“Wolves?” Maggie looked between the men. “We’re having a problem with wolves?”
When Ennis said nothing, she looked to Cullen.
“It’s nothin’ we can’t deal with.” Not meeting her gaze, Cullen handed her the reins to the Percheron. “Mr. Ennis, I believe what you’re needin’ is in the barn. I’ll show you right quick.”
Mr. Ennis took a step then looked back. “Missus McGrath.” He ducked his head. “You got to know you’s all our Kizzy be talkin’ ’bout these days. How you done flew by on that fancy horse of yours.”
Maggie smiled. “That’s very kind. You have a very curious and smart daughter, Mr. Ennis. She’s not afraid to ask questions.”
“She ain’t afraid’a much at all, ma’am.” He laughed.
“She’s so young for being so confident.”
He nodded. “She turnin’ ten next week.”
Ten? Maggie had thought her much younger, based on her size. Something she herself was familiar with.
Cullen stepped forward. “Mr. Ennis, I hate to keep you from your family.” He gestured toward the barn.
Maggie watched them go, thinking of another time, probably a year or so ago, when Papa had said wolves were picking off some of the animals on the farm. She didn’t remember what he did about it, but whatever it was, the problem had stopped.
She looked at the gargantuan horse beside her, still amazed at how huge he was. And yet so gentle. “You’re one big beautiful boy.” She settled for rubbing his muzzle, unable to reach any higher.
A few minutes later Cullen returned.
Wordless, he took the reins and climbed into the saddle. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”
Her hand in his, Maggie climbed atop the hitching post, balancing with ease, then slipped her foot into the stirrup. With Cullen’s assistance, she quickly transferred to sit in front of him—closely in front of him, thanks to the saddle’s contours—and situated her skirt, all too aware of the swirl of heat initiating inside her where their bodies met. Working to sort out her reaction to him, she kept her focus forward, certain her face was as flushed as it felt.
Cullen snapped the reins and, with a ponderous gait, Levi started down the road.
Remembering, Maggie glanced back. “Where’s Bucket?”
“With Miss Onnie in the kitchen. She came waving a soup bone, and the dog couldn’t leave me fast enough.”
Maggie laughed. “So now you know how it feels.”
She peered to the side and marveled at how much farther it was to the ground compared to when she was on Belle, and how different this was from Belle’s fluid stride.
“We have about an hour of sunlight left,” Cullen said behind her, his arm coming around her midsection and securing her against him. “Let’s use it well.”
He urged the Percheron to a trot, then a canter, which Maggie found surprisingly less jarring than she would have imagined. Or maybe it was simply the way Cullen was holding her.
He directed the horse down the drive that led to the main road then broke off into a cornfield, keeping to the side. It was then she guessed where they were going.
Levi climbed the rise to the bluff as though it were flatland, and as if she and Cullen were but tiny sparrows perched upon his back. Maggie moved forward as Cullen dismounted, then leaned down to accept his help. Hands about her waist, he lowered her to the ground, taking his time.
She braced her hands on his shoulders, appreciating the layered muscle beneath her fingertips even as that familiar awareness of him rose inside her. When her feet touched the ground, he leaned close, and she realized he was going to kiss her. Her mind went blank. How did they do this last time? What had she done? She couldn’t remember and she didn’t want to make any mis—
He reached beyond her into one of the saddlebags and pulled out a blanket. “How long has it been since you’ve ridden up here?”
Quickly closing her mouth, Maggie gave herself a mental shake. “Um . . .” She forced her gaze from his lips to his eyes. “It’s been . . . a while.”
He looped the Percheron’s reins over a low tree limb then gave the blanket a good shake. He crossed the distance and spread the blanket near the edge of the bluff, then offered his hand as she sat.
Feeling deprived of his kiss and not liking the feeling, Maggie sneaked a look over at him as he stared out across the land. Perhaps he didn’t want to kiss her again. But she didn’t think that was likely. Not because she was so comely . . . far from it.
But because, more often than not, when she was working, perhaps in the stable or in the garden, and she happened to glance in his direction, she would catch him watching her. And even with her limited experience, she thought his expression certainly seemed to hold interest.
Another possibility occurred to her.
What if—when they’d kissed before—he hadn’t enjoyed it as she had? That thought lasted all of three seconds before she swiftly dismissed it. The look in his eyes that night, his quickness of breath matching hers, the way he’d held her . . .
No, it had to be something else.
“See that section of fields over there? Toward the north?”
She followed his gaze.
“That’s all cotton. Then to the left, includin’ what we just rode past, is corn. Those are our two biggest crops. We’re trying some tobacco in those fields over there. And finally”—he looked over at her—“you may not believe this, but to the east . . . are potatoes.”
She eyed him. “Potatoes? I’d have thought that to be the last thing—”
“I know what you’d have thought, and I thought the same thing. But your father, bless his soul, convinced me to meet with a man in town a while back. A German fellow, actually. I did and was impressed by what he showed me.”
Touched by his mention of Papa, Maggie found her own interest piqued.
“The man says he’s created a potato that doesn’t rot. Or at least, doesn’t rot as badly as they usually do.”
“You’ve seen it?”
Cullen nodded. “The man pulled one up from the ground while I stood right there. But whether we’ll be able to make the same happen here, I don’t know.” He sighed. “The man, a Mr. Geoffrey, a gardener I think, and a good one, based on where he’s workin’, says no other farmers in the area would take his seedlin’s. They flat refused.”
She frowned. “Why is that?”
“They don’t trust him. Him bein’ from Austria, and bein’ a foreigner.”
He cut a look her way, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and Maggie flattened a stare right back at him.
Smiling, he continued. “Geoffrey told me the men were afraid whatever caused the blight in my homeland might be in the potatoes he’s plantin’.”
“Is that possible?”
“I don’t know . . . not for sure. All I know is that your father asked me to go see him. And that the potato Mr. Geoffrey pulled from the earth was like nothin’ I’ve ever laid eyes on. Nary a blemish on it, nor a black spot either. And it was bigger too. So I told Geoffrey we’d try it and let him know how it does.”
Maggie wished again that she’d taken a greater interest in the crops and their discussions about them before now, while Papa was still alive. She gazed out over the land that spread like a deep green ocean in all directions, the soft rise and fall of the fields so gentle and inviting. The sun, half hidden behind the hills, lingered to kiss the land one last time before journeying on.
Cullen laughed softly beside her.
She turned. “What is it?”
“I was just rememberin’ somethin’ else your father said to me. I think it must be what first persuaded him to seek the man out about the potatoes.”
She waited, eager to hear.
“He told me about the men he’d known for years. His ‘business associates,’ I think is what he called them. Your father said that, for the most part, they all snubbed him once things at Linden Downs started goin’ downhill.”
Maggie remembered how muc
h that had hurt Papa.
“Seems those same men told this Mr. Geoffrey that no way were they goin’ to plant those bloody—” Cullen stopped short then gave her a quick wink. “Let’s just say they refused the man’s request in quite colorful terms, your papa said.” He laughed again. “Which I think helped him make his decision.” Cullen sighed. “Papa sure was good at tellin’ stories, wasn’t he?”
Maggie nodded but turned away, her throat closing up tight. Seconds later, she felt a gentle touch on her arm.
“Margaret . . .” Cullen covered her hand on her lap. “Forgive me . . . Should I not be speakin’ of him so plainly yet?”
Grateful for the approaching dark, she shook her head, the tears coming. “It’s not that,” she whispered.
“Then . . . what?” Touching her chin, he gently urged her back toward him.
“The opposite, in fact. It’s just so good to hear you talk about him.”
Even the waning light couldn’t conceal the concern in his eyes.
“And to hear you say Papa.” She felt a warmth in her chest, like the sun had left a tiny bit of itself behind. “It makes me feel”—she gave a little shrug—“like I’m not so alone.”
He drew her to his side, and his arms came around her. Tucked there against him, she felt the weight of grief inside her begin to lift. And float up.
“You’re not alone, Margaret. And while I know I’m not missin’ your papa like you are . . . he was your da, after all . . . I’ve not known a finer man in all my life.” He cradled her cheek. “Nor one who took such pleasure in givin’ of himself to others.”
She slipped her arms around his waist, holding on to him as she’d been wanting to do, not caring now whether he mistook her gesture for something more. Because . . .
Something more with him was exactly what she wanted.
Cullen drew back slightly, and she lifted her face. It was too dark now for him to see the look in her eyes, but her hand moving over his chest said enough. He turned her in his arms and kissed her, gently at first, relishing the taste of her mouth, then the softness of her neck. He moved a little lower, and she let out a little gasp. He sought her lips again, telling himself to move more slowly.
But desire for her whispered otherwise. Especially when she wove her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer.
Tracing the curve of her waist, he deepened the kiss. She hesitated only a second before angling her body into his. Desire for her tensed through him, and he eased her down onto the blanket. She looked up at him, her breath ragged.
He leaned down and kissed her, but in short, soft kisses this time, wanting to give her the freedom to stop, even as he prayed she wouldn’t. Her lips so soft, her mouth so sweet and lush, he caressed her shoulder, then—knowing only too well the number of buttons on her shirtwaist—he loosened them. One at a time. And as each slipped free, her kiss grew more fervent.
He slipped his hand inside her shirtwaist, and she sucked in a breath. His body already hating him for it, he drew back slightly and looked at her lying beneath him in the last light of day, her lips parted, her eyes dark. And he knew that no matter how long it took him, he would win this woman’s heart. Just as he was determined to win her desire.
Slowly, she sat up, and Cullen—already feeling the loss of her—took a steadying breath. Seeking to douse the fire inside him, he tried to recall a page from the Farmers’ Almanac—those blasted phases of the moon, tips on when to plant, how to know when to harvest—anything to ease his desire for her, all while telling himself it would simply take time for her to—
Without a word, she reached to unbutton the top button of his shirt, then the next, and his throat went dry.
He let her finish, relishing the way her shirtwaist lay open to him, her corset and chemise beckoning beneath. But he could feel the trembling in her hands. He lifted them to his mouth and kissed each finger.
“Margaret,” he whispered. “Are you sure you’re—”
“Yes,” she said and lifted her mouth to his. She kissed him, her lips tentative at first, then becoming bolder. “I’m very sure.”
She slipped her arms around his neck and pressed closer, and he touched her, caressing, exploring, her soft sighs warm against his ear. And yet . . .
He needed to say the words to her. Even more, he needed to hear her say them. Her skin like silk against his, he lay beside her, looking at her in the moonlight.
“You are my wife,” he whispered, brushing his fingertips against her lips when she tried to kiss him. “You . . . are . . . my . . . wife,” he said again, and this time he saw the silver light of night mirrored in her eyes.
“I am your wife,” she said softly, and the words washed over him.
He kissed her.
“I am your wife,” she whispered again, over and over, their breath mingling.
And as he drew her to him, the rough ground beneath his back, Cullen knew her need for him was surpassed only by his for her.
Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
Awakening to the sun on her face, Maggie wiped the sleep from her eyes and turned over in bed—straight into Cullen. He was on his side, facing her, and she waited for him to stir. When he didn’t—his breathing steady and deep—she carefully adjusted the sheet and nestled into her pillow, appreciating the opportunity to watch him.
His dark brown hair and sun-bronzed skin contrasted with the white of the bedcovers, and she resisted the urge to run a finger along his shadowed jawline. The sheet down about his waist, his bare chest invited her gaze—and her memory—and she recalled what his muscled shoulders had felt like clutched beneath her hands.
She sighed, wanting to relive that feeling all over again, and wanting to remember every detail about last night. And about him.
They’d returned to the house shortly after midnight to find Bucket eager to greet them when they opened the door. Cullen had been hungry—and to Maggie’s surprise, so had she—so they stayed up talking in the kitchen, sitting at the table and eating scrambled eggs and bacon until half past three. They’d also devoured a stash of freshly baked lemon cookies Onnie had made and tucked inside the cupboard. They were Maggie’s favorite. A recipe from her Aunt Issy, passed down through her mother’s family for years.
“Good morning . . .”
The familiar voice deeper than usual, she lifted her gaze to find him staring, and felt herself blush. She attempted to smooth her hair, but he caught her wrist.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “I like seeing you fresh with morning.”
His touch reawakened desires she would have thought depleted, and she laughed to cover what felt like a thousand frenzied butterflies fluttering inside her. Even though she was wearing her gown, she felt naked beneath the sheet, and far less confident in the light than she had been in the dark on the bluff last night.
He leaned over and kissed her. And beneath the cover, he caressed her thigh, and Maggie wondered if this was what it would feel like to awaken next to him every morning.
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked, feeling a sudden need to fill the silence.
He shook his head, his gaze taking in the length of her. “Breakfast isn’t quite what I’m wantin’ right now, Mrs. McGrath. What about you?”
As his hand moved upward her breath quickened, and she smiled and reached out for her husband. “My feelings exactly . . . Mr. McGrath.”
They got downstairs for breakfast later than usual, and Maggie insisted Cullen wait outside the dining room and let her go in first.
“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me, woman.”
“Shhh . . .” She held up a hand, not wanting Onnie to hear. “I certainly am not.”
“Do you think Miss Onnie won’t know?” he whispered.
“I don’t mind her knowing. Eventually. I just don’t want her knowing that we—” She widened her eyes. “Last night.”
“And again this mornin’, love,” he said, grinning.
Swatting him in the chest, Maggie wa
lked into the dining room and took her seat.
Seconds later, Onnie pushed through the door, a pot of coffee in her hand. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
Maggie smiled. “How are you this morning, Onnie?”
Onnie glanced down at her. “I be fine, ma’am. How is you?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Well . . . that’s real good.”
Maggie heard Cullen’s steps in the hallway and busied herself with creaming her coffee.
Onnie looked up. “Mornin’, Mister McGrath.”
“Mornin’, Miss Onnie.” Cullen took his seat while signaling to Bucket to stay in the hallway. The dog lay down, gaze still intent. “Sure smells good down here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Maggie looked across the table. “Good morning, Cullen.”
Cullen gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “Good mornin’, Margaret.”
Pouring Cullen’s coffee, Onnie looked back across the table, and Maggie tried her best to appear normal. She crossed her arms, but that didn’t feel comfortable, so she placed her hands in her lap. But that felt wrong, so she picked up her coffee cup again.
“I be right back with breakfast,” Onnie said softly.
No sooner did the door close than Cullen smiled. “She knows,” he whispered.
“She does not.”
“She does.”
Throughout breakfast Maggie only grew more convinced that Cullen was wrong—and that Onnie’s hotcakes were the best the woman had ever made.
“They really are delicious, Onnie.” Maggie helped herself to another when Onnie held out the plate.
“So you been sayin’, ma’am. More bacon?”
Maggie smiled. “I think I will, thank you.”
Onnie rounded the table. “More for you, too, sir?”
“I think eight hotcakes is my limit, Miss Onnie. But thank you.” Cullen rose. “I need to get to the barn. The men will be here anytime.”
Maggie looked up. “I hope you have a good day, Cullen.”
Smiling, he tucked his napkin by his plate, came around to her side of the table, and kissed her full on the mouth. “I hope you have a good day, too, Margaret.”
To Win Her Favor Page 22
