The Accidental Wedding

by Anne Gracie

  She sponged him down again. She was inured to his nakedness now; she knew every inch of his body. She fed him some more of the willow-bark decoction and put a fresh poultice on the wound. He calmed under her treatment and she was able to cover him again.

  In a weary daze, she went about preparing her bed on the floor. She’d made up her mind that morning that she would not risk waking again with a strange, naked man curled around her, his bare legs intimately entangled with hers, and his hand on her breast. It was too . . . unsettling.

  She spread the bedding in front of the fire.

  He could come to his senses at any time, the doctor had said. There was no telling how long or how short it would be. Of course, that was before he’d come down with fever . . .

  The bed curtains were closed, there wasn’t a sound from behind them. She changed into her nightgown and sat warming her toes at the fire.

  What if the fever worsened? If she were on the floor, how would she know he needed her?

  What if he threw off the bedclothes again and the fever broke and he was naked and sweating and helpless in the chill of the night? He could catch his death.

  There was no choice.

  She bundled up the quilt to make it into Hadrian’s Wall—a sop to propriety, and yet what mattered propriety when she’d sponged almost every inch of his naked body? Nevertheless she shoved it in ahead of her and slipped between the sheets.

  Thrashing limbs and feverish muttering woke her in the night. “No,” he mumbled. “No, no.” His head rolled frantically, and clenched fists flailed at the air, beating off some invisible foe. “No, no . . . You can’t . . .”

  Keeping a wary eye on the wildly flying fists, Maddy felt his skin. Burning up, hotter than ever. She sponged him down, murmuring, “Hush, hush, I’m here now,” as she smoothed his burning skin with the cool moist pad. “You’re all right now . . . Nobody will harm you.”

  He turned his face toward her voice and opened his eyes, staring at her blindly, his expression anguished. But the big fists unclenched and the hands slowly dropped.

  She kept on murmuring soothing words and slipped her arm under his head. “Drink this; it will make you feel better.” She slipped the spout between his lips. He clenched his teeth in mute refusal. She tried again, but he jerked his mouth away, sending liquid everywhere. He thrashed his head around, muttering a string of words that didn’t make sense to her.

  “You have to drink this,” she told him. “It will bring the fever down from within.”

  Again he looked at her with that blind, tortured stare.

  Her voice. He was responding to her voice. She didn’t know who he thought she was, but if it worked . . . Murmuring soothing phrases, she tried again to make him drink. He clenched his teeth and shoved her hand away.

  She could think of only one thing to do. She took a mouthful of the bitter-sweet liquid and, stroking his face gently, she pressed her lips to his. His lips parted instantly and she let the liquid slowly dribble in. He swallowed without hesitation and grabbed her wrist, staring at her mutely.

  She took another mouthful of medicine and fed it to him the same way, then another and another, until she thought he’d had enough.

  That exchange, so desperate, so intimate, had awakened something in her. The struggle was now intensely personal. He was hers and she would not let him die.

  She fed him water and medicine through the night, slow mouthful by slow mouthful, kisses of life. She didn’t know how long it took, she was beyond caring about anything except the man in her bed, but finally, exhausted, he lay back against the pillows.

  She pressed her cheek against his chest to listen for his heartbeat, but instead, exhausted, she slipped into sleep.

  She woke some hours later, in the cold gray light just before sunrise, shivering with cold, her cheek wet. Was she weeping in her sleep?

  Not tears. Sweat. The fever had broken, thank God, thank God. She pulled the bedclothes up around him, tucking him in one-handed so he wouldn’t catch a chill.

  Weak with relief, exhausted beyond caring, she fell asleep pressed against his body, her imprisoned hand still tucked in his loose but unbreakable grip.

  She woke with a naked man wrapped around her. Like the previous morning only . . . more so. His hand cupped her breast again, only this time there was no nightgown between his hand and her skin. His questing hand had found the opening. He sighed, his hand moved, and her nipple hardened against his palm with exquisite sensitivity. Her mouth dried.

  She ought to pull away.

  She couldn’t make herself move.

  His breathing was steady, rhythmic, undisturbed: he was sound asleep. She lay quite still so as not to disturb him, eyes closed, savoring the feel of his big, masculine body against hers.

  No morning dream, this. It was so much better . . .

  Her warm, thick, respectable nightgown was bunched around her waist, and her hips and thighs were naked, quite naked, and plastered against his nakedness.

  Intimately.

  His bent knee lay between her thighs, clamped between her thighs, nudging the cleft between her legs. With every breath he took, his knee moved ever so slightly, rubbing lightly against her in a slow, enticing friction.

  Without conscious volition, she found herself pressing back against him, arching her back, deepening the friction. It sent shivers through her, delicious ripples of sensation that—

  “Maddy, when are we having breakfast?” a voice called from upstairs.

  Hurriedly, Maddy pulled away. She tugged her nightgown down, pulled a knitted shawl around her, and slipped from the bed. The icy floor doused her heated body with the chill of reality.

  She flew about the cottage, putting the porridge on to cook as she hastily washed and dressed in the scullery. She’d been playing with fire. If he’d been awake, he would have pressed her further. Would she have resisted?

  Embarrassment washed over her. She’d always thought of herself as a woman of strong character, but the truth was, she hadn’t even been able to resist his unconscious touch; in fact, she’d increased it.

  If morning dreams unsettled her, this . . . whatever it was, completely undermined her.

  “It’s our day for the vicar, did you forget?” Jane came downstairs with her sisters following.

  “No, I just slept in and forgot the time.”

  “Is the man still sick?” Lucy asked.

  Maddy smiled. “His fever broke in the night and he’s sleeping peacefully now.”

  “Again?” Lucy declared. “He’s never going to wake up, not unless—”

  “Go and wash your face and hands.” Maddy gave her a little push. “Breakfast will be ready in a trice.”

  “Maddy.” John came downstairs, a leather satchel clasped to his chest, his face scrunched in an emotion Maddy was very familiar with.

  She sighed. “What have you done now?”

  He grimaced. “It’s not what I’ve done, so much as what I haven’t.”

  She glanced at the satchel. The vicar had given it to the boys for carrying his precious books to and from the vicarage. “Did you forget to do your reading?”

  “No, but the vicar asked me to give you these, days ago, and I forgot.”

  He handed her a pile of white garments, neatly pressed and folded.

  She removed them and shook the top one out.

  “The vicar’s own nightshirts,” John explained. “For him.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bed. “The thing is, Maddy, the vicar gave them to me on the first day, and told me I wasn’t to take them out in front of the girls. He said Henry and me—”

  “Henry and I.”

  “Henry and I should dress the man, or give them to the doctor to do it, but . . . I forgot. He said it was very important, a man’s job, that I owed it to you as the man of the family.”

  “I see.” And Maddy did see.

  John bit his lip anxiously. “Do you have to tell him? The vicar, I mean?”

  Tell the vicar she
’d tended a man—stark naked—in her bed for several days? Not likely. If he got the slightest wind of it, he’d be down here demanding the stranger marry her. Conscious or not.

  As if the vicar could force a fine, strange gentleman to marry an unknown woman with five young children to care for. It would be a storm in a teacup, upsetting everyone, and achieving nothing but fuss and embarrassment and resentment.

  “I won’t tell the vicar if you don’t,” she said. John’s face split with a relieved grin and she ruffled his hair affectionately. “Now, eat your porridge and be off.”

  Four

  “Lucy, come away from that bed.”

  The little girl pouted. “But Maddy, I was just going to—”

  “I know what you were ‘just going to’ do and you know what I told you about that. Leave the man alone. Now, be a good girl and sort out these buttons for me.” Maddy emptied a tin box of assorted odd buttons onto the hearthrug and soon Lucy was happily absorbed in the task, arranging the buttons by color or shape or size, according to her fancy. Maddy had played the same game, with some of the same buttons, when she was a child.

  Lizzie Brown looked up from her writing task. Three times a week, in exchange for dairy products, Lizzie took lessons from Maddy in reading and writing and the skills needed by a lady’s maid. She came while the older children were having their lessons at the vicarage, the boys in Latin and Greek and the girls in painting and the pianoforte.

  “What was she planning to do?” Lizzie whispered as Maddy returned to the table.

  Maddy rolled her eyes. “She’s decided our invalid is a sleeping prince who’s had a spell put on him by a wicked witch. He won’t wake up unless he’s been kissed by a princess.”

  Lizzie grinned. “Shame there’s no princesses around here. But he’s a fine looking man, so if you want a dairymaid-in-training-to-be-a-lady’s-maid to have a go . . .”

  Maddy laughed. “No princesses?” she said in mock outrage. She pushed a homemade book across the table. “Read this.”

  Lizzie’s reading was slow and laborious, but she read the first few lines and looked up with a lively grin. “Luciella?”

  Maddy nodded. “Keep reading.” It was the book the girls had made the day before. All about a poor, put-upon secret princess and a sleeping prince . . .

  She sat back smiling as Lizzie concentrated, her mouth moving silently as she read the story. She was doing so well.

  Abandoned by her husband, Lizzie was young and pretty but unable to remarry, and her options were limited. Her uncle had given her work as a dairymaid, but Lizzie liked pretty clothes and nice things. She didn’t mind hard work, so she’d set her heart on becoming a lady’s maid.

  Maddy was so proud of her. In the year she’d known Lizzie, she’d worked so hard . . .

  Lizzie finished the book and looked up, laughing. She glanced at the little girl arranging the buttons in long rows, and winked. “A princess, eh? I never knew.”

  “You read that book all by yourself,” Maddy said quietly. “You didn’t ask me for help with a single word.”

  Lizzie glanced at the book, surprised. “Neither I didn’t,” she breathed. “Glory be—I can read.”

  “And your handwriting is good, too.”

  “Not my spelling though.”

  “No, but many people have trouble with spelling. It just takes time and work and perseverance in memorizing the tricky words.” Maddy touched the fresh arrangement of her hair. “And you have a real talent for dressing hair. This is so stylish, I could go to a grand London ball and not look out of place.”

  Lizzie looked her over and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hmm, I reckon that dress would stand out and all, patches no longer being all the rage.”

  They both laughed.

  “Seriously, Lizzie, I think you could start applying for positions in a fine house.”

  “You truly think so, Miss Maddy?”

  “I do. In fact, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation this very minute.”

  “Now?” Lizzie looked dismayed.

  Maddy was puzzled. It was as if Lizzie dreaded the idea of going into service. Yet in all the time Maddy had known her, she had spoken of nothing else.

  Maddy put her hand over Lizzie’s. “What is it? Have you changed your mind?”

  Lizzie twisted uncertainly. “No, I do want to be a lady’s maid—I hate milking cows, honest I do. It’s just . . .”

  “Just . . . ?” Maddy prompted her after a moment.

  “I know it’s stupid. I know he won’t never come back to me. But if I go away . . . and he does . . . and I’m not here . . .” Lizzie made a defeated gesture.

  Reuben. Of course. Lizzie’s runaway husband. The love of Lizzie’s life, or so she’d thought until he went to town one day with all their savings—supposedly to buy a fine breeding bull—and never came back. She’d never seen it coming and for months afterward had refused to believe that he’d left her willingly.

  “How long has it been?” Maddy asked gently.

  “More’n two years.” Lizzie dashed a hand across her eyes, scrubbing tears away. “Stupid, ain’t I, even thinking he might come back after all this time.”

  “Did you never hear where he went or what he did?”

  Lizzie gave a bitter snort. “Half the village seen him on a wagon with a dozen others, din’t they? Drunk and laughing, heading down the Bristol road—and there was no reason for him to go to Bristol, none! My quiet Reuben . . .” She shook her head. “I’d never seen him take a drink, ever.”

  Maddy gave Lizzie’s arm a comforting squeeze. “If Reuben did come back, he’d ask at your uncle’s farm, wouldn’t he?”

  Lizzie nodded. “Uncle Bill’d tell him where I’ve gone, all right, but first he’d give Reuben a good hiding. So he’d be mad to come back, wouldn’t he? Even if he wanted. Which he don’t.” She blew her nose and sat up straight. “No, go ahead, write that letter, Miss Maddy. My Reuben ain’t never coming back, and if he does, well, there’s always Uncle Bill, as you say.”

  Her gaze sharpened at something behind Maddy, and her eyes suddenly lit with laughter. “Oh, would you look at that. It’s true what you read in books.”

  Maddy whirled around, just in time to see Lucy climb onto her stool and disappear behind the bed curtains.

  “Lucy!” She made a dive for the little girl and dragged her out. “You little wretch, I told you—”

  “Too late,” Lucy crowed. “I kissed him and now he’ll wake up.” Over Maddy’s shoulder she looked expectantly at the man in the bed, but he didn’t move.

  “Soon,” Lucy added.

  A little later Lucy explained, “He probably needs a little rest first.”

  It was early afternoon. Lizzie had gone home and Maddy had persuaded Lucy to take a nap upstairs. The children would return from their lessons at the vicarage in an hour or so.

  She was about to go outside and do some work in the garden when she heard movement from the bed, and a sort of croaking sound. She hurried across the room.

  He was awake, his eyes open. “Water,” he croaked.

  “Yes, of course.” She ran to fetch water and grabbed the medicine the doctor had left with her.

  He struggled to sit up but kept keeling over. The doctor had warned her he might have difficulty with his balance so she slipped her arm under him and levered him up, supporting him first with her body, then stuffing some pillows around him.

  He leaned heavily against her and closed his eyes. He was pale, the skin under his eyes papery and bruised looking. Lines of tension bracketed his mouth, and his jaw was tight, gritted against pain. She gave him the water first. He swallowed it gratefully.

  “And I need . . .” He scanned the room, then met her gaze with an agonized look.

  “Ah,” she said, understanding, and fetched him a large jar.

  A few minutes later she poured some hot water into a cup and added the drops the doctor had left. “Now drink this.”

  He swallowed once then pu
lled a face and tried to push it away. “It’s just medicine the doctor left,” she told him. “It will help with the pain.”

  “S’vile!” he muttered.

  “Of course it tastes vile, it’s supposed to—it’s medicine. So don’t be a baby, just drink it.”

  He opened his eyes at that and gave her a look, but he drank it down with no further complaint.

  His eyes were so blue.

  He finished drinking and subsided heavily against her as if exhausted by the small effort of sitting up. He sagged slowly, his bristly jaw sliding down her body until it rested in the place between her shoulder and her breast.

  She made to move away, to let him lie down again, but his arm came up and held her tight.

  “Stay.”

  She had work to do, but he seemed so helpless, in such pain. She sat there quietly listening to the sound of his breathing and the twittering of the birds outside. Bird were always noisier after rain.

  A lock of thick brown hair tumbled over his forehead. She smoothed it back with her free hand.

  No sign of the fever remained; even his hair felt cool against her fingers. It was soft and thick, and unlike most men she knew, he used no pomade or scented oils. She found herself stroking his hair, like a cat, soothing him as he rested.

  Poor, lost man. Whatever his destination had been, he was now several days overdue. There would be people worrying about him. Somewhere a wife, a sweetheart, a mother was fretting, imagining the worst. Or maybe a mistress.

  A man like this would not be alone.

  His face was graven, shuttered against the expression of pain, his jawline tense and his mouth tight and thin lipped and . . .

  Beautiful.

  She swallowed. How strange it felt to know nothing about him, yet know his body, his mouth so intimately. She knew the feel of it against her lips, had pressed her own lips against his to form a seamless bond, until he’d opened for her. She’d given him precious fluids. He’d left her with the taste of him on her lips, in her mouth.

  She could taste him still.

  Gradually his breathing evened out. Slowly the lines of pain eased. The medicine was working.