Weeping Angel (39 page)

Amelia gazed at Frank, wondering. He put his hand into his right trouser pocket and came out with a ring. “I have one.”

The reverend took the ring, put it on his closed Bible and said, “Bless this ring and the linking of these two lives. The form of the ring being circular—that is round and without end—is important in this way: that mutual love and hearty affection should roundly flow from one to the other, as in a circle, continually and forever.” He gave Frank the ring back. “You may place the ring on her fourth finger.”

Amelia handed her daisies to Narcissa. Frank reached for Amelia's hand and took it firmly in his. Her fingers trembled as the gold band touched her fingertip. He fit the ring smoothly down her finger, pushing it as far back on her hand as it would go. She stared at the gems in awe. She wore an iridescent opal surrounded by eight petite diamonds.

Her throat closed, and she blinked. It was the loveliest ring she'd ever seen. And it was hers forever.

Frank meshed his fingers with hers and lowered their hands to their sides. He didn't let her go as the reverend concluded the ceremony.

“Inasmuch as you both have pledged your love and bequeathed your worldly goods to each other by way of the symbol of this ring, from this day forward, you shall have and hold in the bosom of your hearts the life of your mate, in sickness and in health, until death
do you part. By the powers vested in me as a minister of God, I can pronounce you man and wife. Amen.”

Amelia let out a sigh as Frank took her into his arms and kissed her softly on the lips.

Her first kiss as a married lady. It was different from his kisses before. This one tasted of love and comfort and the many promising years to come.

*  *  *

Frank sat on a cane-seat stool in Amelia's spotless kitchen, watching her fix dinner. Since they'd gotten married in the late afternoon, she'd insisted on making him a wedding supper.

He wasn't hungry but he let her go through the motions, having the suspicion she needed a diversion. It went unspoken that tonight they'd be sleeping in the same bed. She had a fragile panic written all over her lovely face, and it bothered him. He wondered how much she knew about wedding nights.

They'd left the church separately, he going off to the Moon Rock to pack his belongings, she to her house. While he was in the saloon, he'd poured himself a short bracer of straight bourbon to fortify his nerves. As soon as the Rev had pronounced them husband and wife, the enormity of what he'd done hit him like a fist.

He was married.

Bound to an institution for which he had no training. He'd never observed a loving couple; Jack and Charlotte had never been considerate of each other.

But Frank was man enough to know how to treat a lady. He was also astute enough to know there was a lot more to matrimonial living than considerate manners. Narcissa Dodge had been opposed to their spontaneous wedding and initially refused to stand up for them. It had taken his word of honor to convince Narcissa that he'd been seriously considering marrying Amelia regardless. Narcissa pointed out that damage had been done before the wedding ring was on
Amelia's finger, and there would still be gossip. Was he willing to put everything aside and make Amelia the most important thing in his life? He'd assured Narcissa if he wasn't certain he was the right man for Amelia, he wouldn't be marrying her.

“Do you like greens?” Amelia asked him from her position in front of the sink.

He lifted his gaze to hers, noting she was as nervous as a long-tailed cat under a rocking chair.

“Greens are all right.”

“And ham?” she squeaked. “If you don't like ham,” she went on in a rush, “I could prepare something else.”

“Ham is fine.”

“Good, because I baked a small ham the night before last.” She efficiently pivoted toward her icebox and opened the door. Removing a covered pot, she took out the cold meat and put it on a pastry board. She cut a few slices, then dropped them into a hot frying pan on her range plate. The sizzling noise made her jump. “I could scramble some eggs,” she offered with a faint tremor to her voice.

“I don't want any eggs.”

“That's right. You said you make egg sandwiches.” She kept her slender back to him. He let his gaze wander down the length of her spine, to the nip in her waist where the wide bow of her apron was tied, and lastly over the flare her skirts made at her hips. “I'm sure you're tired of eggs,” she said with an airy laugh he sensed was artificial from tension. He studied her tidy hair in the sunlight, thinking he could unpin the curls and watch them tumble down whenever he wanted.

He wanted to now.

She had to lean a little to the left to reach for a utensil she had on the stovepipe shelf. He viewed the profile of her upper body, the outline of her breasts in
the form-fitted shirtwaist she wore. He wouldn't have to wonder what she looked like naked. Now he'd be able to see the color of her nipples.

He wanted to see them now.

Using a two-pronged kitchen fork, she turned the slices of ham. “I'm sorry I don't have any cherry pie left. I could make a marble cake, but it wouldn't be ready to eat for a while.”

“I don't want any cake.”

“Oh. Well if you change your mind, it would be no trouble.”

As she moved to the sink to rinse the salad, her skirts made a rustling sound he found sensual. The fabric of her petticoats whispered, no doubt caressing her bloomer-covered thighs with their satiny touch. He visualized the luscious flesh of her legs.

He wanted them around his hips now.

“I do have peach butter and some leftover biscuits,” she chattered. “At least I think I have some peach butter left.” Pausing, she pressed her forefinger to her mouth in thought.

He wanted to kiss her lips now.

“If I don't have any peach butter, I'm sure I have plum jam.”

What he really wanted was her to stop talking. He might have told her as much if she hadn't suddenly turned to face him and announced, “Supper is finished. You may go to the table.”

Frank stood, the muscles in his body burning from the blood pounding through him. The degree to which he was responding to her stunned him. He'd had women before. He'd felt the physical release of pleasure and knew the gratification of fulfillment. But for Amelia he felt a rush of sexual desire rising in him like the hottest fire, clouding his brain.

It took every ounce of self-control not to touch her.

Instead, he went through the motions of allowing
her to show him to the dining room, since she seemed determined to make him something to eat. But he didn't want food.

He wanted to devour his wife. Now.

Every last inch of her.

He chose the first chair his hand touched, hell-bent on getting the meal over with as quickly as possible. But before his behind could make contact with the cushion, Amelia cried, “That's where I always sit!”

Tilting his head, he stole a slanted look at her. Visibly distressed by her outburst, she wrung her hands together. “I'm sorry. Of course you may sit there. That's the head of the table, and you're the head of the household now.”

“If this is where you always sit, Amelia, then this is where you'll continue to sit.”

“But you're the husband.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not really one yet,” Frank remarked, the suggestive innuendo going over Amelia's head. She stared at him with wide brown eyes, and he still refused to sit in her chair. He picked the one across from hers, slid the legs out, and wedged himself into the seat.

Absently drumming his fingers over the tablecloth, he waited for her to move. She didn't budge. He spoke in an even tone meant to move her into action. “Is that the ham I smell?”

Her brows shot up, and she gasped, “It's burning!” Then she took off in a flurry.

He heard a lot of metal noise, the pump hinge drawing water, and Amelia's series of little coughs. The kitchen grew quiet after that. He waited a few seconds, the showy wall clock slowly ticking them off. “Sweetheart, are you okay in there?”

She didn't answer.

He wondered if she was crying and was just about to investigate when she came into the dining room. She held a tray laden with two plates, a strained smile
taxing her lips. She set one before him, and he gazed at the smoking ham on the fine china. There was a biscuit next to the charred meat, and a salad without dressing.

Wordlessly, she took her seat.

He stared at her through the gap between the unlit yellowed candles and a centerpiece vase of drooping daisies. Her bridal bouquet, to be exact. With a punctuated sigh, she unfolded her napkin and let it sail primly to her lap. Picking up her fork, she gazed at her plate but didn't make a move to eat a thing.

A difficult silence cloaked the room.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured in a thick voice. “It's not like me to burn something. It won't happen again.” She sniffed, and he could tell she was holding back her tears.

Her show of brittle emotion worsened the situation, and he couldn't restrain himself any longer. He stood with a suddenness that made her chin snap upward and her eyes grow large. Bracing the tabletop with the flat of his palms, he put his weight on his arms. “Quit being so goddamn polite. I don't want to eat. You don't want to eat. We don't have to pretend we want to eat.”

He saw her swallow hard, but once he got going, he couldn't hold anything back. “I don't want you to apologize to me. It's not flattering to you, Amelia. I like you better when you give me a piece of your mind, so stop being so considerate and keep your chair. I don't give a flying cocktail shaker where I sit.”

“But—”

“But nothing. It doesn't matter. Nothing as insignificant does. So you burned the ham. Who cares? I don't.”

Her shoulders quaked and he swore.

“Ah, Christ, sweetheart. Don't cry.”

“It's just that I wanted everything so perfect,” she said in a tiny voice.

Frank sharply nudged his chair back; it tipped over with a dry bang. He didn't flinch. He walked the length of the table, his mouth set in a tight line.

Amelia started and dropped her fork. The metal clinked on the edge of her plate before falling noisily to the floor.

Frank reached for her, took her firmly by the elbow, and made her stand up. He could feel her trembling. Goddammit, he didn't want her afraid of him. Moving with a definite gentleness, he tucked her into the protection of his arms. With restrained strength, he tenderly pushed her into him; her breasts were crushed against his chest. Pinning her between his legs, he cradled the back of her head in his hand and stared into her moist eyes. He felt an ache inside him; he felt her hurt, her fear. It pained him. Deeply.

Lowering his head, he consoled her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Things are perfect.” He kissed the arch of her silky smooth neck. She tasted so good. She felt so warm. “Relax, Amelia. It's me. It's Frank. You know I don't bite . . .” He lightly nipped her earlobe. “ . . . unless you want me to.”

He felt her breasts rising and falling; he heard her labored breath snag in her throat. He slid his hand up her back so he could hold her face between his palms and kiss her fully on the mouth. Her lips were parted, and she moaned as he met her. He kissed her a long time, savoring her, experiencing her. She clung to him, her arms wrapped around his middle, light and weak. He felt himself leaning into her, pushing her up against the table's edge for support.

The fullness of her breasts rubbed his shirtfront, the friction of fabric to fabric singeing his already hot skin. He moved his hands upward, the pads of his thumbs massaging, stroking the sensitive skin behind her ears. He felt her hair, his fingers reaching for the pins that kept it bound. He found several and plucked them from her carefully styled curls. The silken
strands felt like the coolest ribbons around his fingers. He inhaled the feminine fragrance of her hair as it wafted around them. Kissing her deeper, harder, he bent her back a little further.

She spoke against his lips, her voice hitched and faint. “Are you going to sweep the dishes to the floor and lay me over the table?”

He inhaled sharply. “Jesus . . . do you want me to?” he asked while catching her full lower lip with his teeth and running his tongue over the velvety softness of her mouth.

She gasped. Her hands tightened to fists, bunching the thin linen of his shirt in her grasp. “I don't know . . . I didn't make you fried chicken . . . and the dishes . . . they're my best ones.”

“Then I won't break them.”

He stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue, touching her, teasing her. She met him, reserved at first, then returned the kiss just as ardently. He moved his hand downward, over her breast, cupping the mound with his palm.

She didn't stop him, but she made a low noise. A groaning sound that dissolved on his wet lips. The heat that slashed through him was fierce. His mind was blinded. Their rapid breaths filled the dining room, a reminder of where they were. He broke his mouth from hers, and they gazed into each other's eyes for several frantic heartbeats.

Without a word, he bent slightly at the knees and scooped her into his arms. He moved under the wide archway curtained with glass beads and took long, purposeful strides into the parlor. The contact of her body, the imprint of her breast next to his ribs, and her fingers curled into his shoulder left him with only one thought in his head.

Getting her on the first bed he could find.

He took the stairs, went past the water closet, and nudged open the first door he came to with the toe of
his boot. The small room was scattered with a miscellany of
objets d'art
, including a painted plaster bust of an Indian maiden. There was a marble-topped table, several plump sitting chairs, but no bed.

“This is my sewing room.” Her words were husky, lower than normal.