“Oofa! If I need a papa, I’ll tell you.”
His lips hardly smiled as he appraised her, but his eyes were filled with wicked mirth. He was enjoying himself. If she had something to throw, she would have thrown it. But she wouldn’t damage Wuthering Heights on his bony skull.
“Now sit up like a good girl, and Mae will bring you some breakfast.”
“Bene!” She jutted her chin at him. “Have your fun.”
He left the room for Mae’s with a chuckle that made her reconsider whether she could replace Wuthering Heights after all.
Quillan strode into Mae’s kitchen feeling jaunty. Mae sat at the table holding a steaming cup of coffee, which was turning her florid cheeks redder than usual. She looked up with a blend of surprise and amusement. “Won the war already?”
“Not completely.” Quillan sprawled onto the bench across from her. “But I will.”
“Famous last words.” Mae’s chest rumbled.
“How long before breakfast?”
She tipped her face down without changing her gaze. “I’m only just opening my eyes.”
Quillan glanced out the window, the sky still dark with winter dawn. It was early yet. He might have stayed abed longer, but having Carina beside him made it impossible. And he was by nature an early riser. Lying inert chafed him unless he was working his mind over a book as diligently as he worked his muscles hauling freight.
He considered his selection for Carina. Heathcliff was one of the better rogues he’d encountered. Quite similar in many ways to himself: socially unfit, disgraced, yet determined to win the woman he loved— Alexander Makepeace notwithstanding.
A potent surge of jealousy struck Quillan, a feeling unknown to him before. He wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“I’ll fetch you some more wood.” He stood, hoping to prod Mae into action, but she watched his exit with vague interest. Her woodbox beside the stove was full, and there was a stack of split wood along the back wall outside. But thoughts of Alex Makepeace had put Quillan in the mood to do violence, and he did it on a half dozen thick logs that awaited splitting.
He’d seen Carina’s discomfort when he mentioned Alex Makepeace. Quillan brought the ax down with splintering force and cleaved the log deeply. She had feelings for the man, but he’d be switched if he’d share Carina with Alex Makepeace or anyone else short of God. He lifted the ax with the log still clinging and slammed it onto the chopping stump. The halves flew as the edge of the blade bit the stump with a thud.
Carina had said nothing, but he wasn’t blind. And it was Alex’s name she had murmured that night in the delirium of pain and laudanum. Quillan figured it was just as well Carina wanted to go home, to leave Crystal. A clean break was what they needed. And as soon as he could wrap up their business, they’d go.
Quillan retrieved one of the split halves and balanced it on the stump. He raised the ax and sundered it with one stroke. Twenty-eight years of imprisoned emotions rendered him helpless against these new feelings. No, not helpless. He would govern it. He just needed to reduce every one of the logs to kindling.
Be careful, something inside him murmured. Maybe his conscience, maybe something more. Careful of what? Chopping wood? But the thought was gone, leaving only a nagging echo. Quillan brought the ax down again and again. Exhausted at last, he finished stacking the wood and carried an armload back into the kitchen. He dumped the wood into the overflowing box and turned.
Still seated at the table, Mae fixed him with a knowing stare. “Sit down, and I’ll rustle you up some smoked venison and hotcakes.”
He nodded. “I’ll just bring Carina some coffee.”
“You fetch me some fresh water. I’ll bring Carina some coffee.”
He met Mae’s frank expression and decided not to argue. If Mae wanted to see for herself that he had things in hand, let her. He did. At least he planned to. As Mae left, he glanced toward the ceiling with the uncomfortable feeling that everything he thought, everything he did was known. Surrendering to God in Wolf ’s cave, as difficult as that had been, seemed less consuming than this day-to-day accountability.
Carina looked up from Emily Bront?’s prose when Mae entered with a cup releasing rich coffee aroma into the room. “Good morning, Mae. You’ve seen my husband?”
“I’ve seen him.”
“He thinks he will run my business.”
Mae smiled. “Well, honey, you and I know that’s impossible.”
“Oh, he won’t cook and serve and wash the dishes. He’ll just crack his freighter’s whip, and you and èmie and the girls . . .” Carina waved a hand. “He has it all planned.”
Mae handed over the cup. “It did run rather well last night. The men were sure pleased to have the doors opened again. Though to a one they asked after you and sent their condolences.” Mae straightened. “But Quillan did keep things in order.”
Carina huffed. “I thought Italian men were difficult.”
“All men. Except maybe my Mr. Dixon.” Mae’s eyes turned dewy. “He had the sweetest nature ever a man possessed. There was no contention in him.”
“Quillan makes up for it.”
Mae laughed. “Seems you’re chewing both sides of that bone. Either you want him home or you don’t.”
Carina took a quick sip and set the cup down stormily. “Home, fine! But insolent and difficult? Beh!”
“Watch that china. I’ve an order for more, but until it comes, I’m running short.”
Carina loosened her hand on the cup. “He makes me so mad I could—”
“Now, Carina. He’s doing his best by you.”
Carina rolled her eyes. What should she expect? Mae had been defending Quillan from their first conversation. He carried the sun and moon on his back in Mae’s eyes. Never mind that he’d married Carina, then run off at every opportunity, leaving her to face . . .
Tears welled up in her eyes for the child she’d lost. How she had dreamed of that child bringing her husband home. But hadn’t the loss done as much? He was home. Though now Carina was not so certain how to handle that.
Signore, I should be happy, but I’m all torn up inside. I don’t know what to think of this man you’ve given me. She thought for a moment of Flavio, whom she had known since childhood and loved. He would not have been a stranger. Would it have been better so?
Never! Flavio was infedele, unfaithful. Flavio and Divina, her sister. But why did she think of that now? Because she’d dreamed last night of going home? Quillan had said he would take her. But that in itself set a new problem in her mind. She had yet to tell Mamma and Papa of her marriage.
She’d married outside the family, outside her people, without Papa’s consent, Mamma’s blessing, without all her zios and zias cousins and brothers and sister. She had stood before Father Antoine Charboneau in Mae’s parlor and pledged herself to Quillan. And then there was Quillan himself. What would Mamma think? And Papa?
TWO
At sight of him my heart pumps fire whose coals I bank in silence.
While in my mind the thoughts conspire to force my soul to penance.