His Stolen Bride

by Judith Stanton

  “They were very thorough!” Retha said, repairing her mussed apron.

  “Are all Salemites such sticklers?” Abbigail asked.

  “Only toward those who grew up with the Cherokee, like me. Or you, a woman managing a store!”

  They resumed their work, laughing each time they recalled another Sister’s admonition from the tedious afternoon.

  Abbigail sobered. “I always had a horror of losing my reputation.”

  “’Tis wed behind you now!” Retha said as if it mattered not a whit.

  “The horror or the reputation?”

  “Reputation is the horror!” Retha said firmly, leaving Abbigail to wonder what she had endured. And if she was right.

  25

  The horror did not come in sacrificing reputation. It came in having nothing more than stolen glimpses of Nicholas when she passed his shop. For days after the hearing, he turned down all of Retha’s invitations to take a meal at home, honoring Abbigail’s warning that they not be seen together. Apparently he dined and slept at the Single Brothers House, determined to shield her from further gossip. His precaution hadn’t made much difference. People still stared.

  Well before vespers, she rushed toward the Tavern in a dreary, drenching rain. Better rain than another ran past the gauntlet of nosy, spying Salemites. Thanks to the weather, there weis not a soul in sight. In the week she’d been walking across the Square, their interest in her had not flagged. But she refused to be ashamed of standing up for Nicholas. Castigated and cut off perhaps, but not ashamed.

  Nor would she neglect her father. Most days she went to the Tavern twice, surprised to find Sister Benigna there, too, mornings, afternoons, and once at night, with nostrums and good cheer. As soon as her father’s health improved, he met her in the public rooms downstairs. Remarkably his temper improved, too. Was it the Widow’s good-natured company? Or was it the prospect of Christian Huber’s arrival, now only three weeks off—if the letter arrived as planned and he didn’t break down on the Wagon Road?

  The Square was empty, and the boardwalk slick. Today she hoped to get her father out to vespers if only the rain would stop. Glumly, she snugged her shawl up against the cold October wind, feeling the bleakness of her situation. Not that the Blums were not assiduously hospitable, and Sister Benigna full of good humor and support.

  But Nicholas had brightened her life, and he had forsworn her now.

  She peered ahead through veils of rain. No sign of him lounging in the doorway of his shop, waiting to catch her eye. Her spirits sagged. For five long days, she had held her head up and walked directly in front of his shop, refusing to skulk to the other side of the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of him and twice succeeding.

  As she passed Nicholas’s tin shop, he reached out and grasped her hand and tugged her inside. “I miss you, Abbigad,” he said, shutting the door behind them and giving her the briefest Brotherly peck on the cheek. His hungry, awkward gaze swept her from top to toe. “You look … well.”

  Despite a fear of being caught, she shuddered with a strange delight, her head bobbing foolishly, her heart fluttering with joy.

  But he was shaking his head. “I made you a pariah, Abby.”

  “’Tis nothing,” she murmured, staying his censure with her hand. For Nicholas, she would walk through fire. Tears spilled down her face from the relief of being with him. He lowered his tawny head and kissed them from her lashes, cheekbones, nose.

  “’Tis a very great deal,” he murmured, and with a groan, he found her mouth and took it in a deep, exploring kiss-a munificent Nicholas kiss.

  Which she answered, losing track of danger, time, and self, melting bonelessly against his enfolding bulk. After a while his callused fingers tipped her chin.

  “Look at me, Leibling,” he entreated, his voice rough with emotion. “I never meant you harm.”

  She opened her eyes. In daylight she had never been so close to him or to discovery and exposure. “I know.”

  His brilliant blue eyes darkened with concern. “Jesu, if only…” he began, then bit his lips, then looked away and back.

  If only he would, ask…. She could barely breathe.

  “Liebe Gott, Abbigail, I was such a fool to come here. To leave you.”

  She found her voice. “You had a dream. I saw her.”

  Chagrin creased his brow. “But you are … you are …”

  Made bold by his concern, she covered his mouth with fingertips. “The one who loves you.”

  He hesitated, gratitude playing across his face. “Kiss me, Abby.”

  His hands circling her waist, he lifted her smoothly onto a low stool and brought her level with his great height. Then they rested at her waist, their heat coiling into her core, burning ad the way up to her breasts. And she heard, then felt his breathing, each breath a breeze of banked desire.

  “Kiss me like before,” he said, his voice breaking.

  He wanted her but waited. He honored her innocence.

  It was up to her to step beyond the sanctity of strictest chastity. She leaned into him, seeking his powerful arms, his solid chest, his approving manhood. Steadying herself, she lifted a hand to pull his head down to her, and he bent to her will. Shivering with anticipation, she ventured a trial kiss upon his lips. They were warm and soft but hesitant, still. She pulled away. He looked tormented.

  “I have naught to offer you, Liebling,” he said hoarsely.

  Nothing but your heat, your strength, your hands trembling at my waist.

  “Yourself, Nicky. You are all I want,” she whispered.

  Her words and her sweet use of his nickname sent him over the edge.

  With a ragged groan he rocked into her, his deerskin breeches and her thick wool skirts no barrier to the surrender he sought of her. She did not yield, but answered. Parting her lips, she boldly kissed his mouth and crushed her aching breasts to his rocksolid chest, pressing the low center of her newfound desire against his fire, his stiffness. Her first need shuddered through her, and she rocked back, slighdy shocked that she yearned so for him, wholly thrdled by the delicious sensation. His hands taught her hips to move to an ancient, elemental rhythm. Then her body crested, broke, and she clung to him, the wonder of his passion bursting in her heart like birdsong. “Nicky …” she whispered, gradually aware of tremors in him, too, tremors of savage control.

  The bell above the shop door jangled, announcing a customer come in the rain. Around the bulk of Nicholas’s shoulders, Abbigail caught the quickest look of a tall, dark man shadowing the door. Guiltily she sprang back, Nicholas’s great stature sheltering her from view, and he plunged her past a curtain into a small back room.

  “I am an unmitigated fool,” he rasped into her ear, “risking you like this.” In an almost normal voice, he called out front to tell his customer he was on his way. Then he gently set her aside, whispered a quick goodbye, and showed her to a back door where she might escape unseen.

  But escaping Nicholas was the last thing she wanted.

  Reduced to selling tin cups on a dreary afternoon, Nicholas thought, angry at the interruption. He adjusted his stock and buttoned his coat to hide his arousal. Sensation gathered in him, low, and unfulfilled desire pulsed through his loins.

  The sight of his brother squelched all that. Matthias strode into the center of the shop, walnut-brown hat in his brown-stained hands, a hitch of anger in his step.

  “Matty.” Nicholas greeted him evenly, puzzled but alert. The last time they had been alone together, Nicholas had lost a tooth, some dignity, and the delusions of his young manhood. Although that last had been long overdue.

  Matthias’s face clouded. “I cannot fathom the kind of man you are. Ruining one woman is not enough for you.”

  Nicholas flared. Matthias had seen just enough to believe the worst of Abbigail. “A kiss is not ruin.”

  “You ruined my bride.”

  He curbed his temper. “I never touched your wife but to steal a kiss or two.”

  M
atthias’s hands fisted at his side. “After she was betrothed to me,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Truth, Nicholas realized instandy, was not his wisest tack. But Matthias had saved him from marrying the wrong woman. And Nicholas owed it to all of them to clear Catharina’s name.

  “I…” He ran his fingers through his hair, hating what he’d done, hating this discord with his brother. “’Twas reprehensible of me. I thought she … shared my feelings. Evidendy, as she married you, she did not.” He shifted uneasily, wishing his brother had been just another customer wanting to buy a cup. “Is this what you came for?”

  Matthias looked down, looked away, fuming as he had when still a lad, Nicholas could tell, from the vein that pulsed down the center of his forehead.

  “I came to make amends,” he said bitterly.

  Nicholas wanted that. Relief trickled down his spine. “I too, Matty,” he began eagerly.

  “But after seeing you with Sister Till…” Matthias made an inarticulate sound of disgust and stalked out of Nicholas’s shop, too controlled and too correct to slam the door.

  Ignoring a rumble of male voices in the shop, Abbigail dashed out the back door into a narrow adey and turned toward Salem’s tavern, a few doors down the street. Her body shuddered, thrilled by Nicholas’s touch. But she was miserable that they’d been caught. The dreary rain had gone on unabated. The townspeople’s stares had not shamed her, but his quick dismissal made her feel turned out Worse, rejected. Lost in their quick passion, she had declared her love and almost given him her whole self.

  But he hadn’t said he loved her in return.

  Of course not she thought sadly, rising to his defense. He had only just lost his dream of Catharina. He probably still loved his brother’s bride. Perhaps he always would, no matter how the woman had betrayed his love. Only a cadow man could shed such old, deep feelings overnight.

  Abbigail didn’t have to look at her reflection in a glass to know that she was too sharp, too old ever to take Catharina’s place. Never mind that the hot promise of Nicholas’s embrace eclipsed Abbigad’s most vivid dreams. She had caught his fancy but could not capture his heart. Only paragons inspired abiding love.

  Inside the Tavern, she paused at the first-floor landing to stomp the wet off her shoes. The public room hummed with travelers delayed by rain. They might not mind the wait but today she minded everything-the damp, their noise, her sudden, biting loneliness. The stairs leading to her father’s room seemed steep and gloomy. Shaking raindrops off her shawl, she trudged up, hoping fervently he was not alone. She could not cheer him today.

  Halfway to the top, Sister Benigna stopped her. “We’re in the public room … with a visitor.”

  “Oh, not today! I am not fit for company,” Abbigail said, her stolen moment with Nicholas flashing before her eyes.

  “’Tis Christian Huber, dear,” the Sister said with dismay. “Come to Salem early!”

  Early? It was weeks before he had any possible reason to darken their doors! Aversion prickled through her.

  “Be firm, my dear. I will be right back to stand beside you,” Sister Benigna said as she discreedy slipped outside. Abbigad folded her shawl and braved the large open room. So. She would confront him-themr-on her own.

  Stale ale and harsh tobacco smells assailed her. Through clouds of smoke, three men played cards at a small table while another cleaned a gun, its pieces scattered on the floor. Laughter broke out but did not seem aimed at her. Across the room beside the fire, the back of her father’s gray head tilted in conversation. She smoothed her skirt and threaded her way past tables, chairs, travelers, bracing for battle.

  He rose and Christian Huber stood, too, thinner and more forward than he had been at home. “Sister Till…” he began, a predatory gleam lighting his eyes.

  “You’re three weeks too soon!” she blurted, exasperated to see him. She needed the month to sharpen her arguments and shore up her defenses.

  “I am delighted to see you well,” Huber said, with excessive courtesy and a gendemanly bow over her hand.

  The hand Nicholas had just held. She jerked it back, Huber’s attentions mocking the sweet flame of Nicholas’s kiss. “You cannot have gotten the Elders’ letter.”

  “Ah, yes, about the missing watches. Tis well I came ahead then, is it not?” Huber’s gaze was calculating, but he contrived to sound sympathetic, even gravely interested. “Your father explained about the hearing and the letter.”

  “No doubt he did,” she said.

  “The watches never turned up at the store,” he volunteered. “They have not, I take it, turned up here? No doubt there is some simple explanation. Brother Blum always brought such odd pieces home.”

  “You should know. You inventoried everything,” she said dryly. Prying snoop.

  “As was my duty, Sister Till. As on the evening Brother Blum packed to leave, which I spent taking an inventory of our stock and his.” He smiled blandly. “So many extra, unexpected pieces, ours, his. Dolls, stationery, watches.”

  Something in his tone tweaked her. Too placid, too accommodating, like a snake behind a rock, waiting to strike. “You know all about the watches,” she said, voicing her thought. She could not be sure when or how or where he had purloined them. But he had everything to do with their disappearance.

  “Of course I know about them. One might even say I had a hand-an inadvertent but well-intentioned hand-in Brother Blum’s escape that night,” Huber said sdkily.

  Abbigad flared. “Nicholas didn’t escape! He didn’t need to. The only thing he is guilty of is having a good heart.”

  “As you say, dear Sister. Though he always was a litde … overzealous, perhaps? For profit.”

  She almost spat. “Whde you are only after my father’s store,” she said, her voice rising over the drone of men at cards and guns.

  Her father pinched her arm in reprimand. “Abbigail, shame! To suggest that our friend Brother Huber-”

  “The only thing I ever wanted from your father’s store was you,” Huber said smoothly, but loud enough for all to hear.

  Silence thickened in the room like smoke, and all eyes turned on them. Strangers’ eyes, coldly interested in the spectacle of a woman abandoning decorum. Her father glared a warning. Straightening her Haube, Abbigail summoned her resolve.

  Huber stepped toward her, deferential and overbearing at once. “Ah, dearest Sister Till, let us not quarrel. I have come such a great distance to see you.”

  “’Twas a wasted trip,” she snapped, vexed by his presumption and his tone.

  “Abbigail, your manners!” her father said angrily, glancing at the witnesses, their eyes turned to the brewing storm.

  Huber gave an ingratiating smile and again reached for her hand. This time she permitted it, deferring to their audience and her father’s reprimand. But she recoiled inside. The Single Brother’s lips were cold, and his clammy grasp was frigid. “Dearest Sister Till, you must know I am here because of you. I came because the wait was too wearing on my nerves.”

  “So wearing that you abandoned the store?” she asked pointedly.

  “No, no, Brother Johann minds the store for us,” he assured her. “’Twas wearing, dearest, to wait for your return.”

  “You have no claim on me, sir, now or ever.”

  “I beg to differ, Sister,” he said, placidly confident. “We have your father’s blessing on our marriage.”

  “You may have his blessing, but you do not have my consent. I refuse your suit. I have the right.” Weeks ago, Nicholas had given her the words, but she made them hers.

  Huber’s face pinched, his self-possession breaking.

  “Daughter, you cannot deny him,” her father said.

  Oh, but she could. She might not have Nicholas’s love, but he had shown her passion. On the strength of that alone, she would never submit to Huber’s claim. “You misspeak, Father. I denied Brother Huber at every tum. I deny him now.”

  “I will not tolerate defiance, Abb
igad.”

  “You cannot rule me in this.”

  He made a quick, desperate gesture to direct her. “Daughter, you are upset. Calm yourself and sit.”

  She stayed standing, sure of what she wanted. “No, Father. You shamefully misrepresented me last week. You misrepresent me now to Brother Huber. Except for the fact that you want him here, he wasted his time to come.”

  Huber’s hps thinned. “Rubbish! No time is wasted if I spare you Blum’s unwanted attentions!”

  “Unsought, perhaps,” she shot back. “But never unwanted.”

  Afternoon shadows sharpened the angles on Huber’s face, making everything about him mean. “Blum may have helped himself to the watches, but he cannot steal my bride.”

  Anger burned her throat. “Nicholas did not steal the watches, and I will never be your bride.” She turned on her heel to go and ran toward the hallway, straight into … Nicholas. He was formidable with indignation.

  But he bundled her in his arms. She could have wept with sweet relief.

  Beside him, quite formidable herself, Sister Benigna said softly, “I thought Brother Blum should have his say.”

  Nicholas caught his balance, his arms too full of Abbigail to lunge across the smoke-fdled public room and rip Huber’s gullet from his throat He had heard Huber’s sly accusation and his presumptuous claim. Bad enough that Matthias had caught him kissing Abbigail a quarter hour earlier. He did not have the patience or reserve for this.

  Banking rage, Nicholas gently released Abbigail. “Stay, Leibling,” he entreated hoarsely, barely noticing the endearment that slipped off his tongue. “I need you here.”

  She looked at him with large, consenting, dark brown eyes, and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. Together they crossed the room, her presence calming and strengthening him. Till blustered up to separate them, but Nicholas ignored him. Huber was his goal. Huber waited, stance spread as if to fight.