The Marriage Bed (6 page)

"I'm not blaming
you
, Spencer. Peter and Margaret are proof that
you're
not the problem." She stood by the bedroom door, her body clothed but her soul bare. "Are you coming to bed, Spencer? Please."

He nodded, resigned. "You get ready for me. I'll be in after I finish. It should only take me another few minutes."

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"You don't have to thank me," he said, running his hands through his straight hair and looking as desperate as a man with wheat rotting in the field and a broken thresher in the barn. "A man enjoys making love to his wife. Didn't they tell you that when they were telling you how and when?"

"I had heard a rumor to that effect," she said with a smile that left her face the minute she turned her back on her husband and shut the door. ". . . But they couldn't prove it by you."

She sat heavily on the bed and yanked at her boot laces, snarling one and having to move her foot closer to the lamp to see what she had done. Hunched over for the light, she nearly lost her balance and wound up smashing her elbow against the headboard. As if Kirsten's fancy headboard hadn't caused her pain enough.

"Damn," she said aloud, startling herself. Next she'd be taking the Lord's name in vain.

She fought valiantly with the shoelace, her patience so close to breaking that she considered holding her foot over the lamp and just burning the uncooperative piece of round leather. When she finally freed her foot, she threw the boot across the room with enough force to rattle the window. Then she yanked the buttons on her shirtwaist and nearly ripped the waistband from her skirts.

Did he have to make her feel as if she were begging him? Was she so very undesirable that he couldn't stand the thought of coming to bed?

Selfish. Mean. A miser with his affection. That's what he was. Someday he would be sorry for making her feel like he was doing her such a big favor. She swore he would, as she backhanded the tear that rolled down her left cheek. Someday he'd realize she was the most desirable woman in all of Maple Stand. Maybe all of Wisconsin.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her braid was half undone, her face streaked with tears. One side of her mouth was caught between her teeth.
All right. Maybe not in all of Wisconsin. Maybe not even in all of Door County, or even Maple Stand.
She tried to laugh and sniff at the same time and an awful noise that sounded like a lamb stuck in the barn door came out of her throat.
Well, she was the most desirable woman in Spencer Williamson's house, anyway. No one could take that away from her.

Her smile didn't fool him. He'd made her miserable again. And this time without even trying. Lord, crying over some stupid pie. He decided against having any, just as he had forgone the cakes before it. It seemed to him that the house was crawling with pies and cakes these days, starting with that damn birthday genoise. He hadn't realized that she even made birthday cakes, but it didn't surprise him. If he so much as mentioned something that Kirsten did once, Olivia did it daily. And then she stood there and waited for him to love her because of it. At least that was how it made him feel.

Especially with those tears that seemed to perch continually on the rims of her big brown eyes. Who'd have thought Olivia to be such a crybaby? Kirsten had never cried at the things that brought Olivia to tears.

Of course, he'd never refused Kirsten anything that she asked for, nor anything that she gave.

But Livvy—Lord, there were times . . . He counted on his fingers the weeks he so carefully kept track of and smacked his forehead at his stupidity. Hadn't she just said as much? Her time was coming soon and so now she was shooting the rapids with her feelings once again. Dancing and singing one moment, crying and fighting with him the next. And later tonight, no doubt, her shoes would be outside their door, one facing in, one out, in a superstitious attempt to cut the pain that accompanied her time. If only something could soften the disappointment.

Yeah, his life stunk, but that came from what had happened to him, not what he was. Being a woman . . . well, at least he had that to be grateful for.

He returned to his books, and it took him longer than the few minutes he had promised Olivia to finish up. Long enough, he supposed, that she might even have fallen asleep. He got up and stretched out his aching muscles, then picked up the books and returned them to his study. Through the window he could make out the barn. Was the door ajar or was that just a trick of the moonlight?

Better to check, he thought, and stifled a yawn as he shuffled through the kitchen and took his coat from the hook. He closed the door behind him as silently as possible and made his way slowly to the barn, enjoying the brisk fresh air after spending the evening huddled over his ledgers. The door was closed up tight, but he opened it and listened to hear any unusual noises. Curly George whinnied softly and he answered with a nicker of his own. Everything was as it should be.

On the way back to the house he stopped at Olivia's bird-bath and lifted the rock she always left near it to break any ice that coated the surface in the winter. The water was cold but not nearly frozen, and he dropped the rock back to the ground. Tilting his head back, he located Cygnus, the swan, the Big Dipper, and a few other constellations he'd learned as a boy. All still there.

In the house once again, he checked the stove, making sure that the fire was out, and shrugged out of his jacket. It would be a shame for Olivia to wake up to dirty cups, he figured, so he pumped a little water and rinsed out the mugs in which she had served him hot chocolate.

Finally, he slipped out of his work boots and headed for the bedroom door, cracking it open soundlessly. He tiptoed into their room, the big oak headboard looming in the semi-darkness, each curlicue glowing in the soft light of the oil lamp on the bedside table. Olivia's hair, released from the braid it had been in, lay spread against the white pillow making an elaborate frame for her face. The top two buttons of her gown lay open, a very modest invitation to him. He wondered if that, too, had been Widow Grillot's suggestion.

Looking at her, he was struck once again by the contrast between her and Kirsten, whose blond hair had surrounded her head like a halo and who, in the early years of their marriage before the children were old enough to notice, had often waited for him clothed in nothing but her silken skin. Her thin, reedlike voice would beckon him even before her arms and legs reached out to him, drew him in, captured his body and his soul within those fragile limbs and held him. Still held him, even five years after her death.

"Spence? You get the numbers to match up?" Olivia asked, catching him by surprise with her dreamy, nearly asleep voice. She had a wonderful voice at night, husky and deep. A woman's voice. A voice that said
come to me
even when the words asked about his day or his night. In the daytime it was a matter-of-fact voice that was strong and said what it meant. But at night it sent other messages that only he could hear. Messages that every night got louder as he missed more and more the comforts her body could offer him. Comforts he couldn't dare to take.

"Mm," he answered, pulling the suspenders from his shoulders and unbuttoning his work pants. "No richer than last year at this time, but no poorer, either. I think most of your butter and egg money is safe for another month." He turned and slipped his pants down his legs and raised his shirt over his head.

At the edge of the bed he turned down the lamp and lifted the covers, sliding beneath them. He had hoped to find her asleep. So soundly asleep that if he touched an errant curl, or snuggled against her for a moment's warmth, she would never even know it.

But next to him, Olivia lay with her gown raised to her thighs, awaiting his visit. Through his woolen long Johns he could feel her cold legs next to his. A pain went through him when he thought about how he was cheating her of so much more than just the child she wanted, and in the darkness he hated himself just a little bit more.

"Cold tonight," he said, and the shiver in his voice confirmed his words. "Guess old man winter just doesn't want to give up yet."

"No," she agreed.

She smelled wonderful, like lilacs and powder.

"What happened to your braid?" he asked, lifting a long strand and letting it slink through his fingers.

"I thought—" she began, then stopped herself. "I could do it now, if you want."

Another idea of old lady Grillot? he wondered. For an old battle-ax she knew her stuff. Livvy's hair was soft and silky and just the feel of it across his palm made drawing a deep breath harder.

"Leave it." His Voice sounded gruff to his own ears. More softly he added, "You can tie it up later."

He turned to face her, knowing that sooner or later he had to get started, and his leg slipped between hers as if by its own accord. Before he could pull it back, her hand rested on his thigh. It was, perhaps, the boldest thing she had ever done.

She wet her lips. Nervousness, no doubt, and he found his breathing more irregular than he would have expected. Reaching out with just one finger, he traced the fullness of her lower lip, while she lay as motionless as a rabbit afraid that a coyote had seen her. Again she went to wet her lips, and this time the tip of her tongue came in contact with his finger.

"Uh, I," she stammered, shifting slightly and causing his leg to sink deeper between her thighs until he could feel the warmth of her body against him. "Oh!"

He had meant to tell her he was too tired. He had thought to put her off until tomorrow or the next day, or a moment when for some reason he might feel stronger, more in control. But now he grew hard against the roundness of her hip, and the hand that he had been pressing to her lips had jumped away and rested on her breast. He was sure he hadn't put it there, but he could feel beneath it the hammering of her heart. He edged his way back up to her collar bone, exposed by her open buttons, and played with the small gold heart that rested in the hollow of her throat.

Had he ever seen it before? Had he ever seen her throat, for that matter? His hand moved to the tiny row of buttons and he tried to stop it from opening them, tried to concentrate on things he could control in the hope of stopping things he couldn't.
Sixteen rows of pear trees, each with ten trees to the row.
One after the other the buttons slipped through the tiny holes beneath his hand.
Twenty rows of cherry trees with eight trees to the row.
Her heart pulsed against his palm.

He counted rows in the fields, trees in the rows. He counted windows in the room, panes in the glass. He counted the breaths she took, and noted that each was faster than the last as he lowered his head to her chest. His mouth found her breast, his tongue teased her nipple.

All right, just this,
he promised himself.
What harm can just this do?
Like a drunk, he tried to convince himself that if he wanted to,
when
he wanted to, he could stop. And all the time he forced his brain to do what he couldn't make his body do—leave his bed and return to his fields.

Sixteen rows times ten trees is sixty.
His hand pushed her nightdress out of his way, baring her body to his exploring fingers. Soft. Everywhere was soft. Softer.
Not sixty. One hundred sixty.

Twenty times eight. One sixty again.

And then he heard her gasp and found that his fingers had reached her femininity and were inching lower still until he was nearly inside her. Beneath him she squirmed, whether out of fear or pleasure, he wasn't sure. He pulled his hand away and lifted his head to look at the expression on her face, hoping she would want him to stop, hoping he could, wishing it didn't matter to him whether she was trying to escape his touch or respond to it. He found her eyes closed and her head tipped back. Blood rushed through him. Warmth curled low in his abdomen.

He leaned back and looked at the length of her, glistening in the moonlight. Spreading her gown, he watched the rise and fall of her breasts quicken under his gaze. "So beautiful. So strong and beautiful," he murmured, while in his head a familiar voice shouted at him to stop before it was too late.
Keep counting,
it said.
How many days since your children died?
"I only want to kiss them," he murmured, as much to the voice as to the woman trembling against his side. "Don't be afraid."

He eased her back down beneath him and ran his tongue over the tip of one breast while he fondled the other. Her nipple hardened against his tongue and another sharp intake of breath encouraged him, drowning out the warnings in his head.

She pulled at her nightgown, raising it higher still, and spread her legs for him, anxious no doubt to fulfill their purpose, achieve their goal. He ignored the invitation, burying his head between her breasts, kneading them, suckling on one, switching to the other. The smell of lilacs was intoxicating. It surrounded him and he breathed in greedily.

"I'm ready, Spencer," she said, trying to angle herself beneath him. He raised the knee between her legs and let his thigh tease her femininity.

"I want you to be happy, Livvy," he said, his words muffled against her smooth skin. "I want it so much." One hand stole its way down her midriff and spanned her belly before dipping farther still to the soft curls between her legs.

She tried to say something, but his mouth covered hers, silencing her while his hand rubbed her rhythmically until she began to move in time to it and then began to increase the pace on her own. At least this time he knew it wouldn't hurt her as he felt the increasing slickness against his fingers.

He moved himself into position above her and freed himself from the confines of his cotton drawers. Beneath him she was breathing hard, squirming slightly as if there were something she wanted, something she needed that only he could give her.

"Now you're ready, Olivia," he said and guided himself into the narrow passageway that lay between her legs, looking only to stoke the fire a little more but not set himself ablaze.