Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1) (6 page)

“Perhaps I should move you to town,” Cyrus said worriedly.

“Cyrus, I don’t need to be
saved
.”

“You’re so brave,” he told her admiringly. “However you don’t understand the dangers. If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

“The Confederate armies aren’t going to march here,” Clara said, trying not to snap at him.

“Who knows what they might do? Clara, these men are not like you and me. They’re trying to tear the Union apart. They’re madmen. They cannot be trusted.”

“Their generals, perhaps. But not all of them.”

“Not all of them?” Cyrus repeated, his face blank. “How could you know that?”

For once, she had an answer to his smug superiority, and she could not use it.
Because I know a Confederate soldier,
she wanted to say.
Because he asked for help when he could have killed us and taken what we owned.
“How can you know they’re all madmen?” she asked instead. “Surely if the Confederacy was composed solely of pirates and highwaymen, we would have had some indication of it before now.”

“You always see the best in people,” Cyrus said after a moment, smiling forcedly. “Clara, I’m afraid I must do what I can to assure your safety—”

“Cyrus, even if they do march, we’ll have warning.” Clara yanked her hands away.

I’m afraid I must do what I can...
What nonsense.

“I would feel better if you were in town.” He reached out to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “With me.”

“I have to get back,” Clara said, hearing her voice rise with panic. “I left in the middle of the bookkeeping, you see.”

“Clara, will you not give me an answer?”

She shook her head, wishing desperately that she had the courage to say the answer was no.

He did not understand. He drew himself up and gave a slow nod.

“Take as long as you wish. I would wait for you forever.”

She could only manage a jerky nod, and then she turned and half ran back to the barn, rounding the corner and breaking into a sprint as soon as she was away. The forest loomed dark and comforting ahead of her, and Clara ran as if the Confederate army itself was at her heels.

She was crying, she realized. She stopped as she entered the shadow of the forest, wiping at her cheeks. This was ridiculous. It was a marriage proposal, not a death sentence. What on earth could be upsetting her so? She took a deep breath. She had to think clearly.

Is this all there is?
The thought came out of nowhere and the tears returned in a rush. Clara pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Was every year going to be spent waiting for Solomon to come home, the farm teetering on the brink of destruction and Clara herself growing older and older as Cecelia married, and then Cyrus—for he would not truly wait forever, she knew—and finally she was left all alone on the farm?

What was she holding out for? What did she think might happen, some knight on a white horse would ride up to the farm one day and sweep her off her feet? She was being childish, she told herself, resolutely ignoring the image of dark eyes and brown hair swept over a man’s brow. Love was for stories, and a kind man, her mother had always said, was worth more than any riches. It was true, wasn’t it?

She should tell Cyrus yes. She knew she should.

Something in her heart flared to rebellion and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Solomon was going to come home. And then everything would be right again. She opened her eyes and straightened her dress, trying to force a smile onto her face. Cecelia would want to know what Cyrus had talked about, and Clara would need a very convincing lie—or at least, to speak about it without crying. She turned to make her way down the hill and stopped.

Jasper was leaning against a tree nearby, his dark eyes worried.

“Are you...” His voice trailed away. “Clara—Miss Dalton—if he hurt you...”

“No.” Clara shook her head. “He didn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t. He...” Well, it was none of this man’s business. “I don’t wish to trouble you.”

“I see.” He gave a pained sort of smile at her retreat. “Then I shall leave you in peace. I should see to Horace.”

“Does he have any care at all?” Clara asked, seeing the sudden worry in his eyes.

“He has me, and I keep the wound as clean as...” His shoulders slumped. “No. No care. I’m no doctor.”

“There are some herbs that might help,” Clara said, after a moment of thought. They could not bring his friend to town, to the doctor, but there were a few things they might still try. She nodded decisively and hiked up her skirts to thread her way through the underbrush. “Come along, I’ll help you find them.”

At the very least, she decided, it would keep her mind off of Cyrus. And if part of her thrilled at the idea of time spent in Jasper’s company, well... Surely there was no harm in that, was there?

“W
hat’re we looking for?” Jasper cast about in the undergrowth.

“Willow bark for the fever. That’ll be easy.” Clara peered around the roots of an oak tree. “Yarrow and Indian pipe. Also comfrey leaves. My mother would never admit to it, but her family always binds comfrey into wounds, with a prayer.” She cast a mischievous look over her shoulder. “If you asked her, she would say it was nonsense, but she always does it.”

“What does yarrow look like?”

“A spray of golden flowers, like Queen Anne’s Lace.” She knelt to peer under a bush.

“Thank you,” Jasper said. He was getting used to saying it to her, and it felt inadequate.

“Don’t mention it.” She avoided his eyes. “It’s really...It’s nothing.”

“It’s
not
nothing,” he told her, anger rising unexpectedly. “It’s incredibly kind.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice was almost sharp. “You’re working for your keep.”

“I wouldn’t be if you had turned me in,” Jasper snapped back. It was truly amazing how quickly fear and thwarted desire could flare into anger. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t. You should have. I’ve been in battles, Miss Dalton. So has Horace. We’ve fought the Union. Everyone in that house down there would turn us in without a second thought if they knew who we were.”

“Are you trying to persuade me to do so?” Her voice was incredulous. She sat back on her heels to stare at him.

She was so lovely, wisps of blonde hair escaping from her braid that Jasper could not think for a moment.

“I simply want to know why you did not,” he said finally. He wished he could go and take her hands in his own and tell her that he loved the calluses on her fingertips and the sun on her skin—that she was everything he had never thought of in a woman, and that it was glorious. He wanted to tell her that her honor was no less for her kindness and that he had never imagined that a Union woman would be the one to save his life.

She looked away, her profile proud and sad under the dappled shadows of the trees, and her hands twisted in her lap.

“Why didn’t you threaten me, to take what your friend needed?” she asked at last, looking back to him. There was nothing soft in her blue eyes now. “You should have, shouldn’t you?”

It was not in her, he saw, to hurt someone who meant her no ill.

“I see.” He ducked his head to try to hide the smile he felt on his face.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No! No, I assure you. I simply never expected to meet someone like you.” A wave of melancholy swept over him at that. He knew what options a young woman in her position had. He knew that it was unlikely she would ever find a better match than her suit. “Your Mister Dupont is a very lucky man,” he managed.

“He’s not
my
Mister Dupont,” she said at once, with feeling. Her voice was icy, and she returned to searching with a vengeance, brushing branches aside with angry swipes of her hand.

“Is that why you ran out here?” It was really none of his business, but Jasper could not stop the words. He hardly recognized himself lately. It was as if he had lost all control.

Where Clara is concerned,
his mind whispered. He ignored it. Clara, he told himself, was a Yankee woman. A woman he would never see again as soon as Horace was recovered.

“Yes,” Clara admitted finally, and she sounded so ashamed of herself that Jasper stopped dead in his tracks.

“Does he know where you
are
?”

“Yes!” Clara said indignantly and then she whispered, “Well, no. I left him by the barn.”

Jasper felt his mouth twitch. He heard a chuckle escape himself and turned away to hide his laughter. He was trying not let his humor get the better of him, but the sound of Clara’s own giggle was too much, and he descended into laugher. The image of Cyrus Dalton standing alone by the barn in his expensive coat was just too much. What started as a giggle devolved into shrieks of laughter, until both of them were holding their stomachs and gasping for air.

“I did say I had to leave,” Clara said, a bit desperately.

“You just left.” Jasper gave a shout of laughter, leaning against a tree and shaking with mirth.

“Oh, dear.” Clara covered her mouth with her hand, but it did no use. Her face was flushed. “Oh, my. I, oh, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Shouldn’t you?” Jasper wiped his eyes and stood, a few chuckles still bursting out around the edges. “He seems deadly dull.”

“He doesn’t like you, either,” she said with an impish smile.

A moment later, they both remembered the danger.

“Did he say something?” Jasper asked quietly.

“He said he didn’t think you were trustworthy.” Clara’s voice was just as subdued.

She was combing through the undergrowth, and Jasper began to wonder if she was the type of woman who could not sit still when she was anxious. He pictured her whirling around the house, knitting and cleaning and inspecting the barn and felt a smile tug at his lips before he processed her words.

“Mister Perry, that is—”

“Call me Jasper,” he said.
Please.

“Jasper, then,” she said after a pause. “What did you say to him?”

“I, er...” He knew from the steely look in her eyes there was no escaping this without telling her the truth. “I told him that you were a very capable woman, and not to underestimate you.”

She blinked at him. “You did?”

“Yes,” he said finally, looking away to hide his embarrassment. “It isn’t my place to judge, perhaps.”

Cyrus Dupont certainly thought so.

“I see.” Clara looked away and pushed herself up to check a new patch of undergrowth. She pulled up several mushrooms and laid them neatly on the ground beside her. “Thank you,” she added finally.

“It’s nothing.” Embarrassment burned in his cheeks. A splatter of rain hit his hand, and Jasper grimaced up at the clouds gathering nearby. “Perhaps you should go back to the house.”

“We’ll move quickly. I’ve the Indian pipe, and there may be yarrow near the willow tree. This way.” She picked up the herbs and stood, making her way down the hill.

“There?” Jasper caught a glimpse of yellow up the hill, and Clara followed the line of his arm.

“Yes!” She ran up the hill lightly and stood by as he pulled out his pocket knife to sever the stems.

The patter on the leaves was increasing, and a rumble of thunder started nearby.  Clara looked around herself, holding up her palm to catch the fat drops that made it through the canopy of the trees. He wished he had a coat to give her, but his was bundled away beneath a pile of leaves outside the hut.

“You should go back to the house,” Jasper said urgently. He held up the armful of yarrow. “How do I use this?”

“Strip the leaves off and—” A clap of thunder sounded above them and the rain came down in a sudden roar. Clara reached out to grab his hand and yanked him down the hill. “This way!”

“Where’re we going?” Jasper called.

“The willow!” Her shout was almost lost in the sound of the downpour. “It always stays dry underneath. I used to hide there during storms when I was little.”

At the edge of the trees, they hesitated. The willow was next to the winding stream that bordered their property, long limbs trailing into the water that tumbled down from the rapids upstream. Fifty yards away, if not more, and the rain was pouring down.

“Perhaps we should stay here...” Jasper’s voice trailed off.

“We’ll be soaked through either way,” Clara said, pointing up at the heavy clouds across the sky. “August storms never clear quickly.” She hesitated, then shot him that mischievous smile that made his heart stop dead...and took off, running out into the rain with a shriek.

They laughed as they ran, rain running down their noses and soaking their hair. Clara held up her skirts and leaped over little puddles that were forming on the ground, and Jasper followed behind with his hands shielding the precious armful of yarrow.

They burst into the space under the tree with a gasp. Clara was still laughing, pushing her soaking hair out of her eyes and panting for breath.

“I love rainstorms,” she managed in between gasps.

“It
is
a nice relief after the heat.” Jasper leaned over, hands on his knees.  “I haven’t run like that since I was little.”

“You acquitted yourself quite well, I thought.” She gave him a bright smile and bent to wring the water out of her hair. “Your shirt is all askew, you know.”

“It is?” He twisted, trying to see the collar.

“Here.” She reached up to turn the collar inside out, and Jasper felt himself stop breathing. Her touch was light and capable, the brush of warm fingers against his neck and his stomach while she adjusted the sopping wet fabric under his vest. He swallowed hard. “There,” she said brightly, looking up at him at last, and her smile died when she saw his face. “Jasper? Is something wrong?”

He shouldn’t. Oh, he shouldn’t.

Jasper reached down to take her hands, moving gently. He did not want her to realize where she was, who she was with. He only wanted to hold her close, study her face, watch her lips curve. She was frozen in a mirror of his own stillness. They stood, hands wrapped together for a long moment, just as Jasper gathered the courage to step away, shuddering with the effort, he saw her lips part.