Ten

They arrived home just after dark. Mrs. Blackwell saw to the horses and the evening chores while Michael went in to fix supper. He'd just set two plates laden with boiled eggs, green peas, and maize bread on the table when she came through the back door.

She seemed as lost in her thoughts as she had during the drive, so Michael let her be. Still, he couldn't help but sneak glances out of the corner of his eye. A single candle flickered between them—beeswax, a small bit of luxury in her otherwise sparse home, though he'd noticed the candles she burned were the odd ones, misshapen or with a scratch in the wax. Her fair skin glowed in the soft light, and he could just make out the shifting planes of muscle in her arms, strong and lean, shadow and light. Her hair had slipped from the tight bun she'd fixed it in this morning, and her black curls formed a halo around her face. But that face . . . It was creased with worry. She was still brooding about what Snodgrass had told her.

She caught his eye, and he quickly looked away, putting all his focus on buttering his bread. What could he say to help? "No one in London would want a farm out here," he managed. "Especially a rich man." It was true. There was shame attached to anything connected to New South Wales: the people, the land, all of it. The well-to-do in England avoided even mentioning the colony if they could.

She looked at him sharply, then shook her head. "I'm sure you're right." She took a bite of egg, chewed, swallowed, and curled her lips into a weary smile. "It'll be a year before we hear anything back anyway. There's no use in worrying now." But still, that troubled look clung to her face.

As soon as he'd finished his meal, Michael rose and cleared his dish, then hers. He carried them to the basin and poured in hot water from the kettle to wash them. He didn't hear her approach, but he smelled her and felt a soft brush of air on his cheek.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

"I often sit on the verandah this time of night, to smoke and take a nip of rum. You're welcome to come." Her tone was tenuous. Not the commanding mistress, but a woman inviting him to keep her company.

Michael didn't turn around. He couldn't. The warm water that surrounded his hands seemed to wash over his entire body. But his mouth—his mouth was dry as dust.

Did she mean . . . ? He swallowed, casting the thought aside. "I don't drink."

"Fair enough." She chuckled. "You do smoke though. I've proof of that." A pause as she waited for him to speak. This would only lead to trouble. Women always led to trouble. She didn't mean it as that kind of invitation anyway. She probably felt sorry for him and was just trying to be kind. "It's been a day," she coaxed. "You'll sleep better for it."

Her words spiraled around him, along with her scent. Why not? He was her servant. She wanted company. It needn't turn into more than that. Surely even Michael had that much control. And she was right, a quick smoke before bed would help him sleep. Perhaps it would even ward off the nightmares.

"I'll be out when I'm done here."

The grinding chirrup of insects was almost deafening when Michael came out onto the verandah a few minutes later. The heat had lifted, and the stars shimmered above, alongside the near-full moon, illuminating the landscape and turning it almost as bright as day. In the shadow of the verandah, all was dark aside from a candle Mrs. Blackwell had brought out, which stood shrouded in a tin lantern. He might have missed her completely, had he not known she was there—and had the smell of pipe smoke not hung in the air.

She sat in shadow, still as a statue. The tin cup in her hand gleamed dully in the candlelight. Her pipe glowed faintly red.

"I brought you a chair." She gestured with her cup toward a straight-back chair that sat beside her. It must have come from the sitting room.

Feeling like an intruder, Michael perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair and packed his pipe. He glanced up. The candle stood on Mrs. Blackwell's other side. He'd have to—

"Here." She set down her cup and took up a twisted, half-burnt piece of paper. Then she opened the lantern, held the spill to the candle until it ignited, and drew it slowly across herself, shielding the small flame as best as she could with the hand that held her pipe. It flickered but didn't go out. Smoothly, she maneuvered it so the flame pointed away from them and offered him the butt end.

The spill was short and growing shorter. There was no way to take it without touching her hand.

Unwittingly, Michael's eyes rose to her face. She was watching him, a tiny smile on her lips and a gleam in her eye.

Or perhaps it was only the flame's reflection.

"Are you going to light your pipe, Dunn?" She raised a brow.

"Hmph." Michael grunted, jerking his gaze away. Then, slowly, as to not put the fire out, he wrapped his hands around the paper, just above where she held it. As he'd known it would, his hand enveloped hers, his palm brushing the spot where her index finger met her thumb. The feel of it, of his skin over hers . . . it was—

Hot.

A tiny change in the breeze blew the flame his way, and it licked the backs of his fingers. Instinctively, he pulled the twisted paper toward his pipe. Mrs. Blackwell released it, and in the process, the flame sputtered out.

Of course it did.

She chuckled.

Of course she did.

Still holding the charred twist, Michael closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Bah. He was such a bloody idiot.

"Oh, now." The widow's tone was bemused. Condescending. As if he were a child. She began to rise. "Don't you worry, I'll just go get another—"

"No." Michael stood. "I'm tired. I'm to bed." He dropped the blasted paper on the table beside her and, cold pipe in hand, escaped back into the house.

He'd left. Without even lighting his pipe.

Caitlin shouldn't have laughed, but she'd done it before she could even think. And he'd taken offense.

"Well then, that was a smash," she muttered to herself. First the lawyer, and now this. She leaned over and blew out the candle, then closed the lantern. No use for it now.

The darkness spread out around her, and she felt herself growing smaller in it, merely a spectator to the grand stage of the world. The silvery light of the moon. The soft curve of the land, the deep shadows of the gum trees. The song of the crickets.

She should have known better than to invite him out here, into the time and space she usually took for herself. But he lived here now, at least temporarily. It had seemed the kind thing to do.

But no, it wasn't just kindness, was it? She desired him, and she'd not wanted to say goodnight so soon.

She took a drink of the rum, let it slide down her throat.

When she was a girl, before they'd been evicted from the farm, and even before her younger siblings were born, Ma had sometimes taken her to the shore to catch periwinkles. The little snails lived in the rocky pools at the edge of the sea, and they were as tasty as anything Caitlin could remember from those days of plenty. But it wasn't so much the eating that held the joy for her. It was the catching of them. Of being with Ma, away from the work of the farm, splashing in the sunshine, breathing in the salt air. The way the wind off the sea combed through her hair and cooled her cheeks. The smile on Ma's pretty face. Happy as larks, they'd been.

Caitlin had found that if she snuck up on the tiny snails, she could sometimes catch them out of their shells, their fleshy stalks exposed to the sky and their beady little eyes looking about. But as soon as they noticed her, they'd pull themselves back in, quick as a flash, and slam their little doors behind them.

Dunn was like that, wasn't he?

There were moments when she felt sure she was starting to see the man underneath the shell. His softness. His kindness. His desire, even. Then the next, he was jerking himself away.

Was he scared? Or ashamed? Did he think he was too good for her, perhaps?

Was that it? Did he think his upbringing as a gentleman made him superior? Was the servant act just that, an act ? It was in his interest to please her, surely. He knew as well as she did that he'd be put to hard labor if she sent him back to Sydney.

But that look in his eye over supper as he'd watched her in the candlelight. And just now, as he contemplated taking the spill from her hand. Contemplated touching her.

Caitlin knew what it looked like when a man desired a woman. Knew it only too well. All the rest might be an act, but that, surely, was not.

She sipped the grog again, and the cool of the tin on her lips gave way to settled warmth spreading down her throat, her belly, lower. Her cunt throbbed dully at the memory of his large hand over hers on the spill.

His palms were calloused, but underneath his tough exterior was a softness, a vulnerability. Just like a periwinkle, he'd retreated as soon as she'd come too near. Back into his shell, slamming the door shut.

Afraid. That was it. He was afraid of touching her. Of offending her, perhaps, or of what might happen if they did take up together.

And it would be complicated, that was the truth. She, his master; he, her assigned man. It mustn't get in the way of anything. Even if she allowed him to stay—and that seemed more likely somehow, after today—he would only be here for a year. And they had much to accomplish in that time.

But if he did want her, she wouldn't be taking advantage, would she? The pleasure would be mutual. They could talk it out beforehand, smooth out all the complications . . .

And what would be the harm?

She'd have to be more direct the next time. Talk to him about it like two adults rather than two younglings awkward in their lust.

She took one last puff of her pipe and watched the smoke float up into the night air, curling little bits of moonlight into the stars above.

Tomorrow night. She'd get him back out here, light his damn pipe for him, and they'd talk.