Thomas
hesitated. It wasn’t proper for him to barge up into her room, but soon the
right to see her even in the most private of circumstances would be his. What difference
did a few hours make? Surely, Miss Jackson would not be offended if, in his
eagerness to meet her, he brushed aside formal manners?
He set
off up the stairs, the heels of his boots ringing with an urgency that matched
the pounding of his heart. Room Four was at the end of the dimly lit corridor.
He knocked on the door and snatched his hat down from his head, cursing the
haste that had made him forget to stop in front of the mirror to tidy up his
appearance.
He
raised one hand to smooth down his unruly hair, as straight as straw and in the
same golden color. Dust from the desert trail itched on his skin but he hoped
the suntan from long days out in the fields would cover up any dirt on his
face.
The key
rattled in the lock. The door before him sprung open.
Thomas
could only stare. Disbelief knocked the air out of his lungs.
In front
of him stood a small woman, clad in a pale gray blouse and a frothing white
skirt that looked more like a petticoat. Glossy black curls streamed down past
her shoulders. Red lips, like strawberries ready for the picking, made a vivid
contrast against the paleness of her skin.
“Miss Jackson?”
he ventured.
“Yes?”
She took a step away from him and measured him with a pair of wary hazel eyes.
Thomas
felt his arm twitch as he fought the impulse to reach out and touch her, the
way one might touch the petals on a bloom, or the carving of an angel in a
church, or some other thing of beauty.
She was
the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. And she would be his wife. She would share
his bed. At that last thought, an altogether more earthly sensation surged
through the lower parts of him, as forceful as a kick from a stubborn mule.
But will she
cook for you, clean for you, nurse you in sickness, tend to the chickens, help
with the farm work? whispered a voice at the back of his mind,
but Thomas refused to pay any attention to it.
“Have you
been sent by Mr. Thomas Greenwood?” the woman asked as he simply stood there,
observing her in stunned silence.
“I am
Greenwood.”
Miss Jackson
appeared to hesitate. Her gaze flickered down to her clothing, then back up to
him. She whirled on her dainty feet and darted back into the room, where she
tugged at the rumpled bedspread, as if to remove it from the bed. Then she gave
up the effort, let out a small huff of frustration and hurried back to him.
“You may
come inside, Mr. Greenwood. We shall conduct our meeting here. I shall leave
the door open.” She stepped aside and waved him through. Crouching in a
graceful motion, she picked up a wooden wedge provided for the purpose on the
floor and jammed it beneath the door.
Thomas
nodded his approval at the precaution to protect her reputation. It had been
the right idea to send for a woman from the East, instead of seeking a saloon
girl who might wish to turn her life around. He wanted an educated companion.
Poetry instead of ditties. Shakespeare instead of rowdy tales.
“Perhaps
you could tell me a little more about the employment,” Miss Jackson said. She
was clasping her hands together in front of her. Thomas got the impression she
did it to stop them from shaking. He hunched his shoulders, trying to appear
smaller, in case it was his size that intimidated her.
“Employment.
Is that how you think of it?” He pondered the idea. “I guess it’s not far
wrong. You’ll certainly be busy with the chores. Cooking and cleaning and such.
It’s not a big place. There are no hired hands, so it will be just the two of
us, until the little one comes along.”
Thomas
lowered his gaze to the frills on her white cotton skirt and frowned, puzzled
by the slenderness of her waist. He let his attention drift back up to her face
and saw her eyes snap wide. Her pale skin had turned chalky white.
“A wife,”
she breathed. “You are expecting me to be your wife.”
A
nagging doubt, like the persistent buzzing of a bee, broke out in Thomas's
head, but his overflowing emotions and his aroused body brushed aside all
questions. In his pocket, the letter from the agency spoke of a plain woman,
sturdy, well suited to life on an isolated farm. In front of him, a delicate
beauty stared up at his face, confusion battling with terror in her huge hazel eyes.
Thomas
nodded. “Wife. That’s what you’ve contracted for.”
“I…” She
made a flicker of impatience with her hand, a totally feminine gesture that
held Thomas enthralled. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” she informed
him, her chin rising in a haughty angle. “Perhaps you might explain how I can
extricate myself from this contract.”
Six
lonely years of scrimping and saving to send for a woman of his own, six lonely
years of building up the homestead, hacking out a living from soil never tilled
before, working until his fingers bled and his muscles cramped with fatigue,
crashed over Thomas like a spring flood.
He’d
paid for a wife, and he’d have one. This particular one.
“I’ve
paid two hundred dollars to bring you here,” he said in a voice that was low
and tight. “If you wish to break the contract and marry someone else, I’ll have
my money back.”
His
hands clenched into fists. Thomas hid them behind his hat, but he knew his
anger showed, on his face and in his rigid posture. From the woman’s terrified
expression and from the strangled gasp that left her throat he understood how
much his tightly controlled outburst must have frightened her.
“I’ll
wait downstairs,” he said, trying to appear calm. “You have one hour to think
it over. Either you’ll find a way to pay back the cost of your journey, or you’ll
marry me, just as you’ve contracted.” Thomas turned to go but paused to glance
back at her over his shoulder. “Wear something else for the wedding,” he told
her. “That skirt looks like a petticoat.”
He shoved his
hat on top of his head and strode off.
*
Charlotte
stared at the empty doorway and listened to the clatter of footsteps as her
visitor stomped away in anger. “It is a
petticoat,” she whispered to herself.
In her
anxiety she’d forgotten to pay attention to her clothing, and her state of
undress had only dawned on her when she felt Mr. Greenwood’s intense gaze on
her.
She’d
considered covering up with the bedspread, but it occurred to her that an
unmade bed might appear even worse. And the towel hanging from the bedpost had
been too small to be of any use. So she had chosen to brazen it out. A lady did
not draw attention to her faux pas.
Charlotte
cast aside the lingering embarrassment over parading in front of the man in her
undergarments and gave in to the panicked thoughts that crashed around in her head.
Miss Jackson was a mail-order bride.
She was a mail-order bride.
The
image of Thomas Greenwood formed before her eyes. He was a giant of a man,
taller even than Papa, and broad in the shoulder. The wide cheekbones gave him
something of an Indian look, but he had fair hair and pale eyes. And in those
pale eyes lurked the steely edge of an implacable will. Not even a storm would
make him yield, Charlotte suspected. Against him she had the power of a gnat.
She would have to marry him, unless she
found a way to come up with two hundred dollars. Which she couldn’t, of course.
She hardly had any money at all, and Thomas Greenwood knew it. Wear something else for the wedding. She
huffed as she recalled the male arrogance in his tone as he issued the command.
What
could she do? Should she make a confession? Explain her plight and ask for his
help? No. Charlotte discarded the idea at
once. The man wouldn’t believe her. He would think it a lie, an attempt to
break the contract without reimbursing him the money he’d spent on her passage.
She
pinched her eyes shut. The fear she’d hoped to have left behind tightened like
a snare around her once more. She could feel Cousin Gareth’s greedy hands
groping at her breasts, could feel his whiskey-soaked breath on her lips.
Once I bed you,
you’ll have to marry me,
and your money will be mine.
It had
been drunken talk, but for once in his life Gareth had told the truth.
She had
no money, no means to support herself, and she couldn’t risk being found. Her
thoughts returned to the fair-haired giant waiting downstairs. Despite his
formidable physique and blatant masculinity, there was something gentle about
him, something kind and patient.
She imagined
being married to him, facing him across the breakfast table in the mornings, sleeping
curled up in bed against him at night. The idea filled her with a sense of
relief, as if she had sailed into a safe harbor. It might work…it might be just
the solution…if she managed to keep it a marriage in name only…
Charlotte
squared her shoulders, as if to balance the heavy weight of responsibility that
rested over them. She had no choice. She needed to protect her inheritance,
both for her own sake, and for that of her sisters.
She would have
to marry Thomas Greenwood and find a way to keep him from claiming his
husbandly rights for a year. Then, once she turned twenty-five and gained
access to her inheritance, she could get the marriage declared invalid and
return home to Merlin’s Leap.
*
Charlotte
clomped down the stairs, kicking up a racket with the heels of her leather half
boots. Thomas Greenwood might be in a position to order her about, but if she
wanted to retain some control of the situation, she would have to make it clear
right from the start that obedience wouldn’t be part of her wedding vows.
She
found him sitting at the table nearest to the exit, sipping coffee from a china
cup that looked like a doll’s service in his hand. It occurred to her that he had
positioned himself where he would have the best chance of intercepting her,
should she attempt to make a run for it.
“I am
ready for the wedding,” Charlotte informed him. She tried to make her comment
tart but the tremor in her voice emphasized her failure.
The man
took in her clothing, nodded with approval at the green skirt she had put on.
As a concession to the heat, she’d left off the matching jacket, and only wore
the pale gray blouse he’d already seen upstairs.
As she
felt his gaze on her, her breath stalled. He was a handsome man, around thirty,
and Charlotte had little experience in being the subject of a bold masculine
inspection. It made her tingle in an odd way, in intimate places, stirring up a
new kind of unease that had nothing to do with fear.
“Have
you packed?” her bridegroom asked.
“No. I
thought we’d be staying here for the night.”
The night. Their wedding night. The idea made a blush
flare up on her skin, adding to the heat of the room. She fixed her attention
on the toes of her half boots, refusing to look up, but she could hear the
scrape of the chair against the floorboards as Thomas Greenwood hoisted his
muscular frame out of the seat.
“We’ll
leave immediately after the ceremony,” he told her. “I’ll settle the account
while you pack.”
Charlotte
sneaked a peek at him as he strode over to the counter and reached into a
pocket on his black suit. The care with which Thomas Greenwood counted out the
coins into the open palm of the innkeeper suggested that his financial
situation was scarcely better than her own.
A
somersault of guilt pitched in her stomach. He must have spent all his savings
on a wife. Instead of the sturdy helpmate of his dreams, fate had saddled him
with a woman who knew nothing about farming. Her domestic skills didn’t extend
beyond embroidering undergarments or composing weekly menus with the cook.
And she
wouldn’t even be able to make up for those shortcomings by showing willingness
in the marital bed, Charlotte thought with dismay, another fiery blush flaring
up to her cheeks. All in all, Mr. Greenwood might end up feeling that from his
point of view the marriage was a very bad bargain indeed.
He
turned around. “Go on now,” he said. “Get your things.”
There
was kindness in his tone, kindness and patience. It might be possible for her
to navigate the storms that lay ahead, Charlotte told herself as she took the
stairs back up to her room. A sense of honor stirred in her. Thomas Greenwood
was providing her with a sanctuary at a time of distress. During the year she
remained in his custody, she would have to treat him with the respect and
courtesy he deserved.
The
decision eased her tension and she flitted about the room, gathering up her
meager possessions. Two sets of cotton drawers and shifts hung on the back of a
chair, where she had spread them out to dry after washing them last night. She
folded the flimsy garments, smoothing her hands over the wrinkled fabric.
As she
bent to retrieve her leather traveling bag from the floor, her eyes fell on a
shadow in the open doorway. Thomas Greenwood stood watching her, arms crossed
over his chest, one shoulder propped against the door frame. A dark flush
tinged his suntanned cheeks.
Charlotte
swallowed the lump of nerves that clogged her throat at the possessive glint in
his eyes. She jerked her attention back to the task of packing her belongings.
A fiery blush surged all the way from her neck to the roots of her hair at the
realization that he had witnessed her handling her intimate clothing. More than
likely, he’d imagined her dressed in nothing else.
Her mind
scattered. She tossed the bundle of undergarments into her bag, cramming them
on top of the things already there—a book, a box of personal treasures, a
nightgown, a pair of kid slippers and a white blouse. She added the silver-backed
mirror and hairbrush from the top of the dresser and snapped the jaws of the
bag shut.
“I’m
ready,” she said, even though his heated gaze rooted her to the floor.
He
cleared his throat and edged inside the room. “Is this all you have?”
“Yes.” Charlotte
took a deep breath to ease her constricted lungs. “I only brought what I could
carry, to make traveling on the train easier.”
“Did you
send the rest as freight?”
“This is
all I have.” She didn’t elaborate, merely grabbed the bag by the handle and set
off marching toward the door.
“Let me.”
He circled the bed in a few long strides and reached for her bag. His hand
curled over hers, strong and warm. A shiver rippled along her skin. The reality
she’d tried to push aside broke through her senses, and the truth of the
situation turned her knees to water.
She’d be
married to this man before the sun finished its journey across the sky. He’d be
her husband, with the rights and expectations that went with the position. She
intended to keep him from consummating the marriage, but how could she make
sure? Despite the honor and decency she sensed about him, Thomas Greenwood
might not have the patience to wait. He might simply take what he justly
believed to be his.
