The Accidental Wedding

by Anne Gracie

  Raoul was a widower, a man in his prime, just turned forty. “What are years?” he would say with a smile. “You are a beautiful woman, and I, I am a man. That is all that matters. I ask for nothing, not marriage, not property, only you, ma belle.” And he would smile that smile that had showed Maddy a side to her grandmother she’d never imagined, blushing like a girl and fluttering indecisively.

  It took Raoul two years, but he wore her down.

  After Raoul and Grand-mère became lovers, Maddy learned that sharing her life with a good man—the right man—made all the difference in the world to a woman who’d lost everything. Grand-mère was a new woman.

  The anger and bitterness faded. With Raoul in her life, she was full of joy and laughter and . . . verve.

  Maddy would wake sometimes in the night or the early morning and hear them making love. The sounds had alarmed her at first, but seeing her grandmother’s shining eyes in the morning, she knew that the sounds were misleading, that it was something wondrous.

  At other times she’d waken and hear them lying in bed, talking, the light murmur of Grand-mère’s voice and the deep rumble of Raoul’s. It sounded so peaceful, so cozy, and the lonely girl she was ached for the time when she, too, could lie in a bed, talking quietly in the night with her man.

  Raoul and Grand-mère had five happy years, until a falling tree took Raoul’s life, and the joy left Grand-mère’s eyes forever. She died within a year of him.

  But she’d left Maddy a precious legacy: the knowledge that with the right man there was joy to be had in the act of love.

  Men and women always lie, cherie, even in bed, but in the act itself, there is honesty, Grand-mère had said. And with the right man . . . ahhh, bliss. And she would sigh.

  Maddy would probably never marry—she was too poor and had too many dependents, but somewhere, she hoped, there would be a Raoul Dubois for her.

  At the moment, he only appeared in her morning dreams, faceless, nameless, wanting nothing, only her . . .

  Oh, to wake every day knowing that whatever the day brought, she would not be alone, that whatever troubles they face, it would be together. And that come nightfall, in this bed, they could find joy together.

  She didn’t need a prince or a rich man. Just a man and a cottage to share it with . . .

  A cottage . . .

  The rent. The thought crashed into her consciousness like a boulder into a tranquil pool. Morning dream number 5,061 in smithereens, she thought with sleepy irony. Another day to face.

  She stretched, then stiffened as she realized that far from having someone to share her problems, one of them was in bed with her right now.

  And that the stranger was holding her breast, gently but firmly.

  Possessively.

  She froze. “What are you doing?” she whispered. Ridiculous question. It was perfectly obvious what he was doing. “Stop it.”

  He didn’t respond. His hand didn’t move. He just kept breathing, slowly and evenly as he had all night. He couldn’t possibly be asleep . . . surely?

  Carefully, she prized his hand off her breast and pushed his arm back where it belonged. Turning cautiously in the bed, she looked at him.

  His face was slack with sleep, his eyes closed, his lashes twin dark crescents against his pallor. He moved restlessly and shifted toward her.

  She stiffened as his hand curved over her hip and held her. “What are you doing?” His knees bumped against hers, and he slid one brawny leg between hers and sighed. And relaxed again.

  She watched him, hardly breathing, but he didn’t move.

  He was asleep, truly asleep, she realized. He didn’t know what he was doing, just seeking warmth and comfort.

  As she had been. Unconsciously enjoying his warmth, the feel of his body, and taking comfort in dreams.

  Dreams helped.

  She lay quietly, watching him sleeping in the morning light. His hair was thick, brown like the skin of a chestnut, and tumbled across his brow. She smoothed it gently back. He sighed but didn’t wake. She stroked his forehead, running a fingertip over a few faint worry lines.

  His brows were thick and darker than his hair, his lashes unfairly long for a man. The skin of his eyelids was so fine and translucent she could see each vein and blood vessel. His eyes, beneath the closed lids, were moving. He was dreaming, twitching slightly, like a dog. A pleasant dream, for his lips curved in a faint half smile and she found herself smiling back.

  At least he wasn’t in pain.

  Lines radiated from the corner of his eyes, and on either side of the mobile-looking mouth was a vertical crease that would deepen when he smiled. A man who smiled often, she decided.

  She liked that. Life without laughter was like a month without sunshine; you could survive, but there was no joy in it.

  His chin was firm and nicely squared at the end. She trailed her fingers down the line of his jaw, enjoying the light abrasion of his bristles. She placed her palm across the strong column of his neck and felt the steady pulse beating, thud, thud, thud.

  Over and over, her gaze returned to his mouth like a moth to a flame.

  It fascinated her. It was, quite simply, beautiful. She’d never thought of a man’s mouth being beautiful, but his was. Yet there was nothing feminine about it.

  His lips seemed carved by a master sculptor, they were so clearly defined, so perfectly formed. She touched his mouth gently, running her finger lightly over his parted lips, tracing the shallow groove that ran down from his nose. She lingered on a tiny, silvery scar at the left-hand corner of his mouth.

  When had that happened? How?

  He sighed again and moved his mouth against her fingers, closing over one and sucking, gently. She froze. A ripple of sensation trembled through her, and she carefully withdrew her finger, feeling strangely moved. After a minute he relaxed again into his dreams, his breath soft and regular.

  She stroked a lock of hair behind his ear. What are you dreaming of, beautiful man? Are you lonely, like me?

  She dismissed that thought immediately. This man would never be lonely. He was too beautiful, too elegantly dressed, and what about those laugh lines? No woman could resist him.

  No, he wouldn’t be lonely.

  But just now, he was alone and in trouble. And while he was, he was hers.

  She bent and kissed him lightly on the lips. His lips were smooth, warm, unresponsive.

  “I’ll take care of you,” she whispered and kissed him again. “You’re not alone.”

  He lay there, asleep, locked in his own world, oblivious.

  It was time to shrug off the false enticement of the morning dream, to get on with her life. The stranger was hers to care for, but not to keep. It was foolish to spin dreams around him. The moment he woke, he’d be off, back to his friends and family, leaving her without a thought. Alone again.

  She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been lonely. All her life people had depended on her to take care of them. First Mama, then Grand-mère, then Papa, and now the children. She didn’t mind that so much—she was perfectly capable.

  But it was lonely, always being the one who had to face the trouble, find the solution, battle the odds. And always alone.

  She climbed out of bed. Thank goodness the stranger hadn’t woken. She would have been mortified if he’d opened his eyes and found her . . . touching him. He wasn’t her Raoul Dubois. He didn’t even know she was there.

  Yet as she went though her morning routine—rebuilding the fire, heating water, washing, dressing, starting breakfast—part of her remained strangely desolate. It was always thus, she told herself, waking from a morning dream. Facing reality.

  Dreams helped. But sometimes, some mornings, they only underlined her loneliness.

  But Sir Jasper promised!”

  Her voice—worried? angry?—woke him from a deep sleep.

  A man’s voice rumbled in answer, harsh, threatening.

  He tried to sit up. Had to help . . . protect . . . Naus
ea swamped him. He fell back.

  Fragments of conversation came to him in drifts. “Check the records. Sir Jasper and I . . . an agreement . . . He promised.”

  He knew her voice . . . somehow, but the sense of it . . . He couldn’t work it out. Couldn’t—damn it—remember.

  He pressed his hands against his temples, trying to stop the throbbing, and felt bandages. Bandages? He closed his eyes. The voices faded . . .

  Three

  “He’s a prince,” Lucy insisted. “And he needs a princess to kiss him and then he’ll wake up.”

  “That’s Sleeping Beauty, silly,” Susan told her.

  “Same thing,” Lucy declared stoutly.

  “No, because Sleeping Beauty is a girl and he’s a man.”

  Henry joined in. “And a man can’t be a beauty.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he can’t,” Henry said. “Only ladies can be beautiful.”

  Maddy smiled to herself. She disagreed. This man was wholly male, and beautiful.

  “I don’t care. He’s been sleeping for nearly two days, and nobody sleeps that long, so a wicked witch must have put a spell on him. And witches only put spells like that on princes and princesses. So someone needs to kiss him and break the spell.”

  “A princess. Whoever kisses him would have to be a princess,” John said with authority. “And we haven’t got any princesses around here, so it will have to be a bucket of water.”

  “No!” The girls were horrified. “Don’t you dare throw water on him, John Woodf—”

  “Be quiet, all of you,” Maddy intervened. “John, stop teasing your sisters. The man isn’t a prince, Lucy, just a poor man with a sore head, which is no doubt the sorer for having a noisy bunch of children arguing over him. Now stay away from the bed, all of you—and for heaven’s sake, keep your voices down.”

  With guilt-stricken looks at the sleeping man, they tiptoed away from the bed, continuing the argument in whispers. Maddy hid a smile. They had been, in fact, remarkably well behaved.

  The doctor had visited again that morning and examined him. “As long as his sleep is peaceful and there’s no fever, there’s nothing much we can do. Let him sleep as much as he wants. If he wakens in pain, use the drops I gave you yesterday. If he shows signs of fever, cool him down and give him this.” He handed her a paper of powders. “And willow-bark infusion—small quantities, no more than four cups in a day. You have willow bark, I assume?”

  She’d nodded.

  “If the fever is any worse than when young Henry got sick last autumn, send for me. But sleep is the best medicine.”

  So she let him sleep.

  It was raining and it was hard for the children to stay cooped up and quiet after a long winter spent mostly indoors. They’d read and reread all their books a dozen times, they’d played every game they knew, and they’d worked on handcrafts all winter. Now, having had a taste of spring, those pursuits and pastimes no longer held any appeal.

  Especially when there was a fascinating and mysterious stranger sleeping in Maddy’s bed.

  The children weren’t the only ones who were fascinated. Maddy couldn’t forget the sensation of having woken in a strange man’s arms, pressed against the full length of him. The full naked length.

  The warm intimacy of his embrace, the feeling of his long, hard body pressed against her, the almost protective way his arms held her, stirred up . . . feelings.

  Feelings she didn’t want to have. Shouldn’t have, not for a stranger who was just passing by, a man who might have fallen from the sky. Her very own fallen angel.

  She dried his clothes, brushed the mud off them, and washed his shirt and undergarments. Everything was of the finest quality. His waistcoat was embroidered in rich, subtle shades of silk thread and lined with silk. His coat was tailored from the finest merino wool and fastened with silver buttons—real silver buttons—any one of which could support herself and the children for a month.

  Even his hands were from a different world. She glanced down at her own, ruefully noting the bramble scratches and the work-roughened skin.

  A lady is known by her hands, Grand-mère used to say. Grand-mère’s hands were always beautiful. But Grand-mère hadn’t done the rough work in the cottage and garden—Maddy had.

  Maddy still did. Her hands were clean and strong and supported a family. They were nothing to be ashamed of.

  Nevertheless, when she saw her own hands beside the long, strong, elegant fingers of the sleeping stranger, she felt ashamed.

  Yes, mixing the reality of him with her morning dreams was foolish in the extreme.

  “Henry, weren’t you and John going to make boats out of those walnut shells we’ve been saving? Girls, I think you should make a new book for Lucy,” Maddy told them. “Lucy can tell the story, Jane can write it out, and Susan, you can draw the pictures—”

  In the depths of winter, Maddy had hit on the idea of getting them to write and illustrate their own books. It kept them happy and occupied and the books were much beloved and reread often by them all, even John’s, which were exclusively about horses. And though Lucy could not yet read, she knew her own three books by heart.

  “A story about a sleeping prince,” Lucy said immediately.

  “Why not a frog prince?” John grinned as his sisters bridled. “If I threw water on him, the man might turn into a frog prince. Frogs love water.”

  “Oh, you are so—” Jane began.

  “Don’t encourage him, Jane,” Maddy said briskly. “Of course John wouldn’t throw water on a guest—”

  “I might if they don’t stop going on about princes and beauties,” John interjected. “Besides, the man’s so hot he’d probably enjoy it.”

  “What did you say?” Maddy turned to John. “He’s hot?”

  John nodded. “Yes, I touched his hand and it’s really hot. But Maddy, I wouldn’t really throw—”

  But Maddy wasn’t listening. She flew across the room and placed her palm on the man’s forehead. He was burning up with fever.

  She grabbed a cloth, dipped it into cold water, and began to wipe his body down. It evaporated almost immediately from the heat of his skin.

  “Is he sick?” Jane stood just behind her.

  Maddy hastily dragged the sheet over the stranger’s private parts. “He has a fever. Fetch me vinegar and some more cloths.”

  The children clustered curiously around. “Stay away from the bed, all of you. You can help me best by keeping out of my way and playing quietly.” Not that noise would disturb him in this state, but she could do without the distraction.

  She sponged him down with vinegar. She spread cold, wet cloths over his hot body, and watched them dry. As she worked to cool him down, she could hear the children playing.

  “There’s a lot of shells. We could make a navy.”

  “Once upon a time there was a girl called . . . called Luciella . . .”

  “Two navies and we’ll have a battle.”

  “Luciella? There’s no such name.”

  “It’s my story and I can name her whatever I like.”

  “The Battle of the Nile! Bags, I be Nelson!”

  “No, I’m the oldest, I should be Nelson. You can be Napoleon.”

  “It’s not fair! Why do I always have to be Napoleon?”

  “Because you’re shorter.” The boys hurried off, wrangling about who was to command the as-yet-unbuilt fleet.

  “Keep some shells for babies’ cradles,” Susan shrieked after them.

  “Hussshhh!” the others all hissed.

  There was instant, guilty silence. And then a small voice, “Did we wake him, Maddy?”

  “No.” She wrung out another cloth and spread it over his firm chest.

  “I told you,” Lucy said in a loud whisper. “He won’t wake up until he’s got a kiss from a princess!”

  Maddy couldn’t help but smile at the little girl’s persistence. She wouldn’t give up on the stranger, either.

  Fever coul
d enter a body through a wound. If it had, there would be putrefaction. She unwrapped the bandages and carefully inspected his head injury. It looked all right—red but not inflamed looking or puffy. And she couldn’t see any putrefaction.

  She sprinkled more basilicum powder on it, just to be sure and put a clean bandage over it. She lifted his head with one hand to pass the bandage beneath it with the other, and felt something wet and oozy beneath her fingers.

  Another injury, one both she and the doctor had missed. Festering untreated since the accident. Swiftly she cut the hair away. A tiny, insignificant-looking wound, but red and puffy and oozing. And beneath the darkness of the hair, she could see the telltale red striations, like tentacles emanating from the cut. Blood poisoning.

  She sponged the injury clean with hot, salty water, then laid a hot compress on it to draw out the foulness, as hot as she could bear. She mixed the contents of the doctor’s paper in a teapot and fed him the medicine through the spout. She boiled willow-bark shavings to make a decoction.

  Outside, the wind whipped at the trees. Rain spattered the windows in gusts. The boys sat on the rug by the hearth, sorting through the bag of walnuts, tossing broken shells into the fire, keeping the perfect halves, and eating any nut meat they found as they fashioned sails and masts for their navies of tiny walnut boats.

  The girls were intent on their literary creations.

  Maddy sponged the stranger’s skin with vinegar and water, replaced the hot compress on the infected head wound, and fed him small quantities of willow-bark tea sweetened with honey and ginger. And prayed.

  The day wore on. Maddy fed the children quick, simple meals, just soup, cheese on toast, and scrambled eggs, and in between tended to the sick man in her bed. Night fell. She put the children to bed and came slowly downstairs. She was exhausted.

  She checked on her stranger. He’d tossed off all his bedclothes again and sprawled naked and unaware, taking up almost the entire bed. She put her palm on his chest. His heart beat rapidly under her fingertips, and if anything, his skin felt hotter. Had none of her efforts helped?