She was wearing a loose camisole, but Margaret could see full, rounded breasts under the fabric. And crumpled beside the woman's bed was a gray jacket with yellow trim.
Margaret felt an unfamiliar passion surge through her, a wild-eyed hatred such as she had never imagined. She was jealous.
"NO!" Ashton roared to the woman, in a voice teeming with shattering anguish.
Margaret was now aware of another person in the room, a thin, pinch-faced woman in a faded calico dress and a severe, graying chignon.
"General." The woman's voice was brittle. "General Johnson. She's gone."
And then Margaret witnessed something truly extraordinary. Ashton pulled the beautiful woman into a sitting position and, taking a deep lungful of air, he breathed over the beautiful woman's mouth. He did this again and again until the woman in the calico dress began yelling to stop, she's already dead, it's indecent.
But Ashton ignored her, and Margaret marveled that a ghost could perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a scantily clad, undeniably beautiful woman.
In the blink of an eye the scene was gone, replaced by whooshing darkness. Margaret felt the tops of her arms being clamped with bruising force by a pair of powerful hands. And she also felt the light, but not unpleasant, tickle of a mustache on her lips.
The sun was still streaming into the window when she awoke, filtered through lace curtains, giving the room a surrealistic quality. She immediately knew she wasn't alone, and her eyes searched the room for her ghost. And he was still there.
Gingerly, she raised herself, propped up on her elbows. Ashton was asleep, his face soft and gentle in slumber. Under his eyes were dark circles, as if he hadn't slept for days.
Margaret's chest hurt, every breath was painful, and her upper arms were mottled with blue and purpling thumbprints. Still watching Ashton, she drew her hand slowly over her chest—and gasped.
His eyes flew open, and in an instant he was at her side. "Margaret, how are you?" His voice was filled with an aching tenderness.
She tried to speak, her hand still rubbing her chest. Beneath her hand she felt the soft beating of her heart, and large, perfectly shaped breasts. Margaret had always been flat-chested. Her mind worked furiously as she moved her hands in a circular motion over the breasts. And she could feel ribs—something Margaret had not been able to feel on herself for years. Breasts and ribs. Had she undergone breast implant surgery and managed to forget all about it?
"Ashton," she whispered, her low voice filled with awe. "I have large breasts."
He was suddenly overcome with a suspicious fit of coughing, his head turned away, and she could have sworn she saw him laugh behind his rolled fist. Within a few moments he had composed himself, but his eyes were still bright with humor.
"Excuse me," he managed to sputter, standing up abruptly. "I'll get you something to eat."
Again, she was startled by his height and breadth, shoulders wide in spite of his leanness. He opened the bedroom door, and with a brief wink at her, he called down the stairs.
"Mrs. Thaw." His voice was clear and buoyant. "May we please have some of that broth? Miss Mag is sitting up."
He came back into the room, and Margaret was aware of his limp as he pulled a chair right next to the head of the bed.
"How's your leg?" she asked, embarrassed that she had forgotten that he was wounded at Gettysburg. He sat down hard in the chair and shot her a dazzling grin, white teeth and deep dimples at the side of his mouth.
"Why Mag, you do care!" She had the distinct impression he was not completely serious. Are phantoms sarcastic?
"Of course I care," she harrumphed, with more anger than she had intended. "But you're so busy giving mouth-to-mouth to beautiful women, you probably didn't notice ..."
There was a clatter of silverware as Mrs. Thaw, the woman in the calico dress, appeared. Her eyes never left Margaret, and she scooted into the room with her back to the wall. In her hands was a large covered tray, and she plopped it onto the floor, still staring unblinkingly at Margaret, and pushed it toward Ashton with her foot. Margaret noticed she wore small boots that laced up the front.
"What's wrong?" Margaret asked Ashton as she left the room, her hurried footsteps clattering on the steps. "Hasn't she ever seen a ghost before?"
Ashton's startled eyes snapped to hers, and he began to laugh. "You know, that's exactly what she thinks you are!"
Margaret giggled, clamping her hand over her mouth. "I didn't mean me. I meant you!"
They both began laughing as he reached for the tray, each unsure of exactly what was so humorous, but both relishing the shared moment. On the tray was a single bowl, a steaming, brown-colored broth. Ashton moved closer, stirring the soup, then offered her a spoonful.
"Aren't you having any?" Margaret asked, and for a moment Ashton seemed surprised.
"Oh, no. I'm not hungry, I, eh, ate while you were asleep." He didn't look at her eyes and seemed suddenly very interested in the spoon. "Here we go . . ."
With an astonishing delicacy, and before she could move away, he pushed a spoonful of broth into her mouth. It tasted awful, pungent and gamey and slightly tainted.
"What is this?" She nudged his arm with her hand. He looked at her, genuinely perplexed.
"Why, Mag. It's your favorite—mutton soup."
"Lamb? Little cuddly lamb?"
Ashton's face remained impassive as he dipped the spoon back into the bowl. "Margaret, believe me, this was never a cuddly lamb. In fact," his eyes flashed to hers, and the green flecks seemed to sparkle, "I have it on good authority that this animal was the most hated beast in the Confederacy." She began to protest, but he silenced her with another spoonful of broth. "This, my dear, was the infamous Murdering Mutton of Magnolia."
"The wh—" but her voice was cut off by more broth. The soup did not taste so strange now, and her attention was on his story.
"It's true," he said solemnly "This very animal took cruel delight in tormenting the other lambs in the pasture." He kept spooning broth into her mouth as he spoke. "It all began in 1859, when a pack of frightened sheep was seen fleeing from a large, galumphing creature."
"Galumphing?"
"Galumphing," he repeated with a nod. "He would nip their little legs, and block their way to the pond. Some even say he poisoned the water . . ."
And by the time he had finished with the ridiculous story, she had eaten the entire bowl of broth. She couldn't help but grin at him.
"You know, you're very good at diversionary tactics." But all of a sudden she was exhausted, and her eyes began to flutter shut. "Please don't leave me," she whispered as she fell asleep.
"I won't, Mag. Ever." His voice was heavy, and he stared down at her perfect, slumbering form.
A gray head peered through the doorway.
"Did she eat the broth, General?"
He nodded. "Every drop, Mrs. Thaw. How much laudanum did you put in it?"
"Oh, about three drops, just as the doctor said." Mrs. Thaw couldn't drag her eyes away from the general, the way he tenderly brushed the raven hair from Margaret's face.
"Very good, Mrs. Thaw," he said in dismissal, without turning to face her. "That's enough to stop a galumphing sheep."
"Sir?"
"Never mind, Mrs. Thaw. Never you mind."
In her sleep she resembled an angel, an ethereal being placed on earth to soothe a man's soul. Ashton leaned back in the chair, wondering how such perfect beauty could coexist with such treachery,
A soft sigh escaped her parted lips, and he bent over her, placing the back of his hand on her forehead. She was cool to the touch, the fever was gone. Just as he was about to remove his hand, she grasped it in her own, a grip of surprising strength. Her other hand moved slowly over their clasped hands, as if to ensure his presence, and she settled the entwined hands on her breast.
Ashton looked behind him, aware of what a damned awkward position she had him in. Mrs. Thaw would positively seethe if she witnessed this, but Mrs. Th
aw was terrified of Mag now, the woman returned from the grave. Ash pulled the chair closer to the bed, making as little noise as possible without disturbing Mag.
Mag. Could he remember a time when she hadn't been a thorn in his side? He could see her now as she was as a child, petulant, always tagging behind Tom and him, managing to keep up with their every move. She was lovely even then, but his mother had never been able to warm to Mag.
"Too much beauty hardens the heart," his mother said once, watching Mag and Eddie, Ashton's younger brother, play blindman's buff. Ashton said nothing but was always careful to avoid discussing Mag in front of his mother.
When Mag's parents died, his mother softened a little toward Mag, but she still made it clear she preferred Tom, sunny, easygoing Tom.
It was during the years Ashton was at West Point that Mag blossomed into a stunning woman with all the wiles of a panther. Ashton fell in line behind other cadets and young officers, but Mag remained an enigma, a quick-witted, well-read tease. He had asked her to marry him so many times he lost count. She never said yes, but she never said no either, always leaving open the possibility, tantalizing his dreams.
He had been with other women, lovely creatures, a few who genuinely seemed to love him. They would have made good wives, ideal mothers. And just when he made up his mind to marry Annabelle or Rebecca, he would receive a letter from Mag, a few funny, short lines, and again he would lose his heart. She always managed to coax a smile, to make him laugh. But deep down he knew she didn't love him. Perhaps she was incapable of love.
Finally she was out of his system. After a series of scathing letters and a miserable visit last spring, she told him to leave her alone. She hated him, she vowed. Her brother Tom was a Union colonel, and Ashton would no doubt kill him. Mag was convinced of Ashton's desire to personally shoot Tom. It was an irrational, almost insane, notion, but she refused to listen to reason.
Then, out of the blue, he received the warm, pleading letter. At first he doubted his eyes, for the handwriting was different from Mag's. But there was no doubt—it was his Mag, now calling herself Margaret, worming her way back into his heart. In truth, she had never left.
Had she truly changed? He didn't know for sure. There were a few moments when he saw something new in her eyes, a tenderness he had never seen before. She asked about his leg. The old Mag never asked about anyone, never thought beyond her own, perfectly shaped nose.
He leaned down and rubbed his aching leg—it was painful to be in one position for so long. As he bent over her, he caught her scent, a heady fragrance of blossoms and sweetness. In time he might live to regret coming to her side, breathing life back into her, watching her as she slept. But in truth, he thought with a wry curve to his mouth, this was the only place he wished to be.
Margaret was aware of the large hand she held, and smiled at the warmth and comfort it seemed to offer. She was dreaming, a wonderful fantasy with a dashing Confederate general and a ravishing brunette; and the best part was that Margaret, tall, ungainly Margaret, was the lovely brunette.
Filtering into the dream were bits of unwelcome information. She had a class to teach. Brad Skinner was taking the letters away. Her clothes were becoming moldy in wet boxes. She struggled to the surface of awareness, but still she held the large hand. She could even feel the calluses where he had held a horse's reins, the hardened palm where he had wielded a sword in battle. She smiled, and a puff of warm breath was on her forehead, followed by the soft bristles of. ..
His mustache.
Her eyes flew open, and there he was. Her ghost.
"Hello." His voice seemed to rumble from deep within his chest.
"Hi," she replied, still holding his hand. Odd. It was so very warm, so alive. Her thumb moved over his wrist, and she felt a distinct pulse. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
His face registered surprise, then he laughed, and she again noticed how very white his teeth were. "I'm feeling well, and thank you for inquiring," he said at last, his eyes betraying vast amusement. His rolling accent made the words purr with smooth sensuality.
For a moment she was transfixed, their eyes locked in unspoken silent communication. His lazy smile faded, and he moved his free hand toward her face.
"I have to go," she announced suddenly, shattering the aura between them. She sat up, and his hand slipped to the small of her back, where it seemed to encompass her entire waist.
"Where?" His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat. "Where do you have to go?"
"Oh, hell. .." she whispered.
"You're going to hell?" He had regained his composure, eyebrows arched in surprise.
"No." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting his hand drop. "I have a class to teach. Beowulf. Will you be here when I return, or do you have to go to the light at the end of the tunnel, or whatever?"
"Margaret, what in the blazes are you talking about?"
"I'm going to get fired if I don't teach the freshman survey class, Ashton. That's the way things are here on earth. I have student loans to repay, an overdue credit card bill, all sorts of mundane worries. Will I see you again?" There was a sudden note of regret in her voice, unmistakable and heavy.
"Margaret, listen to me." His voice was low but commanding, and it demanded her complete attention. She stopped, her head cocked slightly, marveling at how solid he appeared. He continued. "You have been very ill. Indeed, you came within a hairsbreadth of dying, but you are going to get better . . ."
"Oh, Ashton. You still don't realize that you're dead, do you?"
"I'll admit, if anyone can complete the task, Margaret, you're the one. But no, for the time being we're both very much alive."
Margaret sighed, then had an idea. "Ash, is there a mirror around here?"
He nodded once and, then shaking his head in bewilderment, stood up and reached for something on the dresser, next to the blue-and-white pitcher. Margaret saw a flash of light on the ceiling as he handed her a magnificent silver mirror.
"Hey, this is beautiful," she murmured, running a finger over the ornate design on the back of the mirror. "Okay, Ashton. Take a look." She held the mirror to his face, and he leaned closer.
He frowned and rubbed his chin. "You're right, Mag. I need a shave."
"You can see your reflection? Impossible!" She flipped the mirror over, and all color drained from her face. It was the beautiful woman, mimicking Margaret's every expression.
"Margaret?"
There was a buzzing sound, and she felt her chest constrict, that tightening vise again. This couldn't be!
With a shaking hand, she reached for a thatch of dark hair, the lustrous curl reflected in the mirror. And she felt it in her hands, smooth and heavy, attached to her own head.
She was the beautiful brunette.
The wheezing noise was back, and her eyes darted around the room. The walls were white. There was an opened door where the bathroom should be, and she could see clothes hanging in it.
Was she the ghost?
"Margaret! Look at me!" The mirror slid from her hand and shattered on the ground, and she looked at his eyes, intense and compelling. His voice became softer but no less urgent. "Margaret, you have to calm down, relax. When you become frightened or panicked, the illness overtakes you. Hold on to me, Margaret. I'm here."
Her arms reached up for his neck, and at once she was folded into his embrace, pulled against his powerful chest. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she could feel the muscles work as he rubbed her back with soothing, hypnotic circles, around and around, until she was unconsciously following his own slow breathing pattern.
"That's a good girl," he murmured into her ear. And she gave a weak laugh.
"I'm not a horse," she said softly, and she felt him swallow hard and pull her even closer.
Margaret became aware of the hair tumbling down her back and onto her bare shoulders, and saw arms that were slender and very white wrapped around Ashton's broad shoulders. With the world suddenly gone crazy
around her, she held on to his solid form, feeling very safe and cherished as long as he clasped her.
They were both unwilling to end the embrace. His head slowly lowered, and she felt his warm lips pressing kisses against her ear, her neck, at the base of her throat. She pulled away to face him, and a fleeting darkness shaded his eyes. Reaching up to his face, the hard, chiseled features she had so admired in a lifeless painting, her fingers combed the hair away from his temple. But her eyes became fixed on his mouth, generous and expressive under the mustache. And with exquisite tenderness, she tilted her face to meet his mouth.
Margaret had been kissed before, many times, but nothing could compare to his searing touch, a completeness she had never in her wildest dreams imagined. It was the most perfect of moments, and she could feel his breath quicken and . ..
Ashton's Bride Page 8