A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One
Page 1
A Husband Returned
Men of Wicked Sorrow Book One
Wynne Roman
Contents
Also by Wynne Roman
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
BookBub
Also by Wynne Roman
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Glenfinnan Publishing
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover provided by Wicked Smart Designs, designer Dar Albert
Also by Wynne Roman
Other Books by Wynne Roman
Wycked Crush, Wycked Obsession Book 1
Wycked Rumors, Wycked Obsession Book 2
Wycked Escape, Wycked Obsession Book 3
Wycked Trio, Wycked Obsession Book 4
Wynne Roman
For Suzan Tisdale
Cheeky wench and warrior woman.
Supporter of the romance genre in all its forms.
Fighter of the good fight for authors everywhere.
Thank you for seducing me back to the world of historical romance!
Prologue
June 1861
Light streamed in through the church windows, looking completely wrong. Mariah Carpenter knew it, hated it, struggled for the will to accept it. A wedding—her wedding—was no time to debate the merits of living happily ever after. She was getting what she’d always wanted—Nathan Fairchild as her very own husband. And if the truth of it made her miserable, she had no one to blame but herself.
The church was hot and stuffy, or was it simply her own discomfort that made her feel that way? And why, if that was the case, did her hands tremble and her skin feel so icy? Almost as cold as Reverend Samuels’s solemn voice.
“Dearly beloved,” he had begun some time ago, but she hadn’t wanted to listen then—or now. He was currently reading from Genesis, and 1 Corinthians would come next. She had attended enough weddings over the last several years to know that his eventual sermon would preach about the sanctity of marriage, of a wife submitting to her husband, and of all the ways in which a wife belonged to her husband. In which she now belonged to Nathan.
It meant nothing.
Mariah stood stiff and anxious next to her bridegroom, so handsome in his newly tailored dark suit. It offered a sharp contrast to her pale blue wedding gown, glorious with its flounces and lace and bows. It was the very best dress she owned, made especially for this occasion. Once upon a time, when she was naïve and innocent of heartbreak, she had been certain that she would forever treasure the gown in which she married the man she loved.
She wondered now if she could ever bear to look at it again.
Her mind wandered to the early days, when she first discovered her love for Nathan Fairchild. She couldn’t remember a time when the Fairchild brothers, Nathan and Tristan, weren’t a part of her life. They had begun as neighbors, childhood friends, even adversaries at times. Then, eventually, Mariah’s mind and heart united to claim Nathan.
Unfortunately for her, the attraction had always been hers alone. A practical girl, as her father always said, she had long since lost hope that it would ever change. Belonging to Nathan had been a fanciful wish born in childhood, nurtured by frivolous dreams, and then, ultimately, destroyed by his love for another. It pained her to admit that yes, it struggled for rebirth after his devastating loss, but the glaring light of truth had shattered that possibility with quick efficiency.
Nathan Fairchild would never love her. Mariah knew now that he was wholly incapable of it.
Reverend Samuels’s stern, serious sermon notwithstanding, the ceremony today was about nothing more than show. An ugly façade that combined a brutal mix of a young girl’s dreams and a heartbroken man’s loss of faith.
It was a storybook tale that would never have a happy ending.
And yet, there they stood, presenting the lies for all the world to see, admire, and even celebrate. But to what end? And at what cost?
These weeks of insufferable wedding planning had shown her that Nathan’s feelings for her had never been anything more than tolerance. First, she had been an annoying little girl who followed Tristan and him around, begging for their attention. In later years, she had become merely a neighbor’s daughter who got in the way more often than not. And then, as her feelings for him grew deeper, more serious, so did his . . . for Susannah Reade.
It would be a short-lived dalliance, Mariah had reassured herself at first. Just like his interest in Polly Abernathy and Virginia Ragsdale. How silly she’d been to think so. Only Susannah could claim to be the county’s most admired beauty—and she had loved Nathan back.
Their dalliance had become love. An engagement. Plans for a glorious wedding that was sure to be the talk of five counties. And then, heartbreak.
Susannah had died. And, in so many ways, Nathan had died with her.
Now, three months later, the celebration of this sad, second-best union between Nathan Fairchild and Mariah Carpenter was so terribly, terribly wrong. The agony marring his handsome face said it all.
It was too soon, and yet what better time could there be? Nathan had made it clear that his heart would never recover. Mariah was wise to remind herself of the fact.
Her feelings didn’t matter. Not today, not in all the years she’d pined for him, and not at any time in the future. She loved Nathan, Nathan loved Susannah, Susannah was dead, and he was marrying her because his father demanded it. As the eldest son, it was his obligation to his family.
Nothing more. And Mariah could never lose sight of that truth with all its complications. Her life would be spent tied to a man who didn’t love her, didn’t want her, and accepted the burden of her company only out of duty. She, on the other hand, would love him until the day she died.
Reverend Samuels continued to drone on, giving her the opportunity to sneak a quick glance at the man who stood beside her. She could never look at him without noticing his masculine good looks and manly build. With the war effort escalating after Texas joined the Confederacy in March, he was an officer in the making. His father declared so at every opportunity. Nathan waited only for the right time to join one of the newly formed Texas regiments of the Confederacy.
He looked nothing like the boy of their sha
red childhood. Neither did he resemble the young, eighteen-year-old man he had been when she first realized that her love for him would last a lifetime. She had been a tender girl of thirteen then, and there had never been another boy for her.
Now, Nathan had grown into a man. This man. He was tall and muscular, with thick chestnut hair and flashing gray eyes. He looked as hard and angry and serious as she’d ever seen him. Sadly, he’d offered her only passing attention since Susannah’s death.
Today, their wedding day, he wouldn’t even look at her.
Mariah lowered her lashes and peered down at the yards of blue silk and Belgian lace that encircled her. Her father had spared no expense in planning for his only child’s wedding, despite her pleas for a simple ceremony. Her claims that the coming war and Texas’s entrance into the Confederacy made it unnecessary, even undesirable, had fallen on deaf ears. They had, in fact, become the very reason that her papa had insisted on holding something more lavish.
Nathan had expressed no opinion, had cared even less, and so they were now displayed in the excessive result: an extravagant dress, a church filled to bursting with magnolias and white roses, and a multitude of ribbons and bows of white silk streaming as far as the eye could see.
Her weary sigh of tolerance was small and preceded Reverend Samuels’s solemn announcement by mere moments. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The words startled her, and sudden panic threatened to overwhelm her. She fought back a breathless trembling. Pride demanded that she show Nathan nothing beyond calm acceptance—and then it didn’t matter, because she knew he didn’t see her. His gaze was trained on some distant point beyond her shoulder, and he stared without blinking.
“You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Samuels invited, and Mariah’s heart slammed against her chest with sudden apprehension. Her already ragged breathing stumbled, and she struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat.
That wasn’t supposed to be part of the ceremony!
She managed to trap the words inside the chaos of her mind as her gaze flew to Nathan’s expressionless face. He had insisted on that one condition, and she’d agreed readily. Why humiliate herself further, and in front of an audience of avid well-wishers?
After a moment of seeming detachment, Nathan dropped his eyelids in a slow, agonized blink. When he looked at her—really looked this time—an unexpected anger darkened his gaze and flattened his mouth. Did he think she had something to do with this?
Surely not! He must know she would never do such a thing. She held her breath, waiting, fearing . . . wanting? When he leaned forward to brush her lips with a quick, hard, and very impersonal kiss, she knew one thing for certain.
It meant nothing to him, and everything to her.
Her eyelids dropped closed, but she realized her error when darkness swam before her and a curious lightheadedness had her swaying on her feet. She swallowed and blinked a quick, staccato beat meant to recover her balance. Fortunately, it settled her with tentative relief.
Reality crowded over her. The ceremony was over, and the future was upon them. Mariah Carpenter was now Mariah Fairchild, and the husband who stood beside her, so tall and handsome and fit, hated her.
The hours that followed passed in a blur. The wedding breakfast proceeded without delay, another celebration upon which Mariah’s father had spared no expense. He spent lavishly on both food and décor, and then gifted the newlyweds with a special honeymoon night in Brownsville.
There would be no extended honeymoon trip; Nathan had refused to even consider such frivolity. He claimed secession and the current political climate made it impractical, but Mariah knew the truth. He couldn’t tolerate the idea of traveling with her on a trip designed to encourage romance and to celebrate their new union. Therefore, it was agreed that a simple night in a hotel would suffice.
For herself, Mariah could think of nothing worse, and so it came as a relief when Nathan disappeared almost as soon as they were shown to their room. Tears failed her, even when he didn’t return for hours. Uncertainty kept her on edge until sleep finally overtook her.
A soft noise woke her. Her eyes fluttered open to see Nathan standing before her. He was shirtless, his chest broad, well-muscled, and with a light dusting of hair. His gray trousers were unbuttoned, and suspenders dangled from his waist and over his hips.
He stared at her with a hard gaze. “Did you choose it?”
She blinked and glanced down at herself where he seemed to be looking. Her white satin nightgown, sewn especially for that night, clung seductively to her breasts, her waist, and left little to the imagination.
She peered back at him. “No. It was . . . Your mother insisted.”
He nodded once, sharply. “Take it off.”
Take it off? He wanted her naked? In front of him? Now?
What did she want?
The answer was neither simple nor relevant. The truth was, it was Nathan’s right to make such a demand, and it was her duty to comply. It was what wives had been called to do for thousands of years, and Mariah was no exception.
She swallowed as she stood. Smoothing her trembling hands down over the nightgown, she bunched the fabric in her fists until she could pull it upward. She reached the hem and tugged the satin over her head, closing her eyes in embarrassment.
“Look at me.”
She could do no less. She forced her gaze to settle on Nathan, even as she bared her body to reveal herself in every possible way. She ached to cover herself, hands over her breasts and her most private womanly area, but fear held her immobile. This man was her husband, and this was his due.
He stared at her for long, lingering seconds. She knew it, saw it, felt the weight and heat of his gaze. His voice, when he finally spoke, sounded hard.
“Get into bed.”
She blinked, and he stared back with a clear warning. He expected her to do as he commanded.
She suspected there was more in the murky emotion that clouded his expression, but she couldn’t entirely understand any of it. Dislike, yes. Desire . . . maybe. Anger, definitely.
Mariah knew little of men and marriage, of what a wedding night entailed. Girlhood tittle-tattle of kissing and touching, illicit contact, and even nakedness seemed far removed from the actual deed of climbing naked onto a bed as a half-dressed man stood waiting and watching. What seemed so daring and exciting and wanton as gossip became frightening, overwhelming, and disheartening in reality.
The moment she was settled, Nathan extinguished the lamp and came onto the bed silently. She breathed a sigh of relief as she embraced the gift of darkness, but anxious tension continued to grow within her.
A desperate cry lodged silently in her throat. How could she do this? Remain motionless and waiting for . . . what? She could only imagine what might be next, but then he moved close enough to entice her with a new combination of scents. Tobacco, alcohol, and something indefinable that she recognized as Nathan’s own singular masculinity.
His fingers stroked lightly over her neck. The caress surprised her with its gentleness, eliciting a soft breath that quickly died when his other hand grabbed at her breast and squeezed. She swallowed a soft cry that ultimately escaped her when he pinched her nipple tightly.
“Nathan?” she whispered hoarsely into the darkness.
He said nothing but released her breast. Any relief became short-lived when he shoved her legs apart with rough, angry movements. Mariah squirmed in alarm, and embarrassment followed quickly when he knelt between her thighs.
“Nathan?” she tried again, but his only response was to settle a hand at the apex of her legs. She stiffened, but before she could shift away, his fingers began to probe that place where no one and nothing had ever touched her before.
“Nathan!” She squirmed. “This isn’t right.”
“Lie still,” he grunted harshly, his other hand on her stomach. He held her there for a moment and then positioned her in some obscene fashion that spread her thighs wide across the be
d. “I’m going to take you like a husband should.”
Nathan’s hands demanded her submission. He kept her legs apart, her hips immobile, and then something bigger, broader—different—pressed against her most intimate place. Suddenly, she couldn’t move.
“Nathan?” she whispered again, this time frantically as the blunt end of that thing pushed into her. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer but continued to push forward. It was too much, too big, and there was a broad thickness stretching her almost beyond bearing.
“Nathan,” she cried again, tears pressing behind her eyelids. “Please don’t. You’re hurting me.”
“It’ll stop hurting when you get used to my cock.”
He said nothing else but didn’t stop moving until she was certain he must have ripped her apart completely. She panted, and her ragged breathing tore through the silence of the otherwise quiet night. What was this awful invasion of her body, and when would it end?
He pulled back, shoved forward again, and continued until his pelvis sat tight against her. He held himself motionless and said, “Don’t move,” in a harsh, insistent voice that came through gritted teeth.
She tried very hard to do as he demanded, but his weight gradually began to press down on her. That thing filled her so completely that she was impaled beneath him. It hurt, and that feminine place tightened without her consent.