By the Bay

© Lily Rockmore, 2009

Chapter Two:

The light went out, and he didn't bother to light the flint again. Anita didn't need the light to see the suspicion in his eyes.

"I didn't ask for a housekeeper," he said, and his arms tightened imperceptibly around her neck. "Neither did my father have one. Don't think of lying, girl. Who are you?"

Anita swallowed again. How was she to prove that she was indeed the new housekeeper without Madam Ruth around?

"But, sir," she said with a slight stammer. "Madam Ruth hired me last week."

Madam Ruth. Could that be Madam Ruth Tatiana? Even if it was, how would she know that he was coming and why would she hire him household staff?

"She -- um -- I remember her telling me that you wrote to her, asking the house to be readied for your arrival. So she hired two of us to clean the house last week. We've been living here since then."

He'd done no such thing, of course, but from the way the girl was speaking she seemed to think he was telling the truth. And from the war, he'd learned that facts didn't matter as much as the capacity of the human mind to believe them.

"Two of you?" he stated a moment later, catching on to her little slip. "If I remember correctly, you'd just told me that there was no one else in the house."

It was getting difficult to breathe. Her voice was whisper-soft. "I thought you were a burglar, s-sir. I didn't know if you'd hurt me, much more the other m-maid."

When Jay realized that the arm around her neck was choking her slightly, he released her, and felt a pang of guilt as she took deep, gulping breaths. Then a curse left his lips when he finally understood who had been meddling with his affairs. Who else would, but his mother. She'd done it before, and it seemed entirely possible that she would do it again. She wouldn't have thought of it as meddling, of course, but 'motherly care' was the word she would use. He remembered her pestering him to take a few servants with him on the trip, but he'd said no. Rather firmly, if he recalled. But his mother had gotten her way in the end.

'It's all for your own good, Jay,' he could almost hear her say.

He sighed. "Madam Ruth, you say?" He raised a hand to rub his shadowed jaw, assessing the girl as she nodded with her head bowed. She was rather interesting, with her whisper-soft voice and flashing blue eyes that were bold in their color yet shy in gaze. He didn't stop himself from running his eyes down her body. From what he could see of her, she was a shapely girl, with too much meat on her hips than was fashionable. Her loose hair tumbled down her back in damp tendrils, giving her, amongst other things, an extraordinarily exotic look. There was also something about a clean woman after a bath that was incredibly appealing. When an image of a woman, naked, cocooned in a bathtub entered his mind, he shook his head and cursed his vivid imagination. "Then I think my apologies are due. I'd thought you were a thief."

She shifted slightly on her feet. "I'd thought so, too, sir, from the way you climbed through the window."

"I lost my keys," he replied simply. "I didn't have much of a choice."

"Oh, we have extra ones in the kitchen. Would you like for me to get them for you?"

He smiled slightly, thinking it somewhat amusing that she never raised her head whilst speaking to him."Not right now, no. The morning would be fine."

There was a brief silence as he bent to retrieve his belongings. She rushed forward to do it for him, but he brushed her offer away. He wanted her to get one thing straight. "Since we're going to be living under the same roof for some time, I might as well let you know now that I don't like to be waited on."

She stepped away from him immediately, as though his words had physically repelled her.

He understood the insensitivity of his words once they left his mouth. Her only duty -- probably -- was to wait on him and he had just said he didn't need to be waited on. He quickly amended his sentence.

"But since you're here, would you like to show me to my room?"

"Of course, sir," she said and walked in the direction of the stairs, careful to dodge the furniture that she knew would be in her way.

As quickly as possible, she picked her way up the flight of stairs and opened the doors to the room that had its own balcony. She didn't even need to think of which room to give him. As the only occupant, he deserved the best.

A few seconds later, she heard him coming up behind her.

"We had prepared the room for you and your wife, sir," she said, somehow embarrassed by her words. There were fresh flowers on the dressing table and lace curtains hanging by the balcony -- feminine touches she'd thought his wife would like. "It has the most beautiful view."

Jay put the bags down and looked around the room. "Well, since I don't have a wife, I suppose I'd have to enjoy the view on my own."

The room had been decorated in the late nineteenth century, and its design attested to it. Rich white and blue wallpaper covered the walls whilst the furniture was made of pinewood. There was a dressing table opposite the bed, and beside the dressing table were the doors to the balcony. He strode over and opened them, letting the cool breeze from the sea, and moonlight swirl throughout the room.

When he turned away from the view, the girl had already lit two lamps and was turning the covers on the bed, down. The warm glow from the candle haloed her body, making her dark skin glow. The dip of her waist that wasn't covered by the sari was uncannily obvious, and the curve of her bottom was almost… violent.

Her fingers moved over the sheets, tucking in the excess and righting it to form a straight line on the bed. Her actions were nothing but ordinary, and yet, he felt an odd stirring in his abdomen. Her hands were mesmerizing and he could not tear his gaze from the way they efficiently stroked the sheets. Her hair, too, fell like a dark curtain over her shoulder, and she reached back several times to push it out of the way, making her blouse hike up just a little, revealing ample skin.

When she stepped away from the bed, he consciously made himself tear his eyes away from her feminine form and was staring off into the night.

"If it gets cold, sir, the extra blankets are at the top of the cupboard."

She motioned to the cupboard and began fiddling with the ends of her sari whilst waiting for him to respond.

"If you need anything else, sir," she hastened to remind him, "the servant's bell is by the door."

He nodded, pushing himself away from the balcony. "Yes, thank you."

She took that as a sign of dismissal and walked toward the door, but tuned back abruptly when his voice carried to her.

"By the way," he said, watching her turn the end of her sari into a tight knot. Her fingers were trembling slightly. It dawned on him that her actions might be signs of anxiety. Well, he didn't blame her. If someone had accosted him in the middle of the night, he'd be wary of that person as well. "What is your name?"

He heard her release a quiet breath, as though she'd expected him to say something else. "Anita, sir," she said. "The other maid's name is Nanthini."

He nodded. Anita.

She turned away from him again, and he watched her back unblinkingly as she retreated, not knowing why he was staring, yet unable to take his eyes away from her plump bottom. Wind from the sea ruffled his hair as she disappeared into the house. He shook his head. He must be tired, and his eyes were just finding convenient targets to focus on. Everything will be all right in the morning, after some much-needed rest.

But when he shed his clothes and tumbled into the bed, he fell asleep with the smell of jasmine blossoms on his sheets.

*

Anita leaned against the table in the kitchen and just breathed, something she felt like she hadn't done in the past few minutes. Her fingers curled around the wood, trying to release the anxiety in her body. Oh, she was so scared of that man. He was so tall -- probably twice the size of the men she knew. And his eyes, dear gods, his eyes… she was very afraid of the look in them whenever his gaze landed on her. She remembered him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony, his eyes a glittering green in the lamplight, watching her with a look she couldn't define. It had scared her, because it made him look so

attractive

.

Yes, he was handsome, despite his largeness. Very handsome, in fact. His hair hung in curls around his neck, and he had a strong features. His physique wasn't overly packed with muscles, but had just enough to show that he frequently exercised.

She really didn't understand why she was shaken by that man. There were a lot of white men around the island, and none of them had impacted in this manner. She let out a deep breath and unwound her fingers from the wood. What did it matter if her employer scared her? She was here to do a job and send her sister to school. She would put up with him even if he was the devil himself.

Determination squared her shoulders, and she walked towards her room, briefly checking on Meera before she went to bed.

*

When he awoke, it was to soft sunlight and the distant rumble of seawater. He lay on the centre of the bed, a pillow behind his head and one on his chest, the position of ultimate comfort if anyone had asked his opinion on the subject. The smell of the sea and palm trees drifted through the room, making him turn over and bury himself into the pillow with a smile. After years of dreaming of this place, he was finally here. It was almost surreal, the charm of this island, dragging him into sleep that was more restful that any he'd had back at home.

Reveling in the newfound comfort, he dozed for a while longer, only slipping out of bed when the glare of sunlight on his eyelids became unbearable.

The house was quiet when he went downstairs a few minutes later, dressed in the same loose shirt and pants that he'd worn the night before. His hair was still uncombed, falling past his eyes in boyish waves. He ran a hand through it in an attempt to right the curls as he passed a mirror, but he knew that the effort was useless. His hair had always been untamable.

The table had already been set for breakfast, he noted, as he entered the dining room. There were several porcelain bowls on the table, covered with matching lids. The smell of crisp bacon wafted to him as he settled himself comfortably in the high-backed chair. He'd just taken the lid off the first bowl when a figure clad in white bustled into the room.

Anita, he thought. So she had been real. Last night, as he was about to fall asleep, he'd almost attributed her to his imagination because she'd captured more of his attention than any woman had. Knowing she was not a figment of his imagination set his blood humming slightly as he watched her murmur good morning and set the kettle of tea in front of him.

She was different this morning, wearing a white cotton dress with an apron over her skirt. Her hair was secured by a knot at the base of her neck. The dress had buttons so high that it covered her collarbones, revealing little skin and making him feel distinctly uncomfortable for her. He sat back and watched as she served him from the bowls: several slices of bacon, a spoonful of eggs, toast. An English breakfast. How lovely.

He poured himself some tea, sweetening it with a spoonful of sugar. She stood aside as he stirred his tea, making him wonder if she was going to stand there 'til the end of the meal. Even if she was going to, he wouldn't have minded. She made a pretty nice view from where he was seated.

Her features were as perfect as he remembered. The moonlight hadn't made her look more beautiful, as he'd made himself believe. She was still the soft, supple woman he'd nearly choked to death the night before. The gentle curve of her jaw was almost familiar to him now, so was the quick dip of her waist. He remembered having placed his arm against the underside of that jaw, feeling her throat work as she swallowed in fear. Her skin had been soft, he remembered. And warm.

He didn't realize that he'd stopped drinking his tea or that his food was getting cold, as his gaze traveled along the length of her body, the moss-green orbs hidden behind a curtain of dark lashes. He didn't know why he took that precaution not to let her know he was watching her; even if he was openly staring at her, she wouldn't know it, for her gaze was fixed to the floor. He took a sip of the tea, noticing -- again -- the nip of her waist and the flare of her hips that were accentuated by the tight dress. Her hands were clasped in front of her waist, those hands that he… good god!

The chair made a loud scraping noise as it moved against the wooden floor. He stared at the marks on the thin column of her hands -- the imprint of harsh fingers. Her eyes met his as he looked up, shock paralyzing him. Had he actually done that to her? He was willing to bet that those were his fingerprints on her skin. Had he held her

that

tightly last night?

As soon as she saw what he was staring at, she hid her hands behind her, lowering her eyes once again. When he strode towards her, she took a few steps back.

"Show me your hands," he said in a low voice.

Intimidated by the dangerous glitter in his eyes, she held her hands out to him, the bluish-black indents clearly visible in the daylight. It didn't hurt, not really, and she didn't understand why he was reacting to her injuries like this. It was rather usual for housekeepers and maids to take beatings from their masters; she'd seen enough bruises on her mother to know that first-hand.

Besides, it wasn't as though he'd harmed her intentionally… not yet.

"'Tis nothing," she said, her voice hoarse. "It will heal."

"Like hell it is." He shook his head. "You need to see a doctor."

Gently, he reached out the touch the bruises. His fingers traced lightly over the indentation of one finger, no lighter than the touch of the wind from the horizon. An unknown tingle spread up her arms, causing tiny goosepimples to form on the part of her arm that was covered with cloth. The feeling was foreign, unfamiliar, and she realized with a start that this man was the very first to touch her. Before last night, she couldn't remember ever being touched by a man.

Jay felt her arm tremble uncertainly and he let it go, looking up to find her cobalt eyes wide, uncertain. She was close, all too close, and he could smell the heady mixture of wild jasmine again. The exotic slant of her eyes and cherubic fullness of her lips called to him, and he stepped away from her, both physically and mentally. Her gaze fell to the floor again.

"There's no need to call for a doctor, sir. It doesn't hurt," she tried to say. But she spoke only to his back.

*

"Keep this on for seven to ten days," the old French doctor said, tying a secure knot on the bandage he'd wound around her arm. He was a patient man, with graying hair and a bald spot that Anita focused on whilst Doctor Jean worked on her bruises. In fact, Anita's eyes strayed everywhere but to the man who hovered behind the doctor, hands clasped behind his back as though he were s soldier at a parade. But his eyes were on her, she could feel them burning into her skin.

She didn't understand this man. He didn't fit into her categories of white men. The first category was the kind that ignored the help; the second was the kind who used the help. She'd been privy to the first one, and had seen the second being played out in front of her eyes. And she'd concluded that there were only two kinds of white men. But which category did this man fit into?

Although she refused to admit it, she was slightly unnerved by him. His gaze unsettled her, and after all the stories of horror she'd heard about white men and their appetites, she was frightened to even return his gaze. Even if no man had shown interest in her before, she wasn't willing to take any chances with this man. He seemed dangerous to her, especially because of the way he'd instinctively but accurately lashed out at her last night, even though he couldn't see her in the dark. His strength had been intimidating, and she'd been so afraid he would snap her neck in an instant. But after a moment's hesitation, his hold on her had loosened, almost as if he'd recognized and acknowledged that she was female and of little threat to him. But the imprint of his strength remained, all the same. She doubted that she would ever forget it.

"Her bone wasn't affected, was it?" he asked from behind the doctor, and the doctor chuckled as he gathered his equipment.

"No, no. There is nothing to worry about. The bone isn't harmed in the least. It is just a slight bruise that will heal in a little over a week."

"That's good to hear, Doctor."

Anita made her way back into the kitchen as the men settled the monetary matters. As quickly as possible, she heated the food that was now cold and set them out again. It was nearing eleven in the morning, and the Duke would be wanting lunch soon. She wondered what was taking Nanthini so long to return from the market with the groceries.

She was just muttering to herself when she felt someone standing at the entrance of the kitchen. And even without turning, she knew it would be him.

"I apologize, Anita. It was simply instinct that had…"

"No, sir. I'm in no pain. You don't have to apologize. The bruises would have healed without a doctor."

"They might have, but I feel responsible."

She dared a glace up at him, and cracked a small and -- she hoped -- reassuring smile.

"You've yet to have your breakfast," she changed the subject instead, turning to the wood stove and flipping the cold pieces of toast onto the pan.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes," Anita lied.

"Can I have my meal in here? The kitchen has a better view than the dining room." Without waiting for her response, he slid onto a stool and helped himself to the food already on the table. Although he had little appetite, he knew she would be hurt if he didn't eat at all. His eyes kept traveling back to the bandage on her forearm, and whenever he thought of the damage he'd caused her to her skin, he sighed with regret. How could he have been so blind? He'd hurt a woman, for god's sake.

He shook his head as she slid two slices of toast onto his plate, vowing he would make it up to her somehow. It never crossed his mind that he was thinking too much about accidentally hurting a servant, someone whom he would probably never see again if he left the port. All he saw was a woman, hurt, because of him. His heavy sigh brought her eyes to him, and again he marveled at their intense coloring, so stark against her browned skin. Then her lashes swept forward, shielding the blue orbs from his perusal.

Jay looked down at his plate, stabbing at a juicy, fat sausage. He felt her moving about the room, heard the swivel of her skirts and the soft pads of her footfalls. He watched the perfect silhouette that her body made against the sunlight filtering in from the windows. Beautiful, he thought. Peaceful.

Peaceful.

As the hours waned, and sunlight sank into inky darkness, Jay left the house for a stroll across the beach. As he sat on large, smooth rock at the corner of the beach, he waited for inspiration to assault him. He was in a different place, surrounded by different people. How could he not feel inspired?

But as the evening progressed, and nothing substantial came to his mind, he gave up, slowly sliding off the rock in temporary defeat. As he walked in the direction of the house, feet sinking into the soft sand, brief flashes of images entered his mind. Anita and the bruises he'd unintentionally caused her. Anita peeking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. Anita standing by the kitchen window.