His Mail-Order Bride

by Tatiana March

  His side.

  Thomas felt his chest constrict with emotion.

  The first step of sharing his life with someone else.

  His wife had chosen which side of the bed she would sleep on.

  He sank into the plain oak chair beside the wall, pulled off one boot, let it drop to the floor with a thud. The second boot. Another thud. Beneath the covers Charlotte didn’t stir.

  Thomas could tell she wasn’t sleeping. Her shoulders didn’t rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of even breathing and there was an unnatural stillness about her. She might not realize it, but by her chin, one small fist was clenched tight, the fingers curled in a death grip over the edge of the quilt.

  Thomas got to his feet and began to unbutton his trousers. He spoke slowly, keeping his voice to a soothing rumble. “I don’t sleep in a nightgown.”

  The narrow shoulders beneath the covers flinched.

  “When the mine played out six years ago, two of the general stores in Gold Crossing shut down and sold off everything at knock-down prices. I stocked up with clothing, bought several union suits for the winters. I also got that feather mattress for the bed. Before, I only had a straw mattress. And I bought the wall hanging, and the pots and pans for the kitchen.”

  The covers rippled and Thomas knew Charlotte had moved. He wondered if she had done it on purpose, to show him that she was awake and listening.

  “I hadn’t expected that at twenty-two I might still be growing,” Thomas went on. “But it turned out that the hard work of building the homestead padded out my muscles, and the union suits became too tight at the chest and shoulders. So, Mrs. Timmerman—that’s the doc’s wife—cut the suits of underwear in two across the waist for me. For the bottom half, she fixed a draw cord at the waist. That’s what I wear to sleep at night. The bottom halves of my old union suits.”

  His wife made no comment.

  Thomas pushed his trousers down his legs and changed into his makeshift pajama bottoms. Instinct had made him turn his back for the brief seconds it took to complete the task. Now he pivoted on his feet and faced the bed again.

  Charlotte had not moved.

  Thomas set to work with his shirt buttons. Tonight, his fingers didn’t seem capable of the job. “I don’t wear anything on my top half,” he said, looking down to guide his fumbling fingers. “But if that offends you, I can find an old shirt to put on.”

  “It’s all right.” He could hardly hear the thin, brittle voice.

  “Good.” He pushed the shirt down his shoulders, pulled his arms out of the sleeves and draped the worn garment over the back of the chair, on top of the rest of the clothing he’d already hung there.

  Then he eased his way to the bedside, lifted up the worn patchwork quilt and slipped beneath. Taut with nerves, he lay on his back, making sure his body didn’t touch hers. He carried on talking in the soft, calming tone.

  “It will be four more months before the baby comes, and then it’s my understanding that a woman needs time to recover from childbirth. Let’s say another two months. That will give us six months to get used to each other before we start the physical side of our marriage.”

  Thomas rolled onto his side and spoke to the nape of her neck. She’d braided her hair for the night, and between her hairline and the collar of her nightgown he could see a bit of pale, delicate skin and a few wispy curls.

  “Does that suit you?” he prompted. “Six months?”

  “A year.”

  “A year?” He forgot all about a soft, calming tone. His roar almost took off the cabin roof.

  “One year,” she replied, firmer now.

  “No,” Thomas said. “Six months.”

  “Nine months.”

  “Six months.”

  “Eight.”

  “Six.”

  “Seven.”

  “Six.” His tone gained an implacable edge. He was the head of the household. If he agreed to this...this unreasonable demand...he’d never win a single argument between them. And he’d die of thwarted desire.

  “Six,” Charlotte replied in a resigned mutter.

  Thomas sighed in relief and smiled at the nape of her neck. Their first marital argument. Discussion, he amended himself, or debate. Their first marital debate and he’d won. Encouraged by his success, he eased closer to her and braced his weight on one elbow. Leaning over her, his mouth by her ear, he lowered his voice to a rustling whisper.

  “I have a bundle board for the bed. It’s a piece of timber that slots into the frame, like a small fence to separate the bed into two halves. If it makes you more comfortable, we can use it for the first six months. But tonight I’d like to hold you, cradle you against my chest. It is our wedding night, after all. I’d like a memory of it. Something to look back on.”

  She didn’t say anything. Thomas pulled back, his breath caught, his heart racing in his chest. In this argument...debate...he wouldn’t dare to push for victory. He’d almost given up any hope that she might consent when he felt a tug of the covers and the slight dip of the mattress. His wife wriggled her rump and scooted backward toward him, edging closer until her buttocks bumped against his arousal.

  Thomas froze. He waited. She didn’t move away in disgust. Instead, she gave another wriggle to fit herself more snugly into the curve of his body. Slowly, he lifted one arm and slid it across her waist, anchoring her even closer to him.

  He didn’t dare to breathe. It flashed across his mind that by morning he might be dead from the lack of air, or perhaps his heart would simply burst with emotion. He didn’t care if he never saw another dawn. It would be worth it, for a night of this wonderful pleasure of having someone to hold, someone to call his own.

  Thomas shut his eyes and slowly exhaled the air trapped in his lungs. With every nerve in his body, he savored the feel of the woman he held in his embrace. Small and slight, she tucked neatly against him. His body enveloped hers, keeping her safe and warm. Her back pressed to his chest. Beneath his forearm he could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she took quick, frightened breaths.

  Never in his life had he felt another person so close. Perhaps when he was a baby his mother had suckled him at her breast. He couldn’t remember. By the time his earliest memories started, she’d already rejected him, making him into an outcast in his own family, as well as in the community around them.

  In his mind, he saw a lifetime of nights like this. Nights like this and, when the waiting was over at the end of the six months, even more magical nights. Filled with emotion, Thomas opened his eyes again and ran his gaze over what he could see of his wife—the crown of the dark head tucked beneath his chin, the edge of a slender shoulder, a tiny bit of bare skin at her neck.

  He was no longer alone in the world.

  “Go to sleep now,” he murmured.

  But he knew he’d keep awake all night.

  Holding her was too precious to waste on sleep.

  * * *

  Six months. Six months. Charlotte repeated it to herself like a magic spell as she lay in Thomas Greenwood’s arms, trying to remember to keep her stomach muscles puffed out to create an illusion of a belly rounded in pregnancy.

  Of course, the true reprieve would be much shorter. In another month, perhaps two, he would discover there was no child. She would have to confess, or make her escape before then.

  Her immediate fears calmed, the tensions of the day melted away and her senses became attuned to the man next to her. His arm spanned across her waist and his big body curled around hers, as if designed to protect her, to keep her snug and warm.

  Of course, that was how it was meant to be. Man and woman, husband and wife, were God’s creations. It made sense they had been designed to fit together, to offer each other warmth and comfort while they slept. The toils of the day were over, the next day
yet to dawn. Companionship during the night offered a chance to recuperate and build up strength to meet the challenges the dawn would bring.

  Charlotte sighed in the darkness.

  And those challenges would be great in number.

  She cast her mind back to her abysmal efforts with the cookstove and making coffee. She’d learn. She might end up letting Thomas down in so many ways, but she wouldn’t let him down as a housekeeper. Brimming with resolve, she emitted a small huffing sound of determination.

  “Can’t you sleep?” The question came in a low rumble behind her.

  Charlotte hesitated. It would be easy to pretend to be asleep, but she didn’t want to deceive him any more than she had to.

  “No,” she said. “My mind is too busy for sleep.”

  “Don’t worry. It will be all right. Your life has changed in so many ways. New home. New husband. A baby on the way. It will take time to adjust to everything.”

  Now, Charlotte told herself. This is the opportunity to tell him the truth and spare him from hurt. She closed her eyes and remembered the feel of Cousin Gareth’s cruel hands on her, the smell of liquor on his breath. She could hear his ugly whispers, and then she could hear Miranda’s voice.

  Or you can just let him take Papa’s money and anything else he might want.

  It was not just her future. As the firstborn, the responsibility fell on her to safeguard the family fortune. She owed it to Miranda and Annabel to protect their inheritance. It might be callous, but the welfare of her sisters ranked higher than the welfare of a stranger. And Thomas was a strong, capable man. She could pay him ample compensation for his help. He could rebuild his life after she was gone.

  “I understand,” Thomas said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What?” Charlotte realized he had said something, asked something, but she had been too preoccupied with her thoughts to listen. “Sorry...I wasn’t listening...I was thinking of home...”

  The arm across her waist tightened. Once again, Charlotte tensed her stomach muscles, pushing them out.

  “I was asking about the man who is the father of your child. I’d like to know something about him. Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”

  What could she tell him? She could think of no imaginary man. Part of the truth would serve best. She gave him Cousin Gareth. “My parents died four years ago. I was twenty. I know a lot of women are married by that age, but my father, although he was old-fashioned in many ways, did not wish to hurry us into marriage. I have two sisters. Miranda is twenty-two and Annabel is eighteen.”

  She felt a soft, soothing touch on her temple. A big hand stroked her hair, sliding over the edge of her brow, over and over again. Charlotte leaned deeper against the warm bulk of the man behind her and continued.

  “Our parents left us enough money to live on, but because we were unmarried, we were not allowed to live alone. A cousin moved into the house. Cousin Gareth. He wanted to marry me but I loathed him. One day he got drunk. He cornered me into a room and forced himself on me.”

  A gruff sound came behind her, a low rumble that held a mix of anger and sympathy. “I’m sorry,” Thomas said. “No woman should have to endure that.” The soothing hand kept up its gentle motion. “Does he know about the baby?”

  “No,” Charlotte replied. “I prepared for my journey in secret. My sisters know. I promised to write and let them know as soon as I had arrived safely.”

  “You can do that tomorrow. I’ll ride to Gold Crossing and post the letter. The town has a post office. It operates at the back of the mercantile. Or, if you want to, we can send a telegram.”

  “A letter will suffice.”

  For a moment, they lay in silence. Then Thomas spoke quietly, his deep voice quivering with emotion. “When the child comes, it will be my child, and yours. It will have nothing to do with that man. I will love it as my own. I don’t want anyone to know the child isn’t mine.”

  The stroking hand had stilled its motion while he spoke, and now his fingers swept down to curl over her shoulder, pressing lightly, demanding a response. “Do you agree?” he said. “My child. My name. Everything else forgotten, as if it never happened.”

  Charlotte nodded. Without thinking, she eased her grip on the edge of the covers and reached up to her shoulder, to place her hand on top of Thomas’s. He had a large hand, knotted with knuckles. She let her fingers slide over his but didn’t speak. There were no words that would make justice to his kindness, no words that wouldn’t add to the burden of her guilt.

  “I think I’m getting sleepy now,” she said and withdrew her hand.

  “Sleep.” His fingers briefly squeezed her shoulder, then lifted away. The mattress dipped as he shifted his hips. The thick forearm settled across her waist once more. The muscled body curled around hers, cocooning her.

  Warm. Safe. Content.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and let slumber steal over her.

  * * *

  Thomas woke to the first glimmer of dawn. Another sunny day. The thought registered before others rushed in. Charlotte lay in his arms, slender and warm. All night, she had snuggled up against him. He had intended to stay awake, but as the night hours wore on, fatigue had taken its toll and he had drifted off to sleep.

  Reluctant to leave her, Thomas eased up on one elbow and leaned over his wife. He breathed in her scent and studied her sleep-soft features. His heart beat strong and steady. He’d known contentment before, but this was more. This was happiness. His whole body thrummed with it. Never in his life had he looked forward to a new day as much as he was looking forward to today.

  Not just to today.

  To all his tomorrows.

  With his wife by his side, and soon a child to call his own.

  Charlotte stirred on the feather mattress. Her lashes lifted. Instead of fuzzy and unfocused, her eyes were bright and alert at once. Not hazel now, in the morning light, but green with a touch of brown in it. The color of a moonglow pear before it ripened.

  She saw him leaning over her and smiled up at him. “You’re sniffing at me like a hunting dog.” She spoke softly, her voice husky and muffled with sleep, but he could hear the laughter in it.

  “What do I smell of?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Thomas replied. “I’ve been trying to figure it out all night.” He took another deep breath, filling his lungs with her scent. “I smelled it in the water you left in the bowl by the stove after your wash. I used the water after you.” He looked down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth as he marveled at her beauty. “Can you do that every night? Leave the water in the bowl so I can use it after you and enjoy the smell.”

  “It’s lavender soap. I brought a cake with me.”

  “Lavender.” Thomas nodded, settled on an instant plan. “I’ll buy some seeds and sow them by the edge of the wheat field. We’ll learn to make that soap. Much better than carbolic, or bear grease.”

  “Learn to make lavender soap.” She burst into laughter. “Give me a chance. First I’ll have to learn to make coffee.” She peered up at him, mischief lurking in those eyes. “And cook breakfast. And do laundry. And use a scrubbing brush. I don’t think making lavender soap comes very high on the list.”

  Thomas dipped his head and brushed a kiss on her forehead. She didn’t flinch away. For a second, he let temptation flood over him. His gaze fastened on her mouth. Small and plump, vivid red against the pale skin. He eased closer, inch by inch.

  No, he warned himself, and wrenched away.

  It was more for his sanity than her protection.

  A wise man did not build up an appetite, only to suffer from starvation.

  “Time to get up, Mrs. Greenwood.” He rolled away from her, flung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet.

  The bedding rustled as Charlotte wriggled
around to look at him. He could feel her gaze on him. It skimmed him from head to toe, paused at the erection that strained inside the pajama bottoms and then moved up to linger on his shoulders and the expanse of his naked chest.

  Thomas stood still. Let her look, get used to him. Bit by bit. A touch of color flared up to his cheeks as Charlotte kept up her inspection. He was not a vain man, had no idea if he was handsome or not.

  He had thick yellow hair and even white teeth. His skin was smooth and his jaw square and his nose straight. His body was that of a healthy, hardworking male. But there might be too much of him. That might be a problem, and he could do nothing about it.

  A portly man could try to slim down, but a man who was big and muscular could only hope that the woman he married liked his powerful frame. And from the rapt expression on Charlotte’s face Thomas decided that she did.

  With that thought, he grinned and stopped parading half naked in front of his wife. He snagged his clothes from the chair, hurried into the parlor and closed the door behind him, leaving Charlotte to get up in the privacy of the bedroom.

  * * *

  She heard the front door open and close. Charlotte darted out of bed and rushed to the window to peek out. Thomas was striding down the path toward the big barn she could see through the cottonwood trees. Of course. A farmer needed to tend to his animals. At Merlin’s Leap, grooms had looked after the horses.

  She hurried into the parlor in her nightgown. Water was heating on the stove. She dipped her finger inside. Warm enough. She scooped some into a bowl, rinsed her face and teeth. No soap in the morning. Her lips tugged into a smile as she recalled how her lavender soap had enchanted Thomas. She’d send him a box of the stuff as soon as she was back at Merlin’s Leap.

  Her smile faded.

  Perhaps by then he might prefer not to be reminded of her.