Mail-Order Miranda (Brides of Beckham)

by Margery Scott

When he’d kissed her after the wedding, he’d been sure he wouldn’t feel anything for Miranda. The sudden need that had surged through him had been unexpected, and unwanted.

  But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since, and if he was being completely honest, he wanted her. All of her. Wanted her in his bed. Wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingers, wanted to bury himself in her warmth and watch her eyes glaze over with passion.

  Making love to Miranda would be a huge risk, he told himself. He didn’t want to grow close to her, didn’t want to like her too much, didn’t want to risk falling in love again.

  But even worse, what kind of man was he to even think about betraying Nancy’s memory? He’d made a promise to her, a promise he’d fully intended to keep until a few hours ago.

  He didn’t know Miranda yet, but something deep inside him had stirred to life the minute he’d seen her at the depot. He sensed that unless she wasn’t really the woman she appeared to be on the surface, it would be easy to grow to care about her, and one day, to love her.

  He’d given his word to Nancy, and he didn’t ever go back on his word. But did he really want to live the rest of his life without love?

  ***

  For the next hour, Miranda tasted dishes much like those she’d cooked in Beckham, but some she’d never seen before. The Mexican foods she tasted were spicier than what she was used to, and her body heated, but she couldn’t be sure whether it was from the food, from the way John’s thigh kept brushing against hers, or the way he leaned close to her and whispered in her ear several times during the meal.

  She’d met so many people, too. She knew she’d never remember all the names, but a few ladies had made an impression – Rosita Juarez’s exotic beauty, Poppy Aldridge, with the slender frame that reminded Miranda so much of Beth, and Freida Swansen with her pale blonde hair.

  The women were friends themselves, and within a few minutes of the introductions, they had invited Miranda to join their quilting bee. Miranda was adequate with a needle and thread, but didn’t have the expertise she was sure they expected. Still, she was thrilled to be included, happy that she was being accepted as John’s wife and a new resident in town.

  Finally, Miranda and John said goodnight to the guests and exited the hotel. Dusk had fallen, and the blistering heat of the day had cooled. Still, it was warm and pleasant.

  John took Miranda’s hand and strolled slowly down the boardwalk and around a corner. She admitted she liked the feel of his hand wrapped around hers.

  “This is home,” he said, stopping in front of a two-story house set back from the dirt road. “It’s not very big but I can add to it if we need to in the future.”

  Miranda’s nerves tightened. The only reason they would need to add to the house would be if they had children. And in order to have children, she’d have to allow John to ... Her face flamed at the mere thought of what he could – and had every right to – do to her now. She’d heard about the marriage act from a friend, about how painful it was and how it was a wife’s duty to submit to her husband as often as necessary, to try to think about something else until he was satisfied no matter how unpleasant it was.

  “What’s wrong, Miranda?” John’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You look flushed. Are you sick? Did something you ate not agree with you?”

  She looked up at him, saw the concern in his eyes. “Oh ... no ... it’s nothing ...” She pasted a grin on her face. “Nothing at all.”

  “Are you sure? I can go get the doctor—”

  She rested her hand on his arm. “I’m fine.” She turned away from him and walked up to the house. “The house is lovely, John,” she said. And she meant it. Flowers lined the stone path leading to a large front porch. “I can’t wait to sit out here in the evenings.”

  He smiled at her and opened the front door. Suddenly, he scooped her up in his arms. She let out a squeak and without a thought, wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m carrying you over the threshold,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  She couldn’t answer. Her only thought was that he must have the strength of Samson to be able to pick her up as if she weighed no more than a bag of feathers. That he would even want to pick her up was a surprise. “No,” she said finally as he carried her into the house and kicked the door shut behind him. “I don’t mind at all.”

  She’d never felt a man’s arms around her, and she had to admit it felt nice. When he carefully set her back on her feet, she was even a little disappointed.

  The house was quiet. “When will your aunt and the girls be home?” she asked.

  “They’re not coming home tonight. They’re staying at my aunt’s house so that we have one night alone.”

  “Oh ... that’s right. You did tell me that before, didn’t you?” How could she have forgotten that she’d be alone with John for the entire night?

  “This is our wedding night, after all.”

  She couldn’t speak, her voice stuck in her throat.

  “I’ll show you the rest of the house, then I’ll go sit on the porch and give you some time to get ready for bed before I come in. Is that all right with you?”

  She nodded.

  “Like I said, the house is small but it’ll have to do for now,” he said, taking her hand again. “You can see this is the parlor.”

  The room was small, but cozy. Miranda didn’t see a speck of dust anywhere. The room was so perfect that it was hard to believe anyone even lived in the house, especially children.

  A brightly colored hooked rug lay on the plank floor. A settee sat against one wall and two stuffed armchairs flanked a stone fireplace. A piano took up space on the wall beside the door to the kitchen. A music book was propped open. “Do you play the piano?” she asked.

  John shook his head. “Nancy played. She’d always planned to teach the girls, but ...” His voice trailed off, and she regretted bringing up a subject that obviously caused him pain.

  “The kitchen is through here.” John guided her through an open door. Just like the parlor, the kitchen was immaculate. A large cookstove sat against one wall. A counter lined the rest of the wall, and an oak table with six chairs filled the center.

  Miranda crossed to a large cabinet on the opposite wall. She opened the door and saw it was filled with supplies and dishes.

  It made sense that his kitchen would be well-stocked, she supposed. After all, he did own a diner, so food was important to him.

  “If there’s anything else you need in here, just let me know.”

  “I will,” she replied. She’d been a good cook once, and she’d particularly loved to bake. She was going to enjoy working in such an organized kitchen.

  “The bedrooms are upstairs. There are three, but one is empty. When I built the house, Nancy and I expected the girls would each want their own room, but when we tried to separate them, they got so upset we decided to leave them together.”

  Was he going to give her the empty room? Maybe she’d been worrying about nothing. She felt the tension ease a little until he took her upstairs. “This is the girls’ room,” he said, opening the door to another room that showed no signs of life.

  “The empty room is at the end of the hall, and this is ours,” he said, turning and opening a door directly across the hall from the girls’ room.

  Ours! She’d been wrong. He intended for them to share a room.

  “There’s space in the wardrobe and two drawers in the bureau for your things.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “I’ll go now,” he said, “but if you need anything, I’ll be right outside on the porch.”

  She nodded, her body trembling. She’d never been so terrified in her life.

  Chapter Six

  Miranda heard John’s footsteps fade as he went down the stairs. The front door opened and closed behind him, and she was left to stare at the bed occupying the center of the room.

  She did
n’t know how long he’d be outside, so she quickly undressed. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror once she’d removed her corsets. She let out a resigned sigh. If only she was slim like Beth ... She only hoped John wouldn’t be too disgusted by her.

  She heard the front door close. Should she get into bed, or wait for him? She wasn’t sure, but as the sound of his footsteps grew louder, she made a decision and climbed into bed.

  It was still warm outside, but she pulled the quilt up to her neck.

  Her heart raced, and her stomach twisted as the door opened. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I was worried I didn’t give you enough time,” he said, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the bed to take off his boots and socks.

  “I had time,” she croaked past the dryness in her throat.

  “Good. Once you’re more comfortable with me, you won’t need privacy.”

  Miranda couldn’t imagine ever undressing in front of a man, even if he was her husband. But she didn’t want to argue, so she kept quiet and watched as he stood up and tugged his shirt loose from his pants. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the muscles rippling beneath his skin when he slid the shirt off. Then he unbuttoned his pants and kicked them aside, leaving him in just his drawers.

  He got into bed and turned down the lamp. The bed shifted under his weight as he rolled to his side to face her, then propped himself up on one elbow. “Would you mind if I kiss you again?”

  The memory of his lips on hers after the wedding sent a tingle through her. She shook her head.

  His fingers gently grazed her cheek then his hand slid behind her neck to cup her head while he lowered his lips to hers. He brushed his lips across hers, tracing the seam of her lips with his tongue.

  Miranda wasn’t sure if she was supposed to do something, but as the kiss deepened and the pressure of his tongue grew firmer, she parted her lips, hoping that was what he wanted. His tongue immediately slid into her mouth.

  A soft moan escaped her lips as his tongue found hers and tangled with it, sending sparks of heat through her veins and igniting a need for ... something ... low in her core.

  The sensations coursing through her body were indescribable, and she never wanted them to stop.

  John’s hand released her, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. His hand lowered to her waist, then slowly moved to cup her full breast through her nightgown.

  She sucked in a gasp as his thumb grazed her nipple. Surely this was wrong. This couldn’t be part of relations, could it? Nobody had ever mentioned anything like this. Not that it was unpleasant. If she was being honest with herself, she liked it. His touch sent a delicious sensation through her, and she couldn’t help hoping he’d do the same to her other breast. She had an urge to shift slightly to make it easier for him to gain access. Did that make her wanton? At the moment, she didn’t know, and she didn’t really care.

  Suddenly, he drew away and flopped onto his back on the bed, his breathing ragged. “I’m sorry. I know we’re married, but this can’t be part of it.”

  A chill washed over her. Her worst fear had come true. He’d touched her and he’d been repulsed. Her throat tightened, and she rolled over to face the wall. “I understand,” she said past the lump in her throat. “Goodnight.”

  ***

  Dawn hadn’t yet broken when Miranda got out of bed and quickly slipped into her clothes. She’d lain awake all night, listening to the sounds of the night and gazing at John’s profile in the moonlight streaming through the lace curtains at the window.

  She’d been terrified of marital relations, but she knew they were part of marriage for a man. From what she’d heard – which wasn’t much, she’d admit – every man wanted to couple with a woman. And no matter how she tried to excuse him, it was clear. He didn’t want her!

  Well, she decided, they could still have a good marriage. They could be friends, and if that was the only kind of marriage she could have, she could be content with that. Couldn’t she?

  Quietly, she made her way downstairs and lit the lamps in the kitchen. John would be cooking all day, so she wanted to make him a nice breakfast before he left.

  She opened the cabinets lining the wall, her mood lifting when she saw the well-stocked shelves. She would have no trouble coming up with a meal in this house and couldn’t wait to cook all the dishes she used to love. For this morning, she needed something simple since she didn’t know what time he’d be leaving for the diner. She only hoped John liked the French toast she planned to make.

  The cookstove lit easily, and she left it to heat while she found a skillet and butter. She’d noticed a basket of eggs on the counter. She found a bowl and cracked eggs into it, adding a little milk and whisking the mixture until it was blended and frothy. She’d seen a loaf of bread on the shelf, so she hunted through a drawer until she found a knife and sliced the bread into thick slices, then dipped them into the egg mixture until the bread soaked up the egg.

  Letting the butter melt in the skillet first, she added the bread, letting it cook and brown on both sides, then placed each slice in a long baking pan.

  She’d noticed a jar of peaches on the shelf which would be perfect to add to the French toast. Draining some of the juice, she spread the peaches on the French toast, sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg on top and set the pan in the oven to keep warm while she set the table.

  “Good morning.”

  John’s gruff voice startled her. She spun around and met his gaze, a tingle rushing through her. His black hair was tousled and his eyes were still heavy from sleep. Stubble shadowed his chin, and for some reason, she had an urge to feel it beneath her fingers. “Good morning.”

  He looked tired, and she couldn’t help wondering if he’d slept as badly as she had.

  For a second or two, she wondered if he would mention what had happened between them the night before. But he didn’t.

  He crossed the kitchen and took a mug down off the shelf, then poured himself a cup of coffee. “What are you making?” he asked. “Something smells good.”

  “I thought you might enjoy a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself.”

  He grinned. “I would.”

  “Then sit down and I’ll serve,” she said, picking up a towel to wrap her hands while she took the baking pan out of the oven. She slid a spatula under two pieces of French toast and spooned some of the remaining peaches on top, then set it in front of him.

  “What do you call that?” John asked, sliding into one of the chairs at the table.

  “French toast.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “The Tollivers – the people I worked for – used to travel to Europe frequently. They came back and asked their cook to start making it. There are a lot of variations, some with fruit, some stuffed with vegetables, some plain with maple syrup. When I had any spare time, which wasn’t often, I used to help in the kitchen.”

  John sliced a piece of the French toast and stabbed it with his fork, smothering it with the peaches and brought it to his mouth. He let out a groan of satisfaction as he took his first bite.

  “I’d better be careful. If you keep cooking like that and word gets out, folks will want to eat here instead of my diner,” he said with a grin.

  “I’m glad you like it.” Miranda poured herself a cup of coffee and began to eat her own meal. They ate in silence, and when they were finished, she got up and started clearing the table. “Is there anything in particular you’d like for supper?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll just be grateful not to have to cook it myself. Now, how about if I show you the diner before Aunt Ruth brings the girls home?”

  “Are you not going to work today?”

  He shook his head. “I’m closed today. I thought it would be nice if we could spend a day together with the girls so they get used to you before I left them again.”

  Miranda’s respect for him grew. He was a man who thought of others before hi
mself, and before money, two things she wasn’t used to.

  “So, would you like to see it?” he asked again.

  “I’d love to,” she replied. “I would like to clean up here first, though.”

  “I’ll help,” he said, coming to stand beside her. He picked up a dish cloth and slid his hands into the water she’d heated earlier. “I’m pretty good at washing dishes. I’ve had lots of practice.”

  Miranda brought the other plates to the sink. “I’ll let you help, but only because I’m eager to see your diner. After that, you are no longer welcome in my kitchen except to eat.”

  “What about if I want to kiss you again?” he asked.

  Miranda’s heartbeat skittered in her chest, the question such a surprise she dropped the plates. Luckily they landed in the water, sending up a shower of soap suds. “Oh ...”

  John grabbed a towel and wiped his face. He turned to face her, a grin creasing his lips. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  ***

  An hour later, John and Miranda walked down the boardwalk toward The Blue Sapphire. Their diner, John had corrected her earlier when they’d left the house and she’d expressed her eagerness to see it. She doubted she’d ever be able to think of the diner as theirs, but she appreciated that he was willing to share everything he had with her.

  Finally, John stopped in front of a long building. The exterior had been painted white, the shutters and door sapphire blue. Fitting, she thought, in a town called Sapphire Springs.

  While Miranda waited, John unlocked the door. A bell jangled when he opened the door and stepped aside.

  The diner was small, but welcoming. Eight tables covered with white tablecloths dotted the main dining area. A vase filled with flowers – wilted now, she noticed - decorated each of the tables. Lamps dangled from ornate hooks at intervals around the space, and a multi-faceted crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. “Oh, John,” Miranda exclaimed, stopping just inside the door. “It’s lovely. I expected ...”

  “What?”

  She didn’t want to tell him she’d expected a rustic room with a few mismatched tables and chairs. She definitely hadn’t expected anything this elegant. “It’s really lovely, John,” she said. “It seems much smaller than it looks on the outside.”