A Bride Most Begrudging (16 page)

She held Sir Hopkin high for all to see while she marched him out of the cottage and into the clearing. Dusting off a place in the yard, she set him down.

He did not come out. Typical, the lily-livered fiend. “Come, Sir Hopkin. Take your due like a man, even though all know you to be a spineless, arrogant, useless knave.”

Nothing. She frowned. How did one make a turtle come out of its shell? Squatting down beside the animal, she studied its design. The sun climbed higher and beads of moisture formed at her hairline before Sir Hopkin deigned to poke his uglisome head out.

She whizzed the knife down. He withdrew faster than she imagined possible. She took a deep breath. Her leg ached, her anger simmered.

After spending a good part of the morning trying to behead Sir Hopkin without success, she swiped him up off the ground, marched—well,
limped
—back into the cottage and threw him into his watery home. The turtle soup would have to wait. Cursed animals.

She rubbed her leg, then set out for the garden. It, too, was encircled by a fence woven together with shaved tree limbs. Her expertise was cutting and arranging flowers. Tilting her head, she studied the chessboard of variegated pieces. No flowers, only herbs and weeds. But which were which? She sighed. The gardening, it seemed, would have to wait as well.

Returning to the cottage, she stoked the fire, set a pot to boil and then reached for the dress she’d worn yesterday. Taking it outside, she proceded to alter its dimensions.

————

When Drew arrived home it was to find Constance sitting prettily in the middle of the clearing wearing a dress that actually fit, while sewing on another.

The chickens in the coop squawked, the garden remained unchanged, and no smoke came from the chimney.

“Constance?”

“Drew! Oh, thank goodness. You’re home.” Struggling to her feet, she limped toward him.

He frowned, but only for a moment. She’d done something drastic to her gown. It looked nothing like the ones Nellie wore. It was tasteful and modest, covering every inch of her, but simultaneously accentuating all the dips and swells of her person. “What did you do to Nellie’s old dress?” Looking down, she held out the skirt of her dress with two hands. “I made a few alterations.”

She slid the skirt back and forth, causing the fabric to brush from one side of her torso to the other, then lifted her attention. “I left a little room in it, though. I’m still not myself, after the voyage and all.”

His gaze remained on her face, trying to banish the image of even larger proportions filling out her dress. “You are exceptionally fast with a needle.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Mary and Sally have been delayed.” She released her skirt. “Why?”

“Gerald sent word that Nellie’s time is upon her.”

“Gerald?”

“Nellie’s husband.”

She frowned. “Oh dear. Perhaps I should go and collect Sally?”

“No. You’d get lost. Why have you not weeded the garden?”

“I know not which are weeds and which are herbs.”

“You’ve never gardened?”

“Only flowers.”

He nodded. “And the eggs?”

Her features clouded. “Your rooster attacked me. Please wring his neck for me and we’ll eat him for supper.”

“What did you do to make him attack you?”

Her eyes grew wide. “What did I do? What did
I
do? That worthless cock attacked me and you want to know what
I
did? I’ll tell you what I did. I screamed so loud they could hear me all the way back home. Then I smashed him with my basket. Then I told him he’d be dead before nightfall. That’s what
I
did. Now what are
you
going to do about it?”

He rubbed his forehead. No one could be that inept. Even Sally could collect eggs. “Well, I’m not going to wring his neck. That’s for certain.”

She gasped. “Why not? I could have been killed!”

“You provoked him.”

“Provoked him! I did not do one blessed thing to your precious rooster! I went into that coop, announcing my intentions to gather eggs, and he came at me full speed.”

“You announced your intentions? What do you mean, you announced your intentions?”

She paused. “I walked in and told the chickens I planned to gather the eggs.”

“What else did you say?”

She propped her hand on her waist. “Drew, you are testing me sorely.”

“What else did you say?”

“I don’t remember. I might have insulted it a time or two, but this is absurd. It didn’t understand me!”

“You were crowing in his yard.”

“Your pardon?”

“You were crowing in his yard. Roosters use their crow to establish territory and are very sensitive about it. If you went into the coop and started blathering about this and that, then there’s no doubt he took it as a threat. You didn’t let him win, did you?”

Her face registered what could only be shock. “If you are suggesting that I was to stay inside that yard and fight it out with him, then yes. I let him win. But ultimately, when his neck is wrung, the win is mine.”

He lifted up his hat then resettled it on his head. “Come. I’ll show you how to win.”

“No. I’m not going back inside that pen with you or anyone else. Not until Mr. Meanie is on a spit.”

Mr. Meanie?
Suppressing a smile, he veered toward the chicken coop. She stayed where she was.

“You don’t have to come in, Constance. You may watch me from the other side of the fence.”

Her basket lay on its side where she must have dropped it in her scramble to freedom. Drops of blood littered the clearing. Frowning, he turned back toward her. “You are all right?”

Her lips thinned.

Body O’Caesar, he thought, I should have asked that earlier. Sighing, he entered the coop. “Hello, children, Mr. Meanie. How do you fare this day?”

The chickens squawked. The rooster ruffled his feathers.

“See you how Mr. Meanie is already becoming provoked?” She gave no response.

“So. You’ve taken to attacking defenseless women, have you? Well, I’ve not checked the damage yet, but you’d better hope it’s not too severe. It’s displeased I am that you attacked my wife. You’re to treat her with respect.”

The cock began to dance around him.

“What? Like you not my crowing in your yard? Then come and get me, you scurvy fellow. Do your worst.”

As if on cue, the rooster struck. Drew jumped to the side, making a swipe at its feet, but missed. They circled each other. Drew sang, adding a jump and a jig with each verse for good measure.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;

Now to her that’s as ripe as a berry;

Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,

And now to the girl that is merry:

Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

As he expected, the popular drinking ballad infuriated the rooster. Crowing with displeasure, he charged. Drew swiped again and, snagging the cock’s feet, lifted him into the air, upside down. “There you have it, Constance. How to establish territory. I will hold him like this while I crow in his yard for a while longer, and when all the blood has settled in his head for a moment or two, I will release him. I, also, will have won.”

“You’re not going to kill him.”

He paused. She had made her way to the edge to the fence and rested her arms atop it.

“No. I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“We need the eggs.”

“There are two other roosters in the coop.”

He glanced at the other cocks, pecking at the ground in the yard. “If I kill Mr. Meanie, one of those would then establish itself as cock of the walk, and you’d have to deal with that rooster as well.”

“Don’t they fight amongst themselves?”

“These three roosters have grown up together, but if I introduced a new rooster into the yard, a fight would ensue.”

She nodded once and turned to leave. He hated it when she dismissed him like that. He’d told her once already never to walk away from him in the midst of a conversation, and he’d meant it. Now he’d have to deal with her again on the issue. Pig-headed woman.

He waited a few more minutes before releasing the bird, then watched as Constance’s Mr. Meanie wove around jiggling his head.

Letting himself out of the coop, Drew headed toward the cottage. He needed to have a look at her injury.

chapter
N
INE
   

SHE SHOULD HAVE known he wouldn’t kill the rooster. Food-producing animals were too valuable in this wilderness to be terminated for the mere offense of attacking one’s guests. It wasn’t as if he liked the rooster more than her, it was simply a matter of practicality. So why was she harboring such hurt feelings?

Hearing Drew’s approach, she allowed the hem of her skirt to fall before continuing to rub her calf.

“Why are the turtles not cooking?”

From her perch on the edge of the bed, she tried to suppress her irritation. “How do you make a turtle come out of his shell and stay out long enough to behead him?”

He took off his hat and hung it on a peg. “You hold a stick in front of the turtle and coax him to bite down on it.”

She stopped her massage and looked up at him. “I’d never have thought. I did keep the embers—Oh!” Jumping from the bed, she began to work the fire. He, in turn, grabbed the pot of turtles and left.

When next she saw him, he had one pot of headless turtles and one bucket of fresh milk. She, thank goodness, had accomplished a thing or two herself—the fire was going and a pot of bubbling water hung above it, steam surging from its mouth.

“Drop the turtles into the water, and then I’ll show you how to pound Indian corn into samp for the midday meal.”

Had anyone asked her if she was squeamish, she’d have vehemently denied it. But always before, her meals had been set before her, cooked and seasoned to perfection. She knew, of course, she was eating animals, but she’d never given much thought to the specifics of their preparation. As she looked into the pot of bleeding headless turtles, she wondered if the pleasures of mealtime were forever lost to her.

Drew appeared to have assembled all that was necessary for the samp. She swallowed with effort, forcing her stomach back down where it belonged, then dispatched with the turtles. The
glub, glub, glub
of their descent nearly did her in. “What’s samp?” she gasped.

“The most expedient meal I could think of. You simply pound corn, then pour milk on top before serving.”

She tossed the last turtle in, then quickly turned to mortar and pestle, pounding corn with a vengeance.

“You’re making a mess, Constance. Slow down.”

She slowed. With the two of them working together, they had a goodly portion pounded in no time.

“Now, let us have a look at your injury.” Standing, he offered her a hand up.

The gash was in a most improper place. “It’s fine, thank you.”

“I’ll have a look anyway.”

She wanted to refuse, but if she did, he might very well remind her that as her “husband” he had a right to look at much more than just this injury. She walked to the bed and sat, skirt down, knees and ankles together, hands locked on her lap.

“Where did he catch you?”

“Above the ankle.”

A pause. “How far above the ankle?”

She willed the blush to go away. “A good two inches.”

“I have a need to see it.”

“I hardly even feel it anymore.”

He glanced at the hem of her skirt. “What did you treat it with?”

“I wrapped it.”

“No comfrey?”

“No.”

He left the cottage, and she let out a sigh of relief.
Thank you, Lord
. At least she’d been spared that indignity. She started to rise, only to plop back down when he returned with a plant he’d obviously just pulled from the garden. She watched him rinse its roots, wrap them in a rag, and crush them with a rock.

“Show me.” He knelt before her, focusing intently on her skirt.

Her stomach churned again, and though this sensation was entirely different from the one she’d fought down before, it was no less disturbing. She extended her injured leg and gathered a bit of her skirt at the knee, inching the hemline upward. She felt him release the knot of her bandage and unwrap it, slowing only when he came to where the cloth stuck to her abrasion.

She sat still, watching his bent head covered with that magnificent black hair, now matted down from his hat. She curled her fingers.

He immediately paused and glanced up at her. “This pains you?”

Heavens, he was a handsome man. She searched desperately for some flaw and could find nothing. The darkness of his skin and the crinkles the sun had put there actually added to his appeal. The eyes searching hers seemed bluer every time she saw them. The last time she’d seen them so clearly from this range was on their wedding day, just before he’d kissed her. She had closed her eyes against them then. She couldn’t make herself do so now. “Your pardon?”