Perfect Timing

by Catherine Anderson

  “Me mum says a wife must be available to her husband at all times.”

  “Well, your mum isn’t here to run our marriage, and in this century, women aren’t treated like possessions by their husbands. At least, they shouldn’t be. Nothing more will happen between us unless you want it to happen. Sound fair enough?”

  “But what of yer needs and wants? Do they na play a large part in when we next do it?” She broke off and licked her lips. “It seems unfair fer only the wife to say when.”

  As sweet and desirable as Ceara was, Quincy had no intention of making the first night of their marriage the sexual template for the remainder of it. If he couldn’t seduce her back into his bed, he’d do without. That wouldn’t be his preference, of course. He had healthy sexual appetites, and she was delectable. But he wasn’t about to press a female for sex when she didn’t share his desire.

  “I’m accustomed to living alone,” he finally replied. “My needs and wants don’t factor heavily into the equation.” He reached to pull the covers over her. “Dawn won’t show its face for a while yet. Why don’t you try to get a little more sleep?”

  She peered at him through the amber-washed gloom, her expression troubled. Quincy guessed that she had been raised to take her duties as a wife very seriously, even if it meant subjugating her own wishes to please her husband. Over time, he hoped she’d come to understand that a happy, modern-day marriage was built on a foundation of give and take, with both partners making sacrifices to please the other. He would not be a husband who slaked his passion on a wife who wasn’t as delighted to be in his arms as he was to have her there.

  “What of ye?” she asked. “Will ye sleep longer as well?”

  Quincy nodded, jerked a blanket up over his shoulder, and closed his eyes. Moments later, he heard Ceara’s breathing go soft and even. He missed holding her against him—wished that things between them were different. But love didn’t happen overnight. It came softly and built slowly between two people. Maybe it would happen that way for him and Ceara. Maybe it wouldn’t. Only time would tell.

  * * *

  Ceara blinked and rubbed her eyes. The first faint light of morning came through the windows that flanked the fireplace. All she wanted was to go back to sleep, but she felt Quincy stir awake beside her.

  “The journey drained me,” she told him, her voice gruff from slumber. “Though I have rested, me bones still ache.”

  He gently smoothed her hair back from her cheek. “It’s your own kind of jet lag, honey. Not much to do but sleep it off. Just close your eyes and get more rest.”

  Ceara had no idea what jet lag was, and she was too tired to ask, so she did as Quincy said and tried to drift back to sleep. She missed the feel of his strong, warm arms around her, but never had she slept in such a wonderful bed. Her moss-stuffed ticking at home had seemed the height of luxury, but compared to this ’twas like sleeping on sticks. His mattress felt firm and yet gave with their weight, molding around their bodies and holding the warmth. From even across the bed, heat radiated from Quincy’s skin, enveloping her, soothing her. She found a comfortable hollow in her pillow to cradle her cheek, and let exhaustion carry her away to blackness once again.

  Sometime later Quincy’s cell phone whinnied. Ceara had been startled at first by the sound of a horse coming at unexpected moments, but now, even as she jerked to consciousness, she registered that the whinny came from the wee box he called a phone. Quincy rolled, showing her his back, and muttered a word she’d never heard, his tone suggesting that it was a curse, as he groped and fumbled for the strange apparatus. Feeling the chill as the blankets shifted, Ceara drew up her knees to hug them, drowsily fascinated by how the mounds of muscle along his spine rippled as he used his arms.

  “Yo, Quincy here.” His voice rumbled, and she wished she were cuddled close to feel the vibration. The thought made her shiver. “What’s up?”

  Quincy pressed a bright spot on the phone screen, bringing Clint’s voice in as loud and clear as if he were in the room. “Loni woke up a little while ago and asked for some broth! She’s hungry, Quincy! And her gums have stopped bleeding!”

  “Wow, that’s great news.”

  “Great?” Clint echoed. “Correction, it’s fabulous. I swear she’s got more color. Her lips aren’t as white. Dee Dee is warming some broth right now. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know for sure that it’ll stay down.”

  Quincy chuckled as he broke the connection. “You hear that, Ceara? Loni may be a little better.”

  After yawning sleepily, Ceara murmured, “The broth will settle well on her stomach. The blood sickness is gone now.”

  “Gone?” he echoed, his tone incredulous.

  “Yes, gone. She will be verra weak fer a time, but she shall grow better day by day until she is completely well again. We ha broken the curse.”

  Quincy rolled to face her so abruptly that Ceara drew back and blinked. In the dim light of dawn, his strong white teeth flashed in a broad grin. “We have, haven’t we? It worked. It really worked!”

  Ceara nuzzled her cheek against her pillow, pleased to see the joy that lightened his expression. “Of course it worked. Do ye think I came so far to perform those beastly duties as a wife because I have rocks betwixt me ears?”

  His smile faded. “Beastly? I thought . . . well, last night, I got the impression—”

  Ceara laughed. “’Tis jesting I am. ’Twas surprisingly pleasant, nothing at all like the goings-on between pigs.”

  His black brows snapped together in a scowl. “That’s it? It was ‘surprisingly pleasant’? A lot better than what happens between pigs? That doesn’t sound so good.”

  As shy and embarrassed as she felt when she recalled the intimacies they’d engaged in last night, Ceara wanted him to understand that she’d found the act unexpectedly pleasurable, but the rules of ladylike behavior, drilled into her since early childhood to prepare her for a suitable union with a man of status, made her think twice before speaking. “A lady canna wax poetic about that kind of thing. ’Tis brazen. Me mum wouldna approve. Na at all.”

  His scowl lessened. “So you’re feeling brazen, are you?”

  Ceara’s stomach clenched, for in her time there were strict social mores for all wellborn women to follow, not to mention that the Catholic faith itself had strict moral codes. Those females foolish enough to ignore them paid a dear price. “I dinna say I’m feeling brazen, only that ’twould be brazen of me to discuss it.”

  He settled his head on her pillow so their noses nearly touched and they shared each other’s breath. Without her toothbrush, Ceara had been unable to give her teeth a good scrub last evening, and she worried that her mouth might smell sour. If it did, he gave no sign.

  “In this century, a lady isn’t considered to be brazen if she enjoys physical intimacy,” he told her huskily. “And that is especially true if the lady in question is married to the man she enjoys such things with.” His expression grew intent and solemn. “Just to be sure we aren’t getting our wires crossed, can you tell me, honestly, if what we did last night was . . . well, you know, just okay, good, really good, or . . . spectacular?”

  Ceara had never heard that last word, but judging by the context of his question, she guessed its meaning. And judging by the anxiety she saw in his eyes, he yearned for her to say their joining had been enjoyable beyond description. Sadly, the training of a lifetime made her guarded. She considered carefully before replying.

  “Let me say only that if ye approach me again with such things on yer mind, I willna object.”

  He studied her for a long moment, and then scooted back to his own side of the bed. “Okay, I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.”

  Ceara couldn’t think what she might have said wrong. If a lady told a man she wouldn’t object to his future attentions, she was inviting him to make advances whenever he wished. But for reasons beyond her, Quincy didn’t seem to comprehend her meaning. “Ye’re displeased with me.”

  “No
t at all. It’s just that I need a bit more from you than that.”

  Ceara yearned to ask him why, but then she might appear to be throwing herself at him, and that, too, was unacceptable behavior for a lady. “I wish to be a good, dutiful wife,” she offered.

  “I’m sure you will be,” he replied. “But when it comes to sex, strike the word dutiful from your mind, because it doesn’t sit well with me. If and when we make love again, there will be no feelings of duty involved. You’ll either want to do it, and let me know that in every conceivable way a woman can, or we’ll never go there again. Am I clear on that?”

  Ceara wanted to make love with him again, but to tell him that—or show him that—well, ’twas unacceptable for her to do either. ’Twas the man who was supposed to be the aggressor. She tried to think how she might explain, but before she could get a word out, he’d closed his eyes, signaling that he meant to get more sleep.

  They definitely had their wires crossed, she decided as she plumped her pillow, using a little more force with her fists than was necessary. Men. Her mum said they could be dumber than sheep at times, and that was certainly proving to be true of Quincy Harrigan.

  * * *

  Upon awakening a third time, Quincy discovered that he was holding Ceara in his arms. He didn’t know whether she’d gravitated toward him in her sleep, or if he’d been drawn by her gentle warmth and softness. He knew only that he liked having her pressed against him—and so did his dick. He gave himself a silent lecture about not making love to her again. For one thing, he couldn’t do that until he was sure she wanted him to, and so far, her responses to his questions on that topic had fallen far short of the enthusiasm he needed to hear. Second, though he was no expert on virgins, common sense told him that overuse of her sensitive female anatomy might make her sore, and, hell, he had the rest of their married life to enjoy her body—if and when she ever gave him a green light. Problem. Old Glory, Quincy’s name for his dick since childhood, had no common sense and was ramrod stiff.

  Quincy tried to distract himself with thoughts of what he should accomplish today, and for once, the long list of to-dos wasn’t related to ranch work or horses. Grocery shopping was high on his list, a chore he dreaded, because he’d be buying high-fat foods that hadn’t graced his kitchen in years. No matter. Ceara was already a little too thin, so if she wanted real cheese, she’d have it. She’d no doubt turn her nose up at his plastic version of butter, and she’d surely like whole milk, preferably with a layer of cream on top, just as it came fresh from a cow. There was a dairy up the road. Quincy could stop there to see about buying a couple of gallons. And clothing! His wife couldn’t go around looking like a participant in some Renaissance fair. He briefly considered enlisting the help of his sister or sisters-in-law, but Loni was the only one with any flair for fashion. Sam, bless her heart, would have Ceara dressed like a ranch hand, and Rainie would deck her out at a thrift store in love-child skirts and peasant blouses.

  Quincy’s phone whinnied. Glad for the distraction, he rolled over and sat up to grab the cell. Clint wasted no time on pleasantries. “Loni ate dry toast, Quincy! It’s the first food she’s kept down in over two weeks!”

  Quincy grinned, warmth moving through him because he’d played a part in orchestrating Loni’s sudden turnaround. “That’s fabulous, Clint. What better news is there to start my day?”

  “None!” In the middle of a joyous laugh, Clint yawned loudly into the mouthpiece. “Oh, man, I’m wiped. I mean, totally and completely wiped.”

  “Is Dee Dee still there?” Quincy asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Then lie down next to your wife and get some sleep. Dee Dee can handle the house and kids, and your crew can deal with the ranch for the day. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends for way too long, bro. You need downtime.”

  Clint stifled another yawn, mumbled agreement, and disconnected. Quincy stared at his phone for a second, belatedly realizing that his brother hadn’t even said thank you. Ah, well. Loni was on the road to recovery. That was all the reward Quincy needed.

  He felt Ceara come awake behind him. He set aside the phone to turn toward her. Wrapped in the top sheet, she’d scooted over to her side of the bed, her rump hugging the edge. With one look into her blue eyes, Quincy realized she still had a bad case of morning-after shyness. This was another first for Quincy. The women he normally slept with didn’t feel uncomfortable afterward.

  He grabbed his pants from where they lay crumpled on the carpet. Hmm. How did a fellow put on his trousers without mooning the woman behind him? He settled for grabbing a blanket, looping it around his waist, and then twisting himself into pretzel shapes to don his Wranglers, sans boxers. As he worked the zipper with one hand, he clenched his teeth on a curse because a tuft of his pelvic hair got caught. Ouch, and double ouch. He’d never in his life understand men who wore no shorts under their jeans. It was downright dangerous.

  Decently covered from the waist down, he headed for the bathroom, trying his damnedest not to let on that every step jerked a hair out by the root. When he’d managed to unfasten the pants without bawling like a fresh-branded calf, he carefully pulled the zipper back up.

  As he reentered the bedroom, he didn’t miss the death hold Ceara still had on the sheet. Since he’d pretty much seen—or at least touched—almost every part of her during the night, he didn’t quite get what her deal was. He guessed it had to do with men being from Mars and women from Venus. Or was it the other way around? He’d never bothered to read that book.

  “So!” He rubbed his hands together, dismayed when she jumped at the sound of his voice. Okay, so when it came to recently deflowered virgins, he was totally out of his element. “We have a big day ahead of us! Grocery shopping, buying some suitable clothing for you, and since my kitchen isn’t stocked to your tastes, I was thinking about hitting a restaurant for breakfast before we do anything else. We should both grab a shower before we head out.” No response. “So, what do you say?”

  “’Tis uncertain I am about how to work yer shower. ’Tis different from the one at the clinker.”

  “Oh.” Quincy felt like a dunce. He hadn’t even thought to show her how to use the toilet and could only hope she’d figured it out for herself. “Well, there’s a quick remedy for that, honey. Stay wrapped in the sheet, and I’ll give you a grand tour.”

  * * *

  Ceara had seen women at the jail use the toilets in their cells, and she’d sneaked away three times to use Quincy’s or Clint’s, but this shower worked differently than the one she’d seen. Quincy joined her in the large stall, which in her opinion was big enough for three, but being in there with Quincy gave her a crowded feeling. She was covered only by the sheet, he wore no léine—no, he called it a shirt—and she was acutely aware of the muscles that roped his brown arms, the breadth of his shoulders, and the triangle of black hair that furred his flat lower belly and disappeared under the waist of his trews. He patiently showed her how to set the water temperature for the shower nozzle and how to pull on what he called the faucet handle to make water come out.

  “Where does it come from?” she asked.

  He gave her a bewildered look. “Where does what come from?”

  “The water.”

  “Oh! It comes from my well.”

  Ceara had guessed that much. “But how do ye get it from the well into yer walls, pray?”

  He explained about an electric pump, a water heater, and pipes, all of which only confused her more. Then, exiting the stall, he led her to what she’d already concluded was a bathing tub. He pointed out a thermostat on one side, quickly explaining that the red numbers on it would tell her how hot the water was.

  “Aim for anywhere between ninety-seven and a hundred. Anything over a hundred is too hot for me. Not to say it’ll be your preference. I just feel like a slug when I get out.”

  Then he indicated several round holes covered with knobby glass that he said were mood lights, and some open holes
that he called jets.

  “It’s a Jacuzzi whirlpool tub.” He arched a dark brow at her. “Do you like baths, or do you prefer to take a shower?”

  “At home, we take baths.”

  “Well, then, a bath it’ll be.” He pushed a bronze stopper at the bottom of the rounded enclosure, turned the handles, which she now knew were called faucet handles or levers, and soon steam drifted up from the rising water. From a cupboard under one washbasin, he fetched a bar of soap wrapped in fancy paper, and two large bottles with odd push nozzles on top. “Shampoo,” he said, as he set the one with the white nozzle on the slate skirt surrounding the tub. “This one with the black cap is conditioner.”

  “And what is shampoo?” she asked.

  His expression went from bewildered to startled. “Um, it’s stuff to wash your hair, sort of like soap, only it’s in liquid form and has all kinds of nice stuff in it to . . .” He sighed and pushed on the white nozzle to squirt a creamy blob onto his hand. “Once you’re in the water and have wet your hair, you rub this in until it lathers up.” He glanced at her tresses. “You’ll need a lot of it. Once you’ve lathered, you rinse, and then you use the conditioner the same way, rinsing thoroughly afterward.”

  Ceara nodded. “’Tis a chore to dry me hair. It takes hours.”

  “Not with a blower, it won’t.”

  “What is a blower?”

  “Never mind, I’ll help.” He left her by the tub to exit what he called the bathroom, then returned moments later with a robe that looked as if it were made of towels. “You can wear this when you get out. It’ll cover you better than the sheet.” He saw that the water level had risen and leaned over to shut off the faucets. Gesturing over his shoulder, he said, “That towel on the hook is clean.” He stepped to another cupboard. “And here’s another one for your hair. Oh, and a washcloth. You’ll be needing one of those.”

  Ceara felt the sheet slip slightly, and his gaze followed the descent. ’Twas silly of her, she knew, but memories of the intimacies they’d shared last night had her feeling skittish and more than a little embarrassed. He’d suckled the breast she was now so determined to keep covered, he’d caressed her in places she’d never dreamed a man might, and unless he truly was dumber than a sheep, he must know she’d liked it. That being the case, why had he insisted earlier that he wouldn’t consider touching her again until she made it clear that she wanted him to? Surely her moans of pleasure last night had conveyed that to him. She didn’t understand why he insisted that she say it with words. ’Twas unseemly for a lady to speak of such things. Mayhap married women were allowed to be more direct with their husbands, but if that was the case, Ceara’s mum had failed to tell her so.