Leslie LaFoy (24 page)

LAIRE STOOD AT THE
top of the servants' stairs and surveyed the dimly lit attic. Even in the poor light she could see that it was filled to the rafters with a haphazard maze of discarded furniture, paintings, rolled-up rugs, and stacks and stacks of crates and barrels containing God only knew what. Judging just by the sheer volume of it all, it looked as though enough had been discarded through the years to fully furnish another house the size of Rosewind.

To put things out of use simply because you'd gotten something newer and more fashionable… it was a testament to a degree of wealth she couldn't even begin to comprehend. There were only four small trunks in the attic of Crossbridge Manor: one that had been her mother's, one for each of her brothers, one that had been her father's. Each containing the physical proof that they had once existed, each item in them an anchor that kept her memories from drifting away with time.

She smiled wryly as she made her way into the
labyrinth. Did the Rivards even know what was up here? Did any of it hold memories for them? Could anyone lay their hands on the top of the stout maple bureau as she was doing and tell her where it had come from, why it was purchased, where it had been put in the house, who had used it? Could they remember how the little white ring had come to mar its top? Could they recall the things that had once decorated the top of it? The articles that had filled its drawers? It had been four years since she'd been forced to leave Crossbridge, and yet, on dark nights, she could close her eyes and in her mind wander through each of its rooms and see everything, remember everything. The settle in front of the fire in the main room, her father's books piled on the seat, his pipe and tobacco jar on the candle table that always sat at its end. The wheeled chair that was kept in the farthest corner of the room, draped with a pretty cloth, as invisible as she could make it.

Claire shook her head to dispel her somber mood. Despite the tiny white ring in its top, the bureau would match the other pieces in the second guest room and help fill its echoing emptiness. Thinking to make the piece lighter and easier to move, she bent to remove the drawers. The lowest one of the three was filled with neatly folded coverlets and bed linens. She removed each article carefully, breathing deep the scent of lavender and marveling at the richness of the fabrics as she set them aside. Velvets and damasks and satins, the softest wools and the smoothest linens—proof of not only great wealth, but also of exquisite taste and an appreciation for comfort. Opening the other drawers, she found more of the same and added them to the soft mound she was building to the side.

The drawers came out of the chest only with squeaking protests, and as she stacked them to the other side, she couldn't help but marvel at the craftsmanship that had gone into the construction of the whole piece. Time
hadn't weakened the joints one bit, hadn't loosened the perfect fit of its components. She glanced over at the stored bedding she'd removed, realizing that, unlike everything in the lower levels of the house, they were clean. No dust had risen as she'd handled them. Just the light and lovely scent of lavender.

It would be so much simpler, not to mention faster, to make up the guest rooms with these items rather than to launder, dry, and iron what she and Meg had removed. There was so much other work that had to be done, and time was short. She knelt in front of the pile and carefully considered what was there, then began arranging items together in a way that pleased her eye. Bedskirts and canopies were all that she was missing. Claire glanced around, knowing they had to be there somewhere and trying to guess in which chest, bureau, crate, or barrel she'd be most likely to find them. Looking would be time well spent, she decided, gaining her feet. She smiled. It would be a treasure hunt in the name of practicality. It was odd how life gave you pleasure in the most unexpected ways and at the most unexpected times.

D
EVON QUIETLY POKED
his head inside the bedroom door and saw only Meg. He left her to her window cleaning and moved on, checking each room as he made his way down the hall. Lord Almighty, it had been a busy morning in the upstairs of Rosewind Manor. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen it all turned so upside down and shoveled out. All the beds had been stripped down to the ropes. The windows and floors were just as bare. And precisely where the bedding, curtains, and rugs had gone was as much a mystery to him as where Claire had hidden herself.

No, he corrected as he paused at the end of the hall and looked back the length of it; he knew where the rugs
were. Poor Ephram had them hung over a metal bar at the side of the carriage house and was beating both them and himself into exhaustion. The dust cloud had been so thick that Ephram had been made not only almost white by it, but decidedly surly. A rest had helped his attitude a bit, but not nearly as much as the swigs of bourbon they'd shared for “medicinal and fortitudinal purposes.”

He had promised to come help Ephram with the rugs as soon as he got Claire back into a skirt and his mother and Aunt Elsbeth placated, but he was answered only with rolling eyes and a disparaging snort. Devon wasn't sure which part Ephram considered an impossibility, and he hadn't asked. He'd had a sinking feeling even then that both were going to end up being severe tests of his patience.

A noise from somewhere overhead interrupted his gloomy thoughts, and he stepped back to look up the stairs leading to the attic. The noise came again: wood scraping against wood. With the whereabouts of everyone else in the house accounted for, it could only be Claire. He muttered a curse, took a deep breath, and climbed the steps.

He stopped at the top, instantly noting the disassembled bureau and the piles of bedding that had been spread out around it. Claire wasn't anywhere in sight, but he knew that she had to be somewhere amidst the relics of his family history. He looked over it all with some dismay—he hadn't been up to the attic in years. Somewhere in the heap was the oaken cradle that had held the last four generations of Rivard babies. But just the legitimate Rivards, he corrected himself ruefully. Given his grandfather's, father's, and Wyndom's proclivities, there were undoubtedly rafts of aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews he knew nothing about. And there were probably brothers other than Ephram and Wyndom, too. Maybe even a sister or two.

He smiled wanly. Or three or four or more. The Rivard men had never been known for either self-restraint or accepting responsibility for the consequences of their actions.

He'd always thought it had to be something inherited, some trait that, like the color of eyes and hair, was passed down from father to son and led the Rivard men to throw good judgment to the wind at the mere sight of curving hips, long legs, and a comely face. He'd spent twenty-six years smugly convinced that he'd escaped that one bit of ugly inheritance.

But he hadn't, he silently admitted as Claire stepped from between two large pieces of furniture, her arms laden. Sweet God Almighty, he hadn't escaped it at all. What was it about her curves, her legs, her face that had an impact on him no other woman had ever been able to achieve? What was it about her that stirred the Rivard in him so damn deeply?

God, he had to get this confrontation over and done so he could get a safe distance away from her. Just looking at her heated his blood, made his heart pound, and turned his brain to pudding. “Claire.”

She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes widening and her step faltering for a second. “Oh, hello,” she said, recovering enough to turn away and put the armload of what looked to be netting atop the bureau. “Were you able to bring Hannah back with you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Vobe was very understanding,” he supplied, ambling toward her so that they could speak quietly enough to keep their exchange private. “Hannah's bustling in the kitchen already. I'll take you down to meet her when you have a moment. She wants to discuss her ideas for the menus with you.”

“Someone who doesn't need me to think for them,” she said with a dry chuckle. “I could weep with gratitude. Not that Meg's a trial,” she hastily added, glancing over her shoulder at him. “It's just that she doesn't know
where things are any more than I do. Or, for that matter, your mother and Aunt Elsbeth.”

“Speaking of whom,” he began, remembering why he'd come up here in the first place.

“Have they recovered from their vapors yet?” she asked, turning to face him squarely.

“I don't think they ever will.”

“I'm sorry to have so offended their sensibilities,” she offered, leaning back against the bureau and crossing her arms over her midriff. “But there's so much work to be done, and knowing how much more practical my breeches are for moving about quickly…” She shrugged one small shoulder. “Well, I decided that sensibility was the most important virtue today.”

The linen of her shirt was light and through it he could see that she hadn't bound her breasts. Round and full and firm… As virtues went, his better ones were taking a beating. Devon forced himself to swallow, to think of something other than the temptation so casually, so innocently standing in front of him. “I can appreciate being able to move freely,” he conceded. “But what if the Lee brothers come through the door earlier than anticipated?”

“They'd be exhibiting very poor manners indeed,” she instantly countered. “Guests never arrive before the time the hostess expects them. Never. It's just not done.”

“Claire, you cannot run around in breeches,” he declared, as exasperated with himself as he was with her. “Yes, I'll agree that they're probably a great deal more practical than skirts, but women simply do not wear men's clothes. To do so is absolutely scandalous. I can't and won't permit it.”

She studied the floor at his feet, her lips pursed and her brow furrowed. Devon watched her, waiting. The last time they'd dealt with the subject of her mannish clothes, she'd been vehement about her right to wear them. Such calm now didn't bode well.

“How is your hand feeling?” she asked quietly and without looking up.

He flexed it, feeling only the slightest tightness in the healing skin. “Much better, thank you.”

Her gaze slowly rose to meet his. Calmly, easily, she asked, “Is it well enough to do battle?”

God help them both if he had to wrestle her to the floor. “You'd lose, Claire,” he warned, his pulse racing.

“So you would like to think,” she retorted with a confident smile. Unfolding her arms, she pushed away from the bureau to stand squarely on her feet and add, “One of the most interesting aspects of being male is the notion that all of you should be able to defend yourselves. Traveling can be a most boring enterprise at times, and trading pugilistic techniques seems to be a fairly standard way for men to pass the time.”

Devon watched in amazement as she carefully widened her stance, brought her arms up, and fisted her hands in front of her face. He didn't know who had taught her that this was an effective means of fighting, but it was clearly someone who had never had to do it. Her balance was all right, but she was too stiff, her pose too committed to the protection of her face; it left the rest of her body vulnerable to a well-aimed blow. And to a man not as bound to formal, fair play as she was.

“I am ready when you are, sir.”

“You can't be serious,” he cajoled, easing around to her right.

“I am,” she replied sternly as she predictably adjusted her position to remain square to him.

She was so small, so naively fierce, so delectably curved. He lifted his hands, palms outward. “I don't want to hurt you, Claire.”

“Then surrender the point.”

“I can't do that.”

Her chin came up a notch and resolve brightened
her beautiful eyes. “Then you have no other course but to defend it, sir.”

“Claire…” He saw the blow coming from a mile away. He grinned, silently giving her credit for pluck even as he easily caught her fist in his hand. As he expected, she instantly shifted her stance and tried to free herself from his grasp. He went with her effort, stepping forward to wrap his arm around her waist while he neatly swept her feet out from under her and drove her back and down.