Chapter Ten
Warm dirt sifted between Abigail’s fingers as she smoothed around the base of the rosebush she’d just cleaned up.
She’d been at it for nearly an hour and had little to show—every few minutes, her hands stilled, her thoughts circling back to last night.
How was she supposed to think, to breathe, let alone tend a flower bed, after what happened?
Mr. Moreau had kissed her.
The memory came in flashes—the press of his lips, the warmth of whiskey on his breath, the pulse he’d awoken still alive beneath her skin. No matter how she tried to bury it beneath soil and work, the heat of it lingered, unsettling and impossible to shake.
Mr. Ainsley had never kissed her.
That’s because he was an honest and respectable gentleman.
She’d never wished for him—or any man—to steal a kiss.
Last night should have thoroughly scandalized her.
But it hadn’t. She’d lain in bed waiting to feel outraged, but the conviction never came.
Instead, she’d run her fingertips over her lips again and again, marveling at the soft ache that pulsed through her body.
A traitorous warmth flushed through her and with a muttered curse, she threw herself back into tugging the stubborn weeds. Each forceful movement tried to drive the memory from her mind, but the frantic pulse behind her ribs would not ease.
The door banged shut on the porch, and she jerked upright, heart skipping.
Mr. Moreau strode down the steps, a bamboo cane and wooden bucket swinging from one hand.
He started toward the trees, but froze when his eyes landed on her.
A shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair fell in untamed waves.
Her gaze dropped to his lips, and the warmth already curled in her belly tightened.
He glanced between her and the bed. “It’s starting to look more civilized.”
Her fingertips curled beneath the soil. “I—yes, I suppose so.”
“About last night…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. “Upstairs… Outside your room.”
Heat crept up her neck, spreading across her cheeks like liquid fire.
“I-I’m sorry.” He shifted on his feet and glanced toward the swamp.
Why did the apology make her heart fall? She swallowed, her throat tight.
He met her gaze again, unwavering and serious. “It shouldn’t have happened. Won’t happen again.”
She gave a tight nod, an uncomfortable pressure building in her chest. “It’s… fine.”
“Also, I apologize for my behavior in my study.”
Her shoulders relaxed with the welcome change in subject. “My father sometimes drinks too much. I’ve seen worse.”
He groaned. “That doesn’t make me feel any better if that’s what you were trying to do.”
Her lips twisted. “Not particularly.”
“Ever since Isabelle died, I’ve…” He trailed off, and a pained look passed across his face. “I’ve seen things. Ghosts, I suppose. I started drinking, hoping it would chase them away… but it only made it worse.”
The ramblings she’d witnessed over the last few nights suddenly made sense, every disjointed word she’d overheard falling into place. Words rose to her lips but caught in her throat, leaving her chest constricted and racing.
He dragged in a breath. “I’ve gotten so used to living with them, I started to find some sort of comfort in them. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live without them. Last night, the ghosts never came. That’s never happened before.”
She gave him an encouraging smile. “Maybe you don’t have to live with them after all.”
He shifted his weight and gave her a tight nod. “I locked away my brandy. No more tortured nights.”
She straightened, brushing her hands on her apron. “I think that sounds like a good start toward healing.”
His lips twitched. “I think healing sounds good.”
The trill of a bird drifted through the clearing, and she settled back onto the ground. After a moment’s pause, he held up the pole. “I’m going fishing, if you’d like to come with?”
“I’ve never gone fishing.”
A dark brow quirked. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
A small grin curved his lips. “Well, you can’t stay here in the bayou and not go fishing at least once.” He held out his free hand. “Eloise makes the best fried catfish; if you come along, we’ll have a better chance at catching enough for a proper dinner.”
Abigail pulled her lip between her teeth. Part of her wanted to take his hand and let him pull her upright, but another bristled at how quickly her pulse spiked. She swallowed, tugging at a stray bit of grass between her fingers.
The smile slipped from his face. “It’s alright. You don’t have to.” He turned toward the water.
“No!” She pushed to her feet. “I do. I want to come, that is.”
They followed a worn trail to a wide channel.
Moss swayed gently above them in the humid breeze, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and stagnant water.
Frogs croaked in the shadows, an occasional splash echoing across the still water.
She stole a glance next to her, where the sunlight caught the angle of his jaw and the unruly sweep of his hair.
He held aside a low hanging branch for her and waited, his gray eyes dark and steady.
As she ducked under it, the brush of his shoulder against hers sent a jolt up her spine, sudden and undeniable.
She forced herself to ignore it and stepped onto the soft bank of the channel.
Ahead, a small wooden dock jutted into the water.
A flat-bottomed boat bobbed there, and he waved her toward it.
A chill spread through her. “We need to go on a boat?”
Mr. Moreau gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Of course. The big fish are out deeper.”
She jerked to a stop. The boat rocked with the current, bumping against a weathered wood post with rhythmic clunks. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers gripping nothing but air as a knot tightened in her stomach.
He glanced over at her, sharp gaze assessing. “What’s wrong?”
Acid burned up her throat. “I… I don’t like boats.”
A shadow of confusion crossed his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shook her head and took a step backward. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ll go back to the house. You stay here.”
He took a slow step toward her, hands raised slightly. “Miss Ross, it’s just a boat. I’ll be right here. I won’t let anything happen.”
Every nerve screamed at her to turn and run. “You don’t understand, I… I can’t.” Her voice trembled on the last word, and she swallowed hard against the queasy twist in her stomach at the very thought of stepping aboard.
She spun, boot slipping in the mud, but he reached out and caught her elbow. “It’s alright. We can fish from the dock.”
Her gaze flicked to the narrow planks stretching over the water, heart hammering. “No. I’ve decided I don’t feel like fishing after all.”
He gave a gentle squeeze, and her gaze flashed to her elbow, where he still grasped her. “Miss Ross, I didn’t take you for a coward.” A wry smile twisted his lips.
Her cheeks flushed. “I just—”
“Relax.” He released her elbow. “No one’s asking for heroics today. One small step at a time. Or none at all. I won’t force you.”
Without waiting for her answer, he stepped onto the dock. Turning to face her, he spread his arms. “See? Nothing to it.”
She scanned the murky water and swallowed. “What about gators?”
A dark brow lifted, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “You’re in more danger from them down there than up here.” He pointed toward the bank with the pole.
Heart racing, she lifted her skirts and inched onto the dock. The planks groaned under her careful steps, each one a struggle against the panic clawing at her chest. She froze when a thud came from her side, reverberating up through her feet. The boat.
“Don’t worry about the boat.” Mr. Moreau’s soft voice steadied her. “Just come to the edge of the dock. That’s it.”
She took a deep breath and stepped across the old boards, damp with mist rising from the bayou. When she reached his side, the stillness of the place pressed around them. Dragonflies skimmed over the water, and an egret eyed them from his perch on the bank.
“There. Not so bad, is it?”
She gave a shaky nod as Mr. Moreau pulled a piece of salt pork out and baited the hook.
“It’s easy. You throw the line out as far as you can, then slowly bring it in.” He tipped the pole to show her the motion before handing it over. “Just be sure the line is behind the pole before you cast, or it’ll tangle.”
She pulled her lip between her teeth. The cane proved heavier than she expected. She planted her feet, angled the pole, and flung it forward. The hook jerked and arced up in the air, landing on the dock at her feet with a dull clatter.
“Not like that.” His chuckle rolled over her. “Here. Let me show you.”
He stepped behind her, close enough that the warmth of his chest brushed her back. Before she could protest, his arms slid around her, hands settling over hers. He guided her through the cast with a quiet yet insistent pressure.
“Back first.” He drew her hands with his in one smooth motion. “Then forward, with a flick at the end.”
The line hissed out and the cork bobber landed with a neat ripple several yards out. His chest bumped her shoulder as they moved, the contact solid and warm. A shiver ran through her, and she forced herself to focus on the water.
“Much better.”
She jumped as his breath brushed her neck. She couldn’t breathe as his mouth hovered near her ear.
“Feel the weight of the bait? Now you wait.”
Her heart began to race anew as he stayed in place, a smoldering fire burning a path through her body. Every inch of her skin prickled under his closeness, and a tight, thrilling tension wound through her.
The cork bobbed once, twice. Then disappeared.
“Oh!” The cane bent, and Abigail nearly dropped it. Mr. Moreau jumped to tighten his grip over hers.
“You’ve got one.” His voice vibrated against her, sending a little shockwave along her neck.
“What do I do?” The words left her in a breathless whisper.
He gave her hands one more squeeze, then stepped to the side. Her fingers tightened, knuckles whitening as she tried to match the fish’s frantic energy. Excitement and fear tangled together, and a startled laugh escaped her throat as she struggled to keep hold.
“Lift, gently, and walk it back toward the shore.” He held the line steady as she followed his instructions.
The water broke with a flash of whiskers and slick brown hide. She squealed and stepped forward, and it splashed back into the water. Mr. Moreau laughed, and drew the line up, hauling the fish onto the dock. She beamed as he unhooked it and secured it to another line.
“Not bad for your first try.”
They cast a few more times, the line slicing through the misty air, the bobber dancing across the water. In short order, three more fish joined the first, flopping and glinting in the sun before Mr. Moreau threaded them on a stringer hanging from the dock.
Wrapping the line around the pole, he pulled a roll of twine from his pocket. “Now, for the real fun.”
He helped her from the dock onto the slippery slope leading to the water’s edge. Once there, he took a ball of twine from his pocket. He unrolled it, using a knife sheathed at his ankle to cut two lengths, and tied the end of one around a small piece of salt pork.
His thumb brushed her knuckles as he handed her the line. “Remember to keep it still. They’re cautious little devils.”
She rubbed the line between her fingers. “What are?”
“Crawfish.”
Her brows lifted. “I love crawfish pie.”
His soft chuckle rolled over her. “Well, we’ve got to catch them before we can talk about cooking them.”
She nodded and took a line from him, dangling it over the water.
“Now, lean out and toss it by that log.” He pointed to a branch sticking out of the murky water.
She leaned as far as she dared and tossed it in. “If I get muddy, you’re helping me clean my skirts.”
One corner of his mouth twitched up as he baited another line and dropped it near hers. They sat that way for several minutes.
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Patience. They’ll come.”
Her twine quivered. “Is that—?”
“Go ahead and pull it up. Slowly now.”
She lifted the string, and a large crawfish dangled from the bait, claws raised like a tiny duelist. Mr. Moreau reached for it with deft fingers. At the last second, the line twisted and one of the little hellion’s pinchers closed around his fingertip.
“Damn it!” He jerked his hand back as his body twisted.
Abigail gasped as his feet slid in the mud and he lost his footing.
With a holler, he tumbled backward into the bayou.
The muddy water swallowed him, then broke as he surged back up, standing waist-deep.
He waved his hand in the air, the crawfish dangling from his finger like a wriggling ornament.
With one last flick of his wrist, the little beast went flying.
Her hand flew to her mouth, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
He glared at her through the water cascading down his face. “Think that’s funny, do you?”
His hand pulled back and her eyes widened. Before she could retreat, he swept his arm forward, sending a plume of water at her. She let out a cry as the cool spray hit her, droplets scattering across her face and chest.
Mr. Moreau laughed, the sound echoing from the cypress trees. It rolled through him, rich and unguarded, and she couldn’t look away. She shot him a mock glare as her lips twitched despite herself. He slogged toward the shore, slipping again as he tried to get a foothold.
“Here.” She reached out.
He caught her hand with a firm grip, mischief sparking in his eyes as he gave a little tug.
“Mr. Moreau! Don’t you dare!”
He eyed her. “You’re lucky I don’t like doing laundry.”
She couldn’t help her burst of laughter as he slogged from the water.