As he thrust his arms into the shirt, he went to Nicole’s room. It also sparkled with cleanliness and sunshine. An enormous bowl of flowers stood on top of the bow-front che
st, and a small vase of three red roses was on the little table by her bed. The embroidery frame held a half-finished piece of work. He touched the bright silk threads.
She’d been in his house less than a month, but already the changes were enormous. Last night, Alex and Mandy had shown him proudly how they could write their names. The food served on the plantation had always been good, if plain, but under Nicole’s supervision new dishes had been added daily.
Clay had always thought he didn’t care one way or the other what his house was like—only the fields interested him—but now he suddenly realized he liked the smell of beeswax, and seeing the twins clean and cared for. The only piece missing was Nicole’s company, the way she laughed and made him laugh.
On his way down the stairs, he stopped and wondered how she’d been able to get the help to clean the house. Everyone on the plantation had a job, and as far as he knew about it, no one had neglected his or hers. It dawned on him that Nicole had done the scrubbing herself. No wonder she was always tired!
Smiling, he took an apple from a bowl on a table in the hall. She probably thought she was repaying him for those damned dresses he had bought her. First he went to the kitchen and told Maggie to find a couple of girls to help Nicole in the house, and then he went out to the garden.
“School’s out,” he said as he took Nicole’s book away from her, and the twins were gone before either of the adults could blink an eye.
“Why did you do that? It isn’t time to stop yet.”
“They need a holiday. Or at least you do.”
She backed away from him. “Please, I have a lot to do.”
Clay frowned at her. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like you’re afraid of me?”
“I’m not. It’s just that there’s so much to do on a place this size.”
“Are you trying to tell me I should get back to work?”
“No, of course not. I just—”
“Since you don’t seem capable of finishing a sentence, then let me. You work too hard. You act as if you’re one of the slaves, except that I don’t work them as hard as you work yourself.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her forward. “Maggie’s packing us a picnic lunch, and you and I are going to spend the rest of the day in idle pursuits. Can you ride a horse?”
“Yes, but—”
“You aren’t allowed to say no, so it’s better to be quiet.”