Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  He held her gaze with his, willing her to listen. “While you were out, and I didn’t know where you were,” he said slowly, “I realized something important.”

  Natalie’s eyes widened slightly. She looked as if she were holding her breath. “And what did you realize?”

  “That what I wanted most in the world was to spend time with you. And that London could wait.”

  She breathed again, visibly relaxing. She even laughed a little. “You might have spent time with me in London.”

  He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Not the kind of time I want to spend with you. Fritter the hours away dragging ourselves from shop to shop, or chit-chatting with people we barely know? No, thank you! I had to go to London to get the special license. Very well; mission accomplished. I married you, and I damn well want you home.”

  “Malcolm!” Natalie gave a strangled-sounding laugh and glanced nervously at Sarah. The child was fast asleep. She looked sternly at him, but her eyes were twinkling. “I was right in the first place. You are behaving very badly, sir. For what is this, if not autocratic? ‘Want me home’ indeed! Tsk.”

  He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “You’ve never had a season in London. Would you like one? We’ll go back in April and stay until summer. My sister-in-law will trot you round to all the important biddies and make them give you the royal treatment. We’ll glut ourselves on parties and balls.”

  Natalie pursed her lips as if thinking hard. “Hm. I don’t know. It sounds exhausting.”

  “Oh, it is,” he agreed.

  “And a frightful waste of money.”

  “That, too. But it’s great sport nonetheless.”

  She laughed. “I would be terrified. So much to learn! I’ve never led that sort of life.” She seemed to catch herself, then, and bit her lip. “But of course we will do whatever you wish, Malcolm,” she said, in a more subdued tone. “I’m sure I shall have a splendid time.”

  What the deuce—? He cocked an eyebrow, puzzled. “Natalie, you goose, I am trying to please you.”

  She shook her head, looking vexed with herself. “I should not have put my opinion forward. Especially when I know nothing about it! I was talking nonsense.”

  He straightened, frowning. Was she forcing herself to play the role of dutiful wife? It didn’t suit her. Subservience did not come naturally to Natalie. Six months of deferring to him and she’d be heartily sick of it. He didn’t want her to resent him. He wanted her to love him.

  “So we’ll do whatever I wish,” he said at last.

  “Yes, Malcolm.”

  “We go to London on my say-so. We leave London at my whim.” He waved a languid hand. “We marry, for example, where I choose and when I choose. We live wherever I decide we live. We dine on beef, or on mutton with turnips. And you haven’t a word to say about any of it.”

  She looked cautious. “Well—I may say something now and then,” she said meekly. “But I shall honestly try to bend my will to yours.”

  He couldn’t help it. A bubble of laughter formed deep in his chest, shaking him silently for a few seconds, then rose and burst. He laughed and laughed, rocking back and forth in his seat and shaking his head. Sarah woke, grumbling, and sat up indignantly. Natalie looked chagrined, but also looked as if she would gladly join his laughter.

  “What is so funny?” Natalie demanded.

  “You are,” he gasped. “Trying to play the docile bride.”

  “What is a docile bride?” asked Sarah. “Papa, you are too loud.”

  “Sarah, hush,” said Natalie, putting her arm around the child. “You mustn’t correct your papa.”

  “No,” said Malcolm, still choking. “God forbid anyone should correct me. Phew! That’s better. Can’t remember when I’ve laughed so hard.”

  Sarah yawned. “Are we almost home?”

  “No, darling. A few more hours.” Natalie’s voice was soothing, although she looked very much as if she would like to question Malcolm further. “Would you like to go back to sleep?”

  “No. I’m awake now. And the bench is too hard. It hurts my arm.” Sarah bounced experimentally on the cushioned seat. “I shall sit with Papa for a while.”

  Malcolm made room for her and Sarah joined him. Across from them, Natalie relaxed against the squabs, seeming to enjoy having more space to herself. He marveled at the pleasure it gave him to watch her, even doing something as simple as that.

  Sarah scrambled up onto her knees, seizing the edge of the window. “We are riding backwards,” she observed. “I hope I won’t be sick.” Her tone indicated a ghoulish delight at the possibility.

  “You won’t be sick, Sarah,” said Malcolm firmly. “None of us will be sick. Sit still, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  Sarah brightened and snuggled down onto the seat beside him. “I’ll help you,” she said happily. This was one of her favorite games.

  Malcolm hid a grin. “Once upon a time,” he began, his eyes on Natalie, “there was a docile bride.”

  “And a bear,” said Sarah.

  “And a bear,” he repeated obediently. “The bride had not always a bride. She was born a princess, and grew up in a castle made of thorns, with a wicked stepmother. She had one good brother and one bad brother, but the bad brother sent the good brother far, far away. Then the poor princess had no one to love her, and the bad brother made her very unhappy—”

  “Was she a docile princess?”

  “Hm.” Malcolm rubbed his chin. “No, I don’t believe she was. She only became docile once she married.”

  “What is docile? Was the bear docile?”

  “The bear was exceedingly docile.”

  “It was a beautiful bear,” said Sarah earnestly. “The most beautiful bear in the world. Was the princess beautiful?”

  “Indeed she was.” He smiled at Natalie. “More beautiful than she knew. But nobody in the castle of thorns truly appreciated her.”

  “The bear did.”

  “Well, perhaps the bear did. But the princess was lonely, even so.”

  Natalie made a faint sound of protest. Malcolm looked pointedly at her. “Lonely,” he repeated firmly. “Lonelier than she knew. Until, one day, she met a prince who was just as lonely as she.”

  “Lonelier than he knew,” echoed Sarah.

  “That’s right.”

  Sarah tapped her chin, looking very wise. “He needed a bear.”

  Natalie choked. “A bear is a great comfort,” she agreed, her voice quivering with suppressed laughter.

  Malcolm tried to look stern. “A bear is all very well, in its way,” he said firmly. “But the prince and the princess needed each other.”

  “What the prince needed,” said Natalie, “was a docile bride.”

  “Nonsense,” scoffed Malcolm. “He never said so.”

  Sarah looked puzzled. “How do you know what he said?”

  “It’s my story, isn’t it?”

  Sarah’s brow cleared. “Yes. What did the prince say?”

  “He said…” Malcolm cudgeled his brain. “He said that what he needed, what he wanted, was the princess’s hand in marriage.” He shot Natalie a sly look. “The princess only thought he wanted a docile bride. He didn’t.”

  Sarah frowned. “But you said she was a docile bride.”

  “Yes, but that was because she was trying to please him,” Malcolm explained. “Remember, she had never been docile in the castle of thorns. She tried to become docile so she could make the prince happy. But she wasn’t a docile person, so the harder she tried, the more unhappy she became. And the more unhappy she was, the more unhappy the prince was, because…because he wanted the princess to be happy.”

  “He loved her,” said Sarah matter-of-factly. “Did he tell her to stop being docile?”

  Out of the mouth of babes. Malcolm swallowed. “He, uh, tried to make it clear that she needn’t work so hard at it.”

  “It was good for her to work hard at it,” said Na
talie firmly. “Since she was not, by nature, docile—”

  “But her docility was bad for the prince,” retorted Malcolm. “Docile wives make tyrants of their husbands.”

  Natalie looked nonplused, but rallied. “Rubbish. The prince was not tyrannical by nature.”

  “This is Papa’s story,” said Sarah reprovingly.

  “So it seems,” muttered Natalie.

  Malcolm suppressed a grin. “Very well, Sarah. Where was I?”

  “The princess was trying to please the prince, but it was making him unhappy. So he told her to stop. Did she stop?”

  “Eventually. Once she realized that the prince was in earnest. She stopped being docile, and was her own sunny, opinionated self again.”

  “Did they live happily ever after?”

  He smiled. “Of course they did.”

  “But what became of the bear? You said the bear was docile, too. Did he stop being docile?”

  “The bear continued to be docile, because the bear was docile by nature.”

  Natalie stifled a laugh. “Now we know this is a fairy tale.”

  Sarah kicked the seat across from her. “The docile bear,” she announced, “lived with the prince and princess forever, and they let him play with a golden ball in the garden. How much farther is it to Larkspur?”

  Chapter 21

  It was nearly midnight when they reached Larkspur, and Sarah had fallen asleep again. Malcolm carried his daughter up to the nursery while Natalie wearily climbed the stairs to their own chamber. Mrs. Howatch, beaming, showed her the way and helped her undress.

  She longed for a hot bath, but was too tired to wait for it. Several days of unremitting excitement and tension, followed by her wedding night, a poor night’s sleep, a long day jaunting about an unfamiliar city, and an even longer evening unexpectedly journeying home again, had taken a toll. Natalie was tired to the bone. She ached in muscles she never knew she had. Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, she fell into bed and was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

  She slept dreamlessly. When she drifted awake, daylight on the other side of thick, cherry-colored draperies lit the bedchamber with a muted, rosy glow. She blinked, disoriented. It took her several seconds to realize where she was. Larkspur. She was at Larkspur now, in Malcolm’s bed. The strangeness of it brought her fully awake, and her eyes flew open.

  “Good morrow, slugabed.” The deep rumble, warm with amusement, came from an armchair near the window. “You’ve missed breakfast. I was beginning to think you might miss dinner.”

  “Heavens. What time is it?”

  “Half past ten, or thereabouts.” Malcolm’s long body uncoiled itself from the depths of the chair and strolled toward the bed. He was wearing a very elegant dressing gown, knotted at the waist with a silken rope.

  Natalie raised herself on one elbow. “Slugabed, indeed! You are not dressed,” she said indignantly. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Longer than you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been watching you sleep.”

  “Have you? How disturbing.” She looked askance at him. “I hope I wasn’t snoring.”

  “Not a whit. You slept very sweetly.”

  “Well, that’s a mercy.” She pushed herself up to sit against the head of the bed, punching the pillows briskly into shape behind her. “You really shouldn’t do that, Malcolm. It’s almost like spying.”

  “I’ll apologize, if you like, but I must admit I enjoyed looking at you.” His lips curved into a half-smile. “My poor sweeting,” he said softly. “You must have been exhausted. It was thoughtless of me to insist on coming home last night.”

  “Unconscionable,” she agreed, yawning.

  “I was hoping to carry you across the threshold.”

  “Never mind. You carried Sarah, instead.” She smiled lazily up at him. He looked very handsome in his dressing gown.

  “There were other rituals I was also hoping to perform.” He reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his finger.

  Natalie felt her pulse leap. “Rituals?”

  He moved closer to her, his eyes darkening. “Traditions,” he said huskily. “Traditional celebrations observed by newlyweds throughout history. But you were tired.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I was a little too tired for ... festivity.”

  He took her in his arms. “How are you feeling now?”

  She shifted against him, warm with pleasure. It felt wonderful to be held by Malcolm. When he behaved so lovingly, she could almost forget that his heart was untouched. “I feel rested,” she assured him. “But a little stiff.”

  He choked back something that sounded like a laugh. “You’re stiff?” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” He grinned at her. “I know just the thing to help you start the day. Coffee, buttered eggs, and a hot bath.”

  “Ooh. Lovely.”

  “Shared, of course, by your husband.” He kissed her lightly and moved to pull the bellrope that hung beside the bed.

  Natalie looked up at him. “What, the breakfast? Or the bath?”

  “All of it.” He winked at her.

  Her face suddenly felt very hot. “Oh, dear,” she said weakly. She was wearing her most modest white night rail, thick with ruffles. She had put it on last night without thinking. Now she wondered whether some dim instinct had chosen it for her, while her mind was half asleep. She certainly still felt shy about exposing her body to Malcolm’s eyes.

  Did other brides have this problem? Or was her nervousness connected, somehow, to the secrets she was keeping? She dreaded exposure in more ways than one.

  She hid behind the bed curtains while Malcolm ordered the bath and the tray. After the servant departed he joined her, flopping face-down onto the bed with a playful growl. Natalie actually giggled, she was so delighted to see him in this buoyant mood. She longed, again, to tell him that she loved him. She couldn’t, of course. Not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet.

  It occurred to her that she might feel better if she at least told him about Sarah. It had been impossible to tell him yesterday, but he seemed much more approachable this morning. If only he weren’t so touchy about Sarah’s little eccentricities ... But she would have to decide later. Right now, Malcolm was pulling her into his arms.

  He stretched out beside her, grinning down into her smiling face. “You are definitely my favorite wife,” he announced.

  Natalie, with a scandalized little gasp, pretended to punch his arm. And then he started kissing her, taking her lips in a leisurely, undemanding way that soon had her limp and breathless. By the time the food tray arrived she was in a fair way to forgetting that she had ever kept a secret from him about anything. She had been hungry a few minutes ago, but now the buttered eggs and toast seemed like an irritating interruption.

  They shared breakfast in bed, then Malcolm left her to her bath—promising to return in time to wash her back. Natalie, having had time to return to sanity, was relieved to know she would have a few minutes alone to perform her morning ablutions.

  Soon after he left her she discarded her night rail, tied her hair up, and sank neck-deep in the steaming water. Bliss. The soreness in her muscles slowly melted away. She relaxed, lathering herself with fragrant soap. There was something to be said for nudity after all.

  Still, when the door opened to admit Malcolm into her steamy sanctuary, she instinctively ducked her shoulders beneath the water, scrambling to cover herself. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She was too embarrassed to meet his gaze.

  His voice was unexpectedly gentle when he spoke. “Still so shy of me, sweetheart?”

  She blushed. “I’m sorry. I—I can’t seem to help it.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his bare feet approaching. They were interesting feet, she noted, diverted. Much larger than hers. Strong-looking. Muscle and bone. Yet another area in which men and women differed.

  Then he knelt beside the slipper-shaped tu
b. His dressing gown fell open, revealing his beautiful, masculine chest. She had to tear her eyes away from it and force herself to look into his face.

  He was not laughing at her, and he was not angry. His expression was so tender, it took her breath away. Do not hope, she reminded herself desperately. Do not dare to hope. But, in spite of herself, hope stirred in her heart. So much tenderness! She saw it in his eyes. She felt it in his touch. Surely, surely, someday…

  “Natalie,” he whispered. His voice was husky with desire and promise. “Don’t think about you, sweetheart. Think about me.”

  She tilted her head, puzzled. Then he shrugged his dressing gown off, let it drop on the floor, and reached for her bath sponge—and, in a flash, she understood. He was right. When she thought about herself—her fears, her nakedness, what he must be thinking of her, whether or not she pleased him—she froze up like an overwound clock. But when she thought of him—the play of his muscles, the texture of his hair, the feel of his mouth when he kissed her—there was no room in her reeling brain for petty anxieties.

  Think about Malcolm. Oh, yes. Yes. Even the simple act of wringing out her sponge worked the sinews of his arm, bringing the line of his muscles into relief and filling her with awe. How strong he was. How beautiful. Malcolm. She lifted her hand to trace the edge of his arm with one wet fingertip, and watched the water bead up on his skin.

  “My husband,” she whispered, hardly aware that she spoke. And she sat up out of the water of her own free will and kissed him.

  His arms slid around her. She was dimly aware of the sponge in his hand gushing warm water down her back as he kissed her greedily, meeting her passion with his own. Her wet breasts crushed against his chest with a delicious shock of sensation; she had never experienced anything as erotic as the feel of him holding her, flesh to flesh. This was nothing like the encounter of their wedding night. The bath simultaneously intensified the onslaught of feeling and protected her from it; his hands plunging into the water and running over her slick, wet skin gave her exquisite pleasure, yet the barrier of the metal wall between them held him at bay. She reveled in the feelings pouring through her at his touch. Hers was the power, to prolong the encounter or end it.