Jessica looked up curiously, caught by the husky note in Wolfe’s voice.
«While I finish unloading the wagon,» Wolfe continued, «you start fixing a cold supper and some hot coffee. The supplies are in the burlap sacks. You might as well put everything away. Then you’ll know where everything is when you need it for cooking.»
«Wolfe,» Jessica said quickly.
He turned around.
She started to explain that she didn’t know the first thing about fixing suppers, whether cold or hot. The aura of expectancy in his stance told her that he was waiting for just such an invitation to bait her again on her inadequacy as an American wife. She wasn’t certain her temper was up to that at the moment.
The long, uncomfortable wagon ride from the stage terminus in Denver had tried Jessica’s resilience and resolve to their limits. She was stiff, cold, bruised, and more exhausted than she had ever been in her life.
But she was expected to cheerfully conjure a meal for that most demanding of all creatures, a Western husband.
«Yes?» Wolfe asked in a silky voice.
«I was just, er, wondering where to put my clothes.»
«As I didn’t know I was going to acquire a wife in England, I didn’t buy any dressers or armoires for your clothes.» His smile was a thin white curve against the darkness of his face. «Not that it matters. You won’t be here long enough to repay the trouble of unpacking even one trunk.»
«Oh? Does that mean we’re leaving on another trip right away?» Jessica asked in an artificially bright voice.
«We aren’t. You are. Back to London.»
«Ah, that trip. Well, you know how foolish it is to countunhatched chicks. I feel the same could be said ofunhatchedtrips.»
Wolfe looked at Jessica’s bright smile and felt his temper fraying. If she had sulked or complained, he could have berated her, but her inexhaustible well of cheerfulness made that impossible.
She knew it as well as he did. Better, perhaps.
«The kitchen, your ladyship, is through that door.»
«Why, so it is.»
She gathered the skirts of her ruined travel outfit in her hands and eased through the doorway that was filled by her unwilling husband.
«I’ll expect supper within the hour,» Wolfe said as yards of soft wool brushed over his thighs, tightening every muscle in his body. «I’ll expect the coffee a hell of a lot sooner.»
«I’m sure you will,» Jessica agreed.
But she wasn’t sure Wolfe would get it.
The kitchen had a brick floor, cupboards everywhere, a pump, a sink, and a big stove. The small table in one corner obviously had been made by the Shaker craftsman who had furnished the bedroom. Sacks of supplies were lined up the length of the floor.
Now that Wolfe was no longer present to measure Jessica’s mood, her smile vanished as thoroughly as though it had never existed. In the place of her determined cheer was a physical fatigue that made even standing upright an ordeal. Mentally, she was no more resilient.
Nor was there any relief in sight. No matter how hard she tried to coax some simple human warmth from Wolfe, since the Indian attack he had remained abrupt, difficult, cold, and impossible to please. If that wasn’t bad enough, the wind seemed to moan without pause over the land. When she was alone, she heard the wind with terrible clarity.
She was always alone now, and never more so than when Wolfe was nearby. Automatically, her hand went to her breasts. Beneath her clothes, the locket lay concealed among soft folds of lace. The familiar contours of the necklace reassured her.
«Well,» Jessica said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice, for anything was better than the unborn horror keening within the wind. «Where do you suppose Wolfe has hidden his coffeepot? And what do you suppose it will look like when I find it?»
The low ululation of the wind was more answer than Jessica wanted to hear. Hurriedly, she fumbled for the matches and lighted a lantern, for Wolfe had shuttered the windows before he left for London. She had watched various servants light various lamps all her life, but it took several tries for her to get the right combination of match, wick, and oil. The lamp smoked annoyingly, but it was better than nothing.
The wind raked over the roof and made the cap on the stovepipe rattle like distant chains, reminding Jessica of her childhood in Scotland, when she had hidden in the kitchen with the scullery maids because she could no longer bear the sounds coming from her father’s suite of rooms. It had been a very long time since Jessica had thought of such things. She didn’t wish to begin now.
Humming to shut out both the wind and her darkly stirring memories, Jessica set to work. The air she hummed was one of her favorites, «BonnieLaddie, HighlandLaddie.» The words had always stuck her as over- simple, but the melody had a fine lilt that lifted her spirits. The more fiercely the wind blew, the more loudly Jessica sang her lively, wordless song, opening and closing cupboards as she searched for the coffeepot.
After opening every cupboard, peering in, and holding the smoky lamp aloft, Jessica still hadn’t found anything that resembled the graceful sterling silver urns Lord Robert’s servants had taken coffee from. Nor did she find anything like the small, plump sterling silver pots or tissue-thin china that had been used for service in the bedroom.
«Blazes,» she muttered.
Jessica began the search and the song all over again. Halfway through the cupboard, she sensed that she was no longer alone in the room. She spun around.
Wolfe was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest and an odd expression on his face.
«That song…» he said.
«’BonnieLaddie, HighlandLaddie ’. It’s a rather silly air about a Scotsman wearing a cap.»
Wolfe cleared his throat and tried not to reveal the laughter that was shaking him. «Of course. It’s been so long since I heard the original words, I’d forgotten.»
He made a strangled sound and looked away from a moment.
«Are you well, Wolfe?»
Silently, Wolfe struggled not to smile.
«I know my voice isn’t of stage quality,» Jessica said, smiling wryly, «but no one has ever laughed at it before. However, if it amuses you so, I’ll sing more often.»
«I doubt the verses you know would be as amusing as the ones I know.» Wolfe watched Jessica tilt her head and look at him with wide aquamarine eyes. «You look like a cat when you watch me with such stillness.»
The intensity of Wolfe’s eyes made Jessica’s breath catch in her throat. An odd sensation trembled in the pit of her stomach, as though he were stroking her hair. But he wasn’t touching her. He was simply watching her.
With an effort, she forced herself to speak. «What verses do you know that I don’t?»
«Many.»
«Wonderful. Teach me and we’ll sing together.»
Wolfe compressed his lips against the smile that threatened to overwhelm his efforts at self-control. «The verses I know would horrify you.»
«Why?»
«They deal with Adam’s staff, among other things,» Wolfe said blandly.
Jessica looked blank. «Why would talk of Adam’s staff horrify me?»
«It’s also celebrated as a flea shooter, a hoe, a fishing rod, a drummer’s stick, a Roman candle, a branding iron, a dagger, a sword, a dowsing rod, a ramrod, a pistol and, lately, a repeating rifle.» Wolfe’s voice vibrated with suppressed laughter. «There are other names as well. Many names. And for each one, a verse to the tune you were singing.»
Jessica frowned. «A tool for many purposes, is that it?»
