“Yes. That’s what I meant. But you use it first. I have to unpack some things.”
“All right.” Morgan picked up the toothbrush and baking soda tin. On the point of entering the washroom, he paused. “Towels, soap, sponges. They’re all in here.”
“I saw.”
“A washup will have to do tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll help you draw and heat enough water for a bath.”
“I would like that.”
“Maybe not, once you take notice of the work involved.”
“I’m not afraid of work, Mr. Longstreet.”
“Morgan.”
“Morgan,” she repeated. “Another thing to which this bride shall have to become accustomed.” Before he disappeared into the washroom, Jane thought she glimpsed his wry grin and a faint headshake. Both responses puzzled her, but by the time a question occurred to her, he was closing the door and shutting her out.
Jane worked quickly, emptying the valises first. Each of them was packed tightly with cotton, wool, and flannel undergarments that included petticoats, corsets, camisoles, and drawers. Tucked between those items were stockings, suspenders, gloves, and the various pots of cream and lotions that Morgan had suspected comprised the whole of their contents. At the bottom of one bag was the cookbook she had purchased expressly for her new position as wife of a rancher. At the bottom of the other, she discovered an item that she had not packed, another book, placed there by Alex, she suspected. When she lifted it and saw it was Jane Eyre, her suspicions were confirmed. She imagined he thought it was a very good joke. If he were within sight, Jane would have thrown the damn thing at his head.
The man she had bound herself to was not Mr. Rochester. The most obvious distinction was a physical one. Morgan Longstreet had a pleasing, symmetrical countenance that was only saved from true beauty by the scar at the right corner of his mouth. Although it pained her to admit it, she was selfishly glad of that flaw. For his features to be so otherwise cast in a fashion that evoked thoughts of marble gods was a burden to her, and she had dwelled on it nightly while examining his photograph in the privacy of her bedroom. She also took some comfort that his coloring was different than she had been able to imagine. As it happened, he was no blond Adonis in the drawing room style of Alexander Ewing. Jane counted that as a mark in Morgan Longstreet’s favor. It was yet another way she had risked so much by accepting his invitation. No amount of study could have prepared her for the thatch of orange that he kept mostly hidden under his hat. And his fair complexion was lightly freckled where it was unprotected from the sun. Alex would have hated that. Jane was relieved by it.
Morgan Longstreet had a narrow chin, defined cheekbones, a sharply drawn jaw that made his facial muscles jump when he set it tightly, and blue-and-gray-flecked green eyes that could be implacable, impenetrable, or inviting. Jane had observed all of that. In turn she had felt small, slighted, or swallowed whole, and having felt those things, had vowed not to allow him such influence. It was a familiar promise, one she knew to be easier made than carried out. Guarding one’s thoughts always presented fewer challenges than guarding one’s emotions.
The door to the washroom opened. In the process of folding a pair of stockings at the bedside, Jane intended to merely glance over her shoulder to acknowledge Morgan’s presence. What she did was stop folding and stare.
Morgan stood in the open doorway wearing a pair of flannel drawers and nothing else. The damp towel slung around his neck did not qualify as any sort of substantial garment. Droplets of water clung to the shaggy tips of his hair, darkening it. He had not carried a comb with him. The runnels made by passing his fingers through his hair were visible. He leaned one naked shoulder against the doorframe and held each end of the towel in his fists.
He gestured toward the bed with his chin. “Is that all of it?”
Jane tore her eyes away from the marble statue come to life and looked back at the bed. Most of the contents of her bags were strewn across the coverlet. What wasn’t there was occupying the space on the dresser that he had ceded to her. “I have not opened the trunk.”
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted. He looked at the wardrobe already in the room, and then he looked around the room. “Another cupboard would fit over there next to the window.”
“Do you think so?”
“There’s one in the loft. I’ll measure first. If it will fit, I’ll get Jake to help me bring it down tomorrow. There’s one in the room next door, but it’s too small for what I’m imagining you’re going to lift out of that trunk.” His eyes swept the bed again. “You have a magician’s flair. How many scarves do you reckon you still have up your sleeve?”
“Don’t concern yourself with the scarves.” She pointed to the top of the wardrobe where her hat rested. “But have a care for the rabbit.”
The right corner of his mouth creased. The crescent shaped scar whitened. “There’s some sass in you, Jane.”
“Pardon?”
“Sass,” he repeated. “Maybe they don’t call it sass where you’re from.”
“I know the word. I didn’t know if I heard you correctly.”
“I see.”
Jane finished rolling the stockings in her hand, set them down, and picked up another pair. “Cousin Frances said I was impudent.”
“ ‘Sassy’ sounds better.”
Jane smiled. “I believe you are right.”
Morgan pushed away from the doorframe. “Mostly I am.”
Jane looked up to see if his wry grin was in place. It wasn’t. She could not make out if he was stating a fact or poking fun at her. She hoped it was the latter; she could not abide arrogance.
