A Bride of Honor

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Lindsay peeked around the doorway. Quickly, he pulled the bedclothes back over himself to hide his stump, and sat against the pillows, his heart thudding in sudden panic. “Lindsay.”

  Her smile seemed brighter than the sunshine itself. She also appeared as fresh as butter in her frock and apron, a clean cap on her golden hair. She carried a tray in her hands. “Good morning. I was hoping you’d be awake. I brought you some breakfast.”

  He gripped his bedclothes in his hands, the impulse to stand and help her strong. But he knew it was impossible until he strapped on his leg.

  She brought the tray to his side of the bed and he reached out to take it from her, in the hopes that she’d move away.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured. Was this arrangement to be one humiliation after another?

  “I know, but I just wanted to thank you for taking pity on me with my childish fears.” She perched on the edge of the bed, her eyelashes fluttering downwards.

  He settled the tray on his lap, shifting in the process so he wouldn’t touch her. “Your fears weren’t childish. You had a terrifying experience yesterday.” He looked down at the tray, remembering so many frightening incidents from his childhood.

  “Were you scared yesterday?”

  “I was terrified for you.” He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I should have been better able to protect you.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Oh, no! You did wonderfully. No one could have overpowered so many attackers! Please don’t feel badly. I couldn’t bear it.”

  He couldn’t help smiling at her obvious distress for his sake.

  “So, if I feel frightened again, I may come to you?”

  He swallowed. What did she mean exactly? Before he could formulate a reply, she continued, “I mean, may I come to you at night? That’s when things appear scariest.”

  Her eyes were so guileless he didn’t have the heart to refuse her. “Of course.”

  “I didn’t rob you of sleep?”

  He cleared his throat, fiddling with the edge of the rolled-up napkin on the tray. “No.”

  “I’m glad. I was afraid when you didn’t appear at breakfast that you might have overslept because of me. I know sometimes one has trouble falling asleep again when one is woken up in the middle of the night.”

  Unable to tell her truthfully how long he’d lain awake, he fixed his gaze back on the tray. Everything looked appetizing. A blue ware plate held a thick slice of fried ham and a sunny egg. Triangles of toast stood on a rack, a small crock of butter and a crystal dish of jam beside it.

  If only he could enjoy it, but his stomach was tied up in knots with her sitting there, looking so beautiful. He pulled off his nightcap and ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to bring some order to it. He hadn’t even had a chance to wash his face and couldn’t very well rise now. He cringed just thinking of hobbling one-legged in front of her to the washstand.

  She got up and smoothed the coverlet where she’d sat, her hand grazing his thigh. “Please, have your breakfast before it gets cold.” She stood close to him, right at the edge of the bed. How sweet she smelled, like roses. “Here, let me pour you a cup of coffee. I brought a cup for myself, if you don’t mind. I thought it would be a little like our picnic the other day.” He could hear the smile in her voice though he dared not look up. “Here we have no worry about ants, although I must be careful not to spill anything.” As she spoke, her hand came into view and she picked up the round little pot with its painted flowers and poured them each a cup.

  He swallowed, wondering how he was ever going to manage to eat anything. She set the pot down, and her hand came up to his face. She brushed back a lock of his hair that had fallen over his forehead. He couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.

  Her brown eyes held only warmth. “Come, don’t you like anything I brought you? I thought it would be a treat from your usual porridge.”

  “Yes, how thoughtful of you.” His fingers gripped the edges of the tray. Finally, as she moved away, he managed to bow his head and say grace. She perched on the other half of the bed. He picked up his mug and brought it to his lips.

  “Don’t let your food get cold.”

  He unfolded his napkin and began to cut into his ham and eggs as she spoke about what had transpired in the household below this morning. “Mrs. Nichols let me fry the ham and eggs myself. Did they turn out all right?” She looked worried until he nodded his head, trying to smile with his mouth full. She returned his smile and he felt warmed by the relief in her face.

  Truthfully, it seemed so natural to have her sitting there…like a wife. His attention fell to her hands as she held her cup on her knee. He couldn’t see her left hand from where he sat, but he knew she wore the thin gold band he’d given her on their wedding day. He realized that she wore no other jewelry. He narrowed his eyes, looking more closely at the rest of her. When he’d first known her, she was always fashionably dressed. Never ostentatious, but always with some little thing, a pair of dangling gold earrings, or a fragile necklace at her throat, sometimes a brooch fixed to a velvet collar or pinned to her garment.

  She moved suddenly, turning her body toward him, and he caught sight of the thin gold band. His heart swelled with a sudden, uncontrollable pride. The wedding band was a mark of his right to her. It announced to the world that she was his. He glanced down at the matching band on his finger. Just as he was hers.

  How true the latter statement. He was hers until the day he died, whether she ever knew it or not. But the band on her finger also mocked him. It represented so much, so much that he would never enjoy. Its bright clean shine taunted him now. A husband in name only.

  His eyes rose to find her regarding him strangely. “I’m sorry,” he said with a slight shake of his head, feeling his cheeks redden. “What did you say?”

  “I just asked you to pass the coffeepot.”

  He did as she asked and poured some into the cup she held out to him, hearing the sound of the hot liquid spilling into it above the sound of his thudding heart.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “The sugar, please?”

  “Of course.” How stupid of him. He held out the bowl to her. She took it from him, her fingers brushing his. Did they linger? He held the sugar steady by sheer dint of will.

  Sham of a husband. His mind mocked the pretty, cozy scene. All a sham. She in her pretty mobcap, her golden curls tucked behind her delicate ears. He pressed his lips together, unable to picture how he was to endure the coming day…weeks….

  When he’d finished eating, she came around to his side of the bed again and bent to take his tray.

  “Leave it. I’ll take it down.”

  “Nonsense.” She began to lift it.

  He held up a hand. “Don’t, or you’ll make me feel like an invalid.”

  She looked up at him, stricken, and immediately let the tray go. “I didn’t mean…” She backed away from him. “Excuse me.” Without another look back, she hurried from the room.

  In the stillness after the echo of the closing door, Damien’s head dropped back onto his pillows, his eyes shutting for an instant. He felt worse than he had yesterday when he’d lain helpless in the street.

  Slowly, he laid the tray aside and got up from the bed, half hopped over to a chair and sat down to strap his peg leg on, his movements slow and ponderous.

  Once again, recriminations heaped themselves upon him. He’d saddled a pretty young lady to a cripple and he saw no way out now. Her father had made no overtures. More and more people were coming to know them as a true married couple.

  When he finally finished washing and dressing, he made his way downstairs in search of Lindsay to apologize for his careless remark.

  Knock, knock, knock went his wooden leg against the staircase. The sound disgusted him as never before, even when he’d been a young lad and had first had to accustom himself to its detestable sound.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and began his search. The drawing room was empty
and his heartbeat sped up. What if she’d left again? No! The thought hit him harder than the kick to his gut one of those youths had given him yesterday. Please, he prayed, let her be here to accept my apology.

  Suddenly, the thought of losing her was more than he could bear. How could he ever give her up when the time came?

  That night Lindsay paced in her bedroom after she’d donned her nightgown. What was she going to do? Or rather, where was she going to spend the night?

  The day had passed uneventfully. Damien had apologized for his remark, saying he’d been overly sensitive since the day before. She’d assured him it didn’t matter, swearing to herself she wouldn’t make him feel like an invalid or cripple or less than a man, ever again.

  But she’d still sensed that same wall of reserve around him, which she’d hoped would be breached after their night together. She stopped in front of her mirror and stared at herself. Her hair cascaded down past her shoulders after brushing it out. Her white gown, modest with its frilly collar and long puffy sleeves ending in wide swathes of lace covering half her hands, made her look like a schoolgirl.

  Would Damien reject her if she went to his room again tonight? The fear of the previous day’s attack had largely passed, so it was not a question of being scared of staying in her own room by herself. No. It was a question of loneliness.

  Dreadful loneliness engulfed her. She didn’t want to be without him tonight.

  Damien had said she could come back…if she was scared, she reminded herself.

  She had to find out. She had to risk his rejection because she couldn’t go on this way, being his wife in name only. She pulled her hairbrush one last time through her hair and set it down. She took her hair up in her hands then let it go slowly. She wouldn’t braid it tonight but leave it loose.

  Taking a deep breath, she marched to her door, her heart beginning to pound until its thud drowned out all other sounds.

  Damien had not yet retired for the evening. As usual, she’d bidden him good-night, leaving him reading in the drawing room. Tonight, she would wait for him in his room. When he discovered her in his bed, would he ask her to leave?

  Every evening Damien forced himself to sit in the drawing room until Lindsay rose to retire. He steeled his features to betray nothing but friendly solicitude when she finally set aside her book for the night, and pretended an interest in his own book that he was far from feeling.

  Even after she left, it took him some time to focus his attention back on his work. This evening the words kept swimming before his eyes as his thoughts returned again and again to the previous night and Lindsay’s warm presence in his bed. A longing for her fought with relief that he’d survived it. Her virtue remained intact.

  Finally, well after he knew she would have fallen asleep, he rose and closed his book. After winding the clock and checking the locks, he took his candle and climbed slowly upstairs.

  As he entered his room, he glanced briefly at the closed curtains around his bed, puzzled. Mrs. Nichols or Betsy usually didn’t come up to his room in the evening.

  He thought no more about it but went about his nightly preparations for bed. The last thing he did was sit on the chair and repeat what he had done that morning in reverse, unstrapping the thick leather band and removing the wooden leg. Then he blew out his candle and pushed aside his bed curtain.

  He had settled himself on his back in the dark, his mind beginning a prayer, when he heard soft, steady breathing at his side. His body tensed, every muscle rigid in stunned disbelief.

  With utmost care, he turned on his side and reached out. His fingers came in contact with silky curls. He swallowed, not daring to move. He hazarded a whisper. “Lindsay?”

  “Damien?” came the sleepy reply.

  Before he could decide what to do, she turned to him and curled against him. “You finally came up.”

  He blew out a breath, trying desperately to hold himself in check. “Why aren’t in your own room?”

  “Because I belong here,” she answered after a few seconds, her voice becoming more alert.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  He paused. “Because you’re a woman and I’m a man.”

  “You are my husband and I am your wife.”

  He sighed heavily. “I took an oath in which I promised to protect you. That included returning you to your father someday.”

  Long seconds passed. Finally, she moved away. When he glanced her way, her back was to him.

  Slowly, he eased as far away from her as he could.

  Despair overwhelmed him. This was too much for him to bear. How was he going to make it through the night without touching her?

  Give me strength, he began to pray.

  The long night hours stretched before him.

  Lindsay awoke to complete darkness. She became aware of being wrapped in someone’s embrace from behind. Then she remembered her gamble.

  “Damien?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer, but continued to hold her, nuzzling the back of her neck. Was he awake?

  Was she finally to know what it meant to be his wife?

  Slowly, she turned to him, afraid of halting his caresses. She began to return his kisses, praying that all barriers between them would fall that night.

  Suddenly he separated his lips from hers. “Lindsay?” came his hoarse whisper. Before she had a chance to answer, he was pushing away from her. “Oh, no, I’m sorry.” His whisper couldn’t mask the horror in his tone.

  She couldn’t let him stop now. In desperation, she clung to him, wrapping her arms about his neck and kissing his cheeks, his jaw, pressing her body to his. Kiss me back. Kiss me back, please, Damien, she begged silently. When he remained unmoving, she pulled back a fraction. “It’s all right, Damien,” she whispered, “I’m your wife.”

  She would not let this night be over without becoming his wife in truth.

  And then he was kissing her as if he couldn’t get enough, his hands digging into her hair, his body responding to hers.

  Damien awoke to full sunshine. Someone must have pushed aside his bed curtains.

  He felt sated, like someone who has indulged in every delectable morsel available to man. Then he remembered. Full awareness came in a flash. He glanced at the empty place beside him, the covers folded back, an indentation still visible on the pillow.

  It had not been a dream. As memory flooded back, he realized it had started as a dream but had ended in flesh-and-blood reality. He turned into her pillow, burying his face in it, breathing in the lingering scent of her, reexperiencing the delights of the flesh.

  His wife. Dear Lord, what have I done? He’d done the unpardonable, what he’d vowed to himself and God not to. Forgive me. How could he ever return her to her father, to her rightful world?

  He tried to piece together a full recollection of the evening. He had started out lying as far away from Lindsay as possible, but sometime in the night he awoke and, finding her in his arms, exchanged with her kisses and caresses more ardent than he’d ever imagined possible. His body stirred at the memory. Disgusted with himself, he sat up, his head dropping into his hands. What was he to do? He was a vile, despicable man. He’d ruined the woman he loved.

  He couldn’t undo what he’d done.

  Feeling the weight of guilt and responsibility like double millstones, he slowly got out of bed. Somehow he must face her. Face her and what? Apologize? Get down on his knees and ask for her forgiveness? To what purpose? He could never give her back what he’d stolen from her. Now he could never return her to her father, her home, her world.

  Even as these thoughts raged within him, he remembered Lindsay’s behavior. She had come to him. She had clung to him, practically begging him to love her. He rubbed a hand over his face, remembering her sweet touch, her impassioned kisses.

  Why must he return her to her father? Wasn’t she happier here with him?

  No! Soon, she would be worn down by the lif
e of a poor minister’s wife. A poor, crippled minister’s wife.

  He strapped on his wooden leg angrily and went through his morning ablutions feeling like a man condemned to bear the burden of guilt for the rest of his days. He hated the reflection that stared back at him in the glass as he shaved and washed.

  He didn’t see Lindsay until he entered his study after a quick and tasteless breakfast. She was writing at his desk, a place she was not usually to be found. Had she been waiting for him?

  He cleared his throat softly and she laid aside her quill and turned to look at him immediately with a smile. “There you are, lie-a-bed.”

  He could feel himself coloring at the teasing endearment. She rose and came to him as he stood like a stone in the doorway. His heart smote him at the trust he read in her eyes. She held her hands out and he grasped them automatically. “Good morning,” she said.

  He swallowed painfully. “Good morning.”

  “Your hands are cold.” Hers felt warm and soft as they squeezed his. She tilted her head up expectantly. Hardly thinking what he was doing, he leaned his face down. His lips met hers and he was lost, all the sweet sensations and memories rushing through him once again.

  Her arms came up and wrapped themselves around his neck. He couldn’t help bringing his own to her waist. Her lips were so soft; they parted beneath his.

  No! This couldn’t—it mustn’t—be!

  Another part of his mind demanded satisfaction, lulling him with the thought that this was only a kiss.

  She could be with child after last night. The thought slammed into him, the enormity of the consequences staring at him in the full light of day.

  His child.

  Gently, he put her away from him. His eyes fell to her slim waistline as he felt a sudden burst of fierce, male pride. The next second, he looked down at his wooden leg.

  “Now I’m really your wife.” Her voice was laced with warmth.

  The words denounced him. She didn’t realize what she was saying, how she was condemning herself to a future that would make her unhappy. He tried to smile but felt the condemnation choking him.