The cook swooped in, glanced at the table, her unblinking eyes focused on the girls. “You haven’t taken any of the Master’s food, have ye? The wolves are howling in the daytime. Wouldn’t take too long to find ye tied to the whipping post.”
Juliet tensed. Orpha’s round-bellied, lick-spittle cook kept a tight grip on the food supplies and reported if any were missing.
“The mistress wants you to warm water for her bath,” Juliet said to divert the cook’s attention from the missing fare.
Juliet patted her pocket with the food for Eldon. The poor boy’s ribs stuck out like slats on a corncrib. How long would he last from the hard work, lack of nourishment and Orpha’s floggings?
She lifted her chin, picked up the basket. “I’ll collect the eggs.”
Juliet cut a new path through deep snow. A rooster called out, lazy with the late morning light. She swung open the door to the coop. Her nose twitched with the dust motes flying through the air. The hens clucked and scolded as she reached beneath them to get their eggs, fanning their feathers out from the indignity.
Light filtered between the planks, giving a church-like glow and a momentary sanctuary to crawl into the despondency burrowing into her soul.
She felt like she’d swallowed yeast, and whatever loneliness was festering inside had doubled in size. Oh, to be loved by someone without being judged and thought inferior. That would truly be heaven. Living in the middle of the wilderness prevented her from meeting anyone of worth. Spinsterhood loomed with the near decade she must serve for her indenture. She sighed, viewing the glory of the sun with a vacant eye.
“I don’t need someone perfect. I just need someone to make me feel I’m the only one,” Juliet whispered to the chickens, hoping her mother and Moira in Heaven had heard her plea. Her hand closed around the precious golden cross Moira had saved for her from her mother’s jewelry case. To be seen by someone and be loved, bordered on the miraculous.
A shadow crossed over her. Juliet swung around and dropped her basket. Eggs cracked. A tall, lean man stood shadowed in the doorway. Embarrassed, Juliet flinched, tearing her finger across a jagged wood shard. She pressed her hands to her cheeks.
He leaned a long thin rifle against the wall and took a step toward her. Juliet winced and examined her throbbing finger. The man muttered something and grabbed her hand. She tugged, a useless activity since he refused to release her.
He crouched and reached into his deer hide bag. Juliet stared down at her hand in his. A tiny rivulet of blood seeped out from the narrow slice, winding around her finger and onto his like a slender ribbon linking them together. Remarkable that such large, work-callused hands could feel so warm and gentle without losing their sense of strength. She gazed at his bent head, so near she could smell the scent of leather, wood smoke and winter air. So near her breath stirred his dark hair. So near she could press her lips to his brow without stirring much at all.
He smeared a poultice and wrapped her finger with a dried leaf. His face was caught in the gloom. Was he an Indian? He stood again, towered over her. She was tall for a woman and annoyingly she had to tilt her head back. The sun coming through the slats illuminated his face. Her breath caught in her throat.
He was devilishly handsome, with dark brown hair falling just beneath his broad snow-covered shoulders. His visage of classic Greek perfection possessed a distinct patrician nose, a wide full-lipped mouth, and a face, stark with chiseled angles that spoke strength—and intimidating power. My God, if he wasn’t dressed in a deerskin shirt and leggings, he might pass for an English lord!
“You must bandage your injury with a fresh cloth.” He smiled broadly, his clean white teeth lighting up his smile.
Her blood rushed. “The eggs,” she said, heat rising to her cheeks as she kneeled to pick up the ones that were not broken. “Mistress will be angry.” She cast her gaze to the whipping post.
He frowned. “Don’t worry about Orpha. I’ll tell her the chickens don’t lay well in the shorter days. She believes everything I tell her.”
He took her hand, lifted her to her feet and wiped the blood from her cheek with his forefinger. Like two souls caught in an artist’s frieze they studied one another. His eyes were blue, dark as lapis, like the pools among the marshes, drawing the beholder down into their depths.
He removed her cap and she gasped. Herabominablehair fell down her back. He reached out and took one of her curls in his hand, holding it as if it were a precious ruby.
“From watching you, I never would have guessed.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“I’m careful before stepping from the woods. I’m fierce to keep my scalp.”
She remembered herself, swatted his hand away and reached for her cap. No doubt he thought her the spawn of Satan with such red hair, and an easy conquest. “Tis improper to touch my hair.”
“Tis beautiful.” The deep resonance of his firm rough-hewn voice reverberated through her like a lingering caress.
“Beautiful?”
He pulled a knife from his belt. Juliet froze. Was he going to kill her for her red hair?
The knife whizzed past her ear, sailing end over end and pitched into the darkness behind. She spun around just as a dark striped-headed creature squealed its last breath.
“A badger. Cornered like that, the animal would tear apart your leg or worse. A badger will kill all the chickens, merely for the fun of killing.”
His wide shoulders brushed past her. He yanked up his knife and threw the carcass outside. Then, knife still in his hand, he turned to look at her. “Sometimes there are men like that. You must constantly be aware.”
Juliet did a quick intake of breath. Was he talking of himself?
