Marry Me (11 page)

“But—”

“That topic is not open for discussion.”

“Then neither is mine.”

It was so easy to look at Emily and see the child she’d been. On the outside she’d changed very little, all big, earnest eyes and round cheeks and tiny body. “You were always the most tractable of children. When did you become so stubborn?”

“I always have been. I had a good teacher.” Emily smiled as if it were a compliment instead of an insult. “It’s just that we seldom disagreed, and I even more seldom found something that was worth opposing you on.”

“And this is?”

“Oh yes. Every bit as much as working with Dr. Goodale was.”

Deliberately, Kate let her concern show. “I miss you.”

“Kate.” For a moment Kate thought appealing to Emily’s susceptible heart would be enough. “You’d have missed me, too, if I was off at college.”

“Yes. But it’s not nearly so far away. And I wouldn’t have worried about you a fraction as much.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Emily…”

“That’s enough for one night, Kate. There’ll be plenty of time for you to scold me tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ll have a lot more energy for it then.” She slipped her arm around Kate’s waist, the way Kate had done to her a thousand times. “For now, I don’t know about you, but those crackers and cheese we had earlier aren’t going to hold me all night long. And it’s certainly not going to keep Jake until breakfast. How do you feel about biscuits and sausage gravy?”

Kate watched her new brother-in-law make a bed on the floor. Though
bed,
to Kate’s way of thinking, was a charitable term. A thin tick stuffed, she thought, with straw or field grass or somesuch—how long after grass was picked did it take for all the insects in it to die?—laid on that hard floor, covered with a few worn blankets.

Things could be worse, she reminded herself. At least the floor was wood.

He worked quickly, silently. He was a silent man, was this Jake Sullivan. And a serious one. One might even call him gloomy. She’d done her best to charm him at dinner; on the chance that—and she was not giving up, not in any way, she just considered it prudent to have a back-up plan—Emily remained with him, she wanted to know enough about the fellow to believe that Emily was in reasonably good hands. Not as good as
her
hands, of course.

But he hadn’t given her so much as a hint. Surprising; few men could resist her when she was really bent on getting something from them. He ate quickly and with complete focus, like a man who’d not always had as much as he wanted to eat, but someone had taught him a few table manners along the way, which was more than she’d dared hope for.

But every question she asked, no matter how simple or how large, no matter how pointed, he deferred to Emily. As frustrating as her inability to pry any useful details from him was, the fact that he
did
defer to Emily without any hesitation reassured her a bit. Most men took more training than that before they deferred to their wives.

They weren’t easy with each other. There were none of the secret smiles, the unspoken communication common between long-married couples. Once when Emily passed behind him to fetch more coffee, she bumped his shoulder with her elbow and he jumped half out of his chair.

It seemed…a little off to Kate. But she couldn’t discount the possibility that might be wishful thinking on her part. And truly, what did she know about how newly wedded couples acted together in those first days of marriage? Her own marriage was useless as a comparison. Perhaps it wasn’t unusual for them to be a touch awkward with each other.

“Well.” He got up from squatting beside the bedroll and rubbed his palms down the front of his denims. “I guess I’ll—” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the door. “I’ll be outside for a while. Give you ladies time to, um—” He looked to Emily for help.

“We’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back.”

Despite his promise, Kate found herself hurrying through her toilette. After tugging on the biggest, thickest, most all-concealing nightdress she found in her luggage—which would undoubtedly have her sweating in no time, and wasn’t that attractive?—she gave her hair the cursory brushing and refrained from smearing on her night cream for fear he’d come back unexpectedly. She promised herself she’d do better tomorrow night. She had to protect her looks, the way a singer might protect her voice or a seam-stress her hands.

Emily’s nightgown was every bit as voluminous as Kate’s, swallowing up her small figure, her face pink from a fresh scrubbing and her hair tied up in a blue ribbon.

“You look exactly as you used to when you’d come to my room frightened by a storm. Remember?”

“Of course. You were always dead asleep until I came and woke you. How is it the thunder never disturbed you but my first step into your room did? I tried so hard to be quiet.”

“Thunder didn’t scare me.”
And you always did. Or rather, the thought I might not be enough for you, might not do right for you; that terrified me from the moment Mother died
.

Emily poked her head out the door. “Jake? We’re done. You can come back now.”

He ducked his head, his hair damp and deeply waved, came into the room, and took it over, his presence overwhelming. He thumbed open the first button on his shirt, then looked at them and let his hands fall. He shrugged, turned for the makeshift bed on the floor, and Kate made her decision.

“I thought that was my bed.”

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “I assumed—I mean, well, I figured you’d be sleeping with Emily and I’d take the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She’d made the decision, and now she poured it out as fast as she could before she changed her mind. They’d obviously been sharing a bed
before
her arrival. So she would swallow her instinctive protest and try her best to be adult about it. And anyway, it wasn’t as if, honeymooners or no honeymooners, they were likely to
do
anything with Emily’s big sister dozing only a few feet away. And if he tried she’d just have to have a sudden, very loud coughing fit, wouldn’t she? “Do I look the sort to come between a man and his new bride?” She beamed a smile—not a bad one, all things considered—at Emily.
See what a good sport I’m being?
“And anyway, I have a trick back, don’t I, Emily? Always better if I rest on a very firm surface.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I
do
.” What was the matter with her? Emily was usually much quicker to pick up on hints. And she was looking a bit peaked around the edges, her eyes wide, skin pale as it could be considering all the color she’d picked up out there. Well, it couldn’t be a comfortable situation for her, poor dear, any more than it was for Kate; neither one of them had so much as peeked at the bed.

“Well, yeah, that’s right considerate of you.” He shuffled his feet and shot a quick, worried glance at his wife. It was rather endearing, to see this glowering, supremely contained man discomfited. And he suddenly appeared much younger than she’d taken him for; perhaps he was not all that much older than Emily after all. “But truly, Em’d be right put out with me if I made her sister sleep on the floor.”

“But it’d be silly for
both
of you to sleep on the floor, while I took the bed. No, no, I insist. I’ll be fine. Look!”

She plopped herself down, a
whoosh
of night-gown, and patted the blankets into smoother order. This kicked up a musty cloud of dust, and she pinched the bridge of her nose to keep from sneezing. “There, you see? Comfortable as can be. I’ll be fine.” She flopped backward, valiantly suppressing a wince when her spine hit hard wood scarcely cushioned by blankets that wouldn’t keep a horse warm in July.

Jake stared glumly at Emily. Kate wondered about that; was he hoping Kate would offer to sleep somewhere else, so they could be alone? She was sacrificing enough here; that was truly above and beyond the call of duty. He could just rein himself in for a few days. Yes, they were newly married, but in her experience men whined far more about that particular subject than it called for.

Finally Emily lifted her shoulders and spread her hands wide.
Now what?
He frowned fiercely at her, and fierce, on Jake Sullivan, was downright intimidating.

He made a low sound. Kate imagined a waking grizzly bear emitted the very same tone. “I don’t—”

Swiftly Kate rolled over, so her back was to the bed, and slammed her eyes shut. “I’m sleeping,” she sang out.

She heard nothing for a long time, until a drawn-out sigh and the scuffle of feet. She opened her eyes a crack. Just before someone snuffed out the lantern, she caught a glimpse of the floor, studded with gaps and dozens of knotholes the size of a fist. Large enough for all sorts of nasty creatures to crawl through in the middle of the nigh to nibble on un-or rather,
sus
pecting ladies from Philadelphia.

She thought longingly of her bed, beautifully crisp, sunshine-scented linens over drifts of soft feathers, as her hip protested the floor.
Emily, I certainly hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you
.

E
mily put out the lamp because she thought it would be easier in the dark. But they’d left the window open, and the moonlight that shot through seemed aimed directly at the bed. She could see it all too clearly: flat, covered in white, and
small
. Horribly, embarrassingly small.

In Philadelphia she’d had a bed as big as a train car. Ridiculous, so much space for one little girl. She’d even wished it smaller, so she wouldn’t feel swallowed up, so alone in that vast, unnecessary space.

But oh how she longed for that bed. Jake could jump up and down on his side of it and she’d never feel it on hers. On this one, however, she suspected she would feel every twitch of his toe, every turn of his head.

She sneaked a peek at him. Face turned toward the moonlight, he carefully avoided looking either at her or at the bed, the light harsh on his features. Shadows angled deep beneath his newly revealed cheekbones, cutting sharp lines where his jaw met his neck. How could she share a bed with him? She didn’t even know him! The hulking, unkempt Jake who lurked in his chair in his makeshift camp she might have managed; she’d become accustomed to him, his constant, waiting presence. But this one—if she’d conjured up the image of a dream husband, he would have appeared like this. Only not so sad, so gloweringly fierce.

She heard a rustling from Kate’s blankets, followed by a delicate cough. They couldn’t stand by the side of the bed like sentries any longer. Kate would wonder what was the matter with them.

But she didn’t even know which side of the bed he preferred. It suddenly seemed terribly important that she didn’t take his side; she’d sucked him into this, far more than he’d bargained for. And as she’d never slept with someone, except a few nights as a child with one of her sisters, she shouldn’t have developed a distinct preference for one side or another. But he undoubtedly had one. She’d heard that men were picky about such things.

She couldn’t just ask him. Kate would hear and wonder why they’d not worked out such matters by now.

Tentatively she touched his arm. The muscles leaped and she yanked her hand back. But it got his attention. She gestured toward the bed, arching her eyebrows in question. But he just frowned. So she pantomimed as best she could, pointing to first one side, then the other.

He bowed, waving her in, a mocking twist to his mouth that might have been cruel if his eyes weren’t so sad.

How insensitive she’d been. She could hardly believe it of herself. Her perceptions of others’ emotions were usually so strong that she had to prepare herself before entering Dr. Goodale’s waiting room. But she’d been so preoccupied with her own pressing concerns that she’d forgotten how difficult this must be for him.

This was his bed. Where he’d lain with his wife. And to lie here with another woman—even one with whom he shared nothing but a brief and practical agreement—must be almost unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed at him. Inadequate words. They usually were, all those times she’d murmured them to the grieving relatives of patients they’d been unable to help. She’d never meant them more. Wished there was more that she could do. In other circumstances, with any other man, she’d have reached out, laid a soothing palm on a shoulder, rubbed comforting circles between his shoulder blades. But he’d already made it clear he didn’t want her hands on him.

Then the world lurched abruptly as he scooped her up and she gave a shriek of surprise. The rope frame creaked as he leaned over and deposited her, not very gently, on the far side of the bed.

And then he was beside her, arm looped over her, a heavy, unfamiliar weight, mouth close to her ear—very close; she could feel the moist, hot wash of his breath, the stirring of fine hairs at her nape with each exhalation. Her heart did something entirely new, a heavy beat, one in which she felt each rush and pump of blood, conscious of its working in a way she never was.

“It seemed,” he whispered in her ear, intimate and stirring, “the only way to get you to move.”

She rolled her head to look at him but misjudged the distance. His mouth brushed against her as she turned, a searing burn over her cheek.

He was so close. She’d never been that close to a man. How odd that it would be him. She’d never imagined it, never imagined
him
. But it felt right. How could it be anyone else?

For an instant she was certain he was going to kiss her.
Please, yes. Yes, yes
. He hadn’t pulled away, just remained in place, his mouth inches,
fractions
of inches, from hers. She could look straight into his eyes, deep and dark as nightfall, lashes denser than she’d ever realized.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“Shhh.” He put his finger against her lips and inclined his head toward her sister. She hadn’t anticipated the gesture and so he’d caught her with her mouth half open, the moist inner curve of her lips caught against his work-roughened skin. “It’s all right.”

And it was all right, Jake discovered in numb surprise. He’d stood there beside their bed—his and Julia’s bed—and the memories and the guilt had nearly drowned him, the urge to flee so strong that he’d known he had to get it over with fast or he’d never climb into the bed with her. And so he’d just tossed her in.

But this wasn’t his bed. She’d restuffed the mattress, more grass than he’d used, making it firmer beneath his hip. Her sheets were different, a finer weave, a crisper rustle when he moved. The smells were new, a different soap on the linens and on her hair.

His senses drank it in. They’d had few enough pleasant things to experience over the past years. Too many sour smells in rancid taverns, too many ugly, dirty sights at the wharves. He thought that he could stay there forever and just let himself enjoy it: the look and smell and feel of a clean and joyful woman.

She felt new in his arms. Smaller, yes, her shoulders narrower, her hips slighter. But stronger, lean rather than wasted, with flesh over her ribs, easy control and energy in her motion. Even her temperature wasn’t the same; through the fabric of her nightdress—thin, soft, fuzzy-surfaced cotton—she felt warmer to him, as if she burned hotter, the same vibrant life that blazed in her eyes.

“Jake?”

And then his senses, which had been so busily gathering all those tidbits of information, finally sorted and recognized them all.
Woman
. His body reacted and he hardened so abruptly he was dizzy with it, dizzy enough that he would have dropped to the floor if he hadn’t been lying down.

“Jake?” More worried this time, concern drawing her mouth into a pucker.

“Jeez, it’s warm.” He let her go and rolled away so quickly he stirred up a draft. What had he been thinking, to be so close, to let his arm lie across her chest where it had fallen when he’d flopped down? Even now his arm retained the feel of her, pillowy imprints of breasts against the inside of his forearm.

But
thinking
never really entered into it, did it? If there was one truism history had proved a thousand times over, it was the harder the cock, the softer the brain.

“Here.” He yanked up the covers, threw them over her so they covered her shoulders and half her face. “My wife was always colder than I was.”

My wife
. He used it deliberately, reminding them both, as much a wedge between them as the thick roll of quilt. He lay back down on his side, his hip on top of the edge of the blankets, so that there was no danger of him working his way under it in sleep or her rolling her way out.

For a moment he expected her to protest; she wasn’t the kind to let things be. More like the type to beat things to death, to talk them over and over until a man came around to her way of thinking out of pure exhaustion. He heard the rush of air as she sucked in a full breath.

But all she said was “Good night, Jake.” Sweet tones; soft, intimate words, the last thing husbands all over the country heard as they dropped off to sleep. And they hit him as hard as the desire had, left him aching in his heart as well as his groin. He’d missed that, so much, someone to wish him a gentle and healthful rest.

He closed his eyes, drifting in some floating, half-real place, the soft rhythm of her respiration in his ears, the scent of her soap in his nose. Even without those cues, he’d know there was someone in bed with him: a few degrees warmer, the mattress not dipping as deeply beneath him as when he lay alone.

Sleep was impossible. Surrendering to slumber seemed like surrendering to
her
and the pull of her presence, the pleasure of having her beside him in bed. He couldn’t do it.

He had only one hope: that Emily’s sister dragged her home soon, before he got used to it.

Kate couldn’t believe it. She’d been so certain she’d snatch only a few moments of sleep, instead lying still and alert for any suspicious sound, especially from the bed. And that what meager rest she did catch would be restless, tainted with dreams of small, crunchy black creatures crawling up through the holes that studded the floor like Swiss cheese.

Instead she’d fallen dead asleep practically the moment she lay down. She hadn’t realized how much the last few days—the last few weeks, for that matter—had sapped from her. How much being able to see with her own two eyes that Emily was alive and relatively well had released her from that horrible tension and fear.

It took a moment upon awakening to register where she was. The moment she did, she bolted upright, ignoring the protests of bones and muscles that had not appreciated her chosen bed.

It had to be early. Pale, gray light misted in, giving the small room a softer quality it sorely needed.

Emily and Jake dozed on, and Kate squelched her immediate impulse to grab the man’s arm and haul him away from her sister.

They looked comfortable together in sleep in a way they did not awake, with Emily turned on her side, Jake curled protectively around her. Her sister appeared tiny in his embrace, completely sheltered, in the tender curve to his body that Kate suspected he would never display voluntarily. He didn’t strike her as a tender sort of man.

Sometimes, when she was much younger, Kate had let Emily sleep with her when the doctor was away and a storm howled. Kate pretended she allowed it for Emily’s sake but knew it was as much for her own. She’d enjoyed watching her sister sleep, treasured knowing she was safe and well cared for through Kate’s efforts.

She appeared scarcely older now. Oddly, while sleep softened her husband’s features, made him more open, younger, easing the harsh lines of worry and care, it did the opposite to Emily. While awake she was always bright, happy, her eyes so full of life it seemed as if she was smiling even when she wasn’t, in sleep the corners of her mouth often turned down, her brow furrowed. It had always been that way, as if her dreams were harsher than her reality. Or as if that was the only time she allowed darker thoughts to touch her.

Kate frowned, troubled. She’d worked so hard to ensure that Emily had never had to worry. Believed that, mostly, she’d succeeded. She’d never understood why Emily, asleep, always appeared unhappy.

And then she shrugged it off. No doubt she was reading far too much into it.

Jake shifted restlessly, dragging the quilt down around Emily’s waist. He groaned, burying his face at the nape of her neck, and his hand settled, firm and unerring, on her sister’s breast, as if returning to its customary preferred spot.

Kate saw red. Managed to wait a beat, certain that, even in her sleep, her sister’s good instincts would take over and knock the intruding hand away.

Damn.

Well then. Kate hurried to start the morning coffee with as much clattering and clanging as she could create.

Softness. Soft and sweet, birds twittering, clouds of good-smelling silk in his face, cushiony pillows beneath his head, nice warm flesh in his hands.

Oh, his dreams were getting better. Fabulous, even. After months of dreams that were dark and bloody and raw, this was as close to heaven as he’d never expected to get. So much so that he battled to remain there, ignoring the persistent clanging in the back of his brain.

He liked it there. Blessed his brain for finally taking pity on him and giving him pretty dreams. If he’d had these dreams before, he’d have never woken up.

Because it had to be a dream. Fuzzy edges, drifts of sunny, flowery images, did not exist in his waking world. His waking world was full of sharp edges and cold winds and bitter memories.

But the damn banging wouldn’t stop.

He swore, tried to make it go away, which only made the sound hammer more energetically.

And then—damn it, he’d tried to avoid it—he woke up. He sat bolt upright and swung bleary eyes to the source of the brutal sound and found Emily’s sister, gleefully slinging tin plates onto the table.

“Oh sorry, did I wake you?” she asked brightly.

Well, shit.
Though he couldn’t have said whether the oath was for the night before or being rudely jerked out of it. Emily blinked awake beside him, a slow, sleepy, utterly seductive stretch of her arms over her head, her back arching and hips shifting. “Oh,” she said when she saw him. She stopped stretching—a shame, that—but then smiled up at him, which went straight to his gut and his blood as powerfully as the sight of her twisting upon his bed had. “Good morning.”

Now here was a delicate situation. Somehow in the night he’d ended up wrapped around her. The scent of her still clouded his nostrils, and if he tried for a moment he could still feel her in his arms.

He had no doubt that Kate, glowering from the kitchen, was going to start pitching some of those dishes at his head if he didn’t get away from her sister’s side. It was unsettling, being in a woman’s bed with one of her relatives looking on, a situation so far out of his experience he couldn’t fathom the appropriate response.

And yet he could hardly just get up. Not without presenting Kate with too-visible proof of how much Emily’s nearness appealed to his baser instincts. And for some reason he didn’t think Kate would be too well-mannered to ensure her eyes never strayed close to that region.