The Wrong Bride Page 8

  “I’m not feelin’ so good today, Winnie. Might I just start a joint of meat in the pot, and could you finish it for me later? I’ll make some pies tomorrow and work ahead on the baking. Would that do to make up for today?”

  “Of course, Missus Frances. It isn’t near your time yet, is it?”

  “Oh, no. Not for months yet, accordin’ to the midwife. Not till after Christmas an’ the New Year. But still, I’ll keep ahead of things, just in case.”

  “You must sit if you become tired, dear Frances. IF you don’t feel better by noon, go home and put yourself in bed. You look worn out.”

  “I will, an’ thank you.”

  “I think Isabelle could run for you, like go down to the cellars and fetch.” She turned to the girl. “Would you do that, Isabelle?” The girl nodded, wide-eyed and watching. Her eyes grew larger as Lance came into the kitchen.

  “I’m going walking, Winnie, as you suggested. I want a better feel for the place, and I need something to wake me up. I’ve no idea why I’m so tired, but a good stretch of the legs in the fresh air might be just the thing.” He held up a walking stick, new apparently. The women all watched him leave, and Winnie’s eyes caught Isabelle’s gaze going over Lance’s frame and heard the soft sigh as he stepped outside. Looking away quickly, a light blush colored the girl’s cheeks. Something must be going on with Isabelle, something to do with Lance, Winnie thought, frowning. Not wanting any gossip about this house or its occupants, she would have to be watchful.

  Winnie went to the sitting room. On the floor was a new rug laid, a beautiful rug that changed the room from sparse to inviting. It must have been brought in by Lance and Barnaby the evening before. She knelt down and ran her hand over the thick, warmly colored mat. How often she had longed to outfit the house the way it deserved, but not knowing what the future held in store, she was loath to spend the money. Winne stood with a sigh and went upstairs to change the sheets and plump Lance’s pillows. The other set of sheets was worn, but at least it was clean, and it might be well to add a blanket. Nights were coming earlier and colder. On a shelf in the armoire were, besides the old linens, a new set, another thing that Lance must have brought in. She made Lance’s bed and stepped back, adding the dirty sheets to his old clothes in the basket. The room was freshened and clean. Winnie thought it might look nice with a vase or two or marigolds, the last of the season, and would add them later. The old, clean sheets of Lance Winnie would use to make her narrow bed. And she remembered a pair of old draperies in the attics, though the window coverings had holes in them. Perhaps there would be enough fabric to make some kind of covering for her new bed. But, if she were leaving in the spring, perhaps it would be wasted effort. She pondered that idea for a minute and filled the morning with planning. In the attics she found the draperies and shook them out, found vases too, and filled them with marigolds and sweetly scented roses, enough for a vase of each flower for her room and Lance’s.

  At one o’clock, Lance returned. Winnie sighed. She would much rather have taken dinner in the kitchen with Frances and Barnaby, but now Isabelle was here, it didn’t seem right. Lance looked better after his walk, though tired. He had little to say, and Winnie was close-lipped, too. After dinner, Lance and Barnaby went with Jem to do some fishing, and Winnie filled her afternoon with snipping and sewing parts of the draperies together. By supper, she had almost put something together that might look decent as a bed covering. Another nearly silent meal passed. Afterwards for the first time, Winnie had time on her hands and slipped into the sitting room, lit lamps, and began to read the book she’d chosen from the library. An hour went by, then another half-hour, and Winnie, heavy-lidded, lay down, and, slipping a small pillow under her head, began reading again. Slowly she fell asleep, the book sliding from her fingers to land softly on the new carpet.

  Lance found her there. It was a marvel that, when awake, Winnie’s face could contort into a frown or scowl as she contemplated him, but her face now was serene, almost beautiful in repose, the mouth slightly pursed and open, her hair tumbled past her shoulders, the ribbon she always bound it with loosed. He saw the old, knitted throw on the back of the sofa across from her and spread it over her, then went to his own bed thinking of Winnie. He wasn’t eager for her to stay on as she was so determined to leave, but she smoothed the events of the day and gave a regular rhythm to it, and he needed the respite she offered from having care of the house, farm, and its business all at once. Yes, after the first of the New Year, he would be back to normal, surely. It was just that at times he was so profoundly tired, often depressed, and he didn’t know why.

  Another two weeks went by and Winnie accosted Isabelle coming from Lance’s room. Isabelle stammered again, and Winnie reiterated that she would see to Master Lance’s needs. After watching Isabelle start downstairs, Winnie peeked in Lance’s bedroom and he was fast asleep. Winnie bit her lip. Isabelle was a good addition to the house, a decent worker, but for her own sake, Winnie thought of dismissing her. She didn’t really want to. It would double her own work, and she enjoyed the opportunities the new leisure gave her. Winnie had just finished the cover for her bed, brown velvet with lace rosettes placed judiciously over the torn places and then extra ones added to even out the covering in a pattern of squares with the rosettes in the centers, the lace taken from an old dress in one of the trunks.

  Lance had already gone to bed, but Winnie was reading again in the sitting room and began rubbing her eyes before checking the clock. It was after one o’clock! She rose quickly from the settee and headed upstairs after shutting down the lamps, feeling her way and treading softly up the stairs. It would be so pretty to have a runner on them, she thought. A bit of moonlight coming through Lance’s window filtered from his room as she turned to look that way, and Lance was walking toward her! “Oh, Lance, did I startle you? I tried to be so quiet.”

  He mumbled something incomprehensible and stood next to her. His hand rose to the top of her head, and he began to stroke her hair. “What are you doing, Lance?” He continued stroking her hair without answer. “You must stop it, please.” His hand stilled. Thank goodness, Winnie thought. Otherwise, Winnie might raise her voice and wake Isabelle. But then, Lance’s hand slid down her cheek and caressed her there and her chin. “Lance, please!” he paid no attention, but cupped her chin and lifted it gently, bent his head and touched his mouth to hers. Shocked into silence, she tried to pry his hand loose while his lips plied hers. Opening her mouth to protest, his moved on her lips, she heard his moan, felt him deepen the kiss while her heart leapt and pounded with such rapidity, she nearly felt faint. He put his arms around her and enclosed her so thoroughly Winnie was afraid he would squeeze the breath from her, his body hard against hers and heat flowing through his nightshirt. The kiss went on and Winnie felt the wrench of feeling moving in her midsection and spreading outward. The house was cold, but she was now quite warm. Just when her own arms were traitorously rising to clutch him, he let go suddenly, pushed her away and turned back. Winnie stared in the dark at his departing, stunned. What had just happened? Her own breathing was coming and going in gasps. What ought she to do? Winnie watched until she could see Lance no more and stumbled to her own room.

  Winnie’s teeth chattering with agitation, she took off her dress and slid beneath the covers. She’d never been kissed like that. Lance’s mouth had been on hers once before, though it was never anything like what had just happened. Though loathe to admit it, she had been ready to give herself up to the kiss and embrace. She could still feel his lips, warm and firm, and hers tingled in a way they never had. His chest was solid and broad and like an oven on a freezing day. How would she be able to face him tomorrow after such an encounter? Winnie pulled the cover over her head and closed her eyes until warm, then folded the cover back with a sigh. Good Lord!

  When he came into the dining room, Winnie was laying out the setting on the table. “Good morning, Winnie.” It was matter-of-fact, no grin, no lifting of the brows.


  Winnie couldn’t remember what she stuttered, but it must have been something stupid because he looked at her oddly with his forehead creasing into little lines. She left for the kitchen and came back with a plate of crisp rashers of bacon and potatoes sliced and fried in the bacon renderings There was toast slathered with new butter, and coffee and apple tarts from Frances’ baking.

  “What a wonderful breakfast, Winnie. What’s the occasion?”

  Her voice, when she found it, quaked. “Perhaps you will tell me, Master Lance?”

  He stared. “What? No. I don’t know what you mean, Winnie.” Now it was her turn to be perplexed. He acted as if nothing had happened! What was she supposed to think, after that kiss and embrace last evening? Well, two could play this game. Much more calmly than she felt, she asked him what he would be doing today. “You might pack up a basket, Winnie. Barnaby and Jem and I are going to the woods to gather deadfall. Maybe some of Missus Frances’ pies, a jug of ale or cider, or both.”

  “I shall. And a big wedge of Barnaby’s cheese, some bread, and a few of the prettiest apples.”

  “Sounds good. Thank you, Winnie.” His smile was not one of familiarity, but more of duty. They were still like strangers. He picked up the last piece of bacon and made quick work of it, sucking his thumb and finger free of the trace of fat. Winnie watched dazed as he stood to pass through the corridor to the door of the kitchen. She quickly added in her head the cost of the outfit he was wearing: canvas-colored breeches, brown waistcoat and coat, and new long black boots, all of which must be his new working clothes, sturdy and warm. And costly. Quickly she rose and followed him, opening the door a crack to spy. “Good morning,” he said to Isabelle in a bland voice, then pulled on his long coat that hung on the doorway and was gone. Winnie heard Isabelle sigh again.

  After sending Isabelle after him with a quickly assembled basket, Winnie went back to the remains of her breakfast, picking at it until she heard Isabelle come back. Gathering the dishes, Winnie took them to the kitchen. Already pots were going on the stove for the makings of meat pies, and Frances and Isabelle were busy mixing the flour and fat for crusts. Winnie could see that Frances had set bread dough to rise. Ought she ought to talk to Isabelle about Lance? Winnie shook her head. Not now, at least; it would be awkward with Frances there. Winnie loved the lady, but what she must talk to Isabelle about was of a very delicate nature. Before starting work, she would step outside to enjoy the brisk but cold breeze for a moment to clear her head. The old coat came off the hook, and Winnie wrapped her head in the scarf beneath that.

  Outside, the wagon headed off to the wood on the west side of the property. Barnaby and Lance shared the seat, while Jem was in the back with saws and axes, the two dogs happily following along, their tails wagging all the time at this new adventure. I don’t understand how in one moment a person could just waylay another, she thought, kiss her stupefied, and then the next morning, it was as if nothing happened! It was so strange. Winnie was tempted to think it a dream but couldn’t. It had been much too arousing. Never had she felt anything like it before. Against Lance’s chest her breasts tightened, her mid-section and the insides of her prickled against his loins, and all of it, her body against his as if it fitted there, made her weak in the knees.

  In the gardens behind the house, Winnie found the rake and gathered up some of the greens that had overgrown and were withering and took them to the chickens’ yard to throw in. Their own yard was bare of vegetation, and they might appreciate a bit of fresh food. Winnie sighed. It wouldn’t likely happen again, but there was no way she could pretend it hadn’t. She checked the nests inside the coop, and Jem hadn’t collected the eggs. Gathering up her skirt to make a well, Winnie put the half-dozen eggs there and went into the house to help with the cooking. In the middle of the day, the three women broke to have a light meal and went back to working afterward. By the time the men came home, the tins were full of baked goods, Isabelle had made a small crock full of churned butter, an there was a tender roast of beef with vegetables ready to serve up. Everyone was exhausted after the work and splendid supper. The house was quiet after Frances and Barnaby left, Lance went to bed soon after, and Winnie and Isabelle, in the kitchen, readied the pots and dishes to be cleaned in the morning, with Winnie making one last tour of the house after saying goodnight to a yawning Isabelle, already dressed for bed, her black hair bound in a single braid down her back.

  Carrying a lit candle to see her way, Winnie was startled to see Lance descending the stairway, his hand on the rail, dressed only in a nightshirt. He brushed against her but didn’t seem to notice. “Lance, what is it? Are you looking for a drink or something? Would you like a posset?” He didn’t answer, didn’t even appear to see her. Winnie felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Is something wrong?” He said nothing but did turn his head to her on one of the steps near the top of the stairway. Winnie frowned. Whatever was the matter with him? “Do you need your bed warmed?” Sometimes that helped her to sleep when the weather turned cold. Winnie expected to see snow any day now. “The stove is still warm.” He still didn’t answer. “Why are you not speaking to me?” Maybe he was ill. “Come back to bed and I’ll have a look at you.” She would check to see if he had a fever, perhaps give him a drink of water. Still not speaking, his silence made Winnie afraid. Was he momentarily mad? One hand holding the light trembling, she put her other on his am, turned him, and they started up onto the landing and then down the corridor, Winnie leading a docile Lance to his bed. Winnie went to pour a drink of water after she sat him on the bed. Hearing his voice, she turned. “What was it, Lance? What did you say?” She came closer, and suddenly his arm was around her to pull her down to sit on his lap and draw her against him. Winnie gasped at his hand moved to cup her beast and nuzzle her neck with his warm, moist mouth. She shivered and closed her eyes as tremors shook her. “La…Lance? You must stop,” she said, hearing her voice deeper than usual and husky. She swallowed. “No…no, Lance, please,” she begged. But his mouth was warm on her throat. He lay down on the bed and pulled her over him, holding her tight against him. His hips began moving against her, his mouth finding and holding hers, his tongue seeking and, though she thrashed her head back and forth, he held it steady with warm, gentle hands, finding her lips and teasing them, then sinking deeper into her mouth. She shuddered and took her mouth away, but he reclaimed it, murmuring something. Winnie felt his member, stretched and hard, moving. One of his hands lowered to grasp her mound. She moaned, he pulled his hand away and his member took its place. She could feel its thrusts through her clothing. He groaned, a deep guttural sound from the depths of his chest. Slowly his motions lessened and then ceased but something had risen in her she couldn’t stop. Almost automatically her hips had moved several times then stopped as there came a wave of strange feeling radiating from inside and spreading. She was lifted somewhere, bewildered, giving herself up to the urgent feeling. “Oh! What…? Lance,” she cried brokenly. “Dear God,” she whispered as she felt the pulsing lessen. His grip loosened on her little by little, and cautiously, she slid away from him, her body still throbbing. She stood unsteadily, looking at his dark face, the beat in his throat quivering with rapidity. He was apparently asleep, though breathing heavily. She raised a hand to her face to find it hot. Winnie blinked her eyes against the sharp bite of tears behind her lids, noticing that Lance’s breathing was becoming more regular. The bed was already turned down, but she struggled to lift the part of the cover under Lance, finally succeeding in covering him. He slept on, oblivious. Winnie staggered to the doorway, then hurried back to collect her light.

  Winnie practically ran to her own room, shut the door and leaned against it, her breath coming and going in shallow gasps. She laid the candle on the little box beside her bed, clutched her head and began sobbing quietly without control. She sank on the bed, forced herself to stop weeping, shook off her slippers and slid under the covers still dressed. An hour later, after a profound period
of sleep, she woke, trying to focus her eyes, saw the halo of light and stood. Quickly, she undressed in the cold room, put on a freezing nightshift, put out the candle and crawled back into bed, her body still tingling.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Winnie woke slowly, stretched luxuriously and smiled. She sat up abruptly. Why for God’s own sake was she smiling? She wiped away the gesture and looked at the clock. Heavens! It was ten o’clock! Never in her life, except when she’d been mortally sick once, had she slept so late. Then memory came back in a rush. She blinked, eyes widened, horrified at what she’d seen last night. And done. Her head dipped in shame. How would she face Lance? Surely this time he wouldn’t forget.

  Hurrying to put on the new day dress, the other having an association with the previous night Winnie would rather forget, she brushed her hair quickly and tied it back with one of the ribbons carelessly tossed on the low bureau in her room. Hurrying downstairs, she found Lance already at breakfast. He glanced at her, his handsome face marring with a deep frown. “You’re late, Winnie. How unlike you.”

  “But…but…” she stopped and moistened her dry lower lip. “Ye…yes, I am,” she stuttered, face turning pale as he stared at her. “I’m not sure what happened.” But she was sure! She was! Why had he that complacent, superior, judgmental look on his face? “How…how was your evening? Did you sleep alright?”