Ruth Langan - Dulcie's Gift

Still…

She’d called him Papa. And in her sleep she’d kissed him. A natural enough mistake. But his reaction to that kiss had been totally unexpected, and not at all paternal. Fool. With a hiss of anger he tossed the towel aside and strode naked to his bed. But sleep was a long time coming. As he tossed and turned, he could feel the press of her lips against his throat. And was forced to admit to himself the humiliation of his sudden, shocking arousal.

Dulcie slipped from bed and crossed to the window. A spectacular sunrise was just visible on the horizon, and the land spread out below was still gilded with dew. She caught her breath at the sight of a herd of deer on a distant hill-side. A cow was lowing nearby, and the birds had begun their morning symphony.

The newly plowed fields, a deep rich black, were divided by rows of gangling palmetto trees. Their fronds waved in the gentle breeze. An occasional live oak, dripping with Spanish moss, spread its branches in a graceful arc.

She had just discovered heaven. After the battle-scarred countryside she had left behind, this peaceful pastoral setting brought tears to her eyes.

Her prayers had been answered a hundredfold. And now she must find a way to remain in this Eden. Hadn’t Papa always said that any fool could seize opportunity, but it took a wise man to create opportunity where none existed? She would have to get busy creating.

Dulcie turned away from the window, and for the first time noticed that her clothes were now washed and draped over a chair. Her chemise and petticoats were as clean as the day they’d been made. Her gown, though shabby, had been carefully pressed. Beside it were her old scuffed kid slippers, polished to a high shine.

She made her way to a basin of water that stood atop a low chest of drawers. Beside it was a cake of lavender soap and a soft linen towel. With a little smile of delight she set about washing herself.

Bless the Jermains, she thought. For all their stern posturing, they were being most kind. Now if only she could persuade them to be charitable, as well.

“She’s lying.” Cal’s voice was rough with anger. In the thin light of morning he joined his aunt and brothers around the elegant dining-room table and filled his plate with corn bread, eggs and slabs of roasted pork.

“And the children?” Aunt Bessie whispered. “How do you explain their answers?”

“They’re all lying.”

“People have been caught unawares by storms before,” Barc said logically.

“True—if the storm comes up unexpectedly. But this one gave plenty of warning. The skies over Charleston were black for days.”

“So why do you think they took to the boat?”

“They’re on the run. They refuse to talk about Charleston. Or the war. Most refugees are eager to talk about the people they lost, the homes, the belongings. I suspect something…”

“Something illegal perhaps?” Barc asked.

“Miss Trenton seems like a fine Southern lady,” Aunt Bessie protested.

“And a fine Southern lady can do no wrong?” Cal gave a hollow laugh. “Look around you, Aunt Bessie. The war has made something less of all of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Barc said with a sneer. “I rather like what I’ve become.”

“You would. How much did you lose on your last trip to Charleston?” his older brother snapped.

“Enough to assure me an invitation to their next round of poker.”

“I’m sure Nellie Simpson is thrilled at your patronage of her sporting house.” Cal’s features tightened.

“I only go for the games of chance,” Barc insisted.

“I’ve heard a man gambles every time he samples Nellie’s women,” Dar put in.

At the young man’s remark, Aunt Bessie’s eyes flashed fire. “I’ll not have such talk in my home, Darwin.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” Chastised, he lifted his cup to his lips and fixed his gaze on the spotless lace tablecloth.

“As for you, Barclay.” The older woman turned her full wrath on the smiling charmer who was her middle nephew. “How can you stand to visit Charleston and see what General Sherman has done to that lovely city? It’s—”

“We were talking about the women and children.” Cal refused to allow her to dwell on her favorite source of irritation.

“Yes. Of course. Now, Calhoun,” Aunt Bessie continued as though she’d never been sidetracked, “I don’t see how we can turn them away.”

“I’m not suggesting we turn them out in the cold.” Cal sampled the corn bread and thought again how he’d missed such simple pleasures when he’d been away at war. So many things had been taken for granted until they were gone. A bed. Dry clothes. Corn bread warm from the oven. “At least not now,” he added. “But as soon as the injured are well enough to travel, I want them returned to Charleston.” The sooner the better, he thought, and felt a little flush of displeasure at the image that had come, unbidden, to mind. The image of a body pressed to his, lips buried against his throat, lashes whispering across his heated skin. Abruptly he lost his appetite and shoved aside his plate.

“You will see to them, won’t you, Calhoun?” His aunt placed a hand over his.

At once she felt him pull back.

He had been this way since his return from the battlefield. Cold. Withdrawn. As though he could prove that he needed no sympathy for his loss. No comfort for his pain.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, at the pleading look in her eyes.

“I’ll be happy to take them back to Charleston when they’re ready,” Barc said with a smile.

“It will give you an excuse to try your hand at the cards again,” Dar muttered.

“How soon do you think they can travel?” Aunt Bessie asked.

Cal shrugged. “A week or so, I should think. The child doesn’t seem as badly hurt as the woman.”

He stood, eager to keep his promise to his aunt so he could escape to the fields. His impatience wasn’t lost on the others. Ever since their return from the war, each brother had taken refuge in his own way. The reclusive Dar had his precious books. Outgoing Barc had his whiskey and gambling. And Cal, angry and embittered, lost himself in the mind-numbing, physical demands of farming.

“Is there some potion or poultice Robert could prepare?” Aunt Bessie asked.

Cal shook his head. “There isn’t any medicine that will erase a blow to the head.”

“Well, I know you’ll do the best you can,” his aunt said solemnly.

Cal was already striding from the room and up the stairs.

As he entered the Irishwoman’s room, he nearly collided with Dulcie. Instinctively his hand shot out to steady her.

The rush of feelings was the same. He felt the heat first and then the tiny current that seemed to pass from her to him and back again. He released her at once and took a step back.

It was obvious that her crimson satin gown had once been considered the height of fashion. Now one sleeve was torn, and the cuffs were frayed beyond repair.

Over her gown she had tied a simple white apron, which only served to emphasize her tiny waist.

But it was her face that held his gaze. Scrubbed clean of mud, her skin was flawless and as pale as alabaster. Burnished dark hair, brushed until it gleamed, fell in silky waves to below her waist. The striking green eyes were wide with surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I promised my aunt I would look to our injured guests.” He emphasized the word “guests” as he moved past Dulcie.

She stood with hands on hips, looking as if she would block his entrance. “Why?”

“I know a little about healing.” He sat on the edge of the bed and touched a hand to Fiona’s head, then gently lifted each eyelid, frowning as he studied her pupils.