Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes Page A

must show me where the woodpile is.” His tone of voice was positively glacial, and the boys dove for their coats and scarves.
    “Evan, you stay inside,” Nita said, for the smallest of the three boys had weak lungs and likely no shoes.
    “He can gather up the soiled linens,” Mr. St. Michael said. “There’s laundry in need of boiling.”
    Well, yes. Any household with a new baby boasted a deal of laundry.
    Within minutes, Nita heard the rhythmic sound of an ax falling, and Evan was scurrying about, making a great heap of dirty clothing, bedding, and linen by the cottage door.
    Nita used the relative privacy to fold back the curtain over the sleeping alcove, where Addy slumbered on as if she were the worse for drink.
    “She hasn’t had any gin,” Mary whispered. “Not since wee Annie was born. Mama has slept and slept. I bring her the baby, like you told me to.”
    The back of Nita’s hand to Addy’s forehead verified the absence of fever.
    “Having a baby can be tiring,” Nita said softly. Childbirth could also be fatal, and then what would these children do? Nick allowed them to forage in the home wood for deadfall, and Nita had her suspicions about where the occasional hare in the stew pot came from.
    “Annie’s awake,” Mary said, peering at her sister. “She’s hardly ever awake.”
    The very old and the very young often drifted in a benevolent twilight. When Nita’s father had dwelled in that twilight continuously, she’d known his end approached.
    “Let’s have a look at her,” Nita said, closing the curtain and taking the baby from Mary’s arms.
    Annie Elizabeth felt solid, reassuringly so, and Mary had kept the baby clean. A clout had been tied about the infant’s small form, one of many Nita had made from old shifts and sheets.
    The door opened and fresh, chilly air gusted through the cottage.
    Tremaine St. Michael dumped a load of split wood into the empty wood box.
    “So that’s the new arrival?” he asked, peering at the baby in Nita’s arms. “Pretty little thing. Ladies of that size always look so innocent.”
    In this household, the child’s innocence was doomed.
    “Her name’s Annie,” Mary volunteered. Behind the curtained alcove, Addy stirred in her sleep, then fell silent.
    “And you’re Mary,” Mr. St. Michael said, dropping to his haunches. “Your brothers are quite in awe of you. They say you can cook and clean, and should go for a maid in a fancy lord’s house because you work ever so hard the livelong day.”
    Mary’s brows drew down at this flattery, though Mr. St. Michael’s words were true enough. The cottage was tidy—the dirt floor swept, the baby’s linens folded in a short stack on the table, the hearth free of excess ashes. Most of the sausage Nita had brought last time hung from the crossbeam between sheaves of herbs and a rope of onions.
    “I couldn’t leave our Annie,” Mary said. “The boys want me earning coin. They wouldn’t know how to help with Annie, though.”
    Mr. St. Michael rose, his expression displeased.
    “Give me that baby, my lady,” he said, plucking Annie from Nita’s arms. “Mary needs a spot of fresh air, you’re dying to fill that stew pot, and the water for the laundry will take some time to heat.”
    “Ma said we weren’t to do laundry,” Mary murmured, passing Mr. St. Michael the baby’s blanket. “We need the wood for heat.”
    “Get your coat on,” Tremaine told the girl as he wrapped Annie snugly in the blanket and put the baby to his shoulder. “One of your brothers is gathering more wood as we speak, to keep the fire under the laundry tub going; the other is walking the horses one at a time. If you can figure out how to climb onto my gelding, you’re welcome to walk him out for me.”
    Mary sent Nita one glance, the merest brush of elated disbelief, then dashed for her cloak and was out the door.
    “You’re spoiled here in the south,” Mr. St. Michael said, stroking the baby’s back gently.