The Marriage Bed (7 page)

A few strokes then, and he would stop himself. It had become so routine it was beginning to seem normal to him. Half a dozen thrusts and he would stop. He could do that. Of course he could. He could. He could. He could. His lungs were bursting, and still he gulped for air. He could. He could.

He plunged into her, again, and again, deeper and deeper, as if he could bury his memories within her and lose them. Beneath him, her soft body rose and fell with his, setting off the warning bells in his head, ringing them louder and louder until he knew he had better not ignore them any longer.

Just three more thrusts,
he promised himself.
Two. just one.
He withdrew quickly and fell on top of her with a groan.

In the quiet, it came to him.

He hadn't wanted to stop.

Dear God, this time he really hadn't wanted to stop. His heart was pounding in his chest and he fought to control his breathing. He forced himself to think of Peter and Margaret and tried to be proud that he had managed to contain himself. He made himself imagine Kirsten standing beside the bed, watching him kiss another woman's breasts, sweat between another woman's legs, and tried to be ashamed that he had nearly enjoyed himself.

It was only his body that wanted her, he told himself. A man's body seeking out the comforts of a woman.

She shifted beneath him, his weight no doubt making it hard for her to breathe. He rolled off her and bent his legs to hide the evidence of his treason.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He felt her shake her head, but she said nothing, just pulled the blankets to her chin and from the jabs of her elbow against his side he knew she was refastening her gown.

"Are you all right?"

"Spencer?" There was a quiver in her voice. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

He turned and looked at her, not understanding. "Tell them what?"

"I liked it, a little." She pulled the pillow from beneath her head and hugged it to her body. He had an urge to replace the pillow with himself, but fought it. "More than just a little. Much more. Like you feel, probably. Not like a woman. Do you think I'm very wicked?"

"You're not wicked," he assured her, pulling the pillow out of her grasp and putting it back where it belonged, then laying her head gently onto it. He almost laughed out loud at the irony. "Not even a little bit. Now go to sleep."

"Did
she
like it? Kirsten?" Her voice was small, and yet it filled the room as if she had shouted out in the darkness.

"Yes," he said honestly. He supposed he owed her that much. "She did."

She reached out for him, but somehow he eluded her grasp and sat up on the side of the bed feeling around the floor unsuccessfully for his slippers. "I'll just go have a cigar," he said, pushing himself up with his hands.

"Do you have to go?" Her hand trailed down his arm as he rose.

"I'll be back soon," he said without turning to face her. "You go ahead and get some sleep."

"It was special this time, wasn't it? So, maybe this time . . ." she said softly, the words slurred by her exhaustion. He looked over his shoulder and saw her eyes close. There was a smile on her face as she drifted toward sleep. Her full lips looked lush, inviting. Her rounded cheeks begged to be stroked.

It was dangerous ground he was treading on. Too dangerous. He'd been down this road before, and he wasn't about to walk this path again. No, sir. He was not going to fall in love with Olivia. And they were not going to bring a new life into this world. Not even if it meant never touching the woman again. Monks did it all the time. Priests, too. Of course, they didn't lie down every night next to a woman who smelled like lilacs and whose hair . . . A shiver ran up his body from the cold wooden floor.

Maybe it was a good thing she'd sent for Marion's children. Three children in the house might be just the distraction they both needed. The pressure eased in his loins and his breath steadied.

A good thing she'd sent for Julian's brats?

Now he knew for sure he was losing his mind.

Chapter Three

Oh, how lovely the other night had been. It had left Olivia in the most wonderful of moods. Wonderful enough to ignore Spencer's door slamming and furniture kicking. He'd called her beautiful, and though he hadn't touched her since, had hardly even looked at her, she couldn't help but be elated. Her husband, the man she had always loved, thought she was beautiful.

And every time she thought about that night, Spencer's hands touching her so intimately, her face flushed and her belly warmed. Why, if she was sitting, she'd find herself squirming in her chair, and if she was standing she'd have to hug herself to keep from melting right away.

Their lovemaking certainly hadn't had the same effect on Spencer. While she was all dreamy and slow, he had never worked harder in his life. Olivia guessed they had enough wood on the pile for the next two years—four if they had mild winters. And when he finally came in from the fields, and he didn't do that before dark, he was nervous as a turkey the week before Thanksgiving.

The door slammed again, signaling her husband's readiness for supper, she supposed. She turned from the stove where she was putting the finishing touches on the chicken booyah and gave him her brightest smile.

"You seem pretty damn chipper," he said accusingly, as if it were a crime to be happy in the same house he occupied.

She shrugged and from the corner of her eye she caught him watching her, his gaze following each of her trips to and from the stove, all the while chewing at the inside of his cheek.

She didn't know what was bothering him, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt better or more hopeful. Almost as if something wonderful was just about to happen.

"You ever see a prettier day than today?" she asked. "It felt just like July out there. Must have been nearly seventy-five degrees."

He grunted at her, still watching her every move.

"I must have turned enough soil to plant a garden for a family of a dozen today. I don't know where I got the energy." She sighed and stretched out the muscles in her back which were beginning to tighten. "Lord, I am tired now."

"Course you're tired, you little nit. Probably nothing more than all that hard work. Didn't I tell you not to work the garden yourself?"

What in the world was he so angry about now? And they said that women were moody. She rubbed her lower back and then sat down heavily in the rickety chair by the table. Spencer was picking at the food on his plate, pushing the peas around with his fork, drawing lines with the gravy in his mashed potatoes.

"Chicken's a little crisp," she apologized. "Guess I wasn't thinking about the time."

He poked at the bird with his fork. "Expect it to just walk out of the oven itself?''

"Spencer, if you're angry with me, you best just get it off your chest. You've been scowling at me for two days and I'm tired of it. Like Shakespeare says,
what's done is done
, and you best learn to live with it."

The fork dropped from his hand. It clattered on the plate and came to rest in his mountain of potatoes. "You're sure?" he asked, the muscles in his jaw working like crazy while he waited for her answer.

"I think it was Shakespeare," she answered, trying to remember Mr. Larsen's books and deciding it really wasn't important. "You plan on making me miserable for the rest of my life over this, Spencer? Well, you're gonna have to work pretty hard, because I've got no intention of being unhappy on your account. If I can't have your kids, then I'll just have to be glad to have my sister's, and you can just—"

"Then you're not?" he asked hoarsely. He reached over the table and grabbed her arm roughly. "You on the rag or not, Olivia?"

"Spencer!" She pulled free of his grasp and stared at him, her breathing heavy. "And at the dinner table!"

Clearly he had spoken his mind without thinking. His question still hung in the air and it was plain he was waiting for her answer, propriety be damned. Since the first month of their marriage he had waited and watched and clocked her monthly cycles almost as closely as she had, despite his words to the contrary. He had noted the shoes by the bedroom door. He had watched the bushes behind the barn for drying rags. Oh, he said he didn't want a child, but if that was so, why was he standing before her now, shaking her and demanding to know if she was finally expecting?

"Oh, Spencer," she said, and a small sigh escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

"Are you, Livvy, or aren't you? I lost the thread of this somewhere. One minute you're singing and the next you're crying." He sat her down gently in her chair and wiped away a tear from her cheek. "You carrying, Liv, or not?"

She shook her head, unable to utter the words and break her husband's heart. She hadn't been surprised earlier in the day to find she wasn't pregnant. She'd faced the disappointment so many times before that she would probably have been more shocked to find herself expecting than not.

The surprise was how little it bothered her. The sun still shone and there was gardening to do. Her. butter and egg money was safe and there was cloth to buy and clothing and bedding to be made for the children. Bess was sending over some things that Neil might be able to make use of, and promised to look for the high chair for little Josephina. The spare room Spencer used for his record keeping would need to be cleaned out.

No, she hadn't had the time this month to mourn what might have been, not when such glorious things were soon to be. But as Spencer dragged her to him and held her tight against his chest she felt the loss for him and tears flooded her eyes and fell on his shoulder.

He mumbled something against her hair.

"What?"

"I don't deserve you, Livvy. I really don't. You should have married someone else. Anyone else."

She pulled away from him and sniffed back her tears. He'd told her that a hundred times. But this time he had said something else before he started in on that old saw. "Did you say
thank God
?" That was what it had sounded like to her.

"Why would I say that?" he asked, turning her chair back to the table and guiding her into it, then returning to his own. "Let's finish up and go to bed. You look real tired."

"Remy's coming over," she said, trying to recapture her happy mood.
Thank God
? She must have heard him wrong. "Bess went through some of Mama's boxes, and also some of the boys' things that they outgrew. And there was something about a book."

"Sounds like that's them now," Spencer said, cocking his head toward the door.

"I didn't expect he'd bring the boys with him," she said when she heard all the footsteps on the porch. "I've only half a pie left."

The knock on the door was tentative, no doubt one of the kids. It was followed by a bolder knock to which Spencer and Olivia both responded, "Come in."

The door creaked open slowly. In the light of the opening stood three children Olivia had never seen before. Behind them was a familiar, if somewhat older, face, lined where it had once been smooth, framed by hair that was just as tidily combed but now had more than a little gray in it.

"Julian?" She hadn't expected him for weeks. In fact she hadn't expected
him
at all. Only the children. And not for another few weeks, at least. She glanced at Spencer. He glowered over his shoulder at the group standing in his doorway. Julian took off his hat and bowed toward Olivia.

"A sight for sore eyes," he said. "As lovely as the last time I saw you."

Neil Bouche looked at the flustered woman standing in the middle of an enormous room in the house that they had fled to so quickly it seemed their tails were on fire. True, their father had been ready and waiting for years. Still, to leave the very day after the letter came, well. . . all Neil could make of it was that his father thought that his aunt and uncle might change their minds if they were given a moment to think about what they'd agreed to.

He couldn't blame his father for worrying. Why should complete strangers, even if they were related by blood, take him and his sisters in? But they'd said they would, and here his aunt stood, her smile welcoming, her eyes misting over at the sight of them. She looked so much like the mother on some advertisement for hot cocoa that he had to rub his eyes. Even then he wasn't sure whether he had simply fallen asleep in the wagon and this was just another one of his dreams. He was having them all the time now, even when he was awake. Just thinking about what his life would be like once he got to his aunt's and uncle's farm would set him imagining the most wonderful of things.

Not that he was prone to dreaming. Since his mother had died he hadn't even let himself wish that things would ever be good again. Now and then he'd allow himself a prayer, but praying, his mama had taught him, was different, as long as he didn't pray for himself. And so he prayed that his sisters would find what they were looking for at his aunt and uncle's house, and if it happened that he, too, was happy, well . . .

And now, as if his prayers had been answered, here he was in his aunt's kitchen, some wonderful smell filling his nostrils, and the softest woman he had ever seen smiling at him.

"You're here," she said, and even her voice was warm. The women his father brought home never sounded like maple syrup ran in their veins. "I . . . We didn't expect you quite this soon." It seemed to Neil she kind of choked on the words before turning to the man who sat with his back to the door. From the sound of silverware against a plate, it was clear he was still eating his supper and nothing was going to disturb him. He wondered if this man was his uncle. He hoped not, since the man with the stiff back and the broad shoulders did not seem pleased that they were there. Maybe his father had known that they weren't really wanted, and that accounted for probably the quickest trip anyone had ever managed between Chicago and Wisconsin.

"Well," the woman with the warm smile said, rushing toward the door and trying to coax them in. "Come in, come in. I'm your Aunt Olivia." She pointed toward the table. "This is your Uncle Spencer."

Neil looked to his father, who motioned with his chin as if to say
go ahead in
. Being well mannered, and not particularly anxious to venture in, he stepped back and allowed his older sister, Louisa, with Josie in her arms, to step through the doorway first. Neil, following his father's lead, removed his hat respectfully and came in behind his sisters.

"Here, let me take her," his Aunt Olivia said, reaching out for Josie. He saw Louisa's jaw clench as she threw a panicked glance at their father. Usually his father paid close attention to Louisa, but now he seemed to have eyes only for Aunt Olivia, and he ignored Louisa entirely, giving his aunt the same smile he used for the women he sometimes brought home with him.

Louisa held Josie tightly to her body, and Neil waited for their father to stop their aunt from trying to separate Josie from Louisa's arms.

But he didn't, so Aunt Olivia just reached out and put her hands under Josie's armpits, then cradled her like an infant against her chest. Josie's familiar howl pierced the quiet of the house, scaring his poor aunt half to death.

"I'd better take her back. Josie doesn't like strangers," Louisa shouted over the baby's cries and reached for her little sister.

"No, no," Aunt Olivia said, patting the child's back and trying to get loose the fistful of hair his stupid sister had grabbed. "You take off your coat and I'll just—"

"Let her cry," his father said, the same as always, ignoring what his baby sister was doing to his poor aunt's hair." Good for her lungs. Good for her circulation. Tires her out when nothing else does." Would his aunt know that what his father meant was that he let Josie cry herself out every night until she finally fell asleep?

The man Aunt Olivia had said was his uncle rose from his seat at the table. Even though they didn't look alike, the man reminded him of his father. It must have been that look that said
don't mess with me, don't get in my way.

Neil backed up as the man passed him.

"Jeez." The man moaned, disgusted, and reached slowly for the cookie jar above the sink as if Josie weren't screaming like a banshee and trying to pull out every strand of long dark hair on Aunt Olivia's head. He turned and shook his head at all of them, not seeming to like Aunt Olivia any more than he liked Neil or the baby. And Josie kept on screaming, only now it looked like she was trying to do that Belgian Dust Dance in her aunt's arms, thrashing wildly with her arms and legs.

The man came over and lifted Josie from Aunt Olivia's arms, told her to hush since she was scaring years off her aunt's life, and then resettled her comfortably on the woman's hip with a cookie for each hand. Josie quieted the minute she had those cookies, hiccuped twice, then tasted first one and then the other. Neil thought about crying himself and seeing if he, too, could get something to eat. It had been a long time since dinner and his stomach was rumbling loud enough to drown out Josie's sobs.

Josie, surprising even Neil, stopped crying and put one hand around Aunt Olivia's neck to steady herself. Neil turned to look at his uncle, amazed at the miracle the man had performed, but saw only his rigid back as he silently left the house without a word to anyone.

"Well, this is going to be fine. Just fine," his aunt said brightly.

Josie was studying Aunt Olivia's face closely, narrowing her eyes the way she did just before she decided she didn't like something. Knowing what was coming, Neil leaped toward his little sister, but before he had a chance to stop her, Josie reached back and swung her fist smack against Aunt Olivia's nose.

"Oh my God!" Louisa screamed, while all he seemed able to do was stand, his mouth open, and watch as blood spurted from his beautiful aunt's nose. Rivers of red ran furiously down her face and splattered her dress. She gasped, and he felt himself wince at her pain. She seemed even more surprised than hurt, if that was possible. And all he could think was that now that he had finally found the mother he'd been dreaming of, she was going to die. Just like his own mother.