“We’ve not been able to housebreak her yet,” the captain said gravely. “You’ll find napkins in the locker over by the window. I’ll set Crank to heating her some milk. Um…welcome to Powers Point, Miz Littlefield.”
Back in his office, Matt tried and failed to concentrate on the shipping news that had come out on the same boat as the two women. He gave it up, tilted back his chair, clasped his arms behind his head and gazed out the window, to where Venus gleamed like a diamond in a bed of purple velvet.
Bess’s Mrs. Littlefield was something of a surprise. He didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe another pouter pigeon like Bess, short, bosomy and bossy. The woman didn’t have a lot to say for herself, which was all to the good. Bess could talk the hind legs off a jackass.
She wasn’t much to look at except for her eyes. Funny color, he mused. Still, they were steady. The kind of eyes that looked directly back at a man.
Matt was admittedly no expert when it came to women. Having been deserted by one and made a fool of by another, he was unable to form any but the most fleeting commercial relationship with any woman. Since moving to Powers Point, he had done without even that brief convenience.
Which reminded him that he was going to have to tackle Bess about the Magruder female. Bess had described her as down on her luck, plain, but sound of limb and meek of disposition. He should’ve held out for reliable, but by the time he’d given in, he’d been so damned desperate he wouldn’t have cared if she howled at the moon as long as she took good care of Annie.
So far, she hadn’t even bothered to show up.
Flexing his shoulders to ease the tension that always seemed to collect there, he settled back in his chair and picked up the shipping reports again.
By the end of the first week, one thing was plain. Bess knew nothing about babies and had no interest in learning. Commandeering his mule and cart, she spent every day in the village collecting stories of early island lore, all the way back, as she informed the table at large, to the first English settlers and the Hattorask Indians who’d been there to meet them.
“Hell, I could’ve told you that,” Matt said. “Pass the biscuits. Please,” he added as an afterthought.
“Don’t swear,” Bess said primly, as if she couldn’t cut loose like a stevedore when it suited her purpose. “Mrs. Littlefield don’t like it.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Matt muttered. Rising abruptly, he begged to be excused and stalked out. “Damned house’s too small,” he grumbled to Peg, who’d chosen to eat with Crank in the kitchen instead of in the seldom-used dining room.
The two old men glanced up, then went back to their fried oysters. Matt stood in the open back door for a long time, letting the chilly air flow past him into the warm kitchen.
Ignoring him, the other men picked up their desultory conversation. “Don’t talk much, do she?” Crank observed. He speared another oyster off the platter.
“Good with the young’un, though,” the carpenter said after he’d split another biscuit and drowned it in molasses.
“Aye, she is that.”
“Peculiar eyes. Seen a cat once with eyes like that.” Peg loosened the rope at his waist that held up his canvas trousers.
“Yeller, I’d call ’em, wouldn’t you, Cap’n?”
Matt flexed his shoulders, but didn’t reply. He was tired of hearing about Mrs. Littlefield. Bess sang her praises enough, without his men jumping on the bandwagon.
“I’ll be riding south in the morning,” he announced abruptly.
The two old men went on eating. When Matt stepped off the back porch and strode down to the three-plank wharf where the shadboat was tied up, Crank grinned. Peg shook his head. “All I can say is, that wife o’ his better hightail it on down here. Last time the boy had that look about him, he went and sold his ship.”
Chapter Four
Much to her amazement, Rose couldn’t remember a time in her life when she had felt so utterly content, not even in the early months of her marriage, before she had learned that she was no more than a means to an end.
Against all her expectations she found herself in the ideal situation of having a baby without having to deal with a husband. No matter how she tried to protect her heart, there was no way she could keep from loving Annie. Her own baby, if she’d lived, would have smacked her lips the same way, would have gazed up at her with the same innocent look—would have fit the curve of her arms the same way. The men obviously doted on her, but they were just as obviously relieved not to have the responsibility.
As for Bess, she spent most of each day in the village, returning in the late afternoon with any mail that had come in on the boat and whatever supplies had been ordered, along with pages of notes to be woven into a series of articles. If anyone thought it strange that her secretary took no part in the process, they didn’t bother to mention it.
Luther, still shy, but increasingly friendly, showed her a sheltered place high up on a wooded ridge overlooking the sound where she could sit for hours, gazing out over the water. From a safe distance, the Pamlico Sound looked remarkably benign. The sunsets in particular were spectacular, each color faithfully reflected in the waters below. So far she’d counted several wildflowers she had never before seen and almost as many birds.
Annie loved it, too. Crank had fashioned a carrying basket with sturdy rope handles and padded it with a pillow. With the weather growing warmer each day, Rose had delved into her steamer trunk to find her old summer gowns, most dating from before her marriage. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d been in mourning forever, first for her parents, then for her baby, and even now for her grandmother. But black was not only depressing, it was hot, and here on the Outer Banks the ordinary conventions seemed irrelevant.
Wearing an old blue muslin that was snug across the bosom and loose at the waist, she settled herself on the bench Peg had built and Luther had carried up to what she thought of as her private garden. She’d been warned against snakes, sunburn, sandspurs and prickly pear cactus. Bess had mentioned ticks, and Rose watched diligently to see that no insect, large or small, crawled into the basket.
Adjusting a light spread over Annie’s basket, she unfastened another button at the neck of her gown. “Annie, my sweet, I could get used to this life of indolence, couldn’t you?”
Annie kicked and gurgled in agreement.
As was too often the case when she had nothing better to occupy her mind, Rose thought about Matthew Powers. After three weeks, she still didn’t know quite what to make of the man, but at least she was no longer intimidated by his size. In fact, she rather enjoyed the novelty of looking up to a man. It made her feel…well, hardly delicate, but still, it was a pleasant feeling.
She had learned at an early age that men couldn’t abide tall women. Even her father, once she’d grown a full two inches above his respectable height of five and a half feet, had avoided standing beside her whenever possible. She had understood intuitively, but it had hurt, all the same.
Matthew avoided her, too, but it had nothing to do with her height, or even her lack of looks. According to Bess, he simply didn’t care for women. Which suited her just fine, as she wasn’t overly fond of men. Once this trial period was over, if she decided to go through with the marriage, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about the marriage act.
She hated it. It was painful, demeaning and embarrassing. A friend had once confided that she enjoyed it every bit as much as her husband did, and Rose had thought she must be lying. When, a year into her own marriage, Rose had learned that Robert kept a mistress, she’d been relieved rather than angry, thinking that he might leave her alone.
He hadn’t. Especially when he’d been drinking, in which case he would grab her with no warning at all, shove her down on the