by Delia Parr
“Blessing,” he murmured and shook his head. There was not a single blessing to be found in this whole wretched affair, but he was not surprised. He could not recall a single instance in the past twenty-odd years when God had shown that He really cared about him—which made it quite easy to rely on his own wits, instead of the faith he had been raised to claim.
Two hours later Harrison had a full stomach, but he was barely able to follow Mrs. Lawrence and limp into his room for want of sleep—deep, healing sleep that would give him some respite from the constant pain in his wrist and thigh. Once he was inside the room, he was relieved to see that Annabelle was already slumbering, but he gave up any hope that the innkeeper’s wife would quickly take her leave when she closed the door behind them and pressed a finger to her lips.
“I’ve got fresh hot water in the tub for you, and I set some bandages out right next to the towels, just like your wife asked me to do. Just be very, very quiet. And don’t you dare wake your wife. You’ve done quite enough to her already,” she admonished.
The accusatory look in her eyes and the tone of her voice made it perfectly clear that she expected him to refrain from exercising his husbandly rights, even before she hobbled her way to the door, turned, and shook her finger at him. “That poor thing needs her rest,” she added before easing the door closed behind her, completely unaware that he had no intention of sharing the marriage bed with the woman sleeping just a few feet away from him. Or any other woman, for that matter.
As he tiptoed several steps to the tub, which was on the floor on the far side of the small room between the bed and the fire blazing in the hearth, he studied the only woman who would ever carry his name. The matted blond hair that had framed her face now lay in shimmering waves on the pillow. Beneath her closed eyes, which he remembered as being a pale shade of green, dark shadows testified to her total exhaustion. Her cheeks were chafed pink from being exposed to the harsh winter elements for too long and marred the porcelain complexion he recalled as flawless when he had first met her upon boarding the stage in Hanover.
A huge mound of blankets and quilts concealed her lean, diminutive form, but he had already been surprised by the womanly curves he had inadvertently discovered last night when she had turned to him in her sleep and he had held her close to his side to keep them both warm.
“Sad to say, that wasn’t the first mistake I made during this regrettable trip,” he muttered, but blamed the subtle scent of summer roses she had worn for distracting him from using his common sense. He closed his mind before he replayed the entire fiasco that had begun by his paying far too much attention to Camille Jenkins while staying at his country estate.
In all truth, when it came to women, he did not discriminate. Short or tall, raven-haired or blond, single or married, he found them all equally fascinating and enjoyed flirting with them. When pressed, however, he did have to admit to a particular fondness for dark-haired, voluptuous women—women exactly like Camille.
Vowing to confine his interests to single women in the future, he eased out of his vest and shirt. He tossed them both to the floor in disgust. The only person he could rightfully blame for ending up in this mess was himself. If he had not fallen asleep holding Annabelle, placing them both in a very compromising position, he would have heard the sheriff and his band of rescuers ride up. There was nothing he could have done, at least at that point, to keep Camille’s husband from pressing the sheriff to do something to avenge his wife’s honor, but he never expected the sheriff to force him into a marriage he clearly did not want.
Stooping down, he tugged the marriage certificate he had commandeered from Annabelle out of his vest pocket, took the pieces of the handcuffs out of his trousers pocket, and placed everything next to the towels stacked on a small table by the tub. Once he had pulled off his boots, which was no easy task one-handed, he tucked the treasures inside of one of his boots.
“Treasures indeed,” he murmured. They were far too important to his plans for an annulment to leave them lying about in full view, and he had no intention of revealing the reason he had kept the handcuffs, either.
The other women he had known who were as young, petite, and fair as Annabelle had been nearly devoid of any intellect, let alone common sense. Annabelle, however, was surprisingly different. She was clearly very bright, and if she gave it any thought, she should be able to figure out the reason he wanted to keep the handcuffs.
He could not prove he had had a rifle pressed at his back at Reverend Wood’s, but the handcuffs were hard evidence that they had both been coerced into marriage, even if the scar he knew he would carry on his wrist did not suffice.
Since Annabelle had been as opposed to the marriage as he had been, he had no fear she might be attracted by his wealth and tempt him to consummate the union. He had successfully eluded women far more determined to marry him than this one to avoid the heartache and grief that marriage eventually would bring into his life. He was equally confident that his very competent, very expensive lawyer would be able to arrange for a quiet annulment before anyone in Philadelphia heard the faintest bit of gossip that might reach the city.
Satisfied he had regained control of his life, he turned and studied Annabelle for several long minutes. When he was absolutely certain she was in a deep sleep, he attempted to remove his trousers but stopped almost immediately. The blood caked on them had dried so stiffly that he knew he would rip open the hole she had punched into his thigh with one of those knitting needles of hers if he forced off his trousers. Instead, he eased into the tub while still wearing them to let the warm water work through the dried blood first.
He had to sit rather awkwardly and bend his knees to fit into the tub. Once he got as comfortable as he was going to be, he grabbed one of the towels from the table, folded it into a makeshift pillow, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He’d remain just until the warm water did its job on his trousers and eased out every last bit of cold in his bones, as well. Then he’d fully undress and wash himself clean, make a bed on the floor out of some of those quilts, and get a well-deserved night’s sleep.
Chapter Four
The first thing Annabelle saw when she opened her eyes was the figure of a man bathed in a soft glow of light coming from the dying embers of the fire. To her horror, he was lounging in the metal tub next to the bed, with a bandaged wrist dangling over the side. It took several moments before she could remember where she was and why she was there and that the man in the tub was no stranger.
He was her husband.
With her heart still pounding, she slammed her eyes shut again. Fortunately, Harrison’s face was turned toward the dying embers in the hearth, which meant he had no idea she was even awake. In the weak light, all she had actually been able to see was the outline of his broad shoulders, just a hint of dark wavy hair that spread across his muscled chest, and his bent knees. But her cheeks burned nevertheless.
With her senses reeling, her mind grappled with the very aggravating reality that she had actually gotten married again and wondered what Harrison would say if he knew he had married a divorced woman instead of a single maiden. Memories of the scandal that erupted when news of her divorce spread through the small community she had called home for all of her life were still so raw, anguishing pain tore through her very soul and stole her breath away. She would never forget the harsh comments and cold rejection she suffered from people who had been her friends and neighbors, and it had taken many long months of prayer to forgive them.
Determined never to experience that sort of rejection from anyone again, she held on to Harrison’s promise that their marriage would simply be annulled and regarded as if it never existed. With a glance his way, she tugged, as quietly as she could, at the oversized flannel nightgown Mrs. Lawrence had lent to her that had risen up to her knees.
She did not know how long he had been in the tub, but she was certain she did not want to disturb him, either. Not this man. He was far too comfortable in his own skin to c
are that she might see him while he was still bathing.
Minute after anxious minute, she held absolutely still, too afraid to move a single muscle and half afraid to breathe while she waited to hear him resume his bath. When her muscles started to ache and she still had not detected any sound, other than that of his heavy breathing, she wondered if he had actually fallen asleep. She herself had drifted off while bathing on occasion, but nonetheless she found it hard to believe he might have done the same thing. Hopeful that he must simply be resting a bit or thinking, she forced herself to wait him out and stay awake in the process.
Eventually, however, curiosity overwhelmed her common sense, which told her he was far too tall to extend his legs, slide under the water, and drown. She risked another peek from beneath the quilt, but the air in the room was so chilly, she quickly slid back under the covers again.
Confounded man. He had not moved at all. Either he had heard her wake up and was feigning sleep in some twisted attempt to embarrass her, or he had actually dozed off.
When he began to snore, however, she knew the latter was true and faced a difficult dilemma. If she let him continue to sleep in a tub filled with water that must be chilled by now, in front of a fire that had been reduced to embers, he could end up with lung fever. Added to the injuries he had suffered—one of which she was partly responsible for—he could very well become so ill that he would not be able to travel for a good week or more.
On the other hand, if she woke him up, she would be within arm’s reach of a naked man, and there was no telling what he might do, particularly since he was legally her husband.
Since she had to be in Philadelphia in a matter of days or lose her one opportunity to make a new life for herself, she knew her situation was desperate. She sighed in frustration, turned her face in the opposite direction, and snapped the quilt down from her face again. “Mr. Graymoor! Wake up!” she whispered and waited to hear the water slosh to let her know he had heard her.
Drat! Not a sound.
She cleared her throat and tried again, raising her voice as loud as she dared without startling him overmuch.
Still no response, except for footsteps just outside the door.
Moments later, a thin ribbon of light appeared beneath the bedroom door, and she heard someone she assumed to be Mrs. Lawrence clang some pots together. Within moments, the tantalizing smells of frying bacon wafted into the room, and Annabelle groaned. The innkeeper’s wife was making breakfast, which meant Annabelle must have slept clear through the night to the next morning.
The only question that remained to be answered was whether or not Harrison had spent the entire night in that tub.
Frustrated when he continued to snore, apparently oblivious to the increasing noise in the kitchen and tantalizing aromas that made her stomach growl, she scooted up into a sitting position. She worked as quietly as she could to fashion the top half of the quilt into a cape of sorts, letting the tip of the quilt fall forward, much like a deep hood would have done. Satisfied she was as properly dressed as she could be, considering Mrs. Lawrence had taken all of her clothes away to be freshened up, she narrowed her gaze and glanced around the room looking for something to toss at him to wake him up.
She opted for one of the pillows, caught her breath, and tossed it in Harrison’s direction. When it fell short and landed on top of his boots, she grabbed the other pillow and aimed for his knees again. Instead, it landed squarely on top of his head.
Cringing, she saw his arms flail. Water sloshed over the rim of the tub, and before she could avert her gaze, he scrambled to his feet, slipped, and fell sideways. Her heart nearly leaped right out of her chest when his torso landed on the bed. In his frantic attempt to break his fall, he yanked at the bedclothes and pulled her makeshift cape right off of her, along with the rest of the blankets and even the sheet as he struggled back to his feet.
Yelping, she scurried to reclaim the sheet and cover herself. “Stop! Right now! Stop!”
He groaned as he untangled himself from the bedclothes and tossed them back onto the bed. “W-why is it so c-cold in here?”
“The fire is nearly out, although I rather think that the fact you fell asleep in the tub has something to do with it,” she replied, trying to push the wet blankets away without looking directly at him.
“It’s been a rather trying two days, in case you’ve forgotten,” he snapped.
“Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll forget the past two days if I live to be ninety.” She sniffed her displeasure as she felt the mattress give way, and she assumed he had sat down on the bed. But she didn’t dare look his direction. “What are you doing now? I . . . I thought you were making arrangements with Mr. Lawrence for a separate room for yourself.”
He huffed. “I failed, which shouldn’t surprise you, since I’ve been nothing but inept for the past two days. And if you must know, I’m removing my dripping wet trousers, then I’m going to crawl into this bed—which, sad to say, is the only bed available—and try to get warm.”
She scooted to the far side of the bed. “Is it customary for men from Philadelphia to wear trousers when they bathe, or is that just one of your many odd personal habits—in addition to toying with the affections of married women like Camille Jenkins?” She was horrified to think that she was mere moments away from having a naked man in her bed, even if he was her husband. She’d only shared the marriage bed once during her previous weeklong marriage.
“Are you deliberately trying to be difficult, or is that simply part of your nature?” he grumbled. “Never mind. I spent enough time handcuffed to you to know it’s an annoying combination of both.”
“Actually, it’s neither. I’m merely curious.” She started shivering and yanked a dry blanket free from the tangled mess of damp ones to try to get warm again.
He sighed. “First, I didn’t toy with Camille’s affections. I merely listened to her and made her feel important, which is something her husband should have a mind to do once in a while. Second, I didn’t remove my trousers before I got into the tub for a very simple reason. The blood was so caked around the hole you poked into my thigh with those knitting needles of yours that I thought it might be better all around to let the hot water soak the blood free first before I tried to remove my trousers.”
“You wouldn’t have had that problem if you’d listened to me and stopped to see Dr. Marley. We practically passed his home on our way here. And that wound in your thigh isn’t entirely my fault. You wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place if you’d held still while I tried to fiddle with the lock on those handcuffs to see if I could force it open,” she argued, determined not to let him add another layer to the guilt she already felt for injuring him.
Coughing, he eased into the bed and covered himself with the blankets and quilts, which sent her scooting to the very edge of the mattress. “I don’t need a doctor. All I need is a good warm bed and an equally good night’s sleep. I’m too cold and too tired to argue, so I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me to suffer in peace.”
She slipped out of bed, horrified to think he was lying there naked, mere inches away from her, and kept the blanket wrapped tightly around her. He was shivering so hard now that he actually shook the mattress. “In point of fact, it’s morning, which means you’ve already missed out on a good night’s sleep, and unless I get that fire going strong again, those blankets aren’t going to be enough to warm you up. Not after spending most of the night in that tub,” she suggested.
“I’ll take care of the fire. I just need a minute to—”
“Don’t move. I’ll do it,” she insisted and she worked her way around to the foot of the bed.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
She sniffed, tripped over one of his boots, and barely caught herself before she pitched forward onto her knees. “I grew up on a farm and had plenty of chores to do. Tending the fire was one of them,” she explained and carefully loaded more wood onto the fire from the large stack of
wood stored next to the fireplace.
Satisfied with her work, she made her way around the tub and back to her side of the mattress. She was reluctant to get back into the bed when he was lying there, even though it appeared he had already fallen asleep, but she had no desire to spend the next few hours standing around wearing a blanket, either.
In all truth, she really wanted to get a bit more sleep, which she could not do when he was in the bed, too. Desperate, she suddenly remembered something her mother had once told her about the days when Annabelle’s father came courting, and she knew exactly how to solve her problem. She made several more trips back to the stack of wood, choosing the straightest logs she could find, and started lining them up in a row that ran from the head to the foot, right down the middle of the mattress.
He roused, took one look at what she was doing, and bolted up into a sitting position. “W-what are you doing? Planning to set the bed on fire?”
She covered the logs with a blanket and slipped back into bed. “If you must know, I’m making a bundling board of sorts. It was common practice years ago when couples who were courting lived miles apart and—”
“I know what a bundling board is, but we’re not courting. We’re married,” he argued. Shivering hard, he slipped back down under the covers.
“Only temporarily,” she countered.
He coughed again. “Finally.”
“Finally?”
“We actually agree on something,” he managed before he sneezed.
“Get some sleep. I’ll keep the fire going to keep the room warm,” she promised.
He sneezed again. “Your kindness is appreciated.”
“I’m not being kind,” she insisted. “Merely pragmatic. When the stage for Philadelphia stops here tomorrow, I want to make certain we’re both on it. I’m prepared to do everything and anything I have to do to make that happen, even if it means waiting on you like a servant.”
