Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  A bucket of water sat on the floor next to a washstand that matched the bed. Ariah decided to settle for a spit bath. The bowl on the stand held pinkish water. Beside it was a crumpled towel stained with blood. Olivia Upham's son must have suffered more than a simple break in his leg. Ariah scrubbed the towel to keep the stain from setting and tossed the water outside.

  After she finished bathing, she picked up the clean chemise and drawers she had set out. For a moment she stared at her corset, wishing she didn't have to bind herself up in it again. She detested corsets. How much more comfortable it would be if she could simply don her night robe and wrapper. Would it be so very wrong? The impulse was too much to resist. Seconds later, primly covered by a blue scotch-gingham wrapper that matched her eyes, she went out to prepare a meal.

  When Bartholomew re-entered the cabin, his gaze went instantly to Ariah where she stood at the table, setting out bread, cheese and apples left over from lunch.

  "I put on some coffee," she said. Lamplight fell on the long, loose braid that hung down her back as she turned to take cups and plates from the sideboard. Except for their night at the Olwell's when he had found her staring out the window in her nightdress, shrouded in shadows, he had never seen her hair uncovered and unbound. It had been too dark then to see much. Now he saw that it was not so much brown as a rich dark honey. His fingers itched to free it from the braid and stroke the fine silky tresses.

  "Good,” he said. “I could use something warm to drink."

  The wrapper hugged her hips, making it abundantly clear that she wore no petticoats or corset. He stumbled over the wolf pelt spread in front of the hearth, too busy staring at Ariah to see where he was going.

  "Do you want to change into dry things before we eat? There’s water in the bedroom for washing." As she swung toward him he detected the movement of her breasts beneath the thin garment. Desire slammed into him like a fist.

  "Maybe I'd better."

  He rushed off to the bedroom where he could take several deep breaths and get control of himself. Fresh water waited in the basin on the washstand. Considering his state of arousal, he hoped it was good and cold. With his mind on cooling his ardor, he thrust a hand inside his bag in search of a shirt, and cursed as his fingers rammed into something solid. When he drew out the plate, he frowned in confusion. On the back, he noticed the Greek lettering and smiled. Later, wearing a clean shirt and trousers, his control re-established, he took a seat at the table, saying nothing of his discovery.

  In the awkward silence that accompanied their meal, he became increasingly aware of the pop of burning logs and the clink of china. One of Ariah's front teeth overlapped the other and he found himself oddly charmed by it. He wondered if the enticing little mole on her lip would taste of the tangy cheese he was slicing. A shudder ran over him, causing him to jerk his hand. The knife clanked against the dish, bringing her gaze to his hands. She looked at his face.

  "I'm sorry, it's not much of a meal," she said. "There's food in the larder, but it seemed dishonest to take it somehow."

  "Don't worry about it. John and Olivia would want us to help ourselves to whatever they have. That's the kind of people they are."

  Ariah smiled. "I should have known that."

  "Why?"

  "It simply stands to reason. They're your friends, so they're bound to be gracious and generous. Like you."

  Without thinking, he said, "Hester might argue against that."

  She cocked her head and gazed at him a moment. "Then she doesn't know you very well."

  He stared at her. "You think you know me that well?"

  The tip of her tongue emerged to lick away all traces of cheese from her fingers. "Well enough to know that you're compassionate, as well as sensitive."

  "Passionate, perhaps," he said softly. Hester would call it lust.

  Her gaze dropped to her plate. "I'm afraid passion is something I know little about. Carnal passion, that is."

  Bartholomew sank back in his chair, legs weak, stomach quivering. How he longed to be the one to teach her. Ariah Scott was definitely not like most women. Hester would have cut out her tongue before she would have uttered the word carnal or any of its synonyms. According to Hester, sex had only one function—to produce children. Since she had been thirty when they married, and too old for child bearing, she claimed there was no need for them to share a bed. In frustrated rage, he had pointed out what a hypocrite that made her—considering her past. Forgetting her new role as a genteel woman, she cursed him in language that would have made Old Seamus blush. After that, she installed a lock on her door.

  And learned that locks can be broken.

  His appetite gone, Bartholomew pushed aside his plate and rose to his feet. He crouched in front of the fire and poked at the embers with an iron poker.

  Alone at the table, Ariah gnawed her lip, kicking herself once again for opening her impulsive, tactless mouth. Somehow she had offended him. She considered apologizing and decided it might be best to leave matters alone. "It's late. I guess I'll go to bed."

  "Take the one down here," he said tonelessly. "I'll sleep in the loft."

  In spite of her exhaustion, sleep eluded Ariah. She was still awake, lying on her stomach in the big feather bed and hugging the pillow beneath her head, when she heard Bartholomew bank the fire, and climb to the loft overhead.

  Bedsprings squeaked beneath his weight. A boot thudded to the floor, then another. Softer sounds followed; the rustle of clothes, a sigh.

  Ariah rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, trying to picture him in his nightshirt or whatever he slept in. Did men sleep the same way women did? Sprawled on their stomachs. Or on their sides, drawn up in a ball, like a child. She smiled in the darkness at the thought of a big man like Bartholomew Noon curled up like a toddler, his hair in his face, all sweet and innocent. Soon she would know exactly how men slept. As Mr. Monteer's wife she would share his bed. She would sleep beside him and learn at last what it was that husbands and wives did together in the sanctuary of their marriage beds.

  Once when her mother had friends visiting, Ariah had caught enough of their whispered conversation to know they were discussing the mysterious subject of marital relations. She heard their stifled giggles, saw one of them shudder in revulsion. Later she had asked her mother what it was that men and women did in bed. Demetria Scott had smiled, gently chided her ten year old daughter for eavesdropping, and explained that the marriage bed was where babies were created. It wasn't until years later that Ariah realized she still did not know how babies were created.

  Soon, now, she would find out. Fear and excitement rushed through her at the thought. What if she didn't like this act done in the marriage bed? Once she found out what was expected of her, it would be too late to back out. No woman should have to go into such a binding commitment that blind. It wasn't fair.

  Overhead the springs creaked loudly as Bartholomew turned over. He mumbled softly and thrashed about. She heard a sharp whack, followed by a curse.

  Ariah sat up. "Bartholomew? Are you all right?"

  The only answer was another thud and the cracking of glass. Or china. Her mother's plates!

  Ariah shoved the bedding aside and hurried to the ladder, forgetting her wrapper in her panic. Holding up her gown with one hand, she climbed the wooden rungs until she could poke her head above the loft floor. He was barely visible, sitting on the far side of the bed and rubbing the top of his head.

  "You've hurt yourself!"

  He started to rise, mumbled an oath, and plopped back down on the bed, yanking the covers over him as she stepped up onto the floor. "What in thunderation are you doing up here?" His voice held frustration and alarm.

  "I heard something fall and I was afraid . . ." On the floor lay a broken china cup that matched those in Olivia's sideboard downstairs. A cup—not a bright, hand-painted plate. Her eyes moved back to him. He was still rubbing his head. She stepped closer. "Here, let me see."

  He jerked the cover
s higher. "Good hell, woman, are you always so impulsive? To barge into a man's sleeping quarters this way?"

  "Yes." She paused, unsure now of her welcome. "My mother said it was my worst trait."

  "Your mother was right."

  "I'm sorry. It's just that I . . . Oh dear, you really will think terribly of me, but I'm afraid I've done something absolutely unpardonable. You see, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my mother's precious plates behind, in case something happened to the wagon and just now, when I heard something break—"

  A noise startled her into silence, something sounding oddly like laughter. She stepped nearer, and yelped as her head brushed something hanging from the ceiling.

  "Watch out." His voice held undeniable humor. "Little John has paper stars hanging all over the place. There's a moon too, and a few planets, I think."

  Her hand found the dangling object. Her fingers made out the five points of the star, as well as the dry, rough texture of cheap paper. "Gracious Sadie, this ceiling is so low . . .no wonder you cracked your head on it. And look how short that bed is, you must be miserable there."

  "I'll make out. Go back downstairs to your bed." Before I pull you into this one.

  "No. I'll take this bed, you take the one downstairs. Come on, get up."

  "I can't. Not until you get out of here."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm not dressed."

  Ariah lifted her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "Mr. Noon, it's too dark in here for me to even see you in your nightclothes, and since the situation in which we find ourselves is not exactly the usual, I think we can dispense with worrying about such small matters of propriety."

  Bartholomew couldn't help laughing again. "I'm afraid you don't quite know what you're saying."

  "And why not?"

  "Because I'm not wearing any nightclothes."

  "You mean . . ." She retreated a step, and spun around as realization sank in. "Oh. Oh, dear."

  "Yes, oh dear, is right."

  Ariah thought of his big, masculine body with its wide shoulders and narrow waist. She'd seen a picture once of a Greek statue of a male nude and couldn't help wondering if he would look as virile and shockingly beautiful as the statue. For one whole second she battled the sinful urge to peek at him over her shoulder. She gathered herself together and boldly turned to face him. All she could see were his shoulders and arms above the blanket he held. Resolutely, she shoved aside her disappointment.

  "Very well," she said with a sigh, "I will return downstairs while you dress, and we’ll trade places."

  He found her waiting for him at the bottom. Dressed but carrying his shoes, he paused, his face close to hers as he grinned. "You are the most impetuous, unpredictable woman I've ever met, do you know that?"

  Ariah heard the humor in his voice and faked a pout. "Am I truly that bad?"

  He chuckled and moved closer. "No, not bad at all. Not to me, anyway. It's refreshing to find a woman who doesn't feel she needs to go into a swoon every time she's faced with something slightly . . .improper."

  A delicious shiver ran down her spine as his breath wafted over her face. The warmth of his body so intimately close to hers heated her blood. She put out her hand, intending to push him away, and found her fingers tangled in the springy hair that covered his chest. She made a choked sound and jerked her hand back, but not before he'd seized it with his. Her breath caught as she stared up at him in the dim light from the banked fire.

  He gazed at her, his eyes dark, enigmatic, intent. He lifted her fingers to his mouth and lightly kissed each one. His voice was hoarse and ragged. "You'd best get to bed."

  "Yes." Reluctantly she withdrew her hand, turned and began to scale the ladder, agonizingly aware that he stood below, watching.

  Bartholomew exhaled as she vanished from sight. He ignored the guilt that plucked at his conscience for having stayed there, admiring the flash of ankle and calf as she climbed. Painfully aware of the hardness of his body and the surging of his blood, he went to the bed and crawled beneath the covers. At once he was assailed by the scent of lily of the valley and he groaned. How on earth would he ever get to sleep surrounded by her smell and the image of her small body lying where he now lay?

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning Bartholomew rose early. He dressed and got fires going in the stove and fireplace, trying to be as quiet as possible to let Ariah sleep. When he returned from milking the cows, he stepped inside to the sounds of splashing coming from behind the bedroom curtain.

  "Bartholomew? Is that you?"

  The sound of his given name on her lips flooded him with warmth. "I brought the milk, where do you want it?"

  "The milk? Why, I don't know. Is there something I'm supposed to do with it?"

  A true city woman, Bartholomew thought with a grin. "It has to be strained and separated. When I get back from feeding the stock, I'll show you." He headed for the barn.

  Dressed in a fresh shirtwaist and a draped wool skirt in emerald green, she searched for ground coffee and found only beans. Remembering how, as a child, she had occasionally helped the cook by grinding the coffee for her, Ariah searched out a grinder and set to work. By the time Bartholomew reappeared, the coffee was ready and a pot of oatmeal seasoned with cinnamon steamed on the stove.

  "Smells good." He closed the door against the chill of the rain and stood for a moment, savoring the odors and the feeling it gave him to find her there fixing his breakfast.

  Ariah fetched a small tin of milk left by the Uphams in a cold box set in the kitchen window, and they sat down to eat. He said nothing about the lumps in the porridge or the chunks of half-ground coffee beans floating in his cup. Afterward, Bartholomew helped with the dishes and showed her how to strain the milk.

  "What if the cloth slips when you're pouring it?" she asked.

  "Then you start all over."

  Ariah faked a moan. Actually, she was enjoying sharing this chore with him. She remembered that he had said there were cows at the lighthouse station. "Will I have to do this after I marry Mr. Monteer?"

  "Hester does it now, but I imagine she'll expect you to take your turn. There's butter churning and egg gathering, too."

  This time Ariah's moan was not faked. She wasn't at all sure how well she would do at such tasks. Being outdoors was much more appealing than slaving over a hot stove or a butter churn. "Maybe I could just do the egg gathering. That sounds rather like fun."

  His eyes sparkled with humor as he smiled down at her. "Enough to help me raid the henhouse in the rain? I still need to feed them."

  She grinned back. "I'm not made of sugar, so I won't melt. Besides, I love the rain."

  "Then let's go."

  They wore slickers and Ariah sported a pair of little John's work boots on her dainty feet.

  Inside the pen, Ariah reached to stroke a ruddy Rhode Island Red perched on its nest. “Oh, they're pretty." The hen cackled shrilly, flapped its wings and pecked her hand. She jumped back, slipped on the fresh droppings that covered the dirt floor and would have fallen had Bartholomew not caught her about her trim waist.

  "They aren't pets, you know." He set her upright, chuckling at the disgruntled look she gave him.

  "Does that mean they have to be so unfriendly?"

  In a flurry of feathers, the hens flew down from their roosts, startling her, as he filled the feed bin. She backed into a corner while the hoard quarreled at her feet, pecking and squawking as they fought over the food.

  "Go ahead and collect the eggs now," Bartholomew told her as he finished pouring out the feed.

  Leery about turning her back to the ruckus on the ground, Ariah kept one eye on the chickens as she checked the nests. She exclaimed over each small brown egg as though it were a prize and nestled it carefully in her basket.

  "I can't wait to see your pheasants," she said as they left the coop.

  "I should have taken you for a walk at the Olwells. We might have caught sight of a few. Nehemiah and I set a bun
ch loose there a few years ago and they've done well." He chuckled. "In fact, last spring one of the pheasant cocks ousted the White Leghorn rooster from the henhouse and took over its flock. Made Joe madder than two cats with their tails tied together."

  Ariah frowned. "Gracious Sadie! How would two cats get their tails tied together?"

  Bartholomew blinked as he stared at her, then broke into his rusty, deep-throated laugh, charmed almost as much by the expressive way she used her hands when she spoke as he was by her naiveté. "I'm afraid that's one of the ways boys sometimes entertain themselves."

  "But how could they? It would be so cruel."

  Bartholomew sobered, thinking of locked doors and broken promises. "There are a lot of cruel things in life."

  "Yes, there are." Ariah's own thoughts turned solemn, as they picked their way across the muddy yard to the barn where he'd promised her a glimpse at a litter of new kittens.

  Bartholomew regretted souring the mood and was glad for the distraction of the kittens. Ariah sat on the hay-littered floor and gathered the five tiny balls of black and white fluff into her lap. When one escaped back to its mother, it was thoroughly licked as though to erase the smell of human contact.

  "When I was a child I used to dream of living on a farm with lots of animals." Ariah rubbed her nose against a cold wet kitten nose. "Have you always lived in Oregon?"

  Bartholomew grinned. "You asking me, or the cat?"

  She feigned a look of exasperation. "You, of course."

  "In that case, yes, I grew up here. I wasn't born here though. My father was easily bored and moved around a lot. He married my mother in Pittsburgh where he was working as a barkeep in her father's inn. They had my brother John there."

  With a scoop of his big hand, he rescued a kitten from tumbling off Ariah's knee and returned it to her. The kitten snuggled into the soft mounds of her breasts, and his stomach jackknifed as desire shafted through him.