But as soon as they entered the kitchen and Martha turned from a pot at the stove, all his discomfort vanished. The concern scrunching her brow immediately straightened his shoulders, surging new life through his veins. She cared about him, that much was certain, and he relished the feeling.
Which was probably a mistake.
“Mr. Baggett!” She rushed over to him, tipping his head to peer at the cut on his jaw. “Ye’ve been through a real wringer.”
“Morning to you too, Martha.” Kit smirked as she worked to remove little Bella’s bonnet.
Martha whirled on her. “What’s in that head o’ yers, Kit Forge, to be draggin’ this poor man about when he needs tending?”
Kit tipped her head in defiance, a look he’d seen Jackson suffer many a time. “Don’t blame me for his condition. And besides, I brought him to the right place, didn’t I?”
“I s’pose I can’t fault ye fer that.” Martha huffed then turned to the two oldest girls kneading dough at the big table. “Harriet, fetch a basin of warm water and a few rags. Alice, I’ll be needin’ me sewing kit.” Swinging about, she tugged him from the room. “This way, Mr. Baggett. The light’s better near the front window should I need to be doin’ some needlework on ye.”
“There hasn’t been any fresh blood for a while, so I doubt I’ll need stitches.” His heart, now? That could use some lashing down as her fingers entwined with his, palm to palm, skin to skin.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She eked out a bench with her foot, close to the large, mullioned glass. “Sit ye down and tell me what happened.”
“Just chasing a ruffian, that’s all. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He sank onto the wood and pulled off his hat, raining down a snowfall of dust and ash. Quickly he swiped the mess off the tabletop. “Sorry.”
“Hsst! Once I open those doors there’ll be more than a smidgen o’ dust a’decoratin’ these slabs. Jane needs to sweep in here anyway.”
The two older girls entered. Harriet, the picture of her mother, carried a porcelain basin, and Alice, two steps ahead of her, set down the sewing kit without a word. She was a shy redhead, a contradiction to the fire atop her head and to her feisty mother.
As soon as Harriet safely delivered the large bowl, Martha nodded at them both. “Thank ye, girls. Help Mrs. Forge settle Bella in, aye?”
“Yes, Mum,” Alice said as she turned on her heel, dashing off in an unladylike fashion.
Harriet lingered, her lips twitching like she had something to say but couldn’t quite figure out what. Of all Martha’s children, she distrusted him the most, and rightfully so. She’d seen and remembered best the heavy hand her father had used against her mother—against her. It was only natural she employed caution around men.
Martha glanced at her. “Yes, child?”
“I…em…should I not stay here with you and help tend to Mr. Baggett? Ye ought not be alone with a man.” Her cheeks pinked but she held her ground.
“Thank ye, but I can manage, girl. Off with ye, now. See that Mrs. Forge takes a bite to eat, and set aside a crust o’ bread and cheese fer Mr. Baggett.”
The girl dipped her head, but just before she turned away, Charles caught the challenge in her eyes as she gazed at him. He hid a smile. She’d make a fine mother herself some day with her protective ways.
Martha sighed as she reached for a cloth. “That girl. Don’t take no offense from ’er. She nurses a general distrust of men.”
“Well, then.” He smiled. “I shall have to win her over, show her that not all men are angry brutes.”
“If anyone can do so, Mr. Baggett, it’d be ye.” She wrung out the cloth then closed in on him. “This might hurt.”
He chuckled. She had no idea the sorts of hurts he’d endured in the line of service. “I won’t feel a thing, I promise.”
That promise, however, was instantly broken the moment she lifted his face to the light and began swabbing away the grit and grime with a soft touch. He felt all sorts of things he ought not to as he breathed in her fresh-baked scent. And when she leaned closer to rub away a particularly stubborn smudge, the tickle of a loose hank of her hair brushed against his neck, nearly driving him mad. He could no more stop his fingers from grabbing that golden piece of silk than he could stop the earth from turning.
“You’re nearly as disheveled as I,” he quipped as he tucked away the curl—then stiffened. At the top of her ear, the lobe of flesh swelled in an angry shade of red, looking as if she’d been pinched unreasonably hard. Instant anger flared in his gut. He reared away from her ministrations. “What happened to your ear?”
“’Tis nothin’.” She readjusted her mobcap, pulling it low over the offense. “Hit it with my curling iron, is all.”
“That is not a burn,” he growled. Did she really think him so naive?
“Din’t say it were.” She wrung out the cloth, a rebellious tilt to her chin. “Ye can bet I jerked the iron away as soon as I felt heat. But I’m not the one what needs doctorin’, now am I?”
Stubborn woman. Who was she protecting? Then again, she had no cause to lie, not to him. Were she in trouble, she knew he could—and would—protect her. And what did he know of curling irons anyway? Perhaps she really had injured herself. At the first convenient time, he’d ask her girls about these recent injuries. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well and was refusing to see a doctor. Maybe she truly was overworked. It seemed right to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, had he not read only just yesterday how love believed all things, hoped all things?
Whoa.
