Dulcie's Gift. Ruth Langan

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      Dulcie gave a shaky sigh. “I suppose I must stop hoping for miracles.”

      Cal gave a harsh sound that might have been a laugh had it not been so filled with pain. “I gave up on miracles a long time ago.”

      Without thinking she glanced down at his sleeve. Seeing the direction of her gaze, he stiffened, then turned away.

      She thought briefly about holding him back with a touch, a word. But what could she possibly do or say that would ease the awkwardness between them? She allowed the moment to pass.

      Without a word he left.

      For long minutes she remained, listening to her friend’s breathing. The only other sound in the room was the pounding of her own heart.

      

      Cal awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of feminine voices down the hall. Opening one eye, he peered through the gloom, then rolled over, determined to steal a little more rest.

      There was a trill of laughter, then more talking.

      So much for sleep, he thought as he crawled out of bed and snatched up a pair of trousers. He pulled on his boots, then made his way down the hall, pulling on a shirt as he did. Without bothering to button it, he paused outside a closed door, listening to the high-pitched voices. Though it was not yet dawn, they were chattering like magpies.

      He twisted open the door and thundered, “Doesn’t anyone care that there are people asleep in this house?”

      The sight that greeted him was like a bucket of cold water to his heated temper. The young Irishwoman was propped up in her bed, with mounds of pillows supporting her. Beside her sat the little girl with the injured arm, Clara. Though both of them still looked pale, their eyes were crinkled with laughter. But it was the figure in the middle of the bed that caught and held his attention.

      Dulcie sat, surrounded by all her charges, dressed in her chemise and petticoat and draped in a ragged shawl. Her waist-length hair spilled about her shoulders in a riot of curls.

      They all looked up with alarm, their laughter quickly extinguished.

      “Forgive me, Mr. Jermain,” Dulcie said. “We were so happy to see Clara and Fiona recovered from their wounds that we forgot about you and your family.”

      “I see.” He took a step closer to the bed and said to Fiona, “So, you are awake at last.”

      “Aye.” Fiona studied him suspiciously. “And who might you be?”

      “Fiona,” Dulcie put in quickly, “this is Mr. Cal Jermain. He found our boat and brought us here to his plantation.”

      “Then I am in your debt, Mr. Jermain.” Fiona extended her hand. She continued to watch him warily.

      He accepted her handshake. But when he tried to touch a hand to Clara’s forehead, the little girl shrank from him.

      “It’s all right,” Dulcie said softly. “Mr. Jermain just wants to see if your fever has subsided.”

      Cal deliberately kept his touch gentle as he pressed his fingers to the young girl’s skin. After the briefest of contacts, he lowered his hand. He saw her gaze follow his movement, then shift to his other arm, where the cuff of his shirt ended abruptly.

      “You will require some nourishment,” he said, turning away. “I’ll wake Robert.”

      “No.” Dulcie wriggled off the bed. “It’s enough that we cost you your sleep. Please don’t wake Robert. I can see to their needs.”

      He tried not to stare at the bare feet, the shapely ankles, peeking out from beneath her petticoat. “As you wish, Miss Trenton. Come along.” He lifted a candle from the table beside Fiona’s bed. “I’ll give you some assistance.”

      

      Cal led the way to the kitchen and lit a lantern to dispel the gloom. Soon, with a fire on the hearth, the empty room took on a warm glow.

      Without a word, Cal disappeared.

      Dulcie filled a kettle from a bucket of water and placed it over the fire to boil. Then she split half a dozen biscuits and drizzled them with honey before placing them on a warming shelf above the fireplace.

      When the water boiled, she wrapped a linen square around her hand and lifted the blackened kettle from the fire. Turning, she was surprised to see Cal standing at the table with a bucket of milk, which he poured into several glasses.

      “I thought you’d gone to bed.” She felt a flush creep into her cheeks.

      “No point in trying to sleep now. Besides, the cow would need milking in a few hours. I thought I’d save Dar the trouble. And I figured the children might be feeling hungry.”

      He reached over her to a high shelf. As he did, his hand brushed the top of her head. The softness of her hair against his skin caused a pleasant sensation. Though he hadn’t intended it, he slowed his movements in order to better enjoy the moment.

      What was it about this woman that heightened all his senses? Standing here, barely touching, he became aware of the soft scent of her, like a meadow after a spring rain. Though the shawl preserved her modesty, he could tell that the body beneath the opaque chemise and petticoat was perfectly formed. Long legs. Rounded hips. A slender waist. A shadowy cleft between high, firm breasts. The pale column of throat. And a face so fair, so lovely, it made his heart skip a beat.

      He removed a small pouch containing tea and spices. “Aunt Bessie swears by their healing properties,” he said as he measured some into a cup.

      Dulcie poured the water, inhaling their fragrance. “I don’t know if this can truly heal, but it smells wonderful.”

      “Then fix yourself a cup. And one for me,” he added impulsively, sprinkling the precious spiced tea into two more cups.

      He couldn’t imagine why he’d said that. It had been years since he’d tasted Aunt Bessie’s tea. And even more years since he’d done something so spontaneous. But the tea and spices did smell wonderful. And it was a small compensation for having missed his sleep.

      When everything was arranged on a heavy silver tray, Cal picked it up, deftly balancing one side on his maimed arm. He indicated the lantern. “Lead the way, Miss Trenton.”

      He followed her along the hallway and up the stairs, achingly aware of the sway of her hips beneath the petticoat. If the very proper Miss Dulcie Trenton knew what he was thinking, he would certainly taste her temper again. Only this time, instead of a basket of sheets, he might find himself wearing a tray of biscuits, milk and hot tea.

      He could still taste that first shocking kiss. A second one would be worth whatever punishment she meted out. The thought brought a smile to his lips, which he quickly erased as she shoved open the door to Fiona’s room.

      At the sight of milk and biscuits, little Emily clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, Dulcie! Is this a party?”

      “Indeed it is. We are celebrating Clara and Fiona’s return to the land of the living.” Dulcie made room on the nightstand, and Cal set down the tray.

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