Dream Weaver

by Shirley Martin

  "You're not the only one." She moved closer, their hips touching, catching his body heat. Placing her hand on his arm--she could do that much--she looked into his eyes. "When do you think the minister will return here?"

  He covered her hand, his fingers caressing her skin, sending a fresh rush of heat to the center of her passion. "In the spring, I should hope. Can't be too soon for me." His expression left no doubt of his meaning.

  "Do you know what you do to me?" she whispered in his ear.

  "I know what I'd like to do to you." He tightened his hand around hers, his fingers caressing hers.

  She drew her hand away. They had to stop this now, or soon they'd arouse Rebecca's and Daniel's suspicions. If they were alone, she and Christian would be headed for the bedroom this very minute. In no time they'd toss off their clothes and cuddle under the covers, making mad, passionate love as she'd dreamed of for so long. Too long.

  "Let's talk about something else," she said. "Won't do us any good to talk about marriage now, to wish for something we can't have yet." She adjusted her new shawl around her shoulders. "Have you thought any more about a hospital?"

  "Indeed. I've thought much on it. Daniel offered a piece of land on the eastern edge of his property, so I hope to start on the hospital in the spring. Enough men around here will help build it, I doubt not. But of course, I'll need beds and clean linens, medicaments, all the things you need in a hospital." He rubbed his jaw. "Procuring those things may take more time."

  "You'll need people to help take care of the sick," Gwen added. "That's where I come in. I can help you."

  He stiffened, a frown of annoyance on his face. "Now wait a minute, darling. When you become my wife, you'll stay home to tend my house and cook my meals. Have my children in time, too. 'Tis much too busy you'll be to help in a hospital. Others can do that--"

  "Now just you wait," Gwen said, prompting an anxious look from Rebecca and Daniel. She lowered her voice. "Do you think I'm going to be some dutiful wife who stays home all the time to answer her husband's every beck and call? No way, Jose!" She ignored his startled expression. "I don't have to stand around the house all day, stirring pots over a hot fireplace. I'll still have plenty of time to--"

  "Gwen! I want you to stay at home."

  "So that's all I'll be, just a glorified housekeeper?" she snapped, drawing away.

  "No, of course not. But as my wife, your place is in the home."

  "'Your place is in the home,'" she mimicked. She slid back on the settle. "Let's skip it for now, shall we?" But she could see trouble ahead.

  * * *

  The icy wind blew hard and fast, piercing Christian's clothes and stinging his eyes. After checking on Simon Fletcher's nose to satisfy himself the graft was still taking, he'd left the Fletcher cabin and headed for home. With his fur-lined leather gloves, he patted the bottle of whiskey Simon had given him as payment for the nose operation. A shot of whiskey sounded pretty good now, he thought as he turned the collar of his woolen cloak up, tucking it closely around his neck. The horse plodded along the frozen dirt trail, where bare trees whipped their branches in the arctic wind as a darkening sky threatened more snow.

  What a busy day--up since dawn--and now all he wanted was a drink and a warm meal. And Gwen. Especially Gwen. Images of her raged through his mind, her every facial expression, those endearing smiles and laughter. More than that, he recalled her consideration for others, her tenderness and care for the children of the settlement. No one had asked her to teach these young ones, but it was something she'd decided on her own, a task that benefitted children and parents alike.

  Sliding back on the saddle as the horse climbed a steep hill, Christian struggled to maintain his perch while he thrust sharp frozen branches out of his way. Despite the twists and turns of the path, the abrupt climbs and sharp drops, he urged his horse on. He was anxious to reach home before darkness hid the path. Angry gray clouds gathered overhead, the wind increasing, sending the trees thrashing, and icy branches snapping across his face. While one hand gripped the reins, the other shoved branches back as the fierce wind flayed his face and made his eyes water.

  His thoughts swung back to Gwen. He wondered for the hundredth time where she came from. Some day, some way, they'd have to settle that question between them. She'd told him her parents were dead, but if she had any family at all, surely she'd want them to attend the wedding, wouldn't she?

  Was she right about the danger from the Indians? More important, how would she know? Christian wondered how long the peace would last or whether the Indians would go on the warpath again with the coming of spring. And who could blame the Indians if they did? Look how the white man continually chased the Indians from their homes.

  At any rate, the British had a good, well-trained army, capable of repelling any Indian attack. No worry there, he felt sure.

  Christian smiled to himself as his house appeared in the frozen emptiness of the forest, the log structure tight and secure, smoke drifting from its chimney. In only a few months, Gwen would be his wife, and this house their home.

  And certainly, the Indians posed no danger.

  In the arctic chill of deepest winter, Pontiac stood before the Indian braves who huddled in a circle on the frozen ground.

  Disdainful of the fierce howling wind, the Ottawa chief addressed the braves. "You have lost your old ways." He looked from one man to the next, his voice heavy with sorrow. "You have come to depend too much on the white man. And as for these English--these dogs dressed in red, who have to come to rob you of your hunting grounds and drive away the game--you must lift the hatchet against them. Wipe them from the face of the earth! Burn their houses, destroy their villages! Let us begin by capturing the English forts."

  He raised a red tomahawk aloft, then smashed it to the ground. "Kill the white man!" He brandished a wampum belt. "Carry the black wampum belt from tribe to tribe. Let every Indian nation know we will strike back at the white man!"

  Chapter Sixteen

  "'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God....'"

  Gwen stood next to Christian in the Chamberlains' common room and repeated her vows-- "I, Gwendolyn Ellen, take thee, Christian, to be my lawfully wedded husband...."

  Was she actually marrying this man from the eighteenth century? But yes, all this was real--the vases of springtime flowers, the white ribbons tied in bows hanging from the brass candelabrum, the dozens of guests who crowded the room. Christian was her husband now, this man from another time. They'd live in this period for the rest of their lives, if they didn't lose their lives in the coming Indian Rebellion. She tried not to dwell on that possibility, refusing to let such a worry spoil her wedding day.

  Their vows completed, she glanced sideways at her husband, realizing once more how much she loved him, loved him so fiercely she couldn't imagine life without him. She wondered how she'd ever lived without him, she, the modern liberated woman who had a job and owned a house in the twenty-first century.

  She clasped Christian's hand and mingled with all these kind neighbors who filled the common room, where talk and laughter bounced from wall to wall.

  After an eternity, they got away by themselves, in a corner next to the china cupboard. The bright noontime sunlight poured through the open window and added a cheerful glow to the room. A vase of blue hyacinths and yellow freesia adorned an oaken table, scenting the room with a sweet, fresh aroma. She considered having the wedding in this room almost as nice as being married in a church and in some ways better because it seemed cozier, more intimate.

  "Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are, Mistress Norgard?" Christian said, his gaze sweeping over the pale green silk gown she and Rebecca had spent hours sewing and hemming. "And your hat," he said, gesturing toward a confection of white straw and pink dahlias. "You're so lovely, sweetheart." He squeezed her hand, his look somb
er. "My wife."

  Noisy laughter swelled around them, but Gwen ignored the sounds--seeing, hearing, wanting only her new husband, nothing and no one else.

  With wifely solicitude, she stepped back to adjust his lace-edged cravat. "You're not so bad-looking yourself."

  Her fingers itched to unbutton his vest, loosen his white linen shirt so she could touch his bare chest, feel his warm skin. Tempted to untie the ribbon that bound his hair and run her fingers through the thick locks, she contented herself with a quick caress, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

  "Be mindful, darling," he whispered, "or I might forget we're not alone."

  "Come on, you two lovebirds. Let's start the music and dancin'." Simon Fletcher staggered through the crowd, a mug of beer in his hand, the smell of alcohol on his breath. His face was as homely as ever, but his reconstructed nose looked as good as new. "Ye'll have enough time by yourselves tanight," he said with a wink and a crude gesture. Laughing uproariously, Simon looked around to catch the giggles and knowing nods of the others. "And besides," Simon drawled, "you two have to start the dancin'."

  Gwen exchanged a wry smile with Christian as a country dance began with the screech of the fiddle and the trilling of the flute. Her thoughts wandered while she performed the steps, tonight uppermost on her mind, when she and Christian would be alone. Did she really know this man? And did he really love her? She knew he wanted her in his bed; he'd made that plain enough. Love and sex aren't the same, she realized, but his look, his kisses, his caresses told her he cared for her very much.

  Trust your husband and your heart, she told herself, and never doubt his love. He was her lover, her soulmate, the man she would live with throughout this life and for many lives to come.

  Serious thoughts tossed aside, she laughed as the dance ended, and Christian's hand remained in hers. "There, we've done our part. Now can we be by ourselves for awhile?"

  He gave her a teasing glance. "Pray don't tell me you want to be alone with me?"

  She brushed her arm against his. "What do you think?" As they moved away, she gestured toward Isaac Beam's three year old, who clutched his mother's skirt, his plain brown linsey frock hanging to his bare feet. "I see Billy Beam is wearing his eye patch."

  Christian nodded. "With much cajoling and bribery from me. 'Tis not easy to convince his parents the eye patch will do him good. So I must bring the child small treats to persuade him to wear the patch.

  "Enough of medical matters. One other matter you must understand, Mistress Norgard," Christian went on, "I love you very much." He held her close, her wide-brimmed hat scraping his cheek. "Dear God, I love you so."

  Her eyes filled with tears. "I love you, too," she whispered. "Never doubt it."

  Despite her happiness, endless regrets taunted her while she stared up her husband, taking in her fill of his features. No matter how lovely this room and its decorations, she couldn't help wishing she were getting married in her other time, where all her contemporary friends could see her. She pictured the guests in the pews of the spacious Presbyterian church back home, wherever her former home was now. She imagined the organ music, the expansive nave decorated with flowers, the reception afterwards at the country club. And Christian! If they could only meet her husband, they'd know why she was so proud of him, why he was the only man she could ever love.

  Gwen opened her mouth to say something, then sudden goosebumps skimmed her arms and legs. A feeling of dread turned her stomach cold. She had the fearful sensation that something strange was about to happen.

  Afraid of what she might see, she looked out the open window--and saw a car whiz past, its engine rumbling. She averted her gaze, wanting to deny the reality of her vision. Her hand pressed to her chest, she stared out the window again, seeing nothing now but trees and bushes.

  "Gwen, what's amiss?"

  What was happening to her? she agonized, Christian's voice only an echo in the background. Was she going crazy? She sneaked another glance outside, trying to convince herself the vision had been only because of her overactive imagination. Of course, she hadn't really seen a car.

  "Gwen!"

  Frantically, she looked around at the guests, hoping no one had seen her shock.

  Christian wrapped his arm around her shoulder, frowning with worry. "Darling, didn't you hear me? What's wrong?"

  Not daring to reveal her vision, she forced a laugh. "Oh, it's nothing. It's funny, I always considered myself the picture of health, but with the preparation for the wedding and all..." She gave him a tremulous smile. "This is the most important day of my life. Can't blame a lady if she gets carried away with the excitement."

  "Poor dear." Christian became all tenderness as he held her as close as her wide-brimmed hat would allow. "Pray sit down for a while. You've been on your feet too long."

  She waved her hand. "Oh, I'm all right, Christian, really I am."

  "Come now. I'm your doctor. You must do as I say."

  No sense in protesting, Gwen figured. Come to think of it, it might be nice to sit down for a few minutes, especially since her new wedding shoes with their high instep and wobbly heels pinched her feet and made her legs ache. Christian led her to an empty bench--borrowed for the wedding--at a far corner of the room, and gently eased her into it. Crouched low on the balls of his feet, he took her hands in his and gazed up at her, looking so worried.

  "Rest for a while," he said. "Don't want to lose my wife on our wedding day." He bit his bottom lip, then spoke quickly. "'Twas a beautiful ceremony, was it not?"

  "Right." Wanting to deflect his anxiety, Gwen decided it would be better to tell him a lie than say what had actually happened. Besides, he'd never in a million years believe her. Her heart still pounded, forcing her to take a deep breath before she spoke.

  "I was thinking about tonight and..." She feigned embarrassment, tossing him a sidelong helpless glance from under her lashes.

  He squeezed her hand, his look warmly caring. "Don't worry about tonight. We love each other, and the rest will take care of itself."

  * * *

  After tossing his clothes onto a chair, Christian crawled into bed beside Gwen. He reached for her in the darkness, drawing her close to his body.

  Nuzzling her neck, he kissed the hollow of her throat, his fingers skimming along her arm. "Not still worried, are you, darling?"

  "I was never worried, just apprehensive. Do you know, most of my friends were liberated and--"

  He raised his head. "Liberated?"

  Gwen laughed softly as she cuddled closer. "I mean they didn't let old-fashioned morals stand in the way of their enjoyment of life. To put it bluntly, they weren't virgins when they married."

  "Well, 'tis not too unusual to find engaged couples who anticipate their wedding day. Happens often, as a matter of fact."

  "Yeah, but my friends scr--, uh, lay with a lot of other men, too."

  "Indeed!" His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he observed her closely, admiring the silky strands of hair that tumbled past her shoulders, the swell of tempting breasts under her thin muslin nightshift. His gaze traveled along her body to the outline of her hips and long, slender legs under the counterpane.

  "What about you?" he whispered, his fingers tracing her erect nipples.

  "A virgin. Does that surprise you?"

  "Doesn't surprise me, but there's something I want you to know." He leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "I'd love you, no matter how many men you'd lain with." He reached under the shift to run his hand up her leg, his fingers lingering on her satiny smooth skin. "I love you so much," he whispered, "wanted you for so long. 'Tis not easy to wait." He eased the nightshift up and drew it over her head, while she raised herself to make it easier for him.

  After tossing the shift onto the floor, he kissed her lightly on her shoulder. "Sweetheart, my sweetheart." His lips claimed hers in a deep, passionate kiss as his hand strayed to her breast, caressing it. Burning for her, he trailed light kisses from her lips down
to her belly.

  "My darling!" His hands continued to play their magic, his fingers finding her most sensitive places.

  "I want you, too," she whispered. She wanted him, oh, how she wanted him, her body desperate to have him inside her.

  As gently as possible, he entered her. Hearing her gasp of pain, he tried to go slowly for her sake.

  How had she ever lived without him? Gwen wondered as she felt his warm breath against her ear, heard his quickened breathing. This was what she'd waited for all her life and Christian the only man who could give her such happiness. He could drive her crazy with longing, this man of hers, the one she'd wanted for so long. A slow ache began to build inside her, a desire to give and receive this ecstasy that only love can bring.

  "Sweetheart!" Her release came as a dazzling rainbow of sensations erupted inside her, a beautiful symphony, the explosion of a thousand giant stars.

  Hours later, as the last faint stars disappeared from the heavens, she turned her head to watch her husband while he slept. A slight smile touched his lips, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.

  Love swelled inside her. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, hoping he'd wake soon to make love again. She didn't know what the future held, but she realized how fiercely she loved him, so much that she wanted him with her every minute of every day, for the rest of their lives.

  A painful reminder jerked her from her passionate thoughts--a vision of the car whizzing past. Just some crazy hallucination, she told herself. Only her imagination.

  * * *

  A week later, Gwen stood at the wide stone hearth, stirring the turkey and vegetable soup bubbling in the large cast iron kettle. Afraid her dress would catch fire, she'd tucked it inside her woolen apron, something she'd learned the hard way the day after the wedding. Waving her hand across her flushed face to cool it, she stepped away from the hearth, wondering how these colonial women managed cooking under such backward conditions, day after day. How would she manage? she fretted, when nothing in her life had prepared her for this arduous domesticity. She flopped down on a chair and rested her arm on the table, determined not to dwell on present difficulties.