In the Arms of a Hero. Beverly Barton
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looking.”
“Do you need to make everything so difficult?” he asked quietly. “Can we just be…pleasant to each other for one day?”
“Does being pleasant involve you spending money on me? For things I can do very nicely without?”
“I want to buy you new dresses. Nothing fancy,” he amended quickly as she opened her mouth to deny her need for such things. “Just simple cotton. Bright colors, maybe, and I’ll almost guarantee any undergarments you brought with you have long since worn out. You can choose new ones, and maybe a nightgown. Or whatever you might need,” he added quickly.
“Why?” she asked, shoving her trembling fingers into her apron pockets. “What’s the purpose of spending money on me? To put me in your debt? Maybe make me look at you differently?”
“Maybe,” he said slowly, “because I want to. Because it would give me pleasure to buy you something to show off your pretty face and form a bit more than that dress you’re wearing is capable of doing. And because I feel more than a little guilty that you haven’t had anything new, while I have a closetful of suits in Boston.”
“You want to show off my—” She halted, pressing her lips together. “I don’t need fancy things here,” she said. He’d never been so forthright in his assessment of her charms before, and the thought of how much more delicate and fragile she’d been in those early years made her smile.
“I’m not nearly as attractive as I once was,” she told him. “Or else your vision has deteriorated in your old age.”
At that he winced, then grinned. “Ah, you’ve no idea how lovely you are, Faith. You’re a mature woman now, whereas you were only a girl when I married you. I find myself leaning toward maturity, I think.”
“Well, that’s nice,” she said, at a loss for words. She sought his dark eyes, trying without success to fathom their depths. And then she shrugged. “I expect you can spend your money on me if you like. My wardrobe is sparse enough that it could use a few additions.”
His smile was immediate, and she thought he looked more than a little triumphant as he swallowed a good bit of his coffee. “Would you like to go today?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied. “I need to carry a load of eggs to the general store, anyway. Yesterday was my usual day to deliver them and pick up my mail.”
“Half an hour?” he asked, rising and heading for the room he’d slept in. “I just need to wash up and change my clothes.” His fingers scrubbed at his jaw. “And shave, too, I suspect.”
“Half an hour,” she agreed.
The eggs were secured in a burlap sack, each wrapped in a bit of newspaper and layered between inches of straw. It was a good method of transporting them, she’d found through trial and error. The same way she’d discovered other ways of surviving.
Faith saved all her newspapers for this purpose, after reading and rereading the printed pages. It was her one luxury, the mailing of a weekly edition from the nearest large city. As she fetched them and began wrapping her precious eggs, Max watched for a moment, then started to tear the newsprint into pieces appropriate for her use. “One sack full?” he asked as she tied the first burlap bag in a loose knot.
“No, I only fill the bags halfway, so the eggs on the bottom don’t break from the weight,” she said, reaching for a second bag from the pantry shelf. “One on each side of my saddle, behind me. I could use the wagon and team, I suppose. In fact, I do, when I’m in need of bulkier supplies.”
She looked up at him. “The truth is, I enjoy riding my mare. I don’t usually have much of a schedule to keep. I’ve learned to appreciate the view, Max.”
“As I’m doing, even now,” he said, sliding a quick glance her way.
She laughed, deciding to appreciate his humor and the dry wit she’d almost forgotten he was capable of. “You were fun to be with,” she said, her thoughts making themselves known before her better sense prevailed.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I enjoyed your company, too. In fact, I was probably one of the proudest men in Boston when I escorted you from home.”
“Were you?” She heard the note of surprise she could not conceal.
“You didn’t realize how much of an asset you were to me?”
She thought about that for a moment, her hands slowing in the methodical task of egg wrapping and securing. A layer of straw came next, and she lifted it from the supply she’d sent him for, a washtub filled with the yellow, rough, scratchy residue from thrashing the wheat, donated for her use by the neighbor to the east.
“I don’t suppose I ever considered myself an asset to you, just a decoration for your arm, and a partner when you chose to dance with me.” And then she thought of the nights when their return from an evening in company usually ended with him visiting her bedroom. “Did I seem more appealing to you when I was dressed in my finest?”
“You’ve never been more appealing to me than you are at this very moment,” he said, his hands touching hers as they spread straw in the confined depths of the burlap sack. The straw fell to the bottom, covering the layer of eggs, and their fingers entwined, his gripping hers with a gentle strength she did not attempt to escape.
She was speechless, feeling pursued by a man intent on seduction, and yet willing to allow it. There was an inner sense of satisfaction that permitted him this moment of intimacy, as small as it might be.
For just this moment, she felt exceedingly feminine, wonderfully desirable and just a bit breathless as she knew the warmth of a man’s hands clasping hers, and recognized the desire gleaming in his eyes.
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