Spring Blossom Page 12

  Maggie breathed a heavy sigh, leaning back against the door as her legs no longer seemed capable of bearing her weight. She had done it. She would spend her wedding night with no threat from her husband. She had to believe that Hunter would be true to his word. If she could not believe that, she was lost and doomed.

  Exhausted from the tensions of the day, Margaret moved slowly across the room, unfastening the collar buttons at the back of her gown as she went. The bed looked so inviting, now that she could relax. The entire day, from sun rise to sun down, had been fraught with nervous tension and it had taken a toll.

  “May I assist you?” a masculine voice inquired.

  Margaret whirled on him, her elbows pointing toward the ceiling. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I thought you had gone to your own room?”

  “And I thought I might be of assistance. How do you get in and out of that dress on your own? Or anything like it?”

  “I can manage quite nicely,” she returned primly, although it was a lie. It was not easy to unto the row of buttons that rand down the length of her spine.

  Hunter smiled, taking a step in her direction. “It will save a lot of time and strain on your arms if I help. Turn around here.”

  “I would prefer you to leave,” she said.

  “And I would prefer to stay. Now, don’t be a stubborn little chit. Turn around.”

  After piercing him with those ice-blue eyes, Margaret turned, bracing herself for the first touch of his hands on her back; still, she flinched.

  Hunter did not miss her reaction as he reached for the buttons at the back of her neck; he simply chose to ignore it. He brushed the heavy cascade of curls over her shoulder, taking the opportunity to feel the silkiness of her hair between his fingers before Maggie’s hand came up and swept the entire mass over her shoulder. “This is one of those genteel services a husband can perform for his wife,” he said easily. “You see, you can find some use of me even at this early stage of our marriage.”

  She could feel his fingers moving down her back, his knuckles lightly brushing her shoulder blades. Inexplicably, gooseflesh rose on her arms. “What is taking so long?”

  Hunter chuckled. “My fingers are large, and the buttons small, Maggie. You will have to be patient with me.”

  When she felt his fingers working the buttons below her waist, Maggie closed her eyes, begging for the strength to remain where she was; she could not, however, As quick as a flitting butterfly she darted away, turning to face him as she did so. “I can manage the rest, thank you,” she said with well-feigned politeness.

  He smiled, understanding she was just too afraid to tolerate his touch a moment longer. He moved around her, crossing to the small table near the windows, knowing she watched his every move. “Would you care for a glass of sherry?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened as she noted the silver tray that held decanters and glasses. “When did you bring those in here?”

  "Not I,” he said, pouring sherry for her and then brandy for himself. “I asked Anna to leave them here.” He turned to face here again, a glass in each hand. “You know, I don’t believe she likes me very much.” Then he held out the small sherry glass for her. “A toast to us, my dear.”

  Margaret stared at him warily as she cautiously accepted the drink he offered. Her mind was tossing around the possible ramifications of this game he seemed to be playing. And, she was feeling even more vulnerable now that she had to hold her bodice in place with one hand. There was a fluttering in her stomach as her senses reacted to the presence of the man, even before her conscious mind could sort through the reasons for his being in her room, and apparently quite at ease.

  Raising the glass to her lips, she followed him with her eyes as he sat on the same chair he had used only two nights before. The chair was far too small for so large a man and the sight almost made her smile. She did not smile, however, for it was dawning on her that he was settling in and had no intention of leaving.

  “I would like to say goodnight now, Hunter,” she said reasonably. “I’m very tired.”

  His eyes strayed briefly toward the hand-painted screen in the corner. “If you’re feeling shy…,” he said and left the remainder of his sentence dangling between them.

  It was like being dowsed by a bucket of cold water; her eyes grew huge and round in shock. “You’re not staying?”

  “It would look a bit odd, don’t you think, for the groom to spend the wedding night in one room while the bride sleeps in another?”

  “You are not staying.” And this time it was not a question but a matter of fact.

  Hunter took a small sip of brandy and watched as she set her glass on the table beside the bed. “You needn’t panic because I am here, Maggie,” he said quietly. “You’ll never become more comfortable with me if I sleep in the next county, now, will you?”

  “Sleep,” she gasped. “Hunter, you are not sleeping in this room. My sisters care little whether we share the same room and I…”

  “And your father?”

  Now she was really winding up to rage; he could see the storm clouds coming as surely as one watched the path of a funnel cloud as it raced along the ground.

  “I don’t care what he thinks about our arrangement,” she flared. “He’s the one who has married me off.”

  “Don’t speak of him in that fashion,” Hunter returned firmly, well ready to deal with her tirade. “Your father didn’t sell you into bondage, nor did he betray you. The man loves you. He did what he felt was right for you.”

  Margaret didn’t take kindly to this dressing-down, although, in her heart, she knew his words were painfully true. “You’re changing the subject,” she said evenly. “We were discussing your sleeping accommodation.”

  He looked down at the small, feminine chair that, he suspected, barely held his weight. “I won’t be sleeping here, Maggie, that’s for certain.”

  “You will not sleep in my bed,” she snapped, as if that should be the end of it.

  He signed audibly, shaking his head. “Issuing all these orders to your husband is not a grand way to begin a relationship, my girl. Why not step behind the screen and get out of that gown before you lose your hold on it?” He grinned lasciviously for her benefit. “Not that I would object if that should occur. I’m only thinking of your modesty.”

  Maggie lowered her eyes to inspect the predicament with her clothing, but his final attempt at teasing her feel far short of its mark. “Oh.” She flounced toward the screen and ducked behind it. “You are a buffoon.”

  He smiled, once more raising the glass to his lips, enjoying even her tantrum as a reminder of the gusty girl he had known. And then he waited.

  The explosion was not long in coming. “Hunter Maguire,” she cried, appearing around the edge of the screen, holding a man’s silk robe and shaking it as if wishing it were his neck. “Tell me Anna left this behind my screen?”

  “I did ask..”

  Suddenly Margaret appeared defeated, and the hand holding the robe fell wearily to her side. “Hunter, please stop playing with me. You planned it all,” she said on a tired sigh, seeking his understanding. “I don’t like this.”

  His smile disappeared in an instant and, as he stared across the room at her, all pretense of teasing was gone. “I know you don’t, little one,” he said patiently, "and I’m sorry if I’ve gone too far with the game.” He set his glass on the table before getting to his feet and walking toward her. “Maggie, I didn’t marry you to cause you pain or distress. I have more…tender reasons.” Standing before her now, he bent to gently remove the robe from her hand. “I am not your enemy, I'm your husband. But because of what happened before, it will take time for you to understand that a man can be loving and caring and tender. It will take time for me to gain your confidence and for you to find that within yourself. Go gently, Maggie; have patience with yourself and with me.”

  Margaret’s eyes followed as he straightened and, even though she had heard his words, the m
eaning of all he said did not seem to matter. When she started to back away from him, he said only, “Don’t.” As they stared into each other’s eyes, hers so obviously distrusting, he wondered again if he was capable of the firm but gentle handling she would need from him. If he carried on too gently, too long, he would only prolong the agony for them both. He was about to put himself to a supreme test; that of sleeping beside her and not touching.

  “You are my wife,” he said at last. “And I expect you to share my bed.”

  Margaret saw no way out of the situation. She was his wife, after all, and, if she dealt with him too harshly he would naturally retaliate. If she was ever to obtain her ultimate goal, she had to trust him to some degree.

  She turned away from him, knowing he was watching her, and ducked behind the screen. Moving to the far end of the private corner, she placed both hands on the back of the small chair there, leaning on it for support. How was she ever to get through this night? She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, while searching for guidance. When none came, she shook her head in anger at herself and at the hand of fate that had brought her to this moment. After a time she gathered her wits and stood tall, allowing the blue dress to fall past her hips to the floor as she reached for the white nightdress that had been left there for her. She would brave out this night as she had done almost every night for the past year. The ghosts that came to haunt her dreams would still be there, along with a husband she did not want. Now she would simply have to deal with both.

  Covered from neck to ankle and wrist by a cotton nightgown and robe, Margaret cautiously peeked around the end of the screen, her eyes growing round again at the sight of Hunter in her bed. He was reclining as if he belonged there, naked from the waist up. And under sheet from the waist down? She’d forgotten he didn’t wear a nightshirt. How could she ever have thought that amusing?

  She ducked back behind the screen…for what purpose other than to try and gather her wits about her, she did not know, but, clearly he had seen or sensed her.

  “We have to get an early start tomorrow, Maggie,” he said easily. “Come to bed now.”

  The words were so easy to say…'come to bed'…but it was difficult for her to force her stiff legs to move around the screen and across the room to the other side of the bed. She noted that his clothes were neatly folded, his jacket hanging on the back of the small chair. It seemed odd to see another person’s belongings in this room she had never shared with another living soul. And now this great hulk was taking up more than his fair share of her bed.

  She sat gingerly on the very edge of the bed, her back stiff, as Hunter watched and waited for her next move. When she did not rise to remove her robe, he extinguished the lamp on the table beside the bed. “Good night, little one,” he said softly, settling down on the mattress with his back to her.

  Margaret dared to look over her shoulder, miffed that he could so easily make himself comfortable under the circumstances. She hesitated, considered leaving her robe on, then decided she would suffocate in the hot room. Hunter had opened both windows, but still the room seemed suddenly too warm. No help for it, she decided. She stood, untied the sash and dropped the robe across the end of the bed, noting that her robe lay neck to neck with his. Sitting down once again, she slipped her feet under the light covers and eased her head down on her pillow, clinging as close to the edge of the mattress as she dared.

  “Don’t fall off the bed,” he said lightly.

  She whipped her head around, only to see his back was still presented to her.

  “You don’t want to start our journey with bruises.”

  “You are not funny, Hunter,” she whispered in the darkness and heard his deep sigh of disappointment.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said quietly.

  Margaret lay with her back to him, warily awaiting any sound or movement that might pose a threat. But all she heard, after a time, was Hunter’s soft, deep breathing as he slept.

  CHAPTER 13

  Margaret spent a fitful night, rousing several times with a start when she sensed another person in the bed. Then she would foggily remember that the body next to hers belonged to her husband and she would doze off again. Still, she was confounded in the early morning when she rolled over and found herself alone. Somehow that was the most disconcerting thing of all.

  Sitting up, she noticed Hunter’s clothes had disappeared from the chair and a tray with tea and biscuits stood on the table in place of last evening’s brandy and sherry. She was not only surprised but a bit concerned that someone had been able to come and go without waking her.

  Shrugging and putting it all down to the strain of the past few days, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and padded barefoot to the table where she gratefully poured tea into a cup before biting into one of the warm buttered biscuits. She realized, as she picked up her cup and looked out the window at the brilliant, glowing dawn that in the past Anna had brought trays to her room only when she was ill. Hunter must have asked…

  Hearing the click of the latch, Margaret turned in time to see Hunter pop his head round the edge of the door. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. “Need any help with buttons or such?"

  Her mouth full of biscuit, she could only shake her head in response.

  “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll see to the horses and the wagon.”

  “I have to…”

  “Take your time,” he added easily. “Your father and the girls are helping me pack up.” His head disappeared and then popped back again.”By the way, dear wife, you look lovely and sweet when you're barely awake.”

  She heard him chuckle at her dismay as he closed the door, leaving her alone once again. Margaret looked down at her wrinkled nightdress, her hair falling forward in a mass of wild tangles. “Lovely,” she muttered.

  Suddenly the import of his words registered fully and she flew into action; everyone else was up and dressed and preparing for her leave-taking.

  When Margaret stepped out into the early morning light, she was dressed in a dove-gray traveling suit with a fitted jacket and full skirt. Her dark gray hat and shoes matched the piping on the jacket and skirt-hem. She looked elegant and refined.

  “And as stiff as a bloody board,” Hunter muttered as he checked the lead to Pride’s halter.

  Margaret fidgeted with her gloves, determined to survive her farewells and to keep her emotions in check. Certainly Florence would be emotional enough for them all.

  And she pulled it all off rather well…until Jennifer stepped forward and presented Margaret with her favorite doll. “If you keep her you won’t be lonely,” the girl said as she gave her oldest sister a brave smile. “And I’ll have a doll to play with when I come to visit.” Having said all she could manage for the time, Jennifer then fell forward and wrapped her arms around Maggie’s waist.

  “Oh, Jennie.” Margaret closed her eyes as she ran a hand down the length of Jennifer’s long, auburn braids; this was the most difficult farewell of all.

  The younger girl turned around then, fixing Hunter with eyes flooded with tears. “You’ll bring her back, won’t you, Hunter?” she whispered.

  He nodded his head and stepped forward to offer words of comfort. But, before he could utter a single word, Jennifer whirled and fled in the direction of the barn.

  Only Anna remained aloof and unaffected. She stood apart from the others and offered not a word.

  Although chaos threatened to overwhelm them for a time, Hunter eventually saw to the security of the trunks and boxes and the two stallions secured to either side of the wagon bed. Turning at last to Maggie, who stood in the arms of her father, he took one of her gloved hands, squeezing gently to reassure her. “We must go now, Maggie,” he said softly as he nodded to Alastair. “We’ll be back,” he promised, “when the harvest is over so that we can help celebrate another wedding.”

  Alastair seemed unable to speak for a moment but he bent and kissed Margaret lightly on the cheek, then shook Hunter’s
hand before stepping away from the wagon.

  “Let me help,” Hunter said as Margaret placed one foot on the hub of the front wheel. He handed her up and then joined her on the high wagon seat.

  “We should have taken the train,” she muttered.

  He adjusted the reins and turned his head to smile at her. “And miss sleeping under the stars? Never.”

  But all thoughts of his reasons for borrowing the team of bays and the wagon from her father fled her mind as Hunter clicked the horses into motion. Margaret turned on the narrow seat, lifting her hand in farewell as she clutched Jennifer’s ragged doll against her breasts. During the past year her thoughts had been directed totally to her life on this farm. She had never thought to be looking back, seeing her father and sisters standing on the steps of her beloved Treemont, while her husband drove her away from them.

  But the picture was real and the reality was painful.

  Once her family and the house were out of sight, Margaret turned to face forward, her head bowed as she let her unhappiness fall heavily between them.

  “It’s all right to cry, Maggie,” he said, but she shook her head. He had seen her cry too often. She was a married woman now and he was her husband, whether she liked it or not. But somehow she would survive it all and he would not see her cry again. If she could leave her family and her home without tears, she could survive anything.

  “We’ll come back,” she said with conviction.

  “We will,” he told her, nodding his head. “I promise you that.”

  *

  Margaret felt she had been riding that cursed buckboard seat for a week by the time Hunter decided to make camp in the late afternoon. She was physically exhausted and ravenous with hunger.

  And Hunter still seemed to possess his penchant for quietness that she remembered from years before. Although she should have preferred silence to his attempts at being witty or to his shrewd questioning, she found the long silences a strain. He seemed perfectly comfortable, however, and that irritated her no end.