Fifteen

Michael woke the next morning to the magpie's singing and his clothes neatly folded outside his door. The house was quiet. The door to Mrs. Blackwell's chamber stood open, the bed made and the woman nowhere to be seen.

Probably in the barn doing the milking.

Glad for a moment of reprieve before he must face her, he ducked outside and headed to the privy. The dew felt cool on his bare feet, and the sun had just cleared the horizon, the sky lit up in soft pinks and purples. He hazarded a glance at the barn. The doors were open, the cow let out to pasture. Chickens pecked in the dust.

She locked those animals up tight at night. She must have already done the chores.

Where was she?

He relieved himself, then poked his nose into the barn, walked the perimeter of the garden. All was empty and eerily still.

A prickling sense of foreboding grew as he drew up a bucket from the well before he made his way back toward the house.

Where the devil could she be? After last night . . . What he'd done . . . She'd probably fled as far from him as she could. To the back fields or her hives. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't seen the horse in the pasture with the cow . . .

His body seemed to grow heavier with each step, as if the shackles were already closing back around his ankles, dragging at him. After his treatment of her, she would, of course, be afraid. How could she keep a man like that in her house? She'd taken the horse, and she'd gone to Windsor, to the magistrate, to report him. And he deserved it—he was a beast, not a man.

He let himself into the empty kitchen, then stood and stared at the cold hearth, not knowing what to do. He didn't dare leave to find her. He could too easily be accused of attempting escape. One way or another, she'd be back. All he could do was wait.

His stomach growled.

Doing his best to ignore the leaden weight in his limbs and the rising roar in his ears, he started the morning's routine. Water poured. He would be flogged for sure. Kindling stacked. Sent to a road gang. Coals stoked. He'd die from the heat or the work . Oats scooped into the pot. Or worse, he'd live. Hang it over the fire—

The back door banged open. "Good mornin'!"

Michael wheeled around, the pot still clutched in his hands. Mrs. Blackwell stood on the threshold, her cheeks pink and a smile—too bright to be real—on her face. In one hand, she held the milk pail. The other awkwardly grasped both the egg basket and the handle of a small tin bucket, full to the brim with red raspberries.

Relief pitted his stomach, along with a new kind of dread. She hadn't gone to Windsor, not yet. But she would. And what would he say to her? What excuse could he possibly give for the way he'd behaved—

"Is aught wrong?" Her cheerful look dissolved. He was staring.

"No." He turned back to the hearth and hung the pot on its chain. "G-good morning, Mrs. Blackwell."

"It's Caitlin to you," she reprimanded gently, then added, more briskly, "I got berries for our breakfast." He heard the thud of something being set onto the table, followed by her footfalls as she went to the pantry to put the milk away. "I had to saddle the mare and ride to the far side of the back field, but I found them, and before the birds did, too." A pause. She was near. "Michael?" She sounded concerned, but it must be disguised anger. "You do want me to call you that, do you not?"

"Yes." Michael turned slowly, bracing himself for whatever was to come.

But she was smiling. "There you are." She stood beside the table where the pail of berries now sat, and she was smiling, yes, but her eyes were tense, searching him.

Was she sorry for him?

The magpie began to sing again, so loud it might have been in the room with them. Its bubbling glee filled the strained, silent space between them, and Caitlin cocked her head, listening. Then her smile grew even wider. "Such a pretty tune, isn't it?" She grinned. "He's got a nest in the eves." Michael had no idea how to respond, so they stood there just looking at each other as the buoyant sound wound its way around them. "I do so prefer the magpies here to those at home, don't you? They don't steal things." She chuckled. "And their song"—she closed her eyes—"like a bit a' heaven right here on earth." She opened them, fixing him with an expression that was so guileless, so sweet . . . "Don't you think?

Michael forced his head to nod. What was happening? Where was her anger? Was she trying to trick him somehow? Or stall the inevitable unpleasantness?

She chuckled again and popped a berry into her mouth. "Mmh." Her lids fluttered closed once more as she savored the fruit. Then she blinked at him, one brow raised. "Try one?"

Woodenly, Michael crossed the room and reached into the pail. He took out a raspberry. Put it in his mouth. It was sweet, and meltingly soft, still warm from the morning sun. But he could hardly taste it. He watched her, barely breathing, waiting for her countenance to change.

Her grin faded as the silence stretched. "You're regretting it, aren't you?" She moved closer but didn't touch him. "I wondered, after how you left so quick. I'm sorry if I forced things. It was wrong of—"

"No." Her eyes widened at his interruption, but the apology in her voice was too much. He couldn't let her go on. Michael swallowed, forcing his tone to soften. "I don't regret anything. Not for my sake. But surely—surely, you're angry with me ."

Her brows wrinkled. "Me? Angry? Because you left in such a hurry? I'd have liked you to stay and warm me bed, surely, but I understand a man has to—"

"No. Not that. Because of the way I—the way I behaved. Before that. I was so—" He stopped, took a breath. His ears were burning. "I was a brute. I forgot myself."

Her brow smoothed. "The shaggin', you mean? You think I'm angry about that ?"

"Y-yes. You should be. I could have hurt you."

She laughed, rich and throaty, sounding almost like the magpie herself. "You really believe that. That I'd be angry for it?" She stepped closer, bringing her hands to grip his shoulders, then looked him straight in the eye. "I'm no maid, Michael. I can take a good shagging." Then she brought her mouth to his ear and whispered. " I liked it. "

A shiver raced down his spine, and his cock twitched, but . . . He drew back, searched her face. Surely, she was lying. There had been women who'd tolerated his base instincts—Lucy in Sydney, whores back in London—but they'd been paid for their trouble, and even Lucy had made it clear in the end that, without money, she abhorred him.

But Caitlin's expression betrayed no hint of doubt nor jest.

And what reason did she have to lie?

"You're not lying." He meant it as a question, but it came out a statement.

"I am not," she answered seriously, almost indignantly. She opened her mouth as if to say more, but it was a few seconds before the words came out. "I was a moll, Michael. I worked the streets of Cork. Then I was dolly to one of the navy men on the ship. Then wife to a good-for-nothing sailor." She ran her palms over his shoulders and down his arms, feeling his biceps through his shirt, his forearms. "None of them— not one —shagged me as good as you did last night." She laced her fingers with his. "I went off twice, I did. And it was . . ." She brought their clasped hands to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. "‘Twas glorious . Just what I needed." She released him, and her open expression turned stern. "But there is one thing that disappointed me."

Michael swallowed. Here it was.

She leaned in again and whispered. "You can spend inside of me. There's no danger in it. I'm barren." Her hot breath went straight to his cock.

He barely registered the meaning of her words as the deeper truth settled in.

She'd liked it—liked him . She truly had. And she wanted more.

Her hands came around and gripped his arse, drawing him in as he lowered his face to hers, meeting her red-stained, raspberry-flavored lips with his dry, cracked ones.

She wanted this.

It was clear in the way she rubbed herself against him. Clear in the way her lips opened under his, the way her tongue darted out, licking across the roughened surface before slipping inside.

She wanted this.

He sucked the tip of her tongue, then drew it further in until it tangled with his own. Goddamn but she was sweet, like sun-warmed berries and honey. Like everything Michael wasn't.

For a long, frantic moment, he was lost, hands groping for purchase, mouth devouring but wanting more. Body crushed against hers.

She wanted this.

Growling, he stepped forward, and she stumbled, but even still, she urged him on. "That's it. Give it to me, Michael. I can take it." She backed up a step, then another, till he had her pressed against the table. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her so she was sitting on the table's top, straddling him. Then he—

"Ahem," a voice sounded from the door.

Caitlin's eyes widened as they focused on a point past Michael's shoulder. "Hud."

Damn it to hell. Why did Hud have to show up at that moment? Just when Caitlin had finally pushed past Michael's walls. Had him in the palm of her hand, ready to shag her into the hard wood of the table.

But no, here was Hud, a knowing grin on his face, and his dog dancing at his heels.

How long had he been standing there anyway?

Michael backed away from her, his cheeks darkening to crimson. Caitlin slid from the table, allowing her skirts to fall into place, smoothing them down with what she hoped looked like a no-nonsense flick of her wrists. She set her shoulders, then her jaw. She was a widow, a free woman. There was no shame in taking up with a man—and it was no business of Hud's anyway. But there were appearances to keep up, and she was still the master here.

"What do you need, Hud?" She raised a brow.

The convict stepped into the kitchen and lifted an arm, revealing a strung duck, neck bent, eyes closed. Freshly killed, by the looks of it. "We went out on the river this mornin'. Got more than we could eat." His gaze shot to the hearth, and he sniffed and wrinkled his nose, though his eyes twinkled. "I believe your porridge may be burnin', ma'am."

Caitlin heard Michael's footsteps behind her, then a low curse and the clanking of metal. The acrid smell of burnt maize filled the room. How had they not noticed?

"Thank you." She forced a smile and accepted the game. It was a large bird, plump and heavy. "It'll make a fine supper."

Hud nodded. His eyes circled the room one more time, finding Michael who was busy spooning the half-burnt porridge into two bowls—much more slowly and intently than was necessary. Hud watched him for a moment, as if expecting another confrontation or acknowledgment at least. But Michael didn't look up. His face was blazing red.

At last, Hud nodded to her and turned to go. At the sight of his back, Caitlin released a sharp breath of relief. But just inside the threshold, the man stopped and turned. He spoke, loud enough for both Caitlin and Michael to hear him. "Just so's you know, ma'am. Finn and me, we'll steer clear of the house from now on." At that, Michael glanced up in surprise, before quickly looking away again. Hud hesitated, his gaze settling on Caitlin. "What I said the other day—I didna mean no insult. We're glad for you, ma'am. No jokin' about it." Without waiting for a reply, he ducked out of the room.

Caitlin studied the empty space of clear blue sky where Hud had stood. She chuckled. "It seems we've earned their blessing."

In answer, Michael crossed to her and took the dead duck from her hands. He gestured to the table. "I've saved what porridge I could. Not too burned, I don't think."