The Rancher’s Inconvenient Bride. Carol Arens
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wish to kiss my groom.”
* * *
There! She’d spoken what was on her mind! It hadn’t been easy. The girl she had been all her life wanted to run upstairs and hide under a blanket.
But the woman she hoped to become wanted to kiss her husband—to feel his arms curl around her, lift her off her toes and make her feel—wanted.
Now, there it was. Spoken for all to know. She wanted William to want her.
Apparently the preacher did not know what to make of the unconventional vows. He blinked at her, his mouth half-open on a stalled comment.
“Hurry up, Herbert. Let the youngsters have their first kiss.”
“Oh, my—well—by the power invested in me by God and the territory of Wyoming, I now pronounce that you are man and wife. Please do kiss your bride, Mr. English.”
She wasn’t sure what she was expecting but it was not the briefest graze of his lips across hers. Why, she barely felt the warmth of them.
In her many dreams, kissing William had always felt warm and exciting, holding the promise of the commitment of a lifetime.
While she was suddenly committed for a lifetime, the warm excitement was lacking.
By six thirty, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson had departed, leaving Agatha alone with her groom.
She didn’t know what to do—barely knew what to say. This time yesterday she had been wiping sleep from her eyes while helping Laura Lee make fried potatoes and eggs. Less than twelve hours ago she had been living the adventure of a book character.
“You must be hungry,” she said, taking note of how her wedding gown swirled about her when she turned. How it caught the first rays of dawn streaming through the window.
She had never worn anything more lovely in her life.
Unable to help herself she twirled again just to watch it shimmer. If Mother Brunne was watching from the great beyond, it would be with much disapproval.
“I’ll fix us something to eat after I change out of the gown.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here to help.”
“I’ll manage. Just yesterday I was helping Laura Lee fix breakfast for a hundred people.”
“I meant with the buttons on the back of the gown. You can’t reach them.”
Her breath caught. He was right. She could not. Either she could fry up potatoes in her wedding gown and risk a splatter, or she could allow him to help her take it off.
Then what? Put on the red costume again because she did not care if eggs exploded on it? Be humiliated? Or flip eggs wearing her corset and petticoats? Cooking in her underwear would still be humiliating but it would also be prettier.
There were two more dresses upstairs, but she would not risk ruining them, either.
“How hungry are you, William?”
He spun her about and opened two pearly buttons at her nape. The heat of his breathing brushed her skin. “Hungrier than I thought.”
“Are there eggs and bacon in the kitchen? Bread for toast?”
“I assume so—but it’s been a long day. Let’s think about food tomorrow.”
“But you said you were hungry.”
His breath skimmed the back of her neck, his fingers clenched briefly on her shoulders. “Very—but I’m also tired.”
“Let’s sleep, then.” At least she didn’t have to risk ruining anything lovely by cooking in it.
Cool air touched her back when two more buttons fell open, which reminded her. “What happened to my wedding kiss?”
Why was it that, around William, she blurted out what was on her mind so readily?
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you married me.”
Three buttons popped free all at one time.
“And I’m grateful that you kept me from being blown out of a cannon.”
The hall clock ticked away a long silence. Outside, the wind didn’t sound loud as it had.
With a quick flick of his fingers, William freed the button at the small of her spine. The front of the gown sagged so she grabbed it close to her chest.
“Can you manage the stairs?” he asked, taking a deep breath, then several steps away from her. “If it’s too trying I can give you a downstairs bedroom.”
Ivy and Travis shared a bedroom.
“I managed them fine a short while ago.” It would not be a hardship to share a bed with William. “I’m no longer an invalid. You don’t need to fear for my health.”
“I owe you, Agatha.” Dragging his fingers through his hair, he frowned at the floor then looked up at her. “I’ll take care to make sure no harm comes to you.”
“Really, I don’t know why it would. I believe that I’ve proved that I can take care of myself—unless someone is forcing me into a cannon and I doubt that will happen again.”
“I imagine not. But you are mine to protect, nonetheless.”
The bodice of her dress flopped down when she balled her fists and anchored them at her waist, but she did not care at the moment.
“If a situation arises in which I do not feel comfortable, I will let you know—then you may protect me to your heart’s content.” She wagged her finger at him, which was not quite polite but her temper was heating by the second. How odd was it that for most of her life she hadn’t known she had a temper. It must have been drugged out of her. “But I must—and will deal with problems on my own.”
“Of course.”
He caught her hand, folded it up in his. “I was speaking of getting you with child.”
An image of tangled bed sheets and entwined limbs flashed in her mind. Secret kisses and touches. Heat pulsed in every nerve of her body, especially—
“I won’t endanger you that way.”
What? She yanked her hand free, remembered that her bodice was dangling about her waist and decided to let it remain there.
“I might have something to say about that, William.”
Outside the creak and rattle of a wagon passing by filled a long silence between them. A dog barked. Tanners Ridge was coming to life.
So was Agatha Marigold English.
“Mighty glad the wind has stopped.”
Walking down the boardwalk toward Hamilton London’s Steak House and looking forward to a late lunch, William patted Agatha’s hand where it nestled in the crook of his arm.
He liked the way it fit. While not even twelve hours into marriage, he thought his union with Agatha might be a success, for all that it was unanticipated.
Agatha sure did look fetching in the green gown he’d purchased in the wee hours of the morning. With her red hair and green eyes—there was no denying that Mrs. William English was a beautiful woman.
Funny how he’d never noticed that. In his eyes she had always been Foster Magee’s sickly girl.
For all her loveliness, she did seem nervous.
And why wouldn’t she be? He was nervous and he was accustomed to speaking with people. He would have to take care not to overtax her with social events. Although there would be some she would need to attend.
Or