Before the Dawn (12 page)

“That a man should want a woman for herself, not for what or whom she represents.”

“So if I wanted you for myself, you wouldn't mind the deal we struck?”

That question caught her off guard, as did the heat that slowly spread across her senses. “I've only known you a few days, and honestly, what I've known I haven't much liked.”

He gave her a rare grin. “You're hell on a man's pride.”

She shrugged. “One of my charms, I suppose.”

“Then stay charming and don't ever apologize for speaking the truth. It's good for me, I'm told.”

He then gestured toward the table. “Shall we?”

Leah nodded and walked over. As he politely helped her with her chair, his nearness slid over her, making her think about how this night might end.

Standing behind her, Ryder could smell the faint notes of her perfume. The urge to fill his senses with the tantalizing scents tempted him, but he forced himself to back away.

They spent a few silent moments unfolding the linen napkins and placing them across their laps. Leah felt as if she were dining with a king in his palace and was as uncertain as a virgin concubine. Daring a look his way, she thought the glossy black hair falling onto his shoulders meshed perfectly with the strong line of his jaw, the proud nose and chin, and the raven black eyes. The cuffs of the pure white shirt led her eyes to his large hands with their short-clipped nails. When she looked up, his eyes were waiting.

Ryder wondered how long he'd be able to restrain himself. He had every intention of treating her with the respect she kept insisting he show, but knew it might make for a long and somewhat frustrating evening. “Pass me your plate, please.”

Leah did.

Beneath the covered dishes atop the table they found slices of roast chicken, potatoes, and squash. She watched him spoon a portion of each offering onto her plate. He handed it back, then filled his own.

As he picked up his fork, she said, “We must say grace.”

He searched her eyes for a moment, then set the implement down. Nodding acquiescence, he lowered his head.
The resulting silence prevailed for so long, Ryder raised his eyes once again, only to find hers waiting.

“This is your home,” she pointed out quietly. “You should do the blessing.”

At first, he thought she might be kidding, but when her calm didn't change, he realized she was quite serious. Caught off guard he frantically searched his mind for a suitable verse, then suddenly out of a place long buried, the words rose and he spoke them with a soft reverence.

In the silence that followed the last word, he looked up, and a very moved Leah said, “That was inspiring.”

Ryder found himself beset by both embarrassment and resentment; he hadn't prayed in years. The fact that this woman had been able to draw up a part of himself he'd turned his back on, made him unconsciously finger the medicine bag hidden beneath his clothing. “It's one of my grandmother's prayers.”

Seeing his gesture, Leah wondered what hung from the string of rawhide circling his brown throat. “Is she still alive?”

“No.”

The mask that closed down over his features made Leah sense there might be pain tied to his grandmother's memory, so she didn't press for more details. She turned her attention to her plate instead. “Everything looks so wonderful.”

Grateful she'd changed the subject, because he didn't like speaking of Little Tears, Ryder replied easily, “Sam cooked for the Ninth. He's pretty good around a stove.”

“I knew he was with the Ninth, but he never said he'd
been the cook. He did say you two met in Minnesota but not how long ago.”

“We've been friends over ten years. Met him when I was going to school in Minnesota.”

“He's a nice man.”

“Trust him with my life.”

He observed her for a moment, then asked, “Is there anyone you'd trust your life to?”

Leah didn't need to think about the answer. “Cecil's the closest thing I have to family. So it would have to be him.”

From the look on his face she assumed he didn't consider her choice a good one, but Leah didn't care. The many times Leah found herself in trouble at Miss Caldwell's School, it was Cecil who caught the train and came up to try and reason with the school's board of trustees. Had it not been for his diplomatic skills, she was certain she would have been tossed out and asked never to return. She wondered how Cecil was faring.

Talking of Cecil seemed to remind both Leah and Ryder of the barriers between them. As a result, an awkward silence resettled, so they concentrated on their meals. After a while, however, the air in the room became so thick and overwhelming, Leah tried for small talk. “The windows must give a spectacular view when the sun sets.”

Ryder was glad they were speaking again. “It does. Folks called me loco for putting in all this glass, but I grew up in a tar shack with no windows.”

Leah paused and scanned his face. “Sounds like a hard life.”

“It was, but it's in the past. I prefer to look forward.”

“Except when it concerns your father.”

He looked up from his plate, and drawled, “That's a good way to start another argument.”

Leah winced. “My apologies. You didn't deserve such a flippant remark.”

“Even if it's true?”

She didn't respond to that.

Ryder answered for her. “It's true. I do blame him for that hard life.”

Leah dearly wished he'd known the Monty she'd known. Had father and son been reconciled before Monty's death, she was certain they would have benefited from the results. “He died a painful death.”

“There's little sympathy here, so let's talk of other things.”

Leah's chin rose. “Such as?”

He shrugged. “Where'd you go to school?”

“Miss Caldwell's Private School for Young Women of Color.”

“Sounds fancy.”

She forked up a bit of squash. “It was, and as a result I spent more time in Miss Caldwell's office than I did in the classroom.”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I was, as Miss Caldwell once pronounced, a walking, talking, make-trouble machine. I was held up as an example as to what a cultured, young Colored woman was
not
supposed to be.”

His eyes lit up. “So, you are a hellion.”

“Only when necessary. But as time there went by, I called on necessity more and more.”

He decided he enjoyed her crisp New England speech. “Didn't the teachers like you?”

“They liked me fine. It was the other girls I kept bumping heads with.”

“Why?”

As Leah thought back, the pain of those years resurfaced as fresh and as raw as if it were yesterday. “I was different,” she said softly. “I had no legitimate father—I was poor, and my mother owned a tavern.”

Ryder stared at her over his raised water goblet. “Your mother owned a
tavern?
”

“Yes. In spite of what you may think, it was quite a respectable place. It was called the Black Swan. I grew up there.”

He was still staring.

Leah told him plainly, “So, we're a lot alike you and I. Both bastards.”

He spit out his water.

Leah smiled at the reaction. “See what I mean about causing trouble? I know decent women aren't supposed to utter such a word, but it's who I am. Besides, I was called that most of my life.”

Ryder realized she was truly an extraordinary woman. “It didn't bother you to be slurred that way?”

“Of course. Why do you think I spent so much time in Miss Caldwell's office? After a while they stopped slurring me to my face, especially the ones I gave bloody noses to, and started a more subtle campaign. They poured the chamber pots in my bed, stuck my shoes to the floor with hot tar. Someone even sneaked into my room in the middle of the night and cut off my hair. I caused such mayhem after that, I was sent home for the remainder of the term.”

He looked at all that fine thick hair and tried to imagine it cut short as a child's. “Where was this place?”

“Upstate Massachusetts.”

“And this was a ladies' school?”

“That's what it said on the door.”

He shook his head. “How long did you attend?”

“Three years.”

“And you were what age?”

“Twelve.”

“Your mother must've been a very thrifty woman to be able to pay for such a school.”

“She didn't. Monty did.”

Once again he found himself rendered speechless. He ran his eyes over her uncommonly beautiful face. “My father waited a long time for you then.”

Whether the dig was intentional or not, Leah wanted to slap him soundly. Instead she asked coolly, “So, are we even now? One nasty remark from me and one from you?”

He raised a kingly eyebrow. “Are you saying he didn't wait around for you to grow up?”

“You're intimating that he was a cradle robber, and he was not.”

“Explain it to me then. Maybe if you told me the whole truth, I wouldn't jump to these conclusions.”

But Leah couldn't tell him the truth, at least not about marrying his father on his deathbed. Who knew what he might do? “There's nothing to tell.”

Ryder didn't believe her for a moment. Beneath her testiness, she looked downright uncomfortable, making him all the more determined to find out what she was hiding. “How long were the two of you married?”

Leah gave him the same pat answer she'd given Helene. “Not long enough.”

It wasn't really an answer, and they both knew it. She could see the tightness in his jaw. Their time together this evening was well on its way to becoming confrontational. Again.

Leah eased back her chair. “Maybe I should simply go back to my room. We're like oil and water, you and I.”

“More like a match and a stick of dynamite.”

He held her eyes, and the dry humor reflected in them made Leah's smile peek out. “That probably is a better analogy.”

Ryder found her smile warming. “Let's make a pact?”

“What type of pact?”

“To set the past aside for now and enjoy the rest of our evening.”

Leah realized that it was a simple request really. She saw no reason not to agree, so she stuck out her hand. When he grasped it, the contact sang across her body like a softened current of lightning. Her first instinct was to draw away, but he held on to her gently.

Her heart beating fast, Leah watched him slowly turn her hand over and peer at her palm. Years of scrubbing floors with harsh lye soap had taken their toll. She'd never have the smooth soft hands of a gentlewoman, unless red chapped skin somehow became fashionable.

Ryder found the scars and calluses both surprising and disturbing. It was the hand of a woman who'd worked hard, maybe her whole life.

Still holding her hand, he looked into her eyes, and asked, “Scrubbing?”

Leah nodded. She wanted to draw back so he wouldn't see her cracked nails or the work-toughened skin.

“They're healing, it appears.”

She stammered, “I—probably because I haven't had to scrub…” Her voice trailed off.

His eyes found hers again. “Who are you really, Leah?”

The room seemed infinitely warmer to Leah. She knew without a doubt that this was not a man she could lie to much longer. There was something in his eyes that demanded truth, and her ability to stand firm was slowly beginning to crumble. “I am who I say I am. Leah Barnett Montague.”

“And you're not just some actress Cecil Lee hired to play the part to get at Louis's estate?”

“No, I knew your father most of my life. I loved him, he loved me.”

Leah had answered him truthfully. He continued to scan her hand though, and the resulting sensations made it hard for her to think.

He slowly worried his thumb over the calluses ridging
her palm. The touch was as gentle as Leah imagined a caress would be.

“I'll get you some aloe,” he offered. “It should help them heal.”

Even though she had no idea what aloe might be, she nodded nervously, then asked, “May I have my hand back now?”

He observed her for a few seconds more, then released her.

Leah's heart was beating so fast she had to close her eyes and take a deep breath in order to regain her calm. Ryder Damien, with his long hair, dark eyes and Rocky Mountain physique was far too vivid a man for a simple coastal girl like herself.

There was a definite tension in the room now. Unlike the earlier moments, this wasn't rooted in anger or misunderstanding but in the age-old attraction between a man and a woman. The current arcing back and forth was thick enough to touch. Leah wanted to pick up her skirts and run. She felt as skittish as a fish near a baited hook.

Ryder sat back in his chair and tried to figure her out. On one hand she looked as sensual as a sultan's concubine, but on the other hand she was acting as if she'd never been touched before. He could still feel the trembling in her hand when he held it just now. It had been like stroking a virgin, but Leah Montague wasn't a virgin; widows couldn't be virgins. Could they? What was she hiding? He felt as if the answer to the puzzle lay right under his nose. Maybe he was simply too close to see it, he theorized, but given enough time he was certain he could unearth the truth.

Sam walked in and asked with a grin, “How was the meal, Miss Leah?”

Leah was
so
glad to see him. “Everything was fine, Sam, just fine.”

He came over and picked up their cleaned plates, “You want that chocolate cake now? Got some ice cream, too.”

“I'd love some.”