She glanced toward the hearth where the fire roared. “You must be feeling quite well,” she said.
If he admitted pain, would she examine him? Perhaps he should not have made the fire so warm, lest she had need to join him under the blankets so they could fight the cold together. “There is a certain tenderness,” he said.
She set her bag on the table and shed her coat.
He awaited the now-familiar question—May I examine you?—but this time it did not come. Instead of the formality, he received the gift of her approach without a request for permission. The smallest of steps, but considering her past it was perhaps the most meaningful.
She sat next to him on the bed and felt his knee through his breeches. “Seems the swelling is down,” she said.
He grinned. “Some of it.”
A pretty blush tinted her features.
He sat up, leaving precious little space between them. The stretch pulled his knee, but he cared not. He needed to be close to her, to feel her soft breath against his skin. Reaching with an unsteady hand to brush those strands of her hair which had fallen loose, he leaned closer and touched his lips to hers. But he did not pursue the kiss.
Lydia seemed frozen, but then suddenly she began to thaw. She drifted closer until her lips pressed firmly to his, and it was she who parted in slight invitation.
Though he shook with the need to consume her, he held fast but for a slight tilt of his head. He would not take this choice from her.
She had removed her hand from his knee, and now it threaded his hair. She was so gentle, the gesture filled with such intimacy he thought the ache would never end. Then she opened her mouth fully to him.
He groaned aloud, wasting no time in accepting the permission. He wanted to embrace her, but did not want to appear to hold her down in any way, so he lowered his hands to her waist, leaving her free to pull away.
But she didn’t. She met his kiss, drawing him in further and further until he thought he might be lost forever.
Then, abruptly, she stopped.
“Are you okay?” he asked, keeping his voice as tender as possible.
Eyes shining, she said, “I am.”
He grinned. “You are wonderful, yes.”
She laughed—the most beautiful sound he had ever heard—and wound her fingers with his. “Do you suppose we could go for a ride? It has been some time since I have enjoyed the woods from horseback.”
He smiled, thinking how much she would love the surprise he had arranged for her in the morning. “Of course we can ride.”
“I will ready your mule, then, and meet you on the porch.”
He would need every bit of the time she spent tacking Willard to will his groin into submission. “Consider it a date.”
…
It was one of the most joyous days Lydia could remember. Between Henry’s steady presence and soft spoken jokes and the lilt of Willard’s gait, she felt a peace she had not imagined possible. She did not want the day to end, but despite her inner protests, the time came to return home.
By the time they neared Salem Village, night had begun its assault on the sky. Lydia shivered through her coats with the descending warmth, glad they were near home and a hot fire.
But before they met their destination, a woman burst from the woods onto the path. Henry stiffened—no doubt remembering the last time the horse spooked—but Willard remained true.
“It is you!” The woman, whom Lydia now recognized as Anne Scudder, breathed heavily from the effort of her run. With a nod to Henry, she said, “There is great talk of your husband’s return, Goody Colson. Forgive me for the interruption, but have you heard of the ailing of the Abbot children?”
“No need for your apology, Anne.” Lydia assured her. “I visited just this morning. Have they taken a bad turn? Must I go to them?”
Anne stood from one foot to the other, her discomfort evident. “They say you affected them,” she whispered loudly, as if her tone could ease the words’ intention.
“Affected them? Whatever do you mean?”
“They claim you came upon them in the woods today and shortly thereafter they succumbed to screaming fits,” Anne said, wringing her hands. She looked nervously to and fro, as if she dared not be caught.
“Those children have succumbed to screaming fits for the majority of their waking hours so long as I have known them,” Lydia said. “Whatever is the distinction this day?”
“I just wanted to…warn you. But speak it not.”
In the distance, the familiar creak of an approaching wagon sounded.
Anne’s eyes widened and she began to back away. “Please, Goody. Speak it not.”
“Wait!” Lydia called, but Anne had already moved into the forest, her dark outer coat quickly blending with the winter wood.
Henry had not urged Willard into the first step when the bend in the road revealed Thomas and Rebecca Mather, their wagon jolting noisily over the hard, dead ground.
“Evening to you,” Thomas called in short order, drawing his horse to a halt.
“Evening,” Henry replied with a nod of his head. He gathered the reins, setting the bit so Willard’s powerful neck arched.
“I have heard of your arrival,” Thomas said. “Thomas Mather, and my wife Rebecca.”
“Good to see you are on your feet, Goodman,” Rebecca said. Her tight countenance bore narrowed eyes, though her voice rang sweet.
Henry laughed. “I fear I am more capable on my horse’s feet than my own, Neighbor, but hope to find myself solely capable in another day’s time.”
“Pray it be, then.” Thomas said. “Rebecca disclosed you found yourself in the unseemly position of a patient.”
“Verily,” agreed Henry. “My predicament assured a most unfit reunion with my wife.”
“And yet so fortunate she just happened upon you.” Rebecca said, her eyebrows drawn and voice mocking in nature.
Lydia tensed, but Henry answered easily. “Good fortune, yes, but so near our home it seems most likely she would have been the one to happen upon me first.”
Thomas nodded his agreement, his eyes affixed to Lydia.
Rebecca looked from her husband to Lydia and fisted her hands in her skirts, though her taut regard melted into a cloying smile. “I have heard the Abbot children are poorly.”
“I am sorry to learn the news. Have the Abbots sent for me?”
“You were mentioned,” Rebecca said sweetly. “Perhaps you might check in soon.”
“Very well then.” Lydia forced a gracious nod and found herself exceedingly grateful when Henry sensed her cue and began to turn Willard.
Thomas, whose attentions Lydia felt heavily during the exchange, tipped his hat. “Fare thee well, Neighbor.”
“Fare thee well,” Lydia murmured. She barely heard Henry’s parting words as he urged Willard toward home.
They were several paces away when Henry asked, “Doest the Goodman covet my wife?”
“Thomas is a good man. I believe he is true.”
“Perhaps his intentions are merely untested.”
“And they will verily remain as such. The penalty for such misplaced affection is death.”
Henry’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Your innocence startles me, wife. Verily, those who sin are capable of deceit. Few adulterers will throw themselves in confession before the magistrate.”
“What are you saying?”
“There are many layers to man, and the truth is most often far below the surface.”
Lydia said nothing, allowing his words to linger until such time as they arrived at her rear porch. There, she slid from the pillion and, once on her feet, took the reins.
Henry dismounted and, testing his weight with a bend of his knees, smiled. “Better already.”
“Perhaps, but you have not yet attempted to walk,” she said, waiting as he removed the saddlebag. “I’ll see to Willard.”
“And I will attempt a suitable show of thanks,” Henry said with a
n exceptional smile.
Heat furnished Lydia’s cheeks. Hoping she had not shown herself to Henry, she turned quickly and led Willard to his quarters. There, she removed his tack and put him away for the eve. She then made quick order of her chores, adding wood to the porch for ease of capture during the late hour. By the time she filled the water buckets, she had nearly calmed, though she knew she would find herself flustered again in short order.
Henry had that effect upon her.
Though smoke from the chimney gave way he had started a fire, she was most surprised to see he had begun a pottage.
“You do not mind?” he asked upon observing her attention to the beginning stew. “I found only root vegetables and have taken them sparingly.”
“Of course not—rather, I am most grateful. I am just surprised to find you preparing the evening meal. How is your leg?”
“A bit difficult, but it will soon be well.”
“And then…what of you?”
He drew his gaze from the pot over the fire, then followed the path of his scrutiny to cup her face with both hands. “It is my honor to stay in your company for as long as it remains your will.”
“But your family… verily your mother will fear for you as she does your lost brother. And this marriage! It is not sanctioned by your father. What of his insistence you marry well?”
“I have married far beyond his expectations,” Henry said, fingertips sliding to trace her cheeks, then her neck.
“But I am not of wealth,” she protested, shivering under his touch.
“Yet you have made me rich beyond my greatest aspirations.”
His words left her without speech. Never had she known such kindness, and his soft assurances weakened her.
“What is it?” he asked. He studied her with such thoroughness she wondered if he did not see her every thought.
“You said man has many layers.”
“Woman as well.”
“Your layers, Henry,” she said with softness. “What do they hide?”
“Firstly, the kind of need that will give a man a limp.”
He spoke with such quiet regard she nearly missed his pun. “You refuse all seriousness,” she admonished.
“I speak the truth.” He removed his hands from her shoulders where upon they rested and gently worked free the fasteners of her outer coat. “Shall I help you with your coat?”
Lydia nodded before she lost the nerve, for the knot in her stomach surely sensed more than she. Henry was a most handsome man—rakish in appearance, but with a gentleman’s charm—and certainly virile as she could attest from her observations of the night prior. The mere thought of his fulfillment left her hot and weak, though her body responded with strength and a deep ache.
His russet eyes had darkened, though she blamed not the waning light of day. The fire roared, tending well the pottage and casting bountiful, dancing coloration in the modest room. And there, as if the most routine of activities, stood a man—her husband—with his strong, supple fingers removing her coats as if he had been born to do that very thing.
Once he’d relieved her from the burdens of her outer layers, they were both cast into stillness. The crack and bend of the fire could not equal the trumpet of her heart.
She was his wife. And for the first time in her life, thoughts of her matrimonial duty filled her not with fear or tumult, but with a kind of burning desire that made her revisit the innocence of girlhood. His hesitance made him neither confident nor timid, but rather a gentleman. Though he could rightfully claim her body as he had her hand, he withheld—whether or not for consideration of her past hurts, it mattered not. He, stranger and husband, put her first.
He stepped forward, lessening the gap between them to half an arm’s length. “May I?”
She knew not what he asked, but nodded her permission. And so he reached for her bonnet, untied the strings, and cast the garment aside.
“When we join,” he said, “I shall be humbled to see your beauty in its most natural state.” His words came from calm, though something passionate simmered very near his surface as he reached to untie her hair, then arranged it loose about her face. He leaned forward, closing the small distance between them, and pressed his cheek to hers, breathing deeply.
The sensation of his early beard hairs against her softer cheek brought forth a rampant want. Never had she fired so hotly nor been treated with such tenderness. Though she wanted not to rush the moment, his every attention left her watery with an unfamiliar strength of desire—one she desperately hoped he would fulfill.
Summoning every bold bit of her nature, she sought with both hands his doublet and began working the fasteners.
He borrowed another deep breath, this one pulling over the flesh of her neck in a soft, needy moan. “I fear you will withhold me, lovely Lydia. Are you sure this is what you want?”
“I want nothing more.”
She barely managed the words before his lips found her skin and nearly sent her wilting to her knees. The fire might have jumped from the hearth for the way his touch kindled an unbridled heat deep within, but she held fast to her cause, maneuvering by feel when she could no longer see her ministrations.
They were fully pressed now, she and Henry, with his body hot and hard. Though his height bested hers, they seemed to fit as one when she looked upon high, baring her neck to his attentions. She fought for the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips, and when he finally broke from his kisses it was to rip free of his top garments. The barrier shed, he returned to their closeness without hesitation, filling his hands with her hair and guiding her position so he once again had access to her flesh.
She felt raw with her need, but not at all wounded from past scars. Her fingertips raked his back, and she marveled at the strength she had not yet seen—at the rise and fall of tightly formed muscle under smooth skin. Her mind wandered lower, and though she dared not risk the barrier of his breeches, the thought of what awaited left her undeniably shaken.
“I wish to know you as my wife,” he said, his words a coarse and desperate whisper.
“Then you shall,” she replied, her words a breathy promise, the consequences of which she would neither consider nor deny.
He released her hair and began to work on her bodice, though he could only grope clumsily at the tiny buttons at a pace much too slow. But when her attention turned from his fumbles to the expanse of his chest, she decided he could tarry the process all he desired, for never had she seen a man so magnificent. Thick, wide shoulders gave way to a powerful chest, which then narrowed into a chiseled stomach as rigid as a washboard. Though she had seen shirtless men in her time, never had such a combination of raw power met with such fine, unmarred skin. Never had she imagined something so hard could be so silken to her touch—or that she would tremble with such anticipation for any man, let alone that one existed who could release her every inhibition in a single day’s time.
Every layer of clothing from which he freed her begged new urgency for their coupling, though he seemed to grow steadier with each displaced piece. When he uncovered her chemise—the last barrier—she shivered in spite of the warm fire.
He paused to stare, his expression one of awe. “You are far lovelier than I dared imagine.”
“You have spent much time in thought of this?” she asked.
“Verily, you have not an idea.”
“What if I might?”
“Then you are a far greater match for me than I thought possible, my love.” And with that small concession, he touched his mouth to hers, wasting not a moment before pressing for entry.
She welcomed him, shy but willing, and was treated to the exquisite pleasure of his explorations. His tongue swept thoroughly her mouth, drawing from her urges she dared not speak, no matter how great her need.
Her peaked breasts begged without shame for his attention, and he managed acknowledgement of this without lessening his hold on her mouth. Still standing—though she did not know how, for his knee
surely protested—he cupped her womanly curves through the thin chemise and held, gently. The unexpected pleasure of the sensation momentarily left her in a fit of pleasurable moans.
“Do I maintain your permission?” he asked.
She looked from his chest, where a light sheen of moisture had taken hold, to the richness of his eyes. Several strands of hair fell across his face, begging to be brushed aside, but the roughness of him delighted her without mercy. “You do,” she whispered.
His grin had such a naughty side she swore to herself she would remember it always. “I cannot throw you to the mattress,” he said, “lest I render myself further useless, but rest assured my passions are justly heightened.”
“And suppose you could,” she dared say. “What would come of it?”
He answered by feasting again on her mouth, distracting her so fully she did not realize until her legs met the bed that he had managed to move her backward across the floor. He released her, then disrobed from his breeches with haste.
She gasped at the sight of him, hard and true.
“You may speak your protest at any time,” he said, his voice a rather unsteady version of itself. “And I will honor it.”
Lydia stared, wishing she dared touch him. “Surely you do not wish to free yourself of the burden of due benevolence, husband.”
“I think not,” he said. He crawled over her, caging her against the mattress, keeping his weight to his good leg. He raised her chemise to her belly, baring her womanhood, and gently worked the garment over her head. Basking in his appraisal, she knew the heat of her pooling desire—a sensation she had never known so fully. But he brought it out of her. Demanded it.
He nudged apart her thighs, and though she was nearly overcome with shyness, she allowed him. She remained unsure in those final seconds if she had taken complete leave of her senses, but regretted it not once—not even as she wondered when faced with his lustful girth how they could possibly join.
He did not leave her to wonder long. Without the help of his hands—which were occupied in propping himself over her—he maneuvered against her opening. Lydia gasped at his solid presence, eliciting from him a smile full of questions. She nodded her acquiescence.
Her Wicked Sin Page 6
