The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  When he pulled back, he smiled. “I’ve wanted to do that since the day I rescued you from the burning inferno.”

  She touched her lips, reeling from the sensations his kiss had brought to life.

  His fingers moved to her coif, and in an instant he’d tossed it to the table and pulled her hair out of its neatly coiled wrap. Her hair rippled around her face in long waves.

  She gasped at his brazenness.

  “And I’ve wanted to do that too.” He reached for her then and slipped both of his arms around her, drawing her to him.

  “You are so beautiful, Elizabeth,” he whispered, sliding his fingers through the thick strands.

  Her heart stopped. She pulled back and searched his face, desperate to know the truth of his words. Certainly no man had ever thought her beautiful. Did he truly mean it, or was he merely spouting flowery prose in the emotion of the moment?

  She probed the darkening blue of his eyes, needing to know.

  His gaze was clear and guileless. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered again, caressing a strand of hair away from her cheek.

  Her heart sputtered forward. She couldn’t think past the swell of new emotions. She could only let him draw her along. When his lips descended upon hers again, she melted against him—her husband, the man who thought she was beautiful.

  Chapter

  28

  At the barest light of dawn Elizabeth slipped from the bed and moved as soundlessly as she could. The shifting of sheets drew her attention back to the bed, back to John’s face. Her gaze lingered over the peacefulness of his features, to the smooth lines, to his lips parted with his slow, even breathing.

  Her heart thumped with a sudden quickening. A swath of his ruddy hair had fallen over his forehead, and she had the sudden urge to climb back next to him and smooth it away.

  With a lurch of unexpected longing, she blushed and turned away. The night had brought a deluge of new emotions and sensations, and she needed a few moments to gather her thoughts before John awoke.

  After dressing silently, she tiptoed through the cottage and made her way outside to the fields behind the garden plot. Dew glistened on the long grass and dampened her leather boots and the edges of her petticoat. The morning air was cool, but it was the bath her chafed skin needed.

  Gathering dead gorse branches for fuel was a task she could accomplish in her sleep. Even though the gorse was damp and saturated her apron, it provided a useful source of fuel, since it would burn when wet. It also proved an important food for the cow now that its winter fodder had been depleted. Already that spring she had cut and crushed gorse for Milkie and had begun to see an improvement in the milk supply.

  The morning sun had not yet risen, but its faint glow tinted the sky with hues of pink and orange. She breathed in the scent of freshly plowed soil of the nearby farm field and looked back at the dark outline of the cottage. Her heart swelled with sweet joy.

  He had introduced her to the mysteries of married love with a tenderness that still left her breathless.

  And he had said she was beautiful.

  She smiled. He had said it not just once, but twice.

  The flutter of a small moth in the yellow flowers of the gorse caught her attention. By its thicker, fuzzier abdomen and duller colors she knew it was a moth and not a butterfly, lingering from its escapades of the night.

  She watched it flit and then land, leaving its wings down in rest. How oft she had compared herself to a moth, had believed herself plain, had considered herself unattractive and unlikely to gain a husband.

  But after last night . . .

  She gave a small sigh of delight.

  She picked up another stick and placed it in her bulging apron.

  Of course he hadn’t yet told her he loved her. But surely a man couldn’t hold a woman the way he had and not love her.

  Her thoughts returned to the intimacies they had shared, and her face grew hot at the remembrance.

  She glanced again at the cottage. How would she ever be able to be near him again without thinking of what they’d done, without blushing in embarrassment, or without her heart racing with desire for more?

  Yet even as her heart flushed at the thought of looking into his eyes, she made her way back into the cottage, wanting nothing more than to spend the waking moments of her day with him, laboring alongside him, sharing secret smiles, and maybe even stealing kisses.

  She tiptoed into the cottage, to the hearth. Working quietly, she emptied the gorse from her apron, then added sticks to the coals before straightening.

  She sensed his presence behind her even before she felt his thick arms slide around her waist. “My bride, already hard at work this morn.” His low voice rumbled against her ear, and the warmth of his breath grazed her neck.

  A sweet delicate heat blossomed in her middle. “Someone must do the work. Not all of us have the luxury of sleeping late.”

  His arms tightened and pulled her back against his chest.

  “Methinks I can find my wife more satisfying work than gathering gorse.” The grin in his voice brought a smile to her lips.

  She leaned against him, letting him envelop her. “And what kind of work would my husband have for me?” Her hands folded over his, and she skimmed her fingers up the silky hair of his arms, blushing with the realization he hadn’t yet donned his shirt.

  “Hmm . . .” His lips brushed against her neck in the spot behind her ear.

  The merest touch spread fire through her blood.

  “I would have you kiss me until you can’t breathe,” he murmured, pressing his warm lips against her ear, then against the top of her jaw.

  She gasped and arched into him. “ ’Twill not be hard work, then,” she said breathlessly.

  “Then I would have you kiss me until I can’t breathe.” His lips made a trail down her jaw.

  She tilted her head back, eager for him to reach his destination. When his lips finally descended upon hers, she met him with the passion the night had birthed within her.

  His arms tightened, and she wanted nothing more than for him to scoop her up. She could imagine nothing more pleasant than spending the day together in each other’s arms.

  He groaned and pulled away. “You have accomplished your work much too quickly.” His chest heaved and his breathing came in deep ragged gasps.

  She smiled. “I would work longer for you, my husband. You need only command it.”

  He grinned, then released her. “There is no doubt about it, Elizabeth.” He sat back on the bench and grabbed his shirt from the table. “You are a hard worker.”

  He wrangled to pull it over his head, exposing the broad expanse of his chest to her. She turned her face in hot embarrassment, glad for the shadows of the cottage that hid her blushes.

  Elizabeth wanted to reach out for him and press herself into the warmth of his embrace. But when he finished with his shirt, he put on first one boot and then the other.

  “I will bring the children home before dark.” He stood and slipped on his jerkin.

  “Are you leaving already?”

  He nodded and reached for his tool bag. “I have a long walk ahead of me this morn.”

  She swallowed the disappointment creeping up her throat. “Surely you have time to eat before you leave.”

  He slung his pack over his shoulder. “I’ll take something with me.”

  She moved to the basket of leftovers from their wedding banquet. “There’s plenty here.” She lifted the basket toward him.

  As he stuffed bread into his bag, her mind scrambled to find a way to make him stay. Now that they were finally man and wife, she wasn’t ready for him to leave. Life would demand much of them. She knew that to be true already. But surely they could face it together, hand in hand and side by side.

  He clomped across the room to his study. Through the rustle of papers and thump of books he called, “I am certain Willie will insist we eat with him tonight.”

  Her mind whirled. Since the day h
e’d proposed to her, she’d pictured herself helping him in his ministry. Everyone had agreed God had a special purpose for her, had ordained her as John Costin’s helpmate. Surely God did not mean for her to sit at home while her husband traveled the countryside preaching. If she accompanied him, she could not only support him, but they would be together.

  He wouldn’t want to be away from her any more than she wanted to be away from him. Not after the night they’d shared.

  “What if I came with you?”

  The study grew silent.

  Her stomach twisted. “I’d love to hear you preach and meet the people you shepherd.”

  He didn’t make a sound.

  “I want to be there to help you in any way I can.” This time she waited, the thudding of her heart the only sound.

  Finally he stepped out of his study, slowly. “They are mostly simple, hardworking farmers, Elizabeth.”

  “They have wives, do they not? Perchance God would have me help you bring the Gospel to their wives.”

  He shook his head. “The distances are too great, the weather too severe, and the days much too long. I would not subject my wife to these conditions.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I am not a weak woman.”

  “My enemies conspire against me.” His jaw clenched. “The danger has grown severe these past months, and I would not impose upon you any more than you have already borne.”

  The tautness of the lines in his face mirrored the tightness of disappointment in her throat. “I would just like to be with you, John.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. The frustration in his eyes reached the length of the room and pricked at her heart. “You know I like being with you too. . . .”

  “Then take me along.” She hated that her tone had an edge of desperation to it.

  He sighed and started toward the door. “I can’t.”

  “Just for today, then?”

  “No.”

  Her heart plummeted.

  When he reached the door, he took his hat from the peg and slapped it on. He put his hand to the door but stopped and looked at her. “Not today, Elizabeth. Not ever.”

  She wanted to keep trying to persuade him, but something in his eyes halted her attempt.

  “You will help me best by staying here at home. Just as you have always done.” The firmness of his tone made clear what he desired.

  She managed a brief nod. Then he was gone, the clank of the closing door echoing through her head.

  Tears flooded her eyes, and she sagged to the bench. She pressed a fist to her mouth, but a sob refused the stifle and slipped into the silent cottage.

  Her heart and throat burned. What had happened? What had she done wrong?

  A tear dripped out and slid down her cheek.

  Was she to have no more place in his heart than she’d had when she was his housekeeper?

  Chapter

  29

  Elizabeth hefted the squirming Thomas and used the movement as an excuse to peek at the men’s pews to John’s bowed head, to his strong fingers twisted into his thick hair, as if he would pull it out if he could.

  Fresh longing swirled through her. If only she could sit next to him and smooth her hand across his forehead and ease his distress.

  Thomas whined and she quickly stuffed a bite of bread into his mouth to content him until the next piece.

  If only she could find contentment as easily.

  She swallowed a sigh and forced her eyes closed. She could blame her melancholy upon the deteriorating political situation. The news out of London did not bode well. Parliament was negotiating with the king. ’Twas almost certain he would return.

  Such news was enough to depress any Puritan. She shuddered to think of the hardships it would bring for all of them. Already the elders had called two fasts and prayer meetings in the past week. Prayer was the only weapon the Independents had left.

  But Elizabeth knew her discontentment went much deeper than the shifting political climate. Ultimately she longed for John. After only two weeks of marriage she’d begun to understand the reality of her new life. There was no laboring side by side, no passing smiles, no long conversations by the hearth. After his busy days, he had little left to give her, even in the bed they shared.

  She did as he asked, carried forth her responsibilities in the home just as diligently as she’d always done, but her heart ached with the weight of disappointment that grew heavier every day.

  When the noon meeting ended, her gaze sought John again. He’d already slid from his pew and was making his way to the door. Surrounded in her row by other matrons, Elizabeth could only watch him and wish she had the power to make him turn around and smile at her before he left for the day.

  But he disappeared outside with nary a backward glance, and a weight settled on her shoulders, making her want to sit down and cry.

  Thomas whined again, this time louder, and she absently broke off another piece of bread for him.

  Her own stomach rolled with the pangs of fasting. She lifted her face toward heaven, and as she had been taught, she used the moment of personal discomfort and self-denial as a reminder to pray. “Pray often,” she’d heard John say, “for prayer is a shield to the soul, a sacrifice to God, and a scourge for Satan.”

  If only she could pray for something besides more time with her husband.

  “The constable is waiting in the churchyard,” a voice announced.

  “They’re arresting him,” someone else shouted.

  The whispers zigzagged through the small meetinghouse and crashed into Elizabeth. For a long moment she stood unmoving, her mind trying to decipher the words and the worried looks cast her direction.

  “John?” Her heart picked up speed. “Are they arresting John?”

  In the flurry of the commotion and eruption of noise around her, no one answered.

  Mary tugged her sleeve. “Hurry. We must go find out what’s happening.”

  Elizabeth gathered the children and pushed her way through the crowded nave until she reached the door and stepped outside into the cool drizzle.

  She stopped short at the sight of the men gathered on St. John’s Street. Her gaze swept over the crowd and alighted with cold fear on the thin face of William Foster.

  She hadn’t seen him since the day of the fire. John had reassured her that Foster wouldn’t threaten her once they were married, and he’d been right.

  Even so, Elizabeth shrank back.

  “I just be following the orders,” came the booming voice of the constable. “I just be doing me job, Costin.”

  “He’s under arrest for preaching at the Burgess farmhouse near Lowell Samuel,” said a tall man Elizabeth recognized as one of the Anglican ministers whose parish had been sequestered by Cromwell.

  “That was in the fall,” John replied. “That was many months ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter when you broke the law, only that you did,” the minister snapped. “It was unlicensed preaching, and you’re under arrest.”

  The minister’s words seemed to unleash the tension that had been building—hostilities that had been growing for years. The swaying of the political tide had given the Royalists a new freedom, and they were beginning to liberate themselves from the oppression they’d been under since the war. Amidst the shouting and arguing, Elizabeth couldn’t hear John’s reply.

  Finally John raised his hand. “Enough!”

  Angry voices trailed into silence.

  “We cannot resolve this battle of differences here with irate words. Methinks ’twill only lead to enraged fists.” He admonished the men with his glare. “Let us work together to find a peaceable solution.”

  “They want no peace,” someone shouted.

  John shook his head and turned to the constable. “I don’t know by whose authority you bring these charges against me. But I know you are a God-fearing man, Bigrave. You wouldn’t bring malice where none is due.”

  The constable pointed at the Anglican m
inister. “ ’Tis him that be bringing the charges, Costin. ’Tis not my doing.”

  John looked at the minister, but then switched his focus to Foster.

  As if sensing the mounting tension, Thomas began to fuss in her arms. Elizabeth absently pulled his blanket over his hair and hugged him. Johnny and Betsy shivered on either side of her. She tugged the hoods of their cloaks over their heads.

  “I know what these charges are about and who is behind them.” John gave Foster a last penetrating look. “Nonetheless, Bigrave, I don’t wish to stir up trouble. Since I’ve done nothing for which I’m ashamed, I’ll accompany you without guilt of conscience.”

  Mary gave a stifled gasp.

  Elizabeth rubbed the girl’s fingers.

  “If you must arrest me, Bigrave, then let’s get on with it.”

  Again there was a rush of shouting and pushing.

  Mary’s fingers dug into Elizabeth’s sleeve.

  “Brothers,” John shouted, “I’m not a coward, and I will face these charges without fear.” He turned toward the constable and allowed the big man to take hold of his arm.

  “Father!” Mary turned her face toward the commotion.

  The sound of her voice penetrated the noise. John stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He searched the crowd until his eyes alighted upon Mary and filled with heartbreaking pain. “Mary. You help Elizabeth.”

  The girl nodded and choked back a sob.

  John’s gaze lingered on the girl only a second longer before flicking to Elizabeth. For the briefest moment his eyes met hers. Amidst the sadness and resignation in the depths of his eyes, his message to her was clear. He didn’t know when or if he would return. He wanted her to take care of his children—especially his blind daughter, who would be lost in the world without him.

  Elizabeth nodded and hoped he would read the promise in her expression that she would not fail him.

  Then the constable led him away.

  Mary sobbed quietly, her thin body shaking.

  “Alderman Grew, will you not go?” one of the onlookers asked. “Your influence will be needed.”

  Alderman Grew stood in the doorway of the church with Mrs. Grew next to him, her shoulders straight and her chin lifted high.