The Unwilling Bride

by Candy-Ann Little

  A smile brightened her face. “Oh, Dillon, I knew I could count on you.” She pulled some papers from the jeweled reticule hanging around her wrist. “Will you take a look at this?”

  Dillon took the papers noting that she stood much closer than need be. As he glanced over the first paragraph she leaned in, rubbing a breast against his arm. “Henrietta, what are you doing?” He jumped back a step.

  “Watching you read.” Her blonde brows knit together, giving her an innocent look.

  “I do not like people reading over my shoulder.”

  “What else don’t you like, Dillon?” She closed the space between them, brazenly brushing against him one more time. “Teach me what you like. I’ll do anything.” Her husky voice surrounded him. Tempting and inviting him to take her.

  “Henrietta, what has gotten into you?” Confusion darkened his face. She had certainly flirted before but had never been this brash.

  “What’s wrong, Dillon? Do you not like what you see?” Her pink skirt swayed around his legs as she stepped even closer. “Or do you not understand my proposition?” She looked him square in the eyes. “I am offering myself to you.”

  “I understand the proposition. I just do not understand why you are making it?”

  “Because you’ve gone and married that little twit. I can no longer afford to be subtle.” Hurt mixed with the anger.

  “Do not speak so unkindly about my wife,” he mildly warned.

  “Why are you so concerned for her? She does not care about you.”

  “You should not speak about subjects you have no knowledge of.” His tone was gentle but still reprimanding.

  “Ha.” Her pointed chin jutted out. “I know that your marriage was arranged by her parents. If you hadn’t been goaded by her father you would have married me.”

  “I have never mentioned marriage with you.” He did not want to hurt her feelings but she’d built up some fantasy about the two of them. Although she was fair to look upon, he hadn’t been able to get past her immaturity.

  “You did not have to use words. Your actions were enough.”

  “What actions are you talking about?” He’d been very careful to avoid any pretense of flirting when she was around.

  “We had dinner together. We talked all the time. I could feel the attraction.” Her hazel eyes blazed in the dim light. “You would have gotten around to proposing sooner or later.”

  “I am sorry if my actions have caused you distress.” Although they had dined together a few times as friends, he’d purposely avoided intimate situations like socials and parties. Their conversations centered around chance meetings at the General Store, or when she’d stop by the shop with something to publish. He really could not see where she’d gotten the idea that he was going to propose.

  “’Twas not your actions then that caused my distress. ‘Tis your rejection now that wounds me.” She turned away, wiping at the tears. She’d almost gotten him to kiss her by pretending to cry once. “Here I am throwing myself at you, making a complete fool of myself. And you just let me go on when you have no intention of accepting me.” Her words came out between sobs.

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he stepped closer and held it out to her. “I am truly sorry.”

  She took the accepted handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Looking up into his eyes she made one last attempt. “I can offer you what Caitlin can’t or won’t. Keep that in mind when you’re lonely.” With head held high she left Dillon to his chaotic thoughts.

  * * *

  “What are you reading?” Dillon entered the parlor.

  “A Sicilian Romance.” Caitlin sat on the sofa with her feet curled beneath the white fabric of her dress. A matching cottage cap covered her red curls.

  “I like Ann Radcliffe.” He also liked the domestic picture she presented curled up by the fire reading.

  “Have you read it?”

  “Several times, but I liked The Italian better.”

  “I have not read that book yet. ‘Twas only published last year. Although Papa did allow me to splurge on books sometimes, we never got new ones.”

  “’Tis in my study if you would like to read it.”

  “Are you serious!” Excitement flashed in her smile. “I cannot wait to read it.”

  Dillon took a seat, sighing out loud. He’d been on his feet all day and sitting down was a welcomed relief.

  Caitlin noticed his tired eyes. “I believe Martha kept your dinner warm. Would you like me to get it?”

  “Food sounds good, but I am too tired to walk into the dining room.

  “I could bring it in here.”

  “’Twould be nice.”

  * * *

  Caitlin crept down the long hall, shielding the candle with her hand. She was so intent on being quiet, and keeping the flame lit that she never notice the shadow approaching.

  “Caitlin, what are you doing?”

  Her startled eyes flickered in the candlelight. As if running into Dillon wasn’t unnerving enough, it was now compounded by the fact that he was nearly naked. Droplets of water gleamed on his skin. His darkened hair hung in wet ringlets, brushing the tops of his bare shoulders.

  Caitlin’s eyes roamed over the wide shoulders and bare chest, following a path down to his narrow hips, where the line from his form fitting breeches started. She blushed a deep red, and dared not look any farther. She had never seen so much of the male body. It was more intriguing than she thought.

  The idea of reaching out and touching his chest burned its way through her body, making her fingers itch. However, she quickly smashed that stray notion. If merely looking did strange things to her body, she didn’t knew what would happen if she actually touched him.

  “I...I could not sleep so I thought I would get a book.”

  “Why are you sneaking around?” Dillon dried the back of his head with a linen towel then hung it around his neck. The white ends hiding most of his chest from view.

  “I was not sneaking,” Caitlin said aghast. “I did not want to wake anyone. I had no idea anyone would be up this late.”

  “Why are you carrying a single candle instead of a lantern?”

  “Why are you lurking around the place with no light at all?” she countered.

  “I know this place well enough to get around with no light.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Can I be of assistance in searching for a book?”

  “I can manage, thank you.” She wanted to get away from him. The scent of soap and man surrounded her like a thick mantle, strangling intellect and reason.

  “I insist. I do not want you fumbling around the place in the dark. You could get hurt. Besides, I knew where the library is.”

  “If you must assist me then lead the way.”

  Her only thought as she followed him through the house was that she now knew he did not wear a corset, that fabulous body was all his own. The Bible said that man was made in the image of God. Caitlin wistfully wondered what God must look like if Dillon were a mere image.

  Chapter 8

  Caitlin felt irritated over the next few days, not for any particular reason. She’d woken up gloomy and could not shake the feeling. Not even her morning ride on Spirit lessened her animosity. Of course, the person she directed her anger at was Dillon.

  He sat in the dining oom having the morning meal when Caitlin strolled in. The cool, November air had darkened her cheeks to a ruddy red. They almost matched her hair, hanging down to her tailbone in a ponytail, swaying with the movement of her hips.

  Dillon seemed absorbed in watching the tresses easily swing across her back. He’d only seen her hair down a few times. She normally kept it pinned up under a cap or headdress. He liked how the fiery color contrasted her light skin. It was thick and full, reminding him of evergreen bush set ablaze. A picture of Moses and the burning bush filtered through his mind. He wished he could run his fingers through it.

  Caitlin moved across the floor, her gray riding habit rustling with each
restless step. Plopping down in the chair she busied herself with filling a plate. She buttered a biscuit then opted for the honey instead of the usual preserves. Although Martha’s biscuits melted in your mouth, and needed no extra sweetening, Caitlin still liked to indulge.

  “’Tis a bit nippy to be riding today,” Dillon commented.

  “’Tis never too cold to ride.”

  He could smell the Autumn wind in her hair and feel it emanating from the gray cloth of her dress and matching spencer, at least she had the sense to wear a jacket. “You are going to catch a cold if you keep riding in this weather.”

  “Aye, my lord,” she taunted. “Am to seek your permission for everything I do?” She hated being controlled.

  Dillon’s forehead wrinkled as he contemplated what he’d said to put her on edge. “I merely wish to watch out for your health.” He may be a man but he was familiar with the recent trend in women’s fashion. They’d gone from wearing heavy, warm fabrics like velvets, brocades and wools which kept the winter chill away, to wearing light thin fabrics like cottons, crepes and muslins. Although he liked the all-natural look, the light materials combined with the absence of hoops and petticoats made women more susceptible to colds and influenza. In fact, so many women were dying that the malady was being daubed ‘the muslin disease.’

  “I do not need you worrying about me. I can handle myself.”

  “I am your husband and I do worry.”

  “You are my warden and naught else.” Her eyes narrowed, crinkling around the corners.

  “I don’t know what has set your bristles up,” Dillon calmly countered. “But I would appreciate your talking the matter over with me instead of calling names.”

  “Aye, my lord. Whatever you say, master.” She fluttered her lashes in mock compliance. “While I’m at it, may I use the privy when I am finished?”

  Dillon decided it was best to remain silent. If he said anything it would only be fuel for sparring.

  Caitlin, however, refused to be ignored. “I see the cat has gotten your tongue again.”

  “I merely wish to avoid a fight.” His dark gaze held hers. “And for some reason you seem intent on battling this morning.”

  Of course ‘twould be just like him to wimp out, she angrily thought. “And for some reason you seem to take pleasure in telling me what I must and must not do.”

  “I am doing no such thing. I merely want you to be careful so you won’t catch your death.”

  “What do you care if I die?”

  “Caitlin, what is the matter?” Dillon gently probed.

  His tender tone eased her jangled nerves. She wanted to talk to him, confide her heartache, but he was part of the problem. If it weren’t for him she would be with her family right now. Anger rose, overshadowing any feelings of sensitivity. “My problem is you. I am trapped here with nothing, and must abide by your wishes.”

  “You are not trapped, and you have plenty. If you wish for more I will buy it.”

  “Therein lies the problem. You have everything. I have not a six-pence to scratch with.” She crossed her arms. “I gave up my freedom the day we exchanged vows.”

  “I must get to the shop. I do not have the time to debate this matter with you.” He stood, wiped his mouth and placed the linen napkin next to his unfinished plate. “We can discuss this at length later this evening if your mood has improved.”

  * * *

  Dillon smacked the press with a hammer harder than needed, and sent the tray rolling, taking his frustration out on the broken machine instead of Caitlin. “Fiend seize it!”

  “Twill not help fix the press if you keep hitting it so hard,” Johnny hesitantly stated. He’d never seen his boss so agitated before.

  His apprentice looked ready to scurry for cover. “I am sorry, Johnny. ‘Tis a fowl mood I’m in today.”

  “Aye.”

  “I am tired of fixing this press.”

  “The wood is old, sir.”

  “’Tis not only the tray that is old. Something seems to break every time we go to press.”

  Johnny may not have been the smartest kid in town but he realized that Dillon’s sour mood was more than just the press. He figured it had something to do with his new wife. However, he wasn’t about to ask. “Why don’t you buy a new one?”

  “’Tis a thought. But something that expensive must be accompanied over on the ship. I do not feel like taking a trip to England.”

  “Why not?”

  He’d never stepped foot in his homeland after reaching America. His reasons for leaving were still prevalent. “I am too busy.” With that statement he ended the subject. “Let’s run a draft and see if this thing is working yet.”

  * * *

  Caitlin and Martha were battling again. The rest of the staff scurried out of sight after witnessing her indignation, but Martha wasn’t about to be bossed around by a rude, spoiled child. She didn’t care if it was her master’s wife.

  “I ‘twill not take orders from you.” Her large arms were in their usual position, crossed under her chest.

  “I am the mistress of this house and I will see you fired for your insubordination,” Caitlin stated.

  “Humph.” Martha tossed her head back, giving her large frame a lofty air. “I have been tending this here house for years. You weren’t more than a chile when I started looking after Master Cade. If anyone is gonna do any firing around here, ‘twill be him.”

  “We shall see about that,” Caitlin countered. “Perhaps Mr. Cade is used to living in filth but I refuse to. ‘Tis no reason these dishes shouldn’t be done and the food put away. The milk will sour if not put back on ice.”

  “And I told you that I’ll get to it when I have time. The weather is cooling off and milk won’t spoil like it does in the summer.” The stand off had begun.

  “If you have too many duties than I will hire more help.”

  “No way.” Her thick hands went to hips. “I ain’t having any strangers in my kitchen.”

  “’Tis not your kitchen.” Caitlin reminded her. “And if you don’t want hired help then I can lend a hand.”

  “Are you hard of hearing?” Martha stepped forward, towering over Caitlin. “No strangers in my kitchen.”

  Although Martha was twice her size, Caitlin never backed down. “I am hardly a stranger. I am the mistress of this house.”

  “In name only.”

  Caitlin’s mouth dropped open in shock. “How dare you!”

  “’Tis the truth.” Martha’s eyes narrowed, pinning Caitlin with a sharp stare. “I may not be the most educated person around, but anyone with a set of eyes can see that the two of you don’t share a bedroom.”

  “Whether true or not, ‘tis not the servants place to say anything.” Furiously gathering her skirts Caitlin stormed out.

  * * *

  Dillon rubbed his brow where a dull ache formed. The ache wasn’t half as dull as the day had been. Caitlin was still stewing in her room. She had not bothered to come down for dinner. And Martha’s sunny disposition told him that the two had had another disagreement. The rest of the household went about their duties quietly. It seemed the whole house had been affected by his bride’s somber tone.

  He wanted to talk to her but wasn’t sure that would help. She didn’t seem ready to open up. Perhaps it would be best to let the mood pass. However, life was pretty lonely without her around. Their marriage may be in name only but the companionship appealed to him. He enjoyed their conversations. She seemed truly interested by his work, asking questions and intently listening to the trails of his day.

  He glanced at the empty chair in the parlor, the one Caitlin should have occupied, and felt a tugging in his heart. A feeling he didn’t comprehend. He missed watching the glow of the fire dance through her auburn waves. Missed the way her white brow wrinkled when she was in thought or perplexed. The slant of her green eyes watching as he told a story, and her light laugh drifting through the air whenever she let her guard down. He had not realize
d that he’d become so attached to these little things. Only now, when they were absent from his life did he recognize the emptiness. Does Caitlin feel this emptiness too? He wondered. Does she still regard me as her enemy?

  * * *

  Caitlin tarried extra long in her toiletry, making sure that Dillon had left for work before descending the stairs and going into the dining room. Upon seeing the clean table she ventured into kitchen and found Martha finishing up the dishes.

  “Where is the morning meal?”

  “I just finished putting it away.”

  “But I have not had any yet.”

  Martha shrugged her wide shoulders. “You took so long that I assumed you wouldn’t be eating. And we can’t have the food spoiling, now can we?”

  Caitlin rolled her eyes, frustration welling. “I would appreciate something to eat.” She tried keeping her tone level.

  “Then fix something. I ain’t stopping you.”

  “’Tis your job.”

  “I’m the cook. I ain’t your personal maid.”

  “You purposely put the food away before I could eat.”

  “I’m only following your orders.” Martha set the last dish in the sink. “If you don’t like the looks of my kitchen then stay out of it.”