ever a time for control, it was now.
She pulled off her nightgown, shivering in the cold room, and dressed while Marymae gurgled and cooed, kicking her legs against the sides of her bunting.
She gazed down at the child. Five months. It had been over five months since Josette’s birthing shrieks and screams riddled the air. If every woman carried on as Josette had, surely the population of the world would be lessened considerably, for not one of them would choose to go through it again. Josette had sounded as though she were being skinned alive.
Julia wasn’t unaware of the pain of childbirth. She’d heard other women talking about it often enough. Even now, when she was so angry with her sister she wanted to throttle her, she felt a rush of pity for her. Poor, poor Josette, whose life had been made easy, but for whom no one and nothing could relieve the pain of delivering a child.
Marymae looked up at her and gave her a wide, dimpled, smile. She’d been surprisingly sweet-tempered, in spite of the fact that she was teething. All of Julia’s anxiety fled when she looked at the babe.
“Good morning, love,” she murmured. “You’re such a good girl.” She picked her up, cuddling her close, ignoring the fact that Marymae had grabbed her braid and tugged.
After changing her, Julia carried her into the kitchen and fastened her into the special seat her father had made. She left Marymae to play with a string of beads while she fired up the stove, put on a pot of coffee, and made some oatmeal.
She was mixing hotcake batter when she heard Wolf McCloud outside. Thinking he was going to enter, she waited. When he didn’t, she went to the back door, looking out the small window. Her heart fluttered when she saw him.
In spite of the cold, he’d taken off his shirt. The rounded muscles in his chest and the straplike muscles under his arms bunched against his brown skin as he forked hay into the corral for the horses. He stopped, leaned on the pitchfork and looked at the house. Julia moved away from the door, yet allowed herself the luxury of memorizing each and every ridge in his hard, flat stomach. Sunlight glanced off his sleek, sweaty skin.
She’d never touched a man anywhere but his hands and face. Wolf McCloud looked smooth and hard, as if he were a living statue with muscles of stone, covered with the finest quality of flesh.
It was just unfortunate, she thought, dredging up her anger, that his perfect body had to be the vessel for such a depraved, degenerate soul.
He rested the pitchfork against the barn wall, picked up a bucket, and strode to the horse trough, where he filled it with water. She watched as he carried the bucket to the overturned crate used as a washstand by the help during harvest, and sloshed water over his face and chest. She shivered, knowing the water was cold.
He turned away briefly, exposing his back, and Julia gasped, shrinking from the window. He’d been lashed. She took a deep, shaky breath and peered out the window again. He stood there, gazing at the barn, his back to her. There was barely an area of his skin that hadn’t been carved by the angry end of a whip. Though the marks did not look new, Julia felt a thrust of sympathetic pain.
When he put his shirt on over his wet skin and started toward the house, Julia scurried into the kitchen, her face warm and her heart thumping hard. There was so much she didn’t know about him.
In spite of wishing it were so, she knew he wasn’t a slugabed. She wasn’t surprised to find him up and working. It didn’t matter. There were other chores to do, chores that he probably wasn’t aware of. Feeding the horses had been just one of them.
She heard his footsteps on the stoop again, then he knocked. Moving to the door, she held it while he stepped inside. His hair was wet; he smelled like fresh air. Although it was cold outside, his body exuded a warmth that made Julia breathless. The memory of his arm around her shoulders the night
She pulled off her nightgown, shivering in the cold room, and dressed while Marymae gurgled and cooed, kicking her legs against the sides of her bunting.
She gazed down at the child. Five months. It had been over five months since Josette’s birthing shrieks and screams riddled the air. If every woman carried on as Josette had, surely the population of the world would be lessened considerably, for not one of them would choose to go through it again. Josette had sounded as though she were being skinned alive.
Julia wasn’t unaware of the pain of childbirth. She’d heard other women talking about it often enough. Even now, when she was so angry with her sister she wanted to throttle her, she felt a rush of pity for her. Poor, poor Josette, whose life had been made easy, but for whom no one and nothing could relieve the pain of delivering a child.
Marymae looked up at her and gave her a wide, dimpled, smile. She’d been surprisingly sweet-tempered, in spite of the fact that she was teething. All of Julia’s anxiety fled when she looked at the babe.
“Good morning, love,” she murmured. “You’re such a good girl.” She picked her up, cuddling her close, ignoring the fact that Marymae had grabbed her braid and tugged.
After changing her, Julia carried her into the kitchen and fastened her into the special seat her father had made. She left Marymae to play with a string of beads while she fired up the stove, put on a pot of coffee, and made some oatmeal.
She was mixing hotcake batter when she heard Wolf McCloud outside. Thinking he was going to enter, she waited. When he didn’t, she went to the back door, looking out the small window. Her heart fluttered when she saw him.
In spite of the cold, he’d taken off his shirt. The rounded muscles in his chest and the straplike muscles under his arms bunched against his brown skin as he forked hay into the corral for the horses. He stopped, leaned on the pitchfork and looked at the house. Julia moved away from the door, yet allowed herself the luxury of memorizing each and every ridge in his hard, flat stomach. Sunlight glanced off his sleek, sweaty skin.
She’d never touched a man anywhere but his hands and face. Wolf McCloud looked smooth and hard, as if he were a living statue with muscles of stone, covered with the finest quality of flesh.
It was just unfortunate, she thought, dredging up her anger, that his perfect body had to be the vessel for such a depraved, degenerate soul.
He rested the pitchfork against the barn wall, picked up a bucket, and strode to the horse trough, where he filled it with water. She watched as he carried the bucket to the overturned crate used as a washstand by the help during harvest, and sloshed water over his face and chest. She shivered, knowing the water was cold.
He turned away briefly, exposing his back, and Julia gasped, shrinking from the window. He’d been lashed. She took a deep, shaky breath and peered out the window again. He stood there, gazing at the barn, his back to her. There was barely an area of his skin that hadn’t been carved by the angry end of a whip. Though the marks did not look new, Julia felt a thrust of sympathetic pain.
When he put his shirt on over his wet skin and started toward the house, Julia scurried into the kitchen, her face warm and her heart thumping hard. There was so much she didn’t know about him.
In spite of wishing it were so, she knew he wasn’t a slugabed. She wasn’t surprised to find him up and working. It didn’t matter. There were other chores to do, chores that he probably wasn’t aware of. Feeding the horses had been just one of them.
She heard his footsteps on the stoop again, then he knocked. Moving to the door, she held it while he stepped inside. His hair was wet; he smelled like fresh air. Although it was cold outside, his body exuded a warmth that made Julia breathless. The memory of his arm around her shoulders the night
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