A Most Inconvenient Marriage (18 page)

Jeremiah stood. Two steps to the sink, but he couldn’t make it. Not yet. And he wouldn’t stumble again in front of her. He crammed his crutch under his arm and carried his plate away. “I guess I’d better be getting home. Calbert and I are shoeing the horses today.”

“How’s Josephine?” Laurel twirled her braid around her finger. He could imagine its silky weight in his hand.

“Missing Napoleon something terrible,” he rasped.

Laurel was so dainty. He could wrap his arms around her and almost make her disappear. Her cheeks flushed and Jeremiah stood close enough to feel their heat.

“Newton?” She stepped sideways to peer around Jeremiah. “Newton, why don’t you see if Jeremiah needs any help with his horse?”

Jeremiah stumbled backwards. “I don’t need any help with that horse or any horse.”

“Hopkins is a doctor,” Laurel said. “He’s used to helping the infirmed.”

The infirmed? Is that what she thought of him? Jeremiah’s plate clattered into the sink. “I can take care of myself,” he said and then leaned close. Desperation gruffed his voice. “I could take care of you, too, if you’d let me, Abigail.”

Her head snapped up. Hopkins choked on a laugh. Jeremiah frowned. “What?”

“You called Laurel Abigail.” Hopkins beamed a toothy grin.

“I did not.” Only a dunce would . . .

But Laurel looked at him like she’d found a booger in the sugar bowl. He’d made a mistake and he couldn’t blame this mess on the Yankees, unless you counted one Yankee nurse.

“Well, if I did say it, it was an honest mistake. No one could compare the two of you.”

But Laurel had closed up tighter than a bloom for the night. The day was wasted.

His pride screamed at him to throw his crutch aside and stomp away, but he mastered his frustration long enough to get on his horse and make himself scarce. Jeremiah wouldn’t let Hopkins best him at anything, whether horseshoes, coon hunting, or arm
wrestling. He definitely wouldn’t let him win this contest. Given time, Laurel would come around. She was just too tenderhearted where Hopkins was concerned. Once she mulled over the choice, she’d choose Jeremiah, hands down, guaranteed.

But how in creation did Abigail’s name find its way onto his lips? As if it weren’t bad enough that she’d spent months posing as his wife, now he was whispering her name to his sweetheart. People were going to get suspicious.

Something had to change. He couldn’t send Abigail away, but he couldn’t take the strain of having her near. He was about to snap.

When Ma entered the room, Abigail set aside the sock she was darning to find a vase for the roses Rachel had requested. She’d seen the red blooms at the stack of boulders Ma called the thinking place but didn’t realize they ever took cuttings from the bush. Once the roses were in water, Abigail buried her nose in the petals. “Why do you keep these beautiful flowers so far from the house?”

Ma tossed her bonnet on the sofa. “I don’t know. They just seem more special if you have to travel a piece to see them, I guess. If they were here by the porch, I wouldn’t appreciate them near as much.”

Similar to working every day with a kind, decent woman at your side, and then traipsing off to visit someone who didn’t care? A thorn nicked Abigail’s finger.

“How’s Rachel?” Ma asked.

“She spent the morning resting and suffered no ill from your being gone.” Abigail wiped the drop of blood from her finger onto her apron.

“Praise the Lord. I have no right to complain, but sometimes
I need to get out of that room.” Ma stopped before the mirror to tidy her thick silver hair. “You just don’t know, dearie, how it upsets her when she doesn’t get her way.”

“Oh, I think I have a good idea, but catering to her whims hasn’t helped her. You can’t do anything for her physical state, but you might ruin her spiritual state, as well.”

Ma nodded. As usual, she accepted Abigail’s words without question, but she’d easily dismiss them as soon as Rachel grumbled.

Abigail sent Ma up to meet her fate, removed her apron, and hurried out of the house. At the edge of the stone porch, Abigail stretched her hands above her head and arched her back. One could imagine how a crimped body could crimp a spirit. She prayed the ugly habits Rachel had fallen into would be broken before it was too late.

Abigail caught sight of a rider moving through the trees. She leaned in tight against the porch beam to watch Jeremiah approach unobserved. He sat tall in the saddle, cutting a striking figure on Lancaster. His white shirt hugged his shoulders, then billowed loose as it covered his slim torso, which, thank goodness, had been spared any harm during the war. His bad leg was still discernible by its length and the thinner muscles in the thigh, but the difference wasn’t immediately obvious.

And the only reason she looked was because she needed to measure his progress, right? And while she observed him, she supposed that if his scowl was any indication, his visit with Laurel hadn’t been a success. Well, he might as well get it off his chest before suppertime. Ma sure didn’t need more disruption under her roof.

Abigail tucked in the stray locks that’d escaped from the braids pinned across her head. She’d act like she was only there to help him groom the horse, and maybe he’d feel like unburdening
himself while they worked. If not, then surely Calbert could pull it out of him when he came to do the smithing.

Jeremiah was pulling the girth through the buckle on the saddle when she entered the barn, but he didn’t look up. His crutch lay far from him, thrown in a pile of hay. Not a good omen. “Can I help you?” he said.

“I came to help you, actually.”

His eyes flamed. “Why would I need your help?”

Abigail stopped in her tracks. She’d already locked horns with one member of the family that morning. Did she have to best another? “You have in the past and told me so just last night.”

“Well, I’m getting stronger every day.”

The cinch belt swung free. He slid the saddle off of Lancaster’s back and the weight threw him a tad off balance, but Abigail noticed his bad leg held him steady. Soon he’d have no need for the crutch. Or her.

He tossed the saddle across the stall divider, removed the blanket, and took up a brush. Abigail ran her hand down Lancaster’s opposite shoulder, surprised at the dampness. While the horse wasn’t winded, Jeremiah must have ridden hard for home.

Taking a brush, Abigail joined him in his task, keeping the horse’s body between them. Something about skin fascinated her. The twitch of the muscle, the ripple that could be harnessed either for speed or for strength. One only had to will it, and arms, legs, flanks, and hooves obeyed. She’d never tire of the marvel of it—whether human or beast.

She ran her hand down Lancaster’s neck, feeling the play of the muscle beneath her fingers. After all the time she’d spent working on Jeremiah’s hurt leg, she’d never fully taken stock of his healthy one. She should’ve done that before she started his treatment, and a visual examination wasn’t sufficient. How could she achieve symmetry with no knowledge of what his muscles
felt like uninjured? She ducked beneath Lancaster’s head and peered down at Jeremiah. His trousers might be threadbare, but they hung as loose as a turkey’s wattle. No question which leg was thicker, but she’d need to feel them to know how far the hurt one had atrophied.

He stopped brushing the horse. She lifted her face to meet his eyes. Stern. Angry. Impassioned over some wrong. Abigail smoothed her hair behind her ear. Maybe she should go back to the house.

“Can’t keep from staring, can you?” He held his arms out. His white shirt billowed above his trim waist. “Go on and get your fill. Wonder at my injury whilst you can. I won’t be crippled for long.”

His crooked smile had an edge to it. A challenge.

Abigail never was one to back down from a challenge.

“How’s Laurel?”

He tossed his brush on the table and dusted his hands. “Laurel is a daisy. Too politic for her own good, but she’ll set old Hopkins straight soon enough.”

Abigail took Lancaster’s bridle and led him toward his empty stall. “Did she talk about him?”

“She didn’t have to. He ate dinner with us.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she stopped fumbling with the bridle. “He did? And she knew you were coming?”

He took the bridle from her hands. “Her father wasn’t home. She probably wanted to make sure we were chaperoned.” He smacked Lancaster on the rump, sending the horse trotting inside.

Was Jeremiah this delusional? She stepped aside so he could fasten the stall door. “Well, Hopkins is the perfect chaperone because there’s no one more suited to keep the two of you apart.”

“Caution, there, miss.” He spun on his good heel. His chin
rose. “You can’t keep your hands off me, so I must be somewhat of a temptation.”

“Are you accusing me of impropriety? I’ll not be added to your inaccurate list of women who find you irresistible.” How dare he! She tried to stomp past him, but he stepped into her path.

“I’m not imagining Laurel’s affection, if that’s what you’re getting after. She’d do anything for me.”

“Besides leave her beau, you mean?” Abigail crossed her arms across her chest. Why couldn’t she just play along? What was it to her if he preferred to be deceived? But it wasn’t in her nature to see folly and not expose it. Especially when the man strutted around so cocksure, unable to admit his shortcomings.

“You know, I feel sorry for you.” Jeremiah stretched his arm across the walkway to hang the bridle on the stall divider. “It must be lonely to be so far from home and not have a sweetheart. Or maybe you do. I’m not quite sure what to believe about you.”

Her hands went to her hips before she remembered how his gaze would follow them there. She raised her chin to meet his arrogant level. “If a man did love me, I wouldn’t make him dance around like a fool while I carried on with another fellow.”

“Stop!” He stepped closer, stirring up the scent of clean straw. “This war cost me my leg, my best friend, and nearly cost me my farm. I will not fail again. I’ve already lost too much.”

Was this really about Laurel, or was she merely a symbol? A victory to be counted? His dark hair stuck to his damp forehead. His face flushed. Poor Jeremiah. He didn’t want to hear the truth. And what if he failed? How would he cope?

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t need your pity. I’m not some feeble invalid. My wife will have no regrets, and if you don’t believe me, then . . .”

Abigail watched his chest rise with every ragged breath. Jer
emiah’s stare wandered to her lips, and his face wiped clean of anger.

“No,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t.”

But then he did.

With an arm around her waist Jeremiah pulled Abigail to him, his breath catching at her nearness. Day and night, thoughts of her teased him, clouding what should have been clear. He’d fought valiantly, but every soldier lost a battle now and then.

About time she got an inkling of what he was warring against.

He held her tight, her supple body squirming against his, setting every nerve on fire. One kiss. That’s all he wanted. One to show her she couldn’t taunt him without consequences. He took her mouth, her muffled protests vibrating throughout his body, but immediately his desire to teach her a lesson was overcome by his need for her. With a sob in his own throat, he realized it wasn’t about the taste of her sweet lips or the heady scent of her skin. It was about her—Abigail—and how much he relied on her. He wasn’t teaching her a lesson. He was pleading with her not to turn him away. Not to reject him. And she didn’t. She stopped struggling as he stroked the milky whiteness of her neck down to her collarbone. Her lips softened—allowing him, inviting him.

His hand traveled down her back, delighting in every plane, every curve. He touched her without restraint, just as she’d touched him day after day, and he was intoxicated with the freedom.

He needed Abigail to care about him. Needed her respect.

Respect.

Jeremiah’s hands stilled. What had he done?

Slowly he set her on her feet and drew away, unable to meet her questioning gaze. The room turned deathly silent as he found his words.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, taking the coward’s escape. Her chest strained against her cotton work dress, her breath coming in quick bursts now. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to do that.”