Cinderfella (19 page)

“You think that's cold. . . . ” Ash reached out and touched her neck with his cold fingers, and she squealed softly, drawing away and pulling the blanket to her throat.

“Your hands are like ice,” she said, and she reached out to take one hand between her own. Two warm small hands covered the hand he'd teased her with, and he drank in her heat the way a starving man would take in food.

She moved her palms slowly over his hand, until it was no longer cold, and then she reached for the other hand, lifting up slightly and leaning over his body. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

As Charmaine warmed his hand, he reached out to touch her cheek with newly warmed fingers.

“See?” she said. “That's much better. A minute ago those fingers were like ice.”

Those warm fingers slipped from her cheek to her hair, where they disappeared into the golden strands, and she was suddenly still.

“There's no reason, I suppose,” she whispered, “that we can't kiss for a little while. That will warm you up, I'm sure.”

She brought her face to his for a sweet kiss, a brushing of her mouth against his and nothing more. It was torture. It was wonderful. She kissed him again, harder this time, and she pressed her chest to his. All that came between them was the thin night rail she wore, a gauzy bit of linen that did nothing to disguise the softness or the heat of her breasts.

He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, and she gasped. That little sound was almost more than he could bear, and he deepened the kiss. Charmaine tasted of passion and surrender, and she was his — at least for now.

He was hard and aching to be inside her, but for now they kissed, and kissed, and kissed some more. A few minutes ago he'd been freezing, and now he was hot. His blood, his flesh, his soul.

With one hand at the back of Ash's head, Charmaine tried to pull him closer, tried to pull his mouth ever tighter against her own. Her heart pounded, her blood roared, and she couldn't get enough of this. Of
him.

She lifted her leg and hooked it over his hip and felt the startling evidence of his own desire, the hardened manhood, press against her leg. She hesitated, stilling her lips. What was she doing? How had she come so far so fast?

“Ash?” she whispered his name against his mouth, unable and unwilling to pull away.

His lips danced gently over hers. “Yes?”

It was on her lips to tell him to stop, that this was wrong, that this was not what she'd had in mind when she'd offered to share the warm bed. They'd come close before, danced to the edge of something tempting and unknown, and she'd always been able to pull away before they went too far. But tonight her body ached, and sang, and hungered.

My wife.
He'd said the words just that afternoon with such possession and fire. She was his wife, for better or for worse. Perhaps it was true that neither of them had wanted this marriage, and maybe the wedding had been unusual, and she had been so angry . . . but right now her body was telling her that there was more.

He waited. Maybe he expected her to tell him to stop. Maybe he was prepared to spend another long cold night looking out the window.

“I don't know what to do next,” she whispered, and his lips began to move again. He kissed her until she lost all reason, touched her breasts gently through the nightdress until she wanted to cry, it was so wonderful.

Ash moved to tower above her, and while he removed his trousers and hiked up her nightdress, his lips never left hers. He was cradled between her spread legs, his long, hard body stretched out and tense, and she waited. She'd never thought to crave something this way, to want his body inside hers — but she did. More than that, she needed it.

He touched her, his hot, hard manhood teasing the entrance to her body. It was marvelous, but she wanted more. A gentle push, and she began to open for him. She felt it, the welcoming of her body to his, the response that would allow him access. Another push, and she could feel him inside her, stretching her surely to the limit. He began to withdraw, and then plunged deep, breaking past the barrier of her maidenhead and burying himself deep inside.

It was a shocking invasion, painful and brutal and oddly beautiful. Ash began to move above her, his body rocking in a primal rhythm she could feel to her bones. He moved within her, he moved over her, he kissed her again. Her hips rose and fell of their own volition, searching for perfection, searching for . . . something.

Ash began to move faster, his breathing came heavy, and he was hot — so very hot. She opened her eyes to see the gleam of sweat on his face and his broad chest. His eyes were locked on hers, his firm jaw was tensed, and in the moonlight he was beautiful.

He plunged deep and stayed there, whispered her name softly and quaked and emptied his seed into her. And then he melted around her, covering her body with his and laying his lips on her neck and her cheek and her lips.

“That was incredible,” he whispered breathlessly.

“It was?”

He lifted his head to look down at her, and he smiled. “We need a little practice, maybe,” he admitted.

“Practice?”

“Well, we're both. . . . ” he shook his head. “Never mind.”

“We're both what?”

He rolled over and brought her with him. “Today when I came back to the house and found that you'd gone to town with Verna, I didn't think you'd come back. I thought you'd be well on your way to Boston by now.”

It was her plan, still. Wasn't it? She wasn't a farmer's wife, she was a modern woman. Suddenly she remembered the look on Ash's face when he'd seen her that afternoon. “So I gave you quite a start when I popped up out of the back of that wagon.”

“Yes.”

“Disappointed?”

He held her close and seemed to give the question serious thought. “No,” he finally whispered.

Goodness, what was she going to do now?

“We're both
what?
” she asked to change the subject.

“Beginners,” he admitted softly.

“Do you mean to tell me,” she said softly, “that you've never done this before either?”

He shook his head slowly.

She was oddly elated at that bit of news. She'd always heard that men were incapable of controlling their urges, and so often turned to prostitutes and loose women for, well, relief. But not Ash Coleman. He'd waited for her just as she'd waited for him.

“I think we did very well for our first time,” she whispered with a smile.

Ash kissed her one last time, pulled her down so that she rested her head against his shoulder, and almost immediately he fell into a deep sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Fourteen

 

Was that sunlight? Ash opened his eyes slowly. The room was flooded with warming rays that followed the cold night. Coming awake to a bright light was startling. How long had it been since he'd slept past sunrise? So long ago he couldn't remember.

Charmaine was snuggled against him, and the memory of the night that had passed made him smile to himself. This changed everything. No more marital continence, no more sleeping on the floor, no more wondering when Charmaine was going to disappear.

They had a real marriage, now. So, maybe she wasn't your typical farm wife. Maybe she couldn't cook or sew, and maybe she was afraid of the pigs . . . but she was still his wife.

She stirred as he did, and lifted her head slowly. She was wonderfully mussed, hair in shambles, nightdress askew, cheeks pink with sleep. This was a sight he could get used to seeing every day.

“Good morning,” he said, and he reached out to touch one pink cheek and push away a strand of wayward golden hair.

Charmaine pinned her brilliant blue eyes on him, shook her head slowly, and backed away. “What have you done?”

“What have
I
done?”

“You seduced me,” she whispered.

“
I
seduced
you?
”

Charmaine sat up and brought the blanket to her chin, suddenly shy. At least she had the good sense to look contrite. “Yes. You certainly knew what was going on here. You should have removed yourself from the room before things got out of hand. You took advantage of my . . . of my inexperience, and . . . and
seduced
me.”

Ash sat up, his good mood gone. “Yeah, you figured me out. I seduced you by giving you my blanket, and then accepting
your
invitation to share the bed.”

“You looked cold, what was I supposed to do?” she snapped, as if somehow this was all his fault.

“Kissing to warm me up was your idea, not mine.”

“But you should have known better,” she insisted weakly.

Ash grabbed his clothes and dressed with his back to her. He'd married a crazy woman. Last night she'd been the one to come to him, dammit, and now here she was acting like he'd forced himself upon her.

When he turned around Charmaine was furiously stripping off the sheets. “I have to wash these before anyone sees them. I bl-bl-bled a little.”

He felt a stabbing of guilt, and the need to take Charmaine in his arms and make the pain go away. “Are you all right?” he asked, making an effort not to reveal either of his urges.

She nodded quickly. “This changes everything,” she sniffled. “
Everything.
I wasn't supposed to l-l-like you.” She held the balled-up sheets in her hands and stared at him accusingly. “How could you do this to me?”

It all made sense, her insistence on a
pure
marriage, her sudden withdrawal in the barn that afternoon, the distance that was always there . . . he'd been right all along. And, dammit, she'd told him as much on their wedding night. She had no intention of sticking around.

“When are you leaving?” he asked calmly. Her teary eyes widened, and she took in a deep breath.

“I don't know, but I can't stay here,” she whispered. “I'm not cut out for this, Ash. Not for working on a farm or taking care of you or having . . . children.” He could barely hear her by the time she finished her sentence. “I don't belong here.”

He couldn't live like this. Waiting for her to leave, getting his hopes up that she'd stay and then having those hopes dashed. “Then get out.”

“What?” It was a choked whisper.

“You heard me.” He actually looked her in the eye. “You don't want to be here, so get out.”

She clutched the sheets. “It's too soon. Daddy would be furious, and he'd chase after me no matter where I went and drag me back and dump me on your doorstep. After he's calmed down and turned his attention to another matter, then I should be able to slip away quietly. We'll just tell everyone we gave it our best but it didn't work out.”

She'd thought this out thoroughly, had probably thought of nothing else since she'd said
I do! I do, I do, I do!

“It really would be best if I stayed here until matters can be . . . arranged. It won't be long.”

He wanted to tell her no, he wanted her gone today. Now. He couldn't stand to look at her anymore. “Sure. Stay as long as you want, Mrs. Coleman.”

Ash scooped the blanket from the floor by the bed. “But I can't take this anymore. I'm damned tired of being jerked around like a dog on a leash.” Soft and loving one minute, harsh and accusing the next, Charmaine would be the death of him. “I'll be sleeping in the barn until you leave.”

“But . . . what will Verna and the boys think?”

Ash stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He didn't care what anyone thought, he only knew that he couldn't share a room with Charmaine and pretend she was truly his wife until she decided it was safe to leave. He couldn't live with the faint hope that she'd change her mind and stay.

Charmaine held on to the sheets as if they offered some kind of support, as she waited for Ash to answer. He just stood there, his back to her, the blanket hanging from one arm. Her eyes stung with the tears she held back. She couldn't allow this to happen. She absolutely positively could
not
fall in love with Ash Coleman.

Without turning to look at her, he finally answered. “I don't care what anyone thinks. Tell 'em we had a fight, if anyone asks. Tell 'em I'm a lousy husband.”

“But you're not,” she whispered.

He glanced over his shoulder, a look of mingled puzzlement and anger on his face. “Why get choosy now about the lies you tell, Mrs. Coleman?”

Why did he keep calling her Mrs. Coleman? To remind her that she was his wife in every way, perhaps. Maybe to make her feel guilty. And she did feel incredibly guilty.

He slammed the door on his way out, and Charmaine lowered herself slowly to the side of the bed. What had she done? A moment of weakness, and all her plans were ruined. A single touch, and she had put aside everything she believed in for physical pleasure.

Felicity had been so completely negative about the marital embrace. Horrid, she'd said. Degrading.

But last night hadn't been horrid
or
degrading. Not at all. It had been overpowering and a little painful at first, but all in all it was quite . . . agreeable. Maybe Howard was doing something wrong.

Charmaine Haley was not one to cry over spilt milk. What's done was done, and there was nothing she could do but move forward. She should look at this as an experience, an investigation of sorts. If she was going to return to Boston and join Howard on the lecture circuit, it would be helpful to understand exactly how the physical elements of a relationship threatened to overcome the more pure spiritual attachment. Goodness knew her baser instincts had overcome her good sense last night.

And all it had taken was a touch. . . .
 

“Charmaine!” Verna's biting voice was accompanied by a pounding on the door. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Charmaine asked weakly.