The Paper Marriage. Bronwyn Williams
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will direct me to a bed and a bucket and leave me alone for the next few years.
The mule meandered to a halt. Several speckled chickens ran squawking to greet them. Luther reached into one of the sacks in the back of the cart and tossed down a handful of grain. “Go on inside, ma’am—you, too, Miz Littlefield. I’ll fetch in your bags as soon’s I feed up and unhitch.”
Bess hopped down as nimbly as someone half her age. Rose followed more cautiously, willing her knees not to buckle. It was bad enough that she was here under false pretenses without landing in an ungainly heap at her husband’s feet.
“Matt, we’re here! Now where’s this baby of yours?”
Trudging through the sand behind the older woman, Rose heard a door open and glanced warily past Bess’s portly frame. Her eyes widened.
This was Bess’s nephew? This giant of a man?
This was her paper husband?
She swallowed a fresh surge of nausea and wondered if it was too late to catch the mailboat. Being seasick was utterly miserable, but physical violence was far worse. She still had nightmares, especially on stormy nights.
If this man ever lost his temper and struck her, she might not survive. His arms were as thick as tree limbs.
“Rose, come here and meet Matthew. Matt, this is Mrs. Littlefield. She’s my secretary and companion, but I’m lending her to you for a spell.”
When Bess had said the Powers men bred true, Rose had taken it to mean they were all short, stout and redheaded. This man had hair black as pitch. He stood more than six feet tall, even without the boots. If there was an ounce of spare flesh anywhere on his muscular body, it wasn’t evident from this distance. Rose had been around men all her life. Her father, the sons of her parents’ friends who had teased her as a child and ignored her thereafter.
And Robert, of course.
Not a one of them had been so utterly, blatantly male as the man who stood on the porch, his belt buckle level with her eyes, his close-fitting trousers practically flaunting his masculinity.
Oh, my mercy…
“Rose? What’s the matter, are you still sick to your belly?” Bess inquired, and, in an aside to her nephew, added, “She don’t travel well. We’re working on it, but she’ll likely be glad to stay in one place for a spell.”
It took every vestige of courage she possessed, but Rose forced herself to climb the five sandy wooden steps and follow Bess inside, even though it meant brushing past the man who held the door. She was careful not to breathe, but she could feel the heat of his body. The weather outside was cold and damp, yet he was wearing only black serge trousers and a white shirt, open at the throat, with the sleeves turned back to reveal corded, hair-roughened forearms.
“You’ll want to freshen up,” he said. “I’ll tell Crank to boil up some tea. There’s cold biscuits left over from dinner if you’re hungry. You can have ’em with preserved figs or mustard and ham. They’ll hold you off till supper.” He looked directly at Rose. “Miz Littlefield? Did you hear me?”
Rose’s stomach gave a small lurch, but she managed to nod. Bess said, “Tell that old seacook to fix my tea the usual way, will you? Come on, Rose, I’ll show you where to hang your hat.”
Rose didn’t even try to take in her surroundings, other than to give thanks that the rooms smelled clean and fresh and the floor felt steady underfoot.
“Annie’s back here in the new room. I’ve put you in the room next to it, Miz Littlefield. Bess, Crank aired out your usual.”
His voice was like the man himself. Deep, dark and dangerous, his accent impossible to pin down. It was neither southern nor northern, the single identifiable element being the ring of authority. Matthew Powers was obviously a man accustomed to being obeyed.
He held the paneled door for her to enter, his hand, she couldn’t help but notice, the size of a ham for all it was nicely shaped.
Get out while you still can, the voice of caution urged.
But of course, she didn’t. That would have required initiative, something she’d never possessed in abundance, but she was working on it.
“Now, isn’t this lovely?” Bess inquired of no one in particular.
Lovely was hardly the word Rose would have chosen to describe bare floors, an enormous iron bed, a varnished cane rocking chair and the plain, unpainted washstand. There was a bowl and pitcher, both of undecorated white crockery. The bed was spread with a simple white coverlet, the feather mattress plumped up high as a cloud.
“There’s quilts in the locker. Lamp’s filled, wick’s trimmed, door there leads to Annie’s room and the head’s through the door at the end of the hall.”
“The head?” Rose echoed, her voice weak with horror.
“Means the privy.” Bess planted her hands on her hips and addressed her nephew. “You ever hear of indoor plumbing? What about little Annie, you expect her to grow up like a heathen?”
“Now, don’t tell me you didn’t squat in the bushes out in that Amazon jungle you wrote about last winter.”
The man’s grin was surprisingly infectious. Fortunately, Rose was immune. She’d traveled that road once before.
Bess snorted. “I’ll send you a catalog soon’s I get back.”
“You do that.”
Rose gripped the doorframe, willing them to leave her alone. If only she could sleep for a few weeks she might be ready to deal with that dark, enigmatic gaze, the deep drawl that hinted at amusement, exasperation, and a few other things not so easily identified. Nausea alone was bad enough. Nausea, fear and a guilty conscience was too much. She wasn’t sure she could carry out the charade.
“Come meet Annie,” the captain commanded.
“Who, me?” Rose inquired inelegantly.
“You.”
Swaying only slightly, she followed him, once more pinning her eyes to the horizon. Bess had said it helped to maintain one’s equilibrium, only in this case the horizon happened to be the captain’s backside, which was even more impressive than his front side. Shoulders broad as an ox, a long back that tapered down to narrow hips and long limbs, both of which functioned with an economy of motion that threatened to unsettle her belly all over again. To think she’d been married for nearly two years without ever noticing how differently men and women walked.
“I had Peg build her quarters through here to make it handy for the woman I sent for.”
“The woman you sent for? Matthew Powers, is that any way to speak of your wife?”
“What wife?” he growled, turning so that the late-afternoon sun caught his profile, illuminating a jaw that could have been cast from bronze and a high-arched nose that could only be called proud.
Brushing past him, Rose entered the small room, drawn by the sound of a baby’s whimper. Her throat constricted. Tears dimmed her eyes as she stared down at the tiny infant swathed in an unadorned gown of coarse muslin.
“That’s Annie.” The man had come up silently to stand beside her. The unexpected note of tenderness in his voice threatened to undo her completely. Kneeling, he lifted the tiny bundle from the cradle, growled softly as he rocked her in his arms and said, “Annie, this is Miz Littlefield. She’s going to be taking care of you for a spell. She’s not much to look at, but at least she’s got hair now.”
Rose blinked in disbelief. She knew very well she wasn’t much to look at, she’d been hearing it all her life, but she had hardly expected to hear it from a stranger. And she certainly did have hair, yards and yards of it, even if it was the color of dead grass.
“She eats most anything you give her, but so far we’ve held her to tinned milk and