by Carol Arens
Did she trust Mrs. Bea enough to confide in her?
Considering her amiable smile, feeling comfortable at the wink she cast, yes, yes, she believed she might.
“I’m not all that smart. That’s why I’m reading the book.”
Mrs. Bea scanned a page, grunted then turned another.
“Rubbish,” she muttered.
Agatha took a bite of sweet, strawberry tart, followed by a sip of tea. Whatever the housekeeper was reading at the moment made her lips purse, as though she were about to spew out a curse.
Hopefully, the private things that went on between a man and wife were not that dire.
“This was written by a man,” she announced. “I do doubt that this one ever bedded a woman. If he did, I cannot imagine the poor woman was satisfied with the outcome.”
“Satisfied?” Agatha sputtered on the second bite of tart. “There’s an outcome?”
“There’s an outcome to everything, dearie. The outcome of lovemaking should be to leave the lovers sated, breathless and extremely satisfied.”
Agatha hardly knew what to say about this revelation so she held her tongue, hoping Mrs. Bea had more to reveal.
“It’s hard to tell from the illustrations.” Mrs. Bea tapped her finger on the book.
“Take this one for instance.” She turned the book about for Agatha to see. “They are on the bed, which is fine, but other private places will suit as well, such as closets or arbors.” Mrs. Bea sighed, seemed to look inward, then rousing herself, continued, “Do you see how the man is grinning while he does his business on top of her, and the woman has her arm flung over her eyes?”
“Should I not fling my arm over my eyes?”
“Indeed not! Nor should you have your sleeping gown drawn only to your hips.”
“How far up is proper?” All the way to her neck? Was it wicked to hope so?
“Proper? Proper is for spinsters. The gown, should you be wearing one, ought to be torn from you and tossed upon the floor. Nothing at all should come between you and your husband.”
She set the tart back on the plate. This was good news.
“No wonder my sister and her husband run upstairs every night right after dinner.”
“Well.” Mrs. Bea smiled brightly, dropped the book on the floor and stomped on it with her boot. “Where shall we begin? Tell me what you do know.”
“I think I know what fits where in order to have a child.”
“That’s a start. May I ask where you gained this knowledge?”
“I grew up on a ranch. I saw things from my window.”
“Horses and cows?” Mrs. Bea took her hand, patted it.
“Yes, but even then it was from a very great distance since I never left the house.”
“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Mrs. Bea poured two cups of tea and helped herself to a tart. “With touching and kissing.”
“I have been kissed! Just this noon!”
With Mrs. Bea’s help she would learn the mystery of the bedroom.
If it all began with a kiss, she was on her way.
* * *
Sitting at a game table in front of the fireplace in the parlor, William watched his wife’s frown while she gazed at the checkerboard.
He’d been avoiding her as much as he could. It was a cowardly thing to do, he understood that, but he’d needed some time to sort out his emotions.
They were confusing to the point that he could barely think straight.
“This is quite a storm,” he said in order to make light conversation. “I think the last lightning bolt hit the garden.”
“It shook the house,” she answered without letting go of her frown. “I can’t decide where to move my piece so you won’t jump me.”
Firelight reflected on her hair, cast her skin in a rosy flush.
He tapped his finger on the table to keep from reaching over and touching the faint throb of her pulse at her wrist.
Judging by the reaction of his body at being so close to her, he ought to have kept to himself tonight as well.
But one could not avoid one’s wife indefinitely.
After the inappropriate, and completely absorbing, kiss in his office this afternoon, he figured sweet and fragile Agatha was not going to let herself be avoided.
Clearly he was going to have to be the one to do it. The question was—how?
The last thing he wanted to do was avoid her. He wanted to enjoy her company, see her smile, listen to her laugh.
Blast him, but he wanted to feel her desire for him—revel in the simmer of heat in his veins. He was shocked at how an innocent yet proactive gaze from those green eyes could bring his heart to heel.
Slowly, she slid her piece with the tip of her finger. He jumped her and she sighed, looked unhappily into his eyes.
Just when had those eyes gone from dull to sparkling. Even though she was frowning they were alight.
Who, exactly, had he married?
“One day I will get the best of you, William.” The sight of her pink smiling lips made him nearly topple from his chair.
One day? Perhaps she already had, just not in the way she realized.
Her expression was nothing but sweet, but it spoke to his soul. It might be an easier thing to resist the charm of Agatha Magee English if his heart was not becoming as beguiled as his body.
Gazing back at the checkerboard, she tapped her lips with one finger. A gesture of deep thought? Or a reminder of what had sparked between them in his office chair?
As if he needed reminding. What he needed was forgetting.
This young woman might be his wife, but he could never know her in a carnal way.
As much as he might want to—hell, he did want to—his first duty was to protect her. Above all else he would see to her well-being.
Being a husband involved a whole lot more than sharing a bed.
Agatha hadn’t wanted to marry him, but she had and saved his reputation and future dreams in doing so. The last thing he was going to do was betray her.
“I don’t know why you look so distressed.” As though deep in thought over her next move on the board, she tapped the delicate hollow on her throat. “You have me all but beaten.”
“We need to talk about what happened this afternoon.” Her shy smile sliced his heart. He would never do anything to hurt her feelings, damage the self-confidence she was fighting so hard to gain. “I reckon—”
A rustle of fabric in the hallway silenced him. The private matter he was about to discuss was not for the ears of the hired help.
Mrs. Bea popped into the room followed by Miss Fitz. She set a sweet-smelling pastry beside the chessboard.
“Miss Fitz and I are headed to our rooms. But first here’s a pie for the two of you. A succulent cherry pie!”
She winked at Agatha. That was odd. Even more odd, the wink made Agatha blush.
“If you need anything, don’t try and rouse us. We are so tired we will not be awakened even if you pound on our doors. Isn’t that right, Miss Fitz?”
“Oh? Well, yes, I suppose I am rather weary.” Funny that she didn’t appear to know it until Mrs. Bea said so.
The ladies both went out the doorway at the same time. Their skirts mashed together, making them look like two people inside of one dress.
Mrs. Bea turned about suddenly, flashing him a spring day smile. It was a welcome thing to see on this stormy night.
“Your wife looks especially winsome tonight, don’t you agree, Mr. English?” she said.
“I do.” As if he needed reminding.
How could he not agree? He half wished she did not look so appealing. It was going to be hard enough to remind her that he would not consummate the marriage. The fact that the cherry pie was
not the only thing in the room that was succulent made it that much more difficult.
He’d feel a lot more comfortable if Miss Fitz had baked a nut pie—or fig.
Outside, drooping hydrangeas became visible in a flash of stark white light. Thunder banged over the rooftop. Upstairs, he heard the distinct closing of doors.
“Pie sure smells delicious,” he commented then looked at the board, planning the move that would crown him the winner of the game.
After making the victorious move with his piece, he glanced up.
Heaven help him! Agatha had unbuttoned her blouse down to the fifth button. Her fingers trembled upon the sixth.
“What are you doing, honey?” He knew what—of course he did. It was just that he could scarcely believe her boldness.
She stood up suddenly. Fanned her chest with her hand. “It’s getting warm in here, don’t you think. I’ll get us some pie before we begin the next game.”
Heat, or perhaps more a chill, frizzled along his neck. What game did she have in mind? He feared it was not checkers.
She set a plate with a huge slice of pie on it in front of him. The fork clinked when she laid it on the china. The small fire snapped and rain pattered on the window.
“It’s a summer storm,” he said. “We’ve got a fire going. It’s understandable that it would be hot.”
“It’s hot because we are newlyweds and here we are...” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “All alone.”
Taking one bite of pie, she stood then rounded the table and took him by the hand. There was a dash of red at the corner of her mouth, cherry juice.
He stood when she urged him up. He followed her like he was a man with no will—like his innocent bride had suddenly become a siren leading him to disaster on the rocks of self-indulgence.
The soft give of couch cushions hit his calves. With a gentle shove she pushed him and he fell quite willingly.
Her small body, angular in places and plush in others, settled down upon him.
He circled his arms about her back because he couldn’t help it, drew his fingers along the ridge of her spine.
The small bumps reminded him that she was frail—that he was a cad.
“Honey, we can’t do this,” said a mouth that would rather be kissing.
“It wouldn’t take much. Our lips are only a breath apart.”
“I had no idea you were so bold.”
“Nor did I,” she said but lowered her mouth.
Her kiss was sweet, affectionate and playful. His body reacted as though she had been a seasoned seductress. What would happen when she learned something besides kissing?
He would be lost was what. His good intentions would come to nothing. In seeking his own satisfaction, he might kill her.
Even after twenty years, he remembered the face of his newborn sister, so white in death. She’d given one weak cry before she stopped breathing. The doctor had told them that Mama would die as well. Fear had kept William on his small knees for a whole week. It had kept the brandy bottle at his father’s lips. One morning, his father announced that he was going on a winter hunting trip at a friend’s lodge. He never returned. The friend claimed to know nothing about the trip.
He would not end up like his father.
Agatha would never look death in the eye the way his mother had.
He did not believe he could survive living through that hell again.
With a great, regretful sigh, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her away.
“I know that you wanted to kiss me—and—more,” she muttered, walking toward the window, then gazing out at the rainy night.
“How?”
“You don’t know?” She tipped her forehead, touching it to the glass. “Mrs. Bea said that a man gets—”
“Mrs. Bea!” He bounded up from the couch, staring at the reflection of her face in the glass. “You are learning about intimacy from the housekeeper?”
“She said the book I found in the library gave wrong information. That if I followed the author’s advice I would never have intimate satisfaction.”
“A book? Mrs. Bea?” He plopped back down on the couch, held his face in his hands and spoke through his fingers. “Agatha, honey, I know I’m the one you should be learning from. It’s my duty as your husband to teach you about that part of marriage, but you know what the doctor told your father.”
“I was very ill then.”
He looked up from his hands. “I can’t risk your safety.”
She remained silent for a time, drawing a squiggly line in the mist her breath formed on the window.
The room blanched with another bolt of lightning.
Agatha screamed.
She backed away from the window while he rushed for her.
He spun her about, cupped her face in his hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“I saw a face in the window!”
“What? Who was it?”
She clung to him, trembling while he stroked his fingers down her back.
“I don’t know—it was there and gone so fast.”
“It was probably a trick of light. I reckon because of the rain on the glass, maybe because of the lightning flashing through it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I thought I saw the same thing earlier at the dress shop.”
“Go to your room. I’ll check the yard.”
He watched her go up the stairs before he headed for the kitchen door.
Chances were, she was overwrought. What young lady would not be, finding herself a sudden bride—and yet not quite? Opening the back door, he was pretty sure he was going to find only dripping plants and sulfur-laden clouds.
He should have taken the time to put on a coat. Wind and rain blew at him, soaked him through. It was difficult to see with the backyard such a watery blur. He wiped his face with his open palm. If there was someone out here, he needed to know.
Crossing the yard, he hunched his shoulders, stared hard into obscured corners of the garden.
Coming to the window, he realized that with no curtain, anyone standing in the yard would have seen the pair of them, playing checkers, maybe even tangled up with each other on the couch.
The window was not visible from the street so what went on inside would be private, unless viewed by a prowler.
Standing outside, staring at the glass, he saw the print where Agatha’s forehead had rested, the condensation left by her breathing.
But what was that? Another misting of breath, only inches above the sill—on the outside!
Stooping, he spotted a trail of footprints. Blades of grass were bent. The impression seemed to be caused by small shoes.
They led from the planter below the window to the gate banging open and closed in the wind.
He ran into the rear yard where a stream flowed through. After looking in both directions several times, he decided that whoever had been spying on them was gone.
Going back into the yard, he latched the gate behind him, shook it to make certain it was secure.
Coming back inside, he made sure the kitchen door was locked. It left him more than a bit unsettled to think someone had come into the yard—spied upon them.
He knew most everyone in town. Climbing the stairs to his room, water dripping off his clothes, he wondered which of them would do that.
Not a single soul came to mind except the squatter at the hotel. Still, just because someone was down on their luck did not mean they were up to no good.
He closed his bedroom doors then swiped the sopping shirt off over his head. He dropped it on the floor then stepped out of his pants and long johns.
A chill crept over his naked flesh. He couldn’t be sure whether it was from the water on his skin or the uneas
e of being secretly watched.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes and flopped backward onto the bed.
He heard breathing, felt warmth beside him. He turned his head, cracked open his eyes.
A foot away on the mattress, Agatha knelt with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes round and unblinking.
“I was too frightened to be in my own room.”
Chapter Eight
And a lucky turn of events that turned out to be!
It was also lucky that William hadn’t bothered to light the lamp on the bedside table. Because of the dark, and the fact that she had done her best to sit still as a marble statue, to even breathe like one, he hadn’t noticed her.
During the seconds it took for him to rip off his clothing and fall back on the bed, she made a lovely discovery.
Her husband was quite a handsome man under his clothes. She had never seen a naked man before but she had a feeling this one was exceptional to look at.
The anxiety that sent her to his room instead of her own faded somewhat.
Instead of being shaken by a cold dread type of quiver, she shivered with a delicious flush that thrummed just below the surface of her skin.
It seemed to take him a moment to believe she was kneeling on his bed. He stared up at her as though he were struck dumb.
“You look chilled,” she said for the need of something to say.
The observation must have brought him to the here and now for he bolted upright then grabbed the edge of the comforter and yanked it across his waist.
According to Mrs. Bea, married people ought to see each other naked every day. Also according to Mrs. Bea, the part of himself that he was hiding from her view was nothing to be feared, but something to bring her pleasure.
Truthfully, she could not quite see how that would be possible. It was difficult to imagine how things would fit where they were supposed to.
Scooting, he backed to the far corner of the bed.
“Because I spent fifteen minutes in the yard looking for your intruder.”
“That was brave of you.” It truly was.
Shivering was an odd thing, she realized, when at the same moment in time one could be shivering hot and cold—dread and anticipation demanding her attention all at once.