The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux

“It was a long time ago,” she said, her voice trembling, her throat clogging with hateful tears. “I didn’t know Marshall still remembered it. In fact, I’d thought him too young to understand.”

“How old was he?” Shay asked, squatting before her, sweeping his hat from his head. Reaching forward, he placed it on the porch, next to where she sat. Her eyes followed his movements, focusing on the hand that hovered over his hat brim. And then she blinked as it moved, settling on her shoulder. His fingers squeezed lightly, and he repeated his query. “Jenny? How old was he?”

“A baby, not quite two. It was just before his second birthday.” She allowed her gaze to lift from his hat, but could not meet the burning question in his eyes.

“It must have made a vivid impression,” he allowed, softening his words, as if he would thereby coax her to his will. “What did he see, Jenny?”

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut, the vivid image of a blue-uniformed man appearing as if the sight were indelibly painted in her mind. And so it was, she realized. All of her trying could not erase the vision of terror she’d faced on that day. “It was after the war, long after I’d heard that Carl was dead. The army was still around, making its final raids, the soldiers heading back north.” The image in her mind became more intense, the whiskered man’s smile more coaxing, his rasping voice speaking words she’d never thought to hear.

You don’t want your place burned now, do you?

“No! No!” She cried the reply aloud and her eyes flew open. Shay was before her, an emotion she could not fathom blazing in his eyes. Her fingers pressed against her lips, too late to silence the words she’d blurted aloud.

“What did he do to you?” His lips barely moved as the words were uttered, the rasping sound giving voice to his anger. “Tell me, Jenny.”

Come on inside, honey. His teeth had been stained, his hands dirty, and the uniform stank of dried sweat and long days spent on horseback. Her stomach churned, as if those odors remained with her still, and she felt sour bile rise to her throat, gagging her with violent spasms.

“Damn!” Shay’s curse was soft, but fervent, as he tugged her to her feet, lifting her into his arms. He carried her easily, as though she were featherlight, and her hand reached to clasp his neck, holding tight to the anchor he’d become. Pausing at the pump, he braced one foot on the watering trough. He lifted the handle, then pressed it down, allowing the water to gush forth. His hand snatched the kerchief from his throat and he held it beneath the flow, somehow balancing her weight on his knee.

“Put me down,” she whispered. “I’m too heavy.”

His glance was quelling and she bit her lip, motionless in his grip. The kerchief was squeezed in his wide palm and he shook it out, droplets shimmering in the setting sun. Folding it in upon itself, he wiped her face with the damp cloth, and she felt the nausea subside.

“Is she all right?” It was Isabelle behind them, and Jenny murmured words of reassurance.

“Get us a cup for water,” Shay said curtly, and Isabelle responded with a breathless agreement. In moments she was back, and again water ran from the pitcher pump, this time filling a china mug from the kitchen. Shay held it to Jenny’s lips and she drank, swallowing great gulps, until he tilted it away from her.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’ll be sick if you drink it too fast.”

“I’m sick anyway,” she muttered, her embarrassment rising as she took stock of her position. “Let me down now.”

“In a bit,” he told her. “Take the cup, Isabelle,” he said firmly, and then, both arms encircling Jenny again, he lifted her high against his chest and walked to the barn. She glanced over his shoulder to see Isabelle near the watering trough, cup in hand, a look of fear bringing her soft features into bold detail.

“Where are we going?” His stride was long, his breathing deep, and Jenny felt apprehension nudging her. The man was beyond anger, way past the point of reasonable behavior, and she was being toted like a…Her mind was blank. His arms held her with care, firmly but without undue force. His face was drawn in lines of concern, but an underlying fury drove him beyond his normal conduct.

Shay was a man to be reckoned with, and she was about to face him, head-to-head. And in the barn, it seemed. He entered the wide doorway and halted, his head turning from one side to the other, as though he sought a place to conduct this conversation.

“This’ll do,” he said shortly, dropping her to her feet at the bottom of the ladder that led to the hay loft. “Climb,” he told her.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Climb? You want me to climb into the loft?”

He nodded. “I thought I was pretty clear on that.”

The warmth of his body penetrated her clothing and she felt a flush warm her cheeks. “Can’t we talk right here? Or back on the porch?”

“Climb.” The single word left her no leeway, no room for argument, and she wondered at her own compliance as she obeyed his command. Jenny Pennington was not a pushover. She’d run a plantation, managed to keep her head above water and been a prideful woman for the past several years. Now she found herself bending to the will of a man who had literally scooped her up, mopped her face with a sopping wet kerchief, then ordered her to climb a ladder into the hayloft.

Her feet found the square rungs in rapid procession, and her wobbling legs propelled her over the edge into a deep pile of fresh hay. He was close behind, rising to his feet and glaring down at her as if she were a recalcitrant child.

“Everything all right up there?” Noah was below, peering upward and Shay growled a reply. “Yes, sir. I can see you got things under control, Mr. Shay.” Noah’s words faded as he left the barn, and Shay turned back to Jenny. His mouth twisted in an exasperated grimace, and he dropped down beside her.

“Damn, you sure know how to get me riled.”

“Because I felt sick?” she asked. “Or because I didn’t tell you my sad story?”

“Neither,” he told her. “No, both, maybe. You were green around the gills, and I was afraid you’d faint dead away on me. And then I knew I’d have to fight to make you tell me what I need to know, and the porch wasn’t the place for that kind of a battle.”

She looked around the loft, only the open window allowing enough light for her to see him clearly. “And this is?”

“It’ll do.” He leaned beside her on one elbow. “Now, tell me what Marshall was talking about. He said a big man had hurt you.”

The confusion of Shay’s trip to the barn and the climbing to the loft had chased the images from her mind, and for that she was grateful. Perhaps, with Shay here, and surrounded by the safety of this private place, she could remember that day without falling prey to the heart-clenching horror she’d lived through.

And there was to be no retreat. Shay’s grim features made that clear. Her mouth worked as she searched for the words, and her speech was halting.

“Yes, he saw a big man,” she began, her gaze turning inward as she remembered Marshall’s wide, terror-stricken eyes. “He watched a brute in a blue uniform take me inside the house, while he and Isabelle were kept in the yard. And later he saw me crying.” She clenched her hands tightly, oblivious to the long fingers that untangled her own, and matched their palms in a warm embrace.

“What did he do to you?” His voice was low, rasping and she looked up to see darkness where so lately amusement and kindness had danced in the depths of his eyes.

Her words were careful, precise. “I don’t think you want to know.”

His dark head nodded slowly. “You may be right. But I need to know. I need to hear it from you.” He bent closer. “And maybe you need to tell me. Maybe speaking the words aloud will chase the memory from your mind.”

The trembling began in her limbs, or perhaps it had never ceased, she thought, remembering the climb up the ladder. Shivers chased the length of her spine and gooseflesh turned her arms cold. She opened her mouth and felt the urge to scream, to let loose the shame, to shout her anger aloud. As if Shay were the culprit, she turned her fury in his direction.

“He made me strip and lay on the floor, right in the parlor. And then he used me like I suppose a man uses a whore…until I bled. He laughed at my tears, and told me I was lucky, that he’d saved up for weeks till he found a woman pretty enough to—” Her mouth could not speak the word, the ultimately filthy phrase he’d used to describe his act.

“And I was the lucky one he’d chosen.” The bitterness she could no longer contain put a vile connotation on the word, and she bowed her head as grief manifested itself. The sobs were heart-rending, the tears profuse, and her wail of sorrow was muffled against his shirt. Shay lifted her on his lap, sitting upright against a post, and held her as he would a child, his arms offering comfort, his whispered words soothing her anguish.

She buried her face in the center of his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt, and drew her knees up. Shay’s warmth surrounded her, his face resting against her hair, his hands moving against her back, then rubbing her arm. He lifted his hand to her head, his fingers combing through the loosened locks of hair, and he buried his fist in the length of silken tresses.

“Jenny.” That such soft, whispering comfort could come from the depths of a man like Shay was beyond her comprehension, and yet his whisper of her name conveyed an emotion too deep for words to express. Her name vibrated from the firm cushion of his chest, sounding against her ear as if it would enfold her in its syllables. He rocked her in his arms, swallowing her anger in his sorrow, smothering her fury with a blanket of tenderness. And mourning with her for the loss of her dignity, the trampling of her pride and the violation of her innocence.

Not that she’d been virginal, but that before that day she’d been treated with respect and love. Until the day she gave herself in trade for the safety of her family. Until she’d been called upon to purchase the plantation in a way she’d never imagined would be required of her.

The night grew cool, and the owl that made its nest in the rafters of the loft flew on wide wings to the window opening. Its mournful sound echoed as it took flight into the night air, and Jenny gathered herself, lifting her head, reaching for the handkerchief she kept in her apron pocket.

She’d cried copious tears, Shay’s shirt soaking them up, and no doubt dampening his chest. He’d found her another kerchief in his pocket, and that, too, had been the recipient of more moisture than she’d thought possible. But blowing her nose was a private business, better done with her own white handkerchief. Sitting upright now on his thighs, she did so, aware of Shay’s soft chuckle.

“Feel better?” he asked dryly.

“Does the word cleansed have any meaning right now?” she asked quietly, folding her hands in her lap and looking into his eyes.

His nod was barely visible and she sighed. “I’ve never talked about it before, not even to Isabelle. She knew, of course. And so did Noah, and the boys, I’m sure, but no one ever mentioned it. I suppose they understood that I wanted to forget that day.” She touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his scar.

“I don’t suppose we ever really forget though, do we? When we’re scarred beyond repair, I mean.” She felt his jaw harden beneath her hand and she cupped his chin. “Do you blame me, Shay? Did I do the right thing? Or should I have watched while they burned my home and left the lot of us standing while they rode off?”

He was quiet, the muscles of his jaw clenching, and she felt his anger radiate from the depths of his being. Yet when he spoke, his words were soft, reasonable and soothing to her soul. “You did what you had to, Jenny. What we all do when the time comes to make a choice. Whether it causes pain or shame or sorrow, sometimes we’re called on to make a sacrifice that scars the soul. And then we have to live with it.”