trees.”
“That would have been pretty silly,” she returned, some of the glow from his praise fading.
“I’ve observed that, in general, women tend to be silly.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that.”
Chafing at his condescending manner, she gripped the handle tighter. “Why should I give you the pail?”
His dark eyebrows converged over his nose. “Do you always have to be so damned suspicious?”
“Why should I give them to you?”
He leaned forward and pried her fingers loose from the metal handle. “Because, Miss Amory, you’ll need both your hands to climb into the wagon.”
“Oh.” Surrendering the berries, she turned away from him. With as much regal disdain as she could muster, she marched to her side of the wagon. As she climbed to her side of the seat, she had to admit that she did feel somewhat…silly.
Chapter Six
T hey ate the berries as they traveled. Sweetly tart, the juicy bits of fruit didn’t last long, yet they quenched Victoria’s thirst and temporarily took the edge off her hunger.
She smiled ruefully, recalling the wonderful meals her family’s cook had prepared. In the face of her present travails, it was remarkable that she’d taken those perfectly prepared repasts for granted, except, of course, during the horrific civil conflict that was only three years past.
At her country’s most vulnerable hour, Victoria had often thought about the Northern and Southern soldiers subjected to countless deprivations, including meager rations. Both she and Annalee had done their part to contribute to the welfare of their “boys,” by rolling bandages, sewing uniforms and donating their personal allowances to the cause. She remembered how good it had felt to be needed, to be of service.
She sighed, her glance straying to the silent man beside her. In battered profile, he was more than a little frightening. He had eaten the berries in what she was coming to view as his customary attitude of withdrawal. Because of his superior size, she’d assumed he would claim a greater portion of the plump morsels. That had not been the case, however, as he’d helped himself to only a few of the berries.
She was left to conclude one of three things: He didn’t care for the taste of the fruit; he wasn’t hungry; or he wasdemonstrating an unexpected degree of chivalry in allowing her to have the larger portion. None of those possibilities seemed likely.
Without warning, he turned to her. “Are my lips blue?”
“What?”
“The way you keep staring at me, I’m wondering if those berries turned my lips blue.”
A hot flush stole up her throat. He was right. She had been staring. She returned her gaze to the oxen’s swaying rumps. “Actually, your lips are a reddish color—due, no doubt, to their bloodied condition. It is your eye, however, that is the most remarkable array of hues, ranging from blue to black to purple.”
He surprised her by chuckling. “I must look like hell. That’s how I feel, anyway.”
She frowned, uncomfortable with the thought that he was in pain. “Do your injuries hurt terribly?”
From the corner of her eye, she could see that he was still looking at her. She kept her attention on the animals pulling their wagon. She was reluctant to meet his stare. Something about it disturbed her. She might tell herself that his pummeled features repulsed her, but she didn’t altogether believe that.
“Now and then I feel a twinge.”
He was being brave; she was sure of it. When she performed volunteer work at the military hospital, nursing wounded soldiers, they’d acted the same way, dismissing the severity of their injuries, even when they’d lost a limb.
She remembered the lines of agony gripping his face as he’d swung the ax. “I should have been the one to cut the trees.”
“And why is that?”
She heard the skepticism in his voice and suppressed a sigh. She was used to men undervaluing the contributions of women. Her father was a prime example
“That would have been pretty silly,” she returned, some of the glow from his praise fading.
“I’ve observed that, in general, women tend to be silly.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that.”
Chafing at his condescending manner, she gripped the handle tighter. “Why should I give you the pail?”
His dark eyebrows converged over his nose. “Do you always have to be so damned suspicious?”
“Why should I give them to you?”
He leaned forward and pried her fingers loose from the metal handle. “Because, Miss Amory, you’ll need both your hands to climb into the wagon.”
“Oh.” Surrendering the berries, she turned away from him. With as much regal disdain as she could muster, she marched to her side of the wagon. As she climbed to her side of the seat, she had to admit that she did feel somewhat…silly.
Chapter Six
T hey ate the berries as they traveled. Sweetly tart, the juicy bits of fruit didn’t last long, yet they quenched Victoria’s thirst and temporarily took the edge off her hunger.
She smiled ruefully, recalling the wonderful meals her family’s cook had prepared. In the face of her present travails, it was remarkable that she’d taken those perfectly prepared repasts for granted, except, of course, during the horrific civil conflict that was only three years past.
At her country’s most vulnerable hour, Victoria had often thought about the Northern and Southern soldiers subjected to countless deprivations, including meager rations. Both she and Annalee had done their part to contribute to the welfare of their “boys,” by rolling bandages, sewing uniforms and donating their personal allowances to the cause. She remembered how good it had felt to be needed, to be of service.
She sighed, her glance straying to the silent man beside her. In battered profile, he was more than a little frightening. He had eaten the berries in what she was coming to view as his customary attitude of withdrawal. Because of his superior size, she’d assumed he would claim a greater portion of the plump morsels. That had not been the case, however, as he’d helped himself to only a few of the berries.
She was left to conclude one of three things: He didn’t care for the taste of the fruit; he wasn’t hungry; or he wasdemonstrating an unexpected degree of chivalry in allowing her to have the larger portion. None of those possibilities seemed likely.
Without warning, he turned to her. “Are my lips blue?”
“What?”
“The way you keep staring at me, I’m wondering if those berries turned my lips blue.”
A hot flush stole up her throat. He was right. She had been staring. She returned her gaze to the oxen’s swaying rumps. “Actually, your lips are a reddish color—due, no doubt, to their bloodied condition. It is your eye, however, that is the most remarkable array of hues, ranging from blue to black to purple.”
He surprised her by chuckling. “I must look like hell. That’s how I feel, anyway.”
She frowned, uncomfortable with the thought that he was in pain. “Do your injuries hurt terribly?”
From the corner of her eye, she could see that he was still looking at her. She kept her attention on the animals pulling their wagon. She was reluctant to meet his stare. Something about it disturbed her. She might tell herself that his pummeled features repulsed her, but she didn’t altogether believe that.
“Now and then I feel a twinge.”
He was being brave; she was sure of it. When she performed volunteer work at the military hospital, nursing wounded soldiers, they’d acted the same way, dismissing the severity of their injuries, even when they’d lost a limb.
She remembered the lines of agony gripping his face as he’d swung the ax. “I should have been the one to cut the trees.”
“And why is that?”
She heard the skepticism in his voice and suppressed a sigh. She was used to men undervaluing the contributions of women. Her father was a prime example
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