He was scraping his boots by the back door when Lucy, the maid Sophronia had recently hired, came flying out. "It wasn't my fault, Major. Miz Sophronia didn't tell me nobody was comin' today when she went off to see the Conjure Woman. This lady showed up askin' for you, and then she just took herself off to the sitting room, bold as brass."
"Is she still there?"
"Yes. And that's not all. She brung-"
"Damn!" He'd received a letter the week before announcing that a member of the Society to Protect Widows and Orphans of the Confederacy would be calling on him for a contribution. The respectable citizens of the neighborhood ignored him unless they needed money; then some matronly woman would show up and observe him with pursed lips and nervous eyes while she tried to get him to empty his pockets. He'd begun to suspect the charities were merely a face-saving excuse to get a glimpse inside the lair of the evil Hero of Missionary Ridge. It amused him to watch those same women try to discourage the flirtatious glances that came his way from their daughters when he was in town, but he restricted his female companionship to infrequent trips to the more experienced women of Charleston.
He stalked into the house and down the hallway toward the sitting room. He didn't care that he was dressed in the same tobacco-brown trousers and white shirt he'd worn all day in the fields. He'd be damned if he'd change his clothes to receive another one of these tiresome women. But what he saw when he entered the sitting room wasn't what he'd expected…
The woman stood at the window looking out. Even with her back to him, he saw that she was well dressed, unusual for the women of the community. Her skirt rippled ever so slightly as she turned.
He caught his breath.
She was exquisite. Her dove-gray gown was trimmed with rose piping, and a waterfall of pale gray lace fell from her throat over a pair of supple, round breasts. A small hat the same soft rose shade as the trim of her gown perched on her inky-dark hair. The tip of the short gray plume that dipped from the brim came level with her brow.
The rest of the woman's features were covered by a black veil as light as a spider's web. Tiny, sparkling dewdrops of jet clung to its honeycombed surface, with only a moist red mouth visible beneath. That and a small pair of jet earbobs.
He didn't know her. He'd have remembered such a creature. She must be one of the respectable daughters of the neighborhood who'd been so carefully tucked away from him.
She remained quietly confident under his open appraisal. What household calamity had resulted in so enticing a morsel being sent to take her mother's place in the den of the infamous Yankee?
His gaze touched that ripe mouth peeking from beneath her veil. Beautiful and intriguing. Her parents would have done better to keep this one safely locked away.
While Cain was studying her so intently, Kit was conducting her own perusal from behind the honeycombed cells of her veil. Three years had passed. She was older now, and she studied him through more mature eyes. What she saw wasn't reassuring. He was more outrageously handsome than she remembered. The sun had bronzed the planes of his face and streaked his crisp, tawny hair. The darker hair at his temples gave his face the rugged look of a man who belonged outdoors.
He was still dressed for the fields, and the sight of that muscular body unsettled her. The white shirt that stretched across his chest was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing tanned, hard-tendoned forearms. Brown trousers clung to his hips and hugged the powerful muscles of his thighs.
The spacious room in which they were standing seemed to have shrunk. Even standing still, he radiated an aura of power and danger. Somehow she'd managed to forget that. What curious, self-protective mechanism had made her reduce him in her mind to the level of other men? It was a mistake she wouldn't make again.
Cain was aware of her scrutiny. She seemed to have no intention of being the first to speak, and her composure indicated a degree of self-confidence that intrigued him. Curious to test its limits, he broke the silence with deliberate brusqueness.
"You wanted to see me?"
She felt a stab of satisfaction. He didn't know who she was. The veiled hat had given her this one small advantage. The masquerade wouldn't last for long, but while it did, she'd have time to size up her opponent with wiser eyes than those of art immature eighteen-year-old who'd known both too much and too little.
"This room is quite beautiful," she said coolly.
"I have an excellent housekeeper."
"You're fortunate."
"Yes, I am." He walked farther into the room, moving with the easy rolling gait of a man who spent much of his time on horseback. "She usually takes care of calls like yours, but she's out on some kind of errand."
Kit wondered who he thought she was and what he meant. "She's gone to see the Conjure Woman."
"The Conjure Woman?"
"She makes spells and tells futures." After three years at Risen Glory, he didn't even know this much. Nothing could have offered more proof that he didn't belong here. "She's sick, and Sophronia's gone to see her."
"You know Sophronia?"
"Yes."
"So you live nearby?"
She nodded but didn't elaborate. He indicated a chair. "You didn't give Lucy your name."
"Lucy? Do you mean your maid?"
"I see there's something you don't know."
She ignored the chair he'd indicated and walked to the fireplace, deliberately turning her back to him. He noticed that she moved with a bolder step than most women. She also didn't try to position herself in a way that showed off her fashionable gown to best advantage. It was as if her clothing were merely something to toss on in the morning and, once she'd done up the fastenings, to forget.
He decided to press her. "Your name?"
"Is it important?" Her voice was low, husky, and distinctly Southern.
"Maybe."
"I wonder why."
Cain was intrigued as much by the provocative way she avoided answering his question as by the faint fragrance of jasmine that drifted from her skirts and tugged at his senses. He wished she'd turn back around so he could get a closer look at the captivating features he could only glimpse behind the veil.
"A lady of mystery," he mocked softly, "coming into the enemy's lair without a zealous mother to serve as chaperone. Not wise at all."
"I don't always behave wisely."
Cain smiled. "Neither do I."
His gaze slipped from that silly dab of a hat to the coil of silky dark hair resting on the nape of her neck. What would it look like unfastened and tumbling over naked white shoulders? His jolt of arousal told him he'd been without a woman too long. Although even if he'd had a dozen the night before, he knew this woman would still have stirred him.
"Should I expect a jealous husband to come banging on my door looking for his wayward wife?"
"I have no husband."
"No?" He suddenly wanted to test the limits of her self-confidence. "Is that why you're here? Has the supply of eligible men in the county dipped so low that well-bred Southern ladies are forced to scout in the Yankee's lair?"
She turned. Through her veil he could just make out flashing eyes and a small nose with delicately flaring nostrils.
"I assure you, Major Cain, I'm not here to scout for a husband. You have an elevated opinion of yourself."
"Do I?" He moved closer. His legs brushed her skirt.
Kit wanted to step back, but she held her ground. He was a predator, and like all predators, he fed off the weakness of others. Even the smallest retreat would be a victory for him, and she wouldn't show him any vulnerability. At the same time, his nearness made her feel slightly dizzy. The sensation should have been unpleasant, but it wasn't.
"Tell me, mystery lady. What else would a respectable young woman be doing visiting a man by herself?" His voice was deep and teasing, and his gray eyes glimmered with a devilry that made her blood rush faster. "Or is it possible that the respectable young lady isn't as respectable as she seems to be?"