A Bride Most Begrudging (29 page)

He looked to the half-finished barn. If they were to have children, he should probably go ahead and make a necessary. And a smokehouse. He sighed. And if Constance was to be the mother, he might as well construct a schoolhouse. She would surely want to educate not only the O’Connor offspring but every woman in the colony. Forsooth, his father must surely be spinning in his grave.

His grave. How many more would Drew be digging before he was laid in his own? More than he’d want. Some small and from his own seed, no doubt. Would it be worth it?

A cool breeze wafted from the river as he squinted against the sun’s descent. What if just one of the babes survived? What if the child grew to adulthood? What would his dreams be? His pursuits?

He gripped the hammer. Yes.
Yes
. He wanted children. Lots and lots of them. But first, he must convince Constance to stay. And that was going to take some doing.

He thought for a moment, then straightened, slowly removing the nails from his mouth. He knew just the thing to get back in her good graces.

————

What in heaven’s name was he up to? He’d been acting near giddy from the moment he’d arrived home. They’d eaten and visited, same as every night, but he was much like a young boy awaiting his birthday surprise.

Moments ago, he’d whispered furiously with Mary while she stoked up the fire and set several pots to boil. Now he stood on his chair, hanging a large sheet from several old ceiling hooks. When he was finished, the cloth completely enclosed a small portion of the room just in front of the fireplace.

She blushed with mortification. They wanted some privacy. How could she have been so addlepated? She would
not
lie here in his bed and force them to hide behind a curtain for … for whatever it was they were going to do. She would sleep in her tick tonight and she’d brook no argument.

Drew appeared from behind the curtain, his glance dashing away from her the same moment it found her. Saints above, how awful. She was about to tell him her intent when he whisked himself out the door.

“Mary, quickly. Get over here and help me up to my tick before he returns.”

Mary peeked around the curtain. “Up to your tick? Whatever for?”

Constance threw back the covers. “Let’s not make this any more embarrassing than it already is. Just help me up there and with haste.”

“Mistress! Get back under those coverlets. You’ll catch a chill for certain.”

Mary bustled over, and Constance, her feet already on the dirt floor, held out her hand for help. “Come. I can’t make it clear up there by myself. Now, make haste. He might return any moment.”

“Of course he’ll return, and he’ll be plenty furious if I assist you with such a thing. I’d just as soon not have to deal with his wrath, I wouldn’t. It’s hard he is working to try and please. I’ll not be spoiling it, I won’t.”

Constance stilled. Oh, dear. She was probably right. He’d be angered and then their little teête-à-teête would be ruined. Blast. She’d simply have to feign sleep. Immediately. “Perhaps you’re right. Already I’m feeling weary. I think I’ll go on to bed now. Dig you den, Mary.” With that, she dove under the covers, turned her back to the curtain, and closed her eyes.

“Merciful me. What a pair the two of you are.”

The door slammed open, a cold rush of air swooshing into the room. Constance peered beneath her lids just long enough to see him haul in a huge half-barrel of some sort.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to ignore their whispered giggles and the sound of splashing. He came and went from the cottage several times, chilling the room even more.
What in the world?

Finally all was still. “Connie?”

She took the deep, even breaths of a slumbering person.

He touched her shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“She’s awake,” Mary said from across the room.

Constance felt a rush of heat suffuse her cheeks. Thank the heavens it was dark. What could Mary be thinking?

“I’ve a surprise for you, Connie. Would you like to see?”

She stilled. A surprise?
For me?
She slowly lay back on the pillows. The darkness was even more pronounced than usual, for the curtain shrouded the fire and its light.

“Come. I’ve something for you.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.” He peeled back the covers and helped her sit before scooping her up into his arms.

“Drew! Sweet heavens, I can walk.”

He said nothing but carried her to the curtain, then stepped inside it.

Immediately, light and heat embraced them. And there, in the midst of it was a barrel of water, with a scent rising from its depths, the likes of which she’d never smelt before.

Setting her gingerly on the hearth, he allowed his hand to travel the length of her arm to the tips of her fingers, where his lips touched them. “For you, my lady. Enjoy.”

Then he was gone, the closing of the cottage door loud in the subsequent silence, the gooseflesh on her arm still tingling.

Mary stepped forward. “Come. Let’s get you into the bath so the master doesn’t have to linger overlong in the cold.”

A bath?
A bath?
She looked up. Mary smiled. “Come. It’s just right.”

As if in a dream, she allowed Mary to undress her and assist her into the barrel. The warm water swirled around her, encircling her as she lowered herself into it. The water came up to the slopes of her shoulders, teasing them as it lapped up over her.

Dipping hands and soap into the tub, Mary quickly worked up a lather from which the most delicate fragrance arose. Constance sat as if disassociated with her own body.

Closing her eyes, she felt Mary lather her arms, her back, and her hair, before pausing. “Wish me to continue?”

Constance stirred. “I’ve never before submerged myself in water. Have you?”

“No, mum. Is it as heavenly as it looks?”

“Even more. Do you suppose I’ll be going to hell now?”

“No, mum. If it was to hell you’d be sent for such a thing, the master wouldn’t have allowed it to happen to you. Wish me to continue?”

Constance opened her palm. “No thank you. I can finish.”

Mary nodded. “I’m going to go check on Snowflake. It’s time for her evening milking.”

“Surely Drew has seen to it for you?”

“It’s best I go check. You will be all right?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. Thank you. And Mary?”

“Yes, mum?”

“I’m sorry you’re having to do my chores as well as your own.”

A small shy smile touched Mary’s features. “I’m happy to do them for you, Mistress. It’s glad I am you’re feeling so much better.”

She turned and left, a soft whoosh and a click the only signs of her departure.

When he saw Mary leave the cottage, he’d assumed Constance had finished. Not so. He could see clearly her silhouette through the curtain with her head hung back over the edge of the barrel.

Mary should never have left her. Didn’t she realize how dangerous it was for Constance to fall asleep in a tub full of water? He stepped inside the curtain and froze.

Constance’s hair, still full of lather, was piled atop her head, her eyes closed, her face relaxed. The graceful curve of her neck gave way to delicate shoulders peeking above the water’s edge.

“This is absolutely divine, Mary. You must try it next. But first, I needs must rinse my hair. Will you help me?”

He should turn around and walk out. He picked up the empty bucket. Dipping it beneath the surface, he filled it with water. Constance, eyes still closed, covered her face with her hands and bent forward. “I’m ready.” Her voice was muffled and husky.

He poured the water over her hair. It took several more dousings before all the soap had washed out.

“A rag. Is there a rag I can use to dry my eyes with?”

He knelt beside her and placed a dry rag in her hand. She pushed her hair back, drug the rag down her face, peeped over the top, then squealed and sunk deep into the water.

“Will you be my wife, Connie?”

The fire crackled. She said nothing. Only stared at him through those long lashes spiked with water.

“I mean, my
real
wife. Till death do us part?”

The rag came further down her face, revealing her nose, mouth, and chin. “Why?”

Because I love you. Because I want my children to be your children also
. He remained silent.

“What about Mary?”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t sell Mary. She could stay.”

“Oh, Drew, please. I like it not that you can buy and sell Mary, or me, or anyone else at your whim. And that’s not what I meant. I thought, well, things between the two of you are … different.”

He relaxed some. “We worked long and hard to care for you while you were ill. I’ll always be grateful to her. But I’ve never had any feelings for her. Besides, I’m married to you. Even if I had interest elsewhere, I would never pursue it while married to another.”

“And do you have interests elsewhere?”

“No.”

“And do you have … feelings for me?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of feelings?”

He should have known she’d demand it all. He took a deep breath. “Love feelings.” Reaching for her hand, he flattened it against his chest. “Deep inside here.”

Her expression softened, and she moved her hand up to comb a piece of hair back from his face. The tip of one shoulder rose above the water’s surface. He kept his eyes on hers, but there was nothing amiss with his peripheral vision.

“Five inches,” she said as she continued to comb her fingers through his hair.

He frowned. “Your pardon?”

“The fly,” she whispered. “He has only to go five inches to reach the honey.”

He was silent for a moment. “He’d have gone much, much further if he’d had to.”

A mere hint of a smile touched her lips. “What think you if the honey meets him halfway?”

He lowered his eyes to half-mast. “Is that a yes, Connie?”

She nodded once. “I would be very honored to be your wife, Andrew Joseph O’Connor, until death do us part.”

Cupping her face with his hands, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers.

chapter
N
INETEEN
   

HIS KISS WAS GENTLE and achingly sweet. Her own calm, however, had long since shattered.

Love feelings. Until death do us part
. He didn’t want Mary! He wanted
her
. And she, most definitely, wanted him. Burrowing her fingers into the thick hair at his nape, she returned his kiss.

He’d asked her to stay. Forever. She would be the real Mistress O’Connor. She would live in his big house. In his chamber. With him.

His caress moved down her arms, his callused thumbs brushing her inner wrists. The pit of her stomach whirled. Every nerve stood on end.

He raised his mouth, his breathing ragged. “We needs must stop.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“It’s too soon. You’re not well.”

“Oh, but I am. I am!”

Resting his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes. “Ah, Connie-girl. I’ll not indulge in a piece of stair-work here aside the tub when Mary could walk in at any moment.”

Her water-slicked skin cooled as air engulfed the chasm between them. She settled back against the barrel. He was right, of course. But when? When would Mary not be here? She didn’t have the fortitude to ask.

Rising to his feet, his gaze roved leisurely over the swell of her breasts peeking just above the surface. With a delayed sense of modesty, she sunk a bit deeper into the water. Eyes dark with desire, he turned and disappeared behind the curtain.

————

A maiden is 27 steps ahead of her sweetheart and takes 8 steps while her sweetheart takes 5; but 2 of his steps are equal to 5 of her own. How many steps will he have to take before he can capture the maiden within his arms?

Smiling, Constance laid the leaf back upon the chair, then swept her hair to the side. It was a gnarled mess, for she’d fallen asleep without braiding it.

Dragging her fingers through tangle after tangle, she recalled last night’s events, relishing each exchange, each revelation, each touch. After he’d left, Mary had bustled into the cottage, helping her from the barrel and into a clean nightdress. Then he’d returned, removed the curtain, stoked the fire, and settled her onto a pallet while he brushed her hair. When next she stirred, it was to wake up in his bed with another heartshaped leaf at her side.

She paused, closing her eyes.
Mistress O’Connor. Mistress Constance Caroline O’Connor
. She still couldn’t quite believe it. She must concentrate on regaining her health so that very soon she could wake up next to the man instead of his love letters.

————

It was a length of fine green wool that lay at her bedside this time. Fingering it, she chided herself for being disappointed. Not with the fabric, of course, but with his absence. It had been three days since his address and she’d not seen him once.

Picking up the material, she drew it into her lap, almost missing the heart-shaped leaf wedged within its folds.