The Bride Fair. Cheryl Reavis

and vests—and drawers. He clearly didn’t mind her rummaging through his undergarments in the least. Fortunately, she had had enough brothers not to be alarmed by the sight of normally concealed male clothing.

      When she stood up, he was already on his way back to the kitchen. She sighed again and followed, carrying the brandy and the muslin.

      “A glass?” he asked. “I’m apt to break things if I look myself.”

      She got him one from the shelf, amazed that he expected her to pour, too, and even more amazed that she complied. Her one-handed splash was generous; the spirits didn’t belong to her.

      “That’s enough,” he said, holding up an injured hand.

      But he didn’t take up the glass. He shrugged off his tunic and held out his arms for her to roll up his shirt-sleeves instead. The shirt was plain but finely sewn and made of a soft, closely woven muslin like the rolls she’d gotten from the trunk. There had been nothing like it available here since before the war.

      “If you would be so kind as to bind up my hands,” he said, still waiting for her to get his sleeves out of the way. “The doctor suggests you soak the bandage in cold water first.”

      She hesitated, in spite of the fact that she had the skill to do what was needed. The town had had a Wayside Hospital during the war. The trains carrying the wounded had arrived at all hours of the day and night. Even though she was a young, unmarried woman of good family, she had worked around the clock more than once dressing injuries that were so terrible—

      She pushed the memory aside. Binding up a soldier’s wounds was an expertise she would have preferred never to have acquired.

      Colonel Woodard stood waiting. He had asked—more or less—and she couldn’t, in good Christian conscience, deny him. Whatever small kindness she would extend to a dumb animal she would also extend to him—except that a good Christian conscience had nothing to do with it. She was going to do this for her own sake, for the chance, however remote, that this Yankee might pay his rent and thereby provide her father with the funds she needed to go away.

      She rolled up his shirtsleeves. At first she thought his hands must have been burned, but that was not the case. They were very badly bruised and swollen.

      She took down a bowl from the china cupboard and placed the rolls of muslin in it, then carried it to the water bucket and filled it full. She could feel the colonel watching her as she worked to saturate the bandages and squeeze out the water.

      “Your hands will have to be wrapped tightly to stop the swelling,” she said. “I expect it will hurt,” she added, placing the beginning strip of wet muslin across his palm.

      “No matter. That’s what the brandy is for.”

      She glanced up at him. He seemed to be expecting her to do just that. She immediately lowered her head and concentrated on the wrapping. She was hurting him, and she knew it. After a moment he half sat on the edge of the table, his hand still extended. She realized suddenly that it was trembling.

      “How did you do this?” she asked quietly.

      “Someone collected full rain barrels in a wagon and brought them to the fire. The horses shied. My hands were in the way when the load shifted. But your town doctor assures me nothing is broken,” he added. His tone suggested that he didn’t necessarily believe it. “He also said you would be very capable at wrapping them—if I could get you to do it.”

      She ignored the remark and tore a split in the last few inches of the muslin, then tied the two pieces in place around the back of his hand. He held out the other one. She wrapped more swiftly now, fully aware that he was inspecting her face while she worked, no doubt verifying his earlier opinion.

      “You hate us, don’t you?” he asked.

      She looked at him. It was a question he hardly need ask.

      “As you do us,” she said after a moment, tearing another slit in the muslin and tying it securely across the back of his hand.

      “Perhaps we both have good reason.”

      She had nothing to say to that and turned to go.

      “Wait,” he said. “I think we need to get the rules of the household established. It will save…misunderstandings later.”

      “I see no reason for our separate living arrangements to interfere with each other—”

      “They won’t be separate. I expect to be seated at your table for breakfast and—”

      “My father is ill. We rarely sit down together in the mornings.”

      “Then you will act in his stead—as you did today at the station. If I am to execute my duties well—if I am to put aside my prejudices—I must know and understand the people here. I will have questions and you can assist me with answers—assuming that you want to save your people as much grief as possible. I’m not Hatcher. Things will be different in this town from now on. I also expect to be included when you have guests here for dinner or whatever occasion.”

      “Well, you may have to wait a while for that—since we’re all to be kept prisoners in our houses.”

      “There are worst places to be imprisoned, Miss Markham,” he said, and in spite of herself she looked away.

      “You need not worry about the added work or expense. You have the key to the larder. You may use those provisions freely whether I’m here or not. And my orderly will help you set a proper table or whatever else—”

      “I don’t want your charity or your orderly’s help,” she said. “And I don’t want to suffer your presence any more than is absolutely necessary.”

      “I’m sure you don’t—but I don’t think I made myself clear. I have the authority to elicit whatever assistance I need from the populace—as I see fit. And at the moment, I require yours. It’s not a matter for discussion.”

      He watched her closely. She could sense how much he wanted her to oppose him, and it was all she could do to keep quiet. Her body trembled with anger.

      When she said nothing, he abruptly picked up the glass of brandy she’d poured for him and drained it. “Now. If you would show me where I am to sleep—so that I don’t go stumbling about and wake your father,” he said in a deliberate attempt to make it impossible for her to refuse.

      She picked up the lantern and walked briskly down the hall and up the stairs, and she didn’t stop until she’d opened the door to the bedchamber off the second-story porch. It had once been hers—until Hatcher appropriated it. She now considered it contaminated and fit only for the likes of his replacement.

      “This will do,” Colonel Woodard said behind her. He pushed past her, immediately lay down on the bed as he was, boots and all. And, without giving her a backward glance, he fell immediately asleep.

      Chapter Three

      Who is talking?

      Max turned his head slightly. At first he thought the lowered voices were coming through the window on the upstairs porch. With some effort, he turned over in the bed, realizing immediately that the conversation originated from the other side of the house.

      His hands were still wrapped in spite of his restless sleep and still hurt like hell. He flexed them gingerly and immediately regretted it. Even so, the swelling seemed less, and that was something.

      He lay there looking around the room. It was sparsely furnished. A four-poster bed, a dresser, a washstand, a chair and small table, somewhat tattered lace curtains, recently washed. No draperies. No rugs. No framed pictures. The wallpaper had seen better days—some kind of stylized flowers in a vase surrounded by a wreath in a pattern that repeated every few inches. A spotty mirror hung from a braided gold cord over the mantel. It tilted downward enough that he could see a dim reflection of himself lying in bed. It was not his first encounter with a well-placed