Spring Blossom (16 page)

“Don’t speak of him in that fashion,” Hunter
returned firmly, well ready to deal with her tirade. “Your father
didn’t sell you into bondage, nor did he betray you. The man loves
you. He did what he felt was right for you.”

Margaret didn’t take kindly to this
dressing-down, although, in her heart, she knew his words were
painfully true. “You’re changing the subject,” she said evenly. “We
were discussing your sleeping accommodation.”

He looked down at the small, feminine chair
that, he suspected, barely held his weight. “I won’t be sleeping
here, Maggie, that’s for certain.”

“You will not sleep in my bed,” she snapped,
as if that should be the end of it.

He signed audibly, shaking his head.
“Issuing all these orders to your husband is not a grand way to
begin a relationship, my girl. Why not step behind the screen and
get out of that gown before you lose your hold on it?” He grinned
lasciviously for her benefit. “Not that I would object if that
should occur. I’m only thinking of your modesty.”

Maggie lowered her eyes to inspect the
predicament with her clothing, but his final attempt at teasing her
feel far short of its mark. “Oh.” She flounced toward the screen
and ducked behind it. “You are a buffoon.”

He smiled, once more raising the glass to
his lips, enjoying even her tantrum as a reminder of the gusty girl
he had known. And then he waited.

The explosion was not long in coming.
“Hunter Maguire,” she cried, appearing around the edge of the
screen, holding a man’s silk robe and shaking it as if wishing it
were his neck. “Tell me Anna left this behind my screen?”

“I did ask..”

Suddenly Margaret appeared defeated, and the
hand holding the robe fell wearily to her side. “Hunter, please
stop playing with me. You planned it all,” she said on a tired
sigh, seeking his understanding. “I don’t like this.”

His smile disappeared in an instant and, as
he stared across the room at her, all pretense of teasing was gone.
“I know you don’t, little one,” he said patiently, "and I’m sorry
if I’ve gone too far with the game.” He set his glass on the table
before getting to his feet and walking toward her. “Maggie, I
didn’t marry you to cause you pain or distress. I have more…tender
reasons.” Standing before her now, he bent to gently remove the
robe from her hand. “I am not your enemy, I'm your husband. But
because of what happened before, it will take time for you to
understand that a man can be loving and caring and tender. It will
take time for me to gain your confidence and for you to find that
within yourself. Go gently, Maggie; have patience with yourself and
with me.”

Margaret’s eyes followed as he straightened
and, even though she had heard his words, the meaning of all he
said did not seem to matter. When she started to back away from
him, he said only, “Don’t.” As they stared into each other’s eyes,
hers so obviously distrusting, he wondered again if he was capable
of the firm but gentle handling she would need from him. If he
carried on too gently, too long, he would only prolong the agony
for them both. He was about to put himself to a supreme test; that
of sleeping beside her and not touching.

“You are my wife,” he said at last. “And I
expect you to share my bed.”

Margaret saw no way out of the situation.
She was his wife, after all, and, if she dealt with him too harshly
he would naturally retaliate. If she was ever to obtain her
ultimate goal, she had to trust him to some degree.

She turned away from him, knowing he was
watching her, and ducked behind the screen. Moving to the far end
of the private corner, she placed both hands on the back of the
small chair there, leaning on it for support. How was she ever to
get through this night? She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath,
while searching for guidance. When none came, she shook her head in
anger at herself and at the hand of fate that had brought her to
this moment. After a time she gathered her wits and stood tall,
allowing the blue dress to fall past her hips to the floor as she
reached for the white nightdress that had been left there for her.
She would brave out this night as she had done almost every night
for the past year. The ghosts that came to haunt her dreams would
still be there, along with a husband she did not want. Now she
would simply have to deal with both.

Covered from neck to ankle and wrist by a
cotton nightgown and robe, Margaret cautiously peeked around the
end of the screen, her eyes growing round again at the sight of
Hunter in her bed. He was reclining as if he belonged there, naked
from the waist up. And under sheet from the waist down? She’d
forgotten he didn’t wear a nightshirt. How could she ever have
thought that amusing?

She ducked back behind the screen…for what
purpose other than to try and gather her wits about her, she did
not know, but, clearly he had seen or sensed her.

“We have to get an early start tomorrow,
Maggie,” he said easily. “Come to bed now.”

The words were so easy to say…'come to
bed'…but it was difficult for her to force her stiff legs to move
around the screen and across the room to the other side of the bed.
She noted that his clothes were neatly folded, his jacket hanging
on the back of the small chair. It seemed odd to see another
person’s belongings in this room she had never shared with another
living soul. And now this great hulk was taking up more than his
fair share of her bed.

She sat gingerly on the very edge of the
bed, her back stiff, as Hunter watched and waited for her next
move. When she did not rise to remove her robe, he extinguished the
lamp on the table beside the bed. “Good night, little one,” he said
softly, settling down on the mattress with his back to her.

Margaret dared to look over her shoulder,
miffed that he could so easily make himself comfortable under the
circumstances. She hesitated, considered leaving her robe on, then
decided she would suffocate in the hot room. Hunter had opened both
windows, but still the room seemed suddenly too warm. No help for
it, she decided. She stood, untied the sash and dropped the robe
across the end of the bed, noting that her robe lay neck to neck
with his. Sitting down once again, she slipped her feet under the
light covers and eased her head down on her pillow, clinging as
close to the edge of the mattress as she dared.

“Don’t fall off the bed,” he said
lightly.

She whipped her head around, only to see his
back was still presented to her.

“You don’t want to start our journey with
bruises.”

“You are not funny, Hunter,” she whispered
in the darkness and heard his deep sigh of disappointment.

“No, I suppose not,” he said quietly.

Margaret lay with her back to him, warily
awaiting any sound or movement that might pose a threat. But all
she heard, after a time, was Hunter’s soft, deep breathing as he
slept.

CHAPTER 13

Margaret spent a fitful night, rousing
several times with a start when she sensed another person in the
bed. Then she would foggily remember that the body next to hers
belonged to her husband and she would doze off again. Still, she
was confounded in the early morning when she rolled over and found
herself alone. Somehow that was the most disconcerting thing of
all.

Sitting up, she noticed Hunter’s clothes had
disappeared from the chair and a tray with tea and biscuits stood
on the table in place of last evening’s brandy and sherry. She was
not only surprised but a bit concerned that someone had been able
to come and go without waking her.

Shrugging and putting it all down to the
strain of the past few days, she swung her feet over the edge of
the bed and padded barefoot to the table where she gratefully
poured tea into a cup before biting into one of the warm buttered
biscuits. She realized, as she picked up her cup and looked out the
window at the brilliant, glowing dawn that in the past Anna had
brought trays to her room only when she was ill. Hunter must have
asked…

Hearing the click of the latch, Margaret
turned in time to see Hunter pop his head round the edge of the
door. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. “Need any help with
buttons or such?"

Her mouth full of biscuit, she could only
shake her head in response.

“All right, then,” he said. “I’ll see to the
horses and the wagon.”

“I have to…”

“Take your time,” he added easily. “Your
father and the girls are helping me pack up.” His head disappeared
and then popped back again.”By the way, dear wife, you look lovely
and sweet when you're barely awake.”

She heard him chuckle at her dismay as he
closed the door, leaving her alone once again. Margaret looked down
at her wrinkled nightdress, her hair falling forward in a mass of
wild tangles. “Lovely,” she muttered.

Suddenly the import of his words registered
fully and she flew into action; everyone else was up and dressed
and preparing for her leave-taking.

When Margaret stepped out into the early
morning light, she was dressed in a dove-gray traveling suit with a
fitted jacket and full skirt. Her dark gray hat and shoes matched
the piping on the jacket and skirt-hem. She looked elegant and
refined.

“And as stiff as a bloody board,” Hunter
muttered as he checked the lead to Pride’s halter.

Margaret fidgeted with her gloves,
determined to survive her farewells and to keep her emotions in
check. Certainly Florence would be emotional enough for them
all.

And she pulled it all off rather well…until
Jennifer stepped forward and presented Margaret with her favorite
doll. “If you keep her you won’t be lonely,” the girl said as she
gave her oldest sister a brave smile. “And I’ll have a doll to play
with when I come to visit.” Having said all she could manage for
the time, Jennifer then fell forward and wrapped her arms around
Maggie’s waist.

“Oh, Jennie.” Margaret closed her eyes as
she ran a hand down the length of Jennifer’s long, auburn braids;
this was the most difficult farewell of all.

The younger girl turned around then, fixing
Hunter with eyes flooded with tears. “You’ll bring her back, won’t
you, Hunter?” she whispered.

He nodded his head and stepped forward to
offer words of comfort. But, before he could utter a single word,
Jennifer whirled and fled in the direction of the barn.

Only Anna remained aloof and unaffected. She
stood apart from the others and offered not a word.

Although chaos threatened to overwhelm them
for a time, Hunter eventually saw to the security of the trunks and
boxes and the two stallions secured to either side of the wagon
bed. Turning at last to Maggie, who stood in the arms of her
father, he took one of her gloved hands, squeezing gently to
reassure her. “We must go now, Maggie,” he said softly as he nodded
to Alastair. “We’ll be back,” he promised, “when the harvest is
over so that we can help celebrate another wedding.”

Alastair seemed unable to speak for a moment
but he bent and kissed Margaret lightly on the cheek, then shook
Hunter’s hand before stepping away from the wagon.

“Let me help,” Hunter said as Margaret
placed one foot on the hub of the front wheel. He handed her up and
then joined her on the high wagon seat.

“We should have taken the train,” she
muttered.

He adjusted the reins and turned his head to
smile at her. “And miss sleeping under the stars? Never.”

But all thoughts of his reasons for
borrowing the team of bays and the wagon from her father fled her
mind as Hunter clicked the horses into motion. Margaret turned on
the narrow seat, lifting her hand in farewell as she clutched
Jennifer’s ragged doll against her breasts. During the past year
her thoughts had been directed totally to her life on this farm.
She had never thought to be looking back, seeing her father and
sisters standing on the steps of her beloved Treemont, while her
husband drove her away from them.

But the picture was real and the reality was
painful.

Once her family and the house were out of
sight, Margaret turned to face forward, her head bowed as she let
her unhappiness fall heavily between them.

“It’s all right to cry, Maggie,” he said,
but she shook her head. He had seen her cry too often. She was a
married woman now and he was her husband, whether she liked it or
not. But somehow she would survive it all and he would not see her
cry again. If she could leave her family and her home without
tears, she could survive anything.

“We’ll come back,” she said with
conviction.

“We will,” he told her, nodding his head. “I
promise you that.”

*

Margaret felt she had been riding that
cursed buckboard seat for a week by the time Hunter decided to make
camp in the late afternoon. She was physically exhausted and
ravenous with hunger.

And Hunter still seemed to possess his
penchant for quietness that she remembered from years before.
Although she should have preferred silence to his attempts at being
witty or to his shrewd questioning, she found the long silences a
strain. He seemed perfectly comfortable, however, and that
irritated her no end.

He had scouted out the small clearing where
they would camp for the night and had returned to her side of the
wagon, holding up a hand to help guide her down. Seeing Maggie’s
struggle to descend because of her voluminous skirts, he offered,
“Perhaps you should wear your britches. That outfit looks
wonderful, my dear, but it’s hardly practical for a trip such as
this.”

“A lady hardly wishes to be seen on a public
thoroughfare wearing britches,” she returned primly as she
extricated her hand from his.

“Really?” Hunter grinned as he went to the
back of the wagon and opened a small case. “Denise gave me these
for you.”