Spring Blossom (24 page)

She whirled to face him then. “But there was
no understanding between us,” she cried. “I didn’t want you.”

His dark eyes narrowed as he studied the
torture in the eyes he had thought about for years, the eyes he had
come to love during the years he had imagined her growing up. And
in response to her statement he said only, “Didn’t you?”

“No.”

“I thought little girls dreamed of their
first love.”

“Little girls do,” she returned heatedly.
“But the realities are for big girls and I don’t want any part of
them.”

“You don’t know what the realities are,
Maggie.”

“Really?” she laughed bitterly. “And what do
you call my previous experience?” Her hands were clenched at her
sides, and she was leaning toward him in anger and frustration.

Hunter thought he had never seen anyone so
frightened and trying so hard to hide it. “I call it rape,” he
said. “And it has nothing to do with two caring people expressing
their desire and their mutual need for each other.”

“Two people?” she scoffed. “And what woman
would ever confess to feeling desire and need?”

“My woman will,” he said quietly. “As soon
as I teach her that desires and needs are natural and permissible.
As soon as I teach her that making love with me will not be
frightening or painful or degrading. Does that just about cover
your concerns when you think about lying with me, Maggie?”

Suddenly Margaret seemed to crumble before
his eyes, and her hands came up to hide her face as if she could
not bear to have him see her any longer.

Hunter’s reflexive reaction was to reach for
her and try to comfort her by holding her close against him. And he
did so, ever so gently.

“I can’t, Hunter,” she mumbled against his
shirtfront, her hands continuing to hide her face and the ugliness
of tears. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take a lover.”

“You will, my pet,” he breathed with a
confidence he wasn’t feeling. “You will take me.” He cupped her
chin in the palm of his hand and raised her head until he could
look into her troubled eyes. “You will take me,” he said again,
“and you will find our loving to your liking. I promise you.”

“You’re such a strange man,” she whispered,
finally looking up at him. “How can you dare to imagine such a
thing?”

“I dare, my love, because we are going to
make it happen.” He lowered his head, his eyes intense and alert as
he watched her until the precious second before his lips lightly
touched hers. She started, but he shook his head, moving one hand
higher on her back to keep her in place while he pressed the palm
of her small hand to the center of his chest once again. “So soft,”
he murmured and tilted his head slightly this time as his lips
moved across hers.

It was not a threatening kiss. In fact, to
Margaret, it seemed that he was paying homage to her. As if he
cherished her and wanted her to know that. She didn’t know how this
could be, but she felt it as certainly as if he had spoken the
words to her. Such a curious man. He coaxed her senses in maddening
ease with a combination of harsh demands and soft words,
determination and hesitancy, dream and reality. He was, indeed, an
unusual man, and he was cultivating some spot within her, just as
he cultivated the land surrounding the house in which they
stood.

The wide palm of his hand pressed warmly
against her back and seemed to force a sense of fire through the
stuff of her blouse, so that she thought he might be charged with
summer lightning as tiny shocks traveled down her spine to the tips
of her toes. It was a mysterious thing, and Margaret feared it
because it was an unknown. But she did not fear that he might go
beyond the gentle, lingering kiss. The kiss was all he wanted; she
knew that instinctively.

She pulled her head back and stared at him
with curiosity and shock.

Hunter smiled down at her, realizing that he
had moved her in some small way; and any way he could make her
think of him in relation to herself was a major event in his
estimation. “Marie-Louise is in the kitchen preparing enough food
for a threshing,” he said lightly. “Let’s go down to supper.”

Supper? They had yet to resolve their
dispute to her satisfaction. But then Margaret realized the
disagreement would be resolved to his satisfaction one way or
another, and she might as well be kind to herself and give in
gracefully. It crossed her mind, however, as he led her from the
room, that if she put her mind and her meager brawn to the matter,
she could push him out of the bed a time or two.

Supper was ready when they returned to the
kitchen; a delicious smelling meat pie, thick with dark gravy by
the look of it, was warming on the back of the stove. Carrots
sweetened with maple syrup steamed in a pot, and warm popovers
covered by a cloth had been set aside. Except for the food and the
furnishings, however, the kitchen was empty.

“Where is everyone?” Margaret asked.

Hunter had no answer, but a clue jumped out
at him when he turned toward the table. Marie-Louise had spread a
neatly ironed white damask cloth across the table and set places
for only two. A bouquet of freshly cut flowers stood in a tall
pitcher, and propped up against it was a paper-wrapped parcel.
Hunter smiled as he began to comprehend. “I believe they’re giving
us a gift, my love,” he said and lightly tugged her toward the
table. “Our first supper at home is to be for only we two, it
seems.” He reached for the parcel, turned it over in his hand, and
held it out to Margaret. “I imagine this is for us.”

Margaret stared at the thing for a moment
before taking it in both hands. “A gift?” she murmured, staring
down briefly before frowning up at him again. “Shall I open
it?”

“Of course,” he said, laughing. “And be
quick about it. I’m a starving man.” He then pulled back a wooden
chair from the table.

Margaret sat down, put the package on the
table, and carefully opened the gift. It was a small broom, as long
as her forearm, gaily and artfully decorated with dried flowers,
pine cones, and herbs and topped by a wide plaid bow on the hand.
“How lovely,” she said. Although it was extremely appealing to the
eye, she doubted its usefulness. Then she spied a square of paper
folded beneath the broom and gave it to Hunter to open.

They read it together silently, struggling
over the nearly illegible scrawl;

'My grandmother often made these when I was
a girl, it said. She told me of the importance of a new broom to
newlyweds or friends moving to a new home. The gift of a new broom
brings good wishes for a new start, and the decorations are a
symbol of abundance. This is our gift to the newlyweds and to the
new friend who has moved to a new home.

We thought you might like to enjoy your
first night in the house in peace.' It was signed simply,
Marie-Louise.

As a footnote, she added; Jason will sleep
in the cottage tonight.

Hunter laughed at the last line, and
Margaret glanced up at him hesitantly. “Marie-Louise seems to be in
charge of everything and everyone,” she said and he nodded his
head.

“I expect Jason thinks so about now.”

Margaret held the broom up for his
inspection. “Do you suppose she made this?”

“Oh, yes. Marie-Louise is quite talented.”
He stood beside her, smiling as she continued to examine the broom.
“Do you like your gift?” he asked unnecessarily; he could see that
she was pleased.

“It was very thoughtful of her,” she said
quietly. Then, raising her head, she asked, “Could we hang it on
the door, Hunter? It would be such a pretty thing to greet visitors
to the house.”

Visitors? They didn’t get many of those, but
it that was what she wanted…he nodded his head in agreement.

He returned the note to the table then
before moving across the room to fetch their supper. “I am truly a
starving man,” he said again. “Could we consider the gift of
abundance to start with food?”

The gift had lightened Margaret’s mood, and
she followed in his wake. Hunter took the pie and a large spoon to
the table while Margaret scooped the carrots into a bowl. And while
she was pouring the syrup over the vegetables, he returned for the
popovers. Hunter stepped close to her right shoulder and, bending
slightly, planted a light, quick kiss on her cheek.

She started, unused to such familiarity, but
he merely smiled and said, “Welcome home, Maggie.”

When she turned her head, intending to scold
him for his presumptuous action, the happy, contented look in his
eyes made her smile. But the look and the kiss had completely
confounded her. Margaret quickly moved around him and carried the
bowl to the table.

Hunter turned to watch her, pleased that she
had not protested the kiss. And this sudden shyness was a good
sign, he decided as he took his place at the head of the table
while Margaret sat to his left. He had expected shyness in his
bride, and he was convinced that could be overcome with time and
patience. Her anger and suspicions were more difficult to deal with
but these seemed to have diminished greatly in just a few days;
that told him she had not entirely lost all feeling for him. Yes,
as they sat down together for their first supper in the old house,
Hunter Maguire was indeed a hopeful man.

He spooned a wedge of pastry and meat onto
her plate, ladled gravy over the lot, and then served himself while
Margaret waited patiently for him to start. But he had taken only a
forkful of food when he set his fork on his plate with a sudden
clatter. “Good Lord, I forgot!” He reached for her hand. “Come with
me.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Margaret muttered as
she dropped her fork while he was tugging her to her feet. Clearly
puzzled by his strange behavior, she could only express an
exasperated, “Hunter,” while being towed along in his wake.

He led her out onto the porch, turning to
her the instant she stepped outside under the overhand. “I don't
know how I could forget such an important detail,” he muttered as
he scooped her up in his arms and then strode back over the
threshold, back into the kitchen.

Margaret was so surprised by this rush of
activity she could only stare, mouth open, as she wrapped her arms
around his neck in order not to be dumped on the floor.

“What kind of husband have you wed?” he
asked as he stepped further into the kitchen. And then he was
smiling at her. “Now I can welcome you home.” He planted a quick,
innocent kiss on her lips before lowering Margaret to her feet once
again.

When Hunter returned to his place and picked
up his fork, she remained standing, staring at him. “Should I
expect to be hoisted up and dragged around with any frequency?” she
asked lightly.

“Possibly,” he murmured and turned his full
attention to his meal.

CHAPTER 17

That first evening of settling into a
bedroom together was a night Margaret would never forget. Hunter
was not gentlemanly enough to leave her any privacy, which raised
her ire. Additionally he seemed to think nothing of shedding his
clothing before her very eyes.

He removed his boots, then walked to the
window and peered out into the darkness as he casually shed his
shirt and dropped it on a chair. He turned to face her while he
peeled off his trousers, which completed her undoing.

Margaret whirled away and stared at the wall
until she heard a slight creak from the bed. Taking a deep breath
that failed to steady her, she then began rifling through her trunk
in search of a nightdress and gown. Somehow actually sharing a bed
with him seemed much more frightening than sleeping next to him on
the ground.

“Leave that,” Hunter said as he propped
himself up in the bed. “Marie-Louise will help you unpack your
things in the morning.”

She remained with her back to him, holding a
white cotton nightgown in her hands. “Could you put out the lamp
please, Hunter?” she asked and waited nervously for the room to
fall into darkness.

He lowered the wick, and the corners of the
room fell into shadows.

Margaret turned to face him, frowning.

“You need some light to find your way
around,” he explained and he had the audacity to look her straight
in the eyes as he said it.

Margaret raced for the door and across the
hall to the dark, empty room that had once been Hunter’s. There she
undressed without his watchful eyes on her. Once gowned and covered
from neck to toe, she hesitated…but she knew he would only come and
get her.

When she returned to the room they would
share, Hunter hadn’t moved. He was sitting up in bed, the blanket
pulled to his waist, watching her as she hung her skirt and blouse
in the wardrobe. She then sat on the bed with her back to him and
began to brush her hair. Hunter watched as she tended the
waist-length tresses that were so close to white they might have
been touched and colored by a cloud. His eyes followed her long,
slow strokes for a moment before taking the brush from her
hand.

Margaret’s head snapped around and he
smiled. “Sit back,” he said quietly and, after a brief hesitation
she moved closer to him. Her entire body tensed when he raised his
hand, but Hunter ignored the reaction, running the brush slowly
from her temple to the very ends of her hair on one side. He
repeated the procedure over and over until Margaret, weary from the
day’s events, found herself quite peacefully lulled, her eyes
closing as the continuous stroking of the brush soothed her.

When her head dropped back and her eyes
closed, Hunter set the brush aside and lowered her onto her back.
“It’s time for bed,” he said, pulling the light blanket over
her.

Margaret’s eyes opened and she stared up at
him.

The sudden flash of fear in her eyes did not
go unnoticed by him but now was not the time to weaken his resolve;
if he gave in to her fears at every turn, she might be lost to him
forever.