Chapter 11 #2
The bathtub Sloan had mentioned was made of wood and copper, but appeared much larger than the more elegant tubs she was used to. Steam was rising from it. The private and sergeant had taken pains to see to it that she had plenty of hot water.
“You should get into that right away,” Sloan told her. “They went through a lot of trouble to prepare it for you.”
She nodded uneasily, stepping into the room, realizing that this was the first place that they would live as man and wife. She was slightly unnerved, aware that he was watching her, and aware that she would be a tremendous curiosity to every man, woman, and child at the fort.
“Don’t you…have to report to duty or something?” she inquired.
He laughed, coming in, taking off his coat, and hanging it on one of the hooks by the door. “I just came in from weeks in the field, my love. No, I do not have to report to duty—or something.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll take your cloak.”
He did so, then walked past her. The small outer area held a mahogany secretary that was loaded down with newspapers and correspondence, and it was to the desk that Sloan went then, giving his attention to the top memorandum.
Sabrina gave a silent sigh of relief that he seemed to be so occupied, and stepped further in.
There were two upholstered chairs that flanked the Dutch oven, and beyond that was the bedroom area with a large wardrobe and two cherrywood dressers.
She was surprised to see that a number of pictures hung on the walls; somehow, she hadn’t thought of Sloan as being the sentimental type, and yet even here, in his army quarters, she was surprised to see the merging of his two cultures.
A very handsome war bonnet was displayed above the bed, while on the opposite wall was a picture of an extremely dignified man in full dress Union uniform.
Sloan’s maternal grandfather, she recognized.
Above the mantel was a painting of a young warrior, long black hair flowing in the breeze, his face turned toward the sky, arms outstretched.
It was a stirring painting, capturing all that the Whites saw as noble in the Indian; it was a painting of a free, strong man, one who might well fight forever for love of his freedom and his life.
“My father,” Sabrina heard Sloan say, and she spun around, startled that he had come so silently upon her. He added, “Hunting Bear.”
Sabrina nodded. “He was a handsome man.”
He smiled slightly. “I’m sorry to interrupt your inspection of your new home, but your bath is growing cold.”
“Wait. Is the other man—”
“My grandfather. General Trelawny.” He walked across the room, showing her a smaller portrait, framed beautifully and set on his dresser.
“I do remember him,” Sabrina mused, smiling.
“Well, I’m glad that he meets with your approval, and that you have an affection for at least one Trelawny.” He wasn’t expecting a response; he showed her another picture from his dresser. “More of my White half. My mother.”
The woman had been beautiful. In the portrait, she was young—twenty, perhaps. Whereas Sloan was so very dark, she was fair-skinned and fair-haired, but he had inherited her high cheekbones and clean, arched brows. Sabrina could easily see why Sloan had turned out to be such a striking man.
“She was very, very lovely.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“It must have broken your grandfather’s heart, losing her.”
Sloan had started back to the other room. “You’ll have to ask him sometime,” he called back to her.
She followed him out. “So…I will most probably get to see him sometime soon?”
He was distracted, already going through papers on his desk, and he didn’t look up as he spoke. “I’m not sure how soon—and don’t go getting too hopeful. I’m not sending you to Georgetown to live with my grandfather.”
“You probably should spend more time with him. He’s old.”
“Old and hale and hearty, and busy writing editorials and telling the Washington politicians just what he thinks of them,” Sloan assured her. “He might well outlive us all.” He sat down at his desk, his eyes narrowing at one of the papers that lay on it.
“Your grandfather is still old, and you should spend more time with him.”
He paused, looking at her. “Sabrina, I’m not going east any time soon, and you’re not going anywhere. You’re not buying time. Time is something I suddenly feel that I cannot waste anymore.”
She hesitated slightly, wondering if she was trying to fight a battle she was afraid she might win. “Sloan, I still think that it would be so much better if we put both time and distance between us and gave serious consideration to my suggestion of ending this marriage—”
“You are stubborn.”
“I can’t understand why you’re so insistent!”
He watched her, his dark eyes brooding for a long moment. “We’re not ending the marriage. I hadn’t realized until circumstances cast us together that I do want a family. Badly. Such a goal would be quite difficult to achieve if I sent you east.”
She bit into her lower lip to keep from gasping in dismay. The miscarriage she had suffered had been more devastating than she might ever have imagined. But now she wasn’t at all ready to hope for another child. Not out here, on this frontier where danger threatened constantly.
“Maybe I can’t have children.”
“James said that there was no reason you shouldn’t have a dozen children, if you so desired.”
“He might be wrong.”
“And the moon might collide with the earth. Sabrina, I do have some correspondence I have to deal with, and your bath, which did cause the men some extra effort, is growing cold.”
Still, she hesitated. “I’ve gotten the impression that there are a number of women who would most happily bear your children.”
He set his papers down and gave her his full attention. “But I’m not married to them. Shall I help you into the bath?”
“No,” she snapped irritably and walked back into the bedroom, looking at the steam that wafted above the tub. The men had gone to a great deal of trouble for her, but the idea of just casually disrobing around Sloan still seemed so strange to her.
But Sloan remained in the other room. She heard him rifling through his papers.
Towels and a bar of soap had been left on the bed, and after a moment, she suddenly went into double time, doffing her shoes and stockings and then the rest of her clothing, doing so with such speed that she nearly tore the ribbons off her corset.
She plunged instantly into the water and just barely kept herself from screeching out loud—it was still so incredibly hot.
But then, as she sank into the water, it felt wonderful.
The tub was big and deep—it had been made for army men, she thought with a slight smile.
Big men. Which made it just delightful for a medium-sized woman.
She sank all the way under, soaking her hair; then she started to scrub her body.
In a few minutes, she had forgotten everything other than the sensual feel of the warm water and the deliriously clean smell of the soap.
She leaned against the wooden rim, closing her eyes, luxuriating in the heat as it seeped through her.
She opened her eyes and screamed with surprise, then clapped her hand over her mouth, wondering just how loud she had been. She hadn’t heard Sloan move! But now he stood at the foot of the tub, watching her, a ceramic mug in his hand.
“Private Smith was very thorough,” he told her, his tone dry as he ignored the scream. “He left warmed wine. I brought you some.”
She reached for the cup he handed her. “Thank you. I—I didn’t mean to scream. You startled me.”
He nodded, a brow slightly arched, and turned away. He left her again, going back to his desk, sitting in the swivel chair. Sabrina sipped the wine. It was good and as much a luxury as the steaming bath after the fierce cold and brittle stiffness she had endured while riding.
But as she sipped it, she realized that Sloan had returned once again. He leaned against the archway, not really watching her, and she thought that there had been something in the correspondence he’d received that had disturbed him.
She swallowed her wine very quickly, set down the mug, and grabbed a towel, quickly wrapping it around her as she stepped from the tub. “It’s still warm,” she said as his eyes met hers.
“Is it?”
She scampered away as he approached it, threading her fingers through her hair to untangle it.
She went through the roll of clothing Meggie had prepared for her, found a robe and her brush, slipped quickly into the former, and started working with the latter—trying to pretend that she wasn’t vividly aware of Sloan pulling off his boots and stripping down to the buff.
In a moment, he had sunk into the tub, and she heard his sigh of comfort and contentment.
A moment later, he spoke. “You know, if you come closer to the fire, you can brush your hair and dry it. Ah, but then again, I’m close to the fire. Hmm…this is wonderfully like a honeymoon, isn’t it? We’re married and living together. Our first home.”
“This is a military barracks, not really a home,” she pointed out nervously.
“There’s a chair by the fire,” he said, his dark hair drenched and straight to his shoulders, an expression of amusement in his eyes.
“I’m fine—”
“You’ve very long hair. You’d better dry it—you wouldn’t want to catch cold, would you?”
With a sigh of irritation, Sabrina brought her brush and towel to the chair by the fire.
“There’s more wine.”
“Can I get you some?” she asked politely.
“I just thought you might like more,” he told her, still seeming to be amused.
Maybe she did want more wine. She picked up her mug, then found his.
The warmed wine was in a carafe on a warmer on the Dutch oven.
She brought him his, trying not to look into the water.
She took her wine with her, setting it by her feet while she brushed her hair before the fire, aware that he sipped and watched her.
“This is strange.”
“What?”
“I never imagined such domestic bliss.”
“Don’t you dare torment me—”