'Kit! Sweet Jesus, what's happened?'
'Sophronia!' Kit tried to jerk upright. At the same time, Sophronia grabbed Cain's arm.
'Put her down!'
Cain pushed Sophronia toward Magnus. 'Keep her out of the house tonight.' With that, he carried Kit up the steps and through the door.
Sophronia struggled inside the circle of Magnus's arms. 'Let me go! I have to help her. You don't know what a man like that can do to a woman. White man. Thinks he owns the world. Thinks he owns her.'
'He does.' Magnus held her to him and stroked her. 'They're married now, honey.'
'Married!'
In calm, soothing tones, he told her what he'd just heard. 'We can't interfere with what takes place between a man and his wife. He won't hurt her.'
As he said it, he hoped she wouldn't hear the faint thread of doubt in his voice. Cain was the most just man he knew, but tonight there had been something violent in his eyes. Despite this, he continued to comfort her as he led her across the dark orchard.
Only when they reached his house did she grow aware of their destination. Her head shot up. 'Where do you think you're taking me?'
'Home with me,' he said calmly. 'We're goin' to go inside and have a little bite to eat. Then, if you feel like it, we'll sit in the kitchen and talk for a spell. Or if you're tired, you can go in the bedroom and sleep. I'll get myself a blanket and make a bed right out here on the porch with Merlin, where it's nice and cool.'
Sophronia said nothing. She simply gazed at him. He waited, letting her take her time. Finally she nodded and went into his house.
Cain slouched in the wing chair that rested near the open window of his bedroom. His shirt was open to the waist to catch the breeze; his ankles were crossed on a footstool in front of him. A glass of brandy dangled from the hand that hung over the arm of the chair.
He liked this room. It was comfortable, with enough furniture to be functional but not enough to crowd him. The bed was large enough to accommodate his tall frame. Next to it was a washstand and across the room were a chest and a bookcase. In the winter the polished floorboards were covered with braided rugs for warmth, but now they were bare, the way he liked them.
He heard splashing from the copper tub behind the screen in a corner of the room, and his mouth tightened. He hadn't told Sophronia that the bath he'd asked her to have ready upon his return was for Kit, not himself. Kit had ordered him out of the room; then, when she'd seen he wasn't going, she'd stuck her nose in the air and disappeared behind the screen. Despite the fact that the water could no longer be warm, she wasn't in any hurry to get out.
Even without seeing her, he knew how she'd look when she rose from that tub. Her skin would glow golden in the light from the lamp, and her hair would curl over her shoulders, its inky blackness stark against the pale cream of her skin.
He thought about the trust fund he'd married her for. Marrying for money was something he would have despised another man for doing, yet it didn't bother him. He wondered why. And then he stopped wondering, because he didn't want to know the answer. He didn't want to acknowledge that this marriage had little to do with money or rebuilding the cotton mill. Instead, it was about that single moment of vulnerability when he'd abandoned the caution of a lifetime and decided to open his heart to a woman. For one moment, his thoughts had been tender, foolish, and ultimately more dangerous to him than all the battles of the war.
In the end it wouldn't be the cotton mill he was going to make her pay for, but that moment of vulnerability. Tonight, the antagonism between them would be sealed forever. Then he'd be able to go on with his life without being tantalized by phantom hopes for the future.
He raised the brandy to his lips, took a sip, then set the glass on the floor. He wanted to be stone-cold sober for what was about to happen.
From behind the screen, Kit heard the scrape of wooden legs across the bare floor and knew he'd grown impatient with waiting. She grabbed for a towel and, while she wrapped it around herself, wished she had something more substantial to cover her. But her own clothing was gone. Cain had disposed of her ruined garments after she'd taken them off.
Her head shot up as he pushed back one end of the folding screen. He stood resting one hand on top of the wooden frame.
'I'm not finished yet,' she managed to say.
'You've had enough time.'
'I don't know why you forced me to take my bath in your room.'
'Yes, you do.'
She clutched the towel more tightly. Once again she searched for some escape from what lay ahead, but there was an awful sense of inevitability about it. He was her husband now. If she tried to run, he'd catch her. If she fought him, he'd overpower her. Her only course lay in submission, just as Mrs. Templeton had advised in that distant life Kit had lived only a little more than a month ago. But submission had never been an easy course for her.
She gazed at the thin gold ring on her finger. It was small and pretty, with two tiny hearts at the top delicately outlined in diamond-and-ruby chips. He told her he'd gotten it from Miss Dolly.
'I don't have anything to put on,' she said.
'You don't need anything.'
'I'm cold.'
Slowly, without taking his gaze from hers, he unbuttoned his shirt and passed it over.
'I don't want to take your shirt. If you'll move out of the way, I'll go to my room and get my robe.'
'I'd rather stay here.'
Obstinate, overbearing man! She gritted her teeth and stepped out of the tub. Holding the towel to her body with one hand, she reached for his shirt with the other. Clumsily, she slipped it on over the towel. Then she turned her back to him, dropped the towel, and rapidly fastened the row of buttons.
The long sleeves kept getting in her way, making the job more difficult. As the shirttails clung to her damp thighs, she was conscious of how thin the material was over her nakedness. She turned up the cuffs and edged past him. 'I need to go to my room and comb out my hair or it'll tangle.'
'Use my comb.' He inclined his head toward the bureau.
She walked over and picked it up. Her face stared back at her from the mirror. She looked pale and wary, but she didn't look frightened. She should be, she thought, as she drew the comb through the long strands of wet hair. Cain hated her. He was powerful and unpredictable, stronger than she was, and he had the law on his side. She should be screaming for mercy now. Instead, she felt an odd agitation.
In the mirror's reflection she saw him slouch into the wing chair. He idly crossed one ankle over his knee. His eyes caught hers. She looked away and combed her hair more vigorously, sending droplets spattering.
She heard movement, and her gaze darted back to the mirror. Cain had picked up a glass from the floor and was lifting it to her reflection.
'Here's to wedded bliss, Mrs. Cain.'
'Don't call me that.'
'It's your name. Have you forgotten already?'
'I haven't forgotten anything.' She took a deep breath. 'I haven't forgotten that I've wronged you. But I've already paid the price, and I don't need to pay any more.'
'I'll be the judge of that. Now put down that comb and turn around so I can look at you.'
Slowly she did as he said, a queer excitement building along with her dread. Her eyes settled on the scars that marred his chest. 'Where did you get the scar on your shoulder?'
'Missionary Ridge.'
'What about the one on your hand?'
'Petersburg. And I got the one on my gut fighting over a crooked poker game in a Laredo whorehouse. Now unbutton that shirt and come over here so I can take a better look at my newest piece of property.'
'I'm not your property, Baron Cain.'
'That isn't what the law says, Mrs. Cain. Women belong to the men who marry them.'
