She only succeeded in hurting her scalp.
"Let me go! At once, do you hear?"
"Or . . . ?" He mocked her, his fingers twisting deeper into her hair.
"Or I'll sell you to Hiram Greer before sunset tomorrow! When I tell him what you—how you insulted me, he'll have you whipped to within an inch of your life!"
"And when I tell him—and everyone else who'll listen —just how you climbed into bed with me, and how hot you were to be ridden, you won't have a shred of reputation left. And don't think I won't shout the details to the world, because I will." His lips twisted into an evil smile as Susannah stared at him, aghast.
She had not climbed into his bed, of course. That was patently false, whether he believed it or not. But there was just enough truth in the rest of his accusation to make her quake inwardly. He could not know the longings his hands on her body had awakened—could he?
"I don't respond well to threats," he added as if by way of an explanation.
"Neither do I," she said through her teeth, and yanked at her hair again. This time, whether because his grip had loosened or because of the savageness of her jerk, she managed to tear her hair from his grasp. She leapt from the bed, putting several paces between it and her person for safety's sake. Her quilt was on the floor near the bed. She snatched it up, wrapped it around her shoulders, and felt marginally safer as she turned to face him.
Several long strands of her hair still clung to his hand, and as she watched he wrapped them around his fingers.
"A keepsake," he said, as if she had asked for an explanation, and leered at her.
Susannah's head threatened to explode again, but this time she managed to keep the lid on her temper.
"Just in case you seriously don't know how this—farce —began, let me set you straight. I was roused from my bed by a noise, and I came in here to check on you. When I touched you to ascertain whether or not you had a fever, you grabbed me and pulled me into bed with you. Then you—you . . . I had to fight to get free and finally had to resort to striking you to bring you to your senses."
There was the briefest of pauses. His eyes narrowed, as if he were mulling over her words.
"That's not how I remember it, sweetheart," he said softly, and smiled the wickedest smile Susannah had ever seen.
"You are a spawn of the Devil!" She was so furious that she could barely get the words out. "And I am not your sweetheart. For as long as I manage to restrain myself from selling you, you will address me as Miss Susannah."
Without waiting for what he might reply, she turned on her heel, clutched the remnants of her dignity around her like her quilt, and walked with head held high from the room.
10
Susannah felt as if she'd spent the best years of her life doing little but making bread. She mixed, kneaded, and baked twice a day, and never a night passed that dough was not rising in her kitchen. The rooster had crowed his good morning not a quarter of an hour before, and here she stood in the kitchen, making bread for supper. The morning's loaves were already in the small baking oven set into the side of the huge fireplace that took up most of one wall of the kitchen. Soon they would be done. The wonderful warm scent of them wafted through the kitchen.
The rest of the family would be up within the hour, expecting to eat. That was the way their day always began, and that was the way it always would begin, world without end, as long as Susannah was there to take care of them. Except that Susannah, for some reason she couldn't quite fathom, was suddenly dissatisfied with the routine. Her life was busy, and she knew it was good, but—but— but what? She should be thankful, not repining. She was blessed. What was the matter with her, that she should secretly long for something other than the plenty she had?
Gruel bubbled over the fire. With molasses dribbled
over it, and plenty of fresh bread and butter, it would make a hearty morning
"Let me go! At once, do you hear?"
"Or . . . ?" He mocked her, his fingers twisting deeper into her hair.
"Or I'll sell you to Hiram Greer before sunset tomorrow! When I tell him what you—how you insulted me, he'll have you whipped to within an inch of your life!"
"And when I tell him—and everyone else who'll listen —just how you climbed into bed with me, and how hot you were to be ridden, you won't have a shred of reputation left. And don't think I won't shout the details to the world, because I will." His lips twisted into an evil smile as Susannah stared at him, aghast.
She had not climbed into his bed, of course. That was patently false, whether he believed it or not. But there was just enough truth in the rest of his accusation to make her quake inwardly. He could not know the longings his hands on her body had awakened—could he?
"I don't respond well to threats," he added as if by way of an explanation.
"Neither do I," she said through her teeth, and yanked at her hair again. This time, whether because his grip had loosened or because of the savageness of her jerk, she managed to tear her hair from his grasp. She leapt from the bed, putting several paces between it and her person for safety's sake. Her quilt was on the floor near the bed. She snatched it up, wrapped it around her shoulders, and felt marginally safer as she turned to face him.
Several long strands of her hair still clung to his hand, and as she watched he wrapped them around his fingers.
"A keepsake," he said, as if she had asked for an explanation, and leered at her.
Susannah's head threatened to explode again, but this time she managed to keep the lid on her temper.
"Just in case you seriously don't know how this—farce —began, let me set you straight. I was roused from my bed by a noise, and I came in here to check on you. When I touched you to ascertain whether or not you had a fever, you grabbed me and pulled me into bed with you. Then you—you . . . I had to fight to get free and finally had to resort to striking you to bring you to your senses."
There was the briefest of pauses. His eyes narrowed, as if he were mulling over her words.
"That's not how I remember it, sweetheart," he said softly, and smiled the wickedest smile Susannah had ever seen.
"You are a spawn of the Devil!" She was so furious that she could barely get the words out. "And I am not your sweetheart. For as long as I manage to restrain myself from selling you, you will address me as Miss Susannah."
Without waiting for what he might reply, she turned on her heel, clutched the remnants of her dignity around her like her quilt, and walked with head held high from the room.
10
Susannah felt as if she'd spent the best years of her life doing little but making bread. She mixed, kneaded, and baked twice a day, and never a night passed that dough was not rising in her kitchen. The rooster had crowed his good morning not a quarter of an hour before, and here she stood in the kitchen, making bread for supper. The morning's loaves were already in the small baking oven set into the side of the huge fireplace that took up most of one wall of the kitchen. Soon they would be done. The wonderful warm scent of them wafted through the kitchen.
The rest of the family would be up within the hour, expecting to eat. That was the way their day always began, and that was the way it always would begin, world without end, as long as Susannah was there to take care of them. Except that Susannah, for some reason she couldn't quite fathom, was suddenly dissatisfied with the routine. Her life was busy, and she knew it was good, but—but— but what? She should be thankful, not repining. She was blessed. What was the matter with her, that she should secretly long for something other than the plenty she had?
Gruel bubbled over the fire. With molasses dribbled
over it, and plenty of fresh bread and butter, it would make a hearty morning
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