Tatiana March - His Mail-Order Bride

Suddenly the room closed in around Thomas. He needed to soothe his mind, needed to see the sky soaring above him and hear the trees whispering in the wind. He turned and headed out to the porch.

“I’ll go and put the horse in the paddock.”

“Why is the house not by the water?” his bride called after him when he was already halfway out the door.

“The creek floods after heavy rain and the soil is firmer here.”

“Do you bathe in the lake?”

“Sometimes.” He raked his gaze over her, his imagination running riot. He forced his mind to focus on practical thoughts. “You must not drink from the creek. There’s a well behind the house for clean water.”

Thomas turned his back on her again and clattered down the steps, as if Lucifer himself was chasing on his heels. Whatever happened between him and his wife—even if she only spent one week on his isolated homestead and left because she could not face a future in such a lonely place—one thing was certain: his life would never be the same again.

* * *

Charlotte sank down to the wooden love seat. Disaster screamed at her from every carefully crafted corner of the rustic cabin. She closed her eyes and let Thomas Greenwood’s words, full of pride, echo through her mind.

Did you see the cookstove? A sigh of regret rustled out of her chest. She wouldn’t have known if the stove had been slotted upside down between the cabinets.

Grim determination surged inside Charlotte. Her hands fisted so hard her nails dug into her palms. She’d be the perfect wife. While she remained with Thomas Greenwood, she’d ease the harshness of his life. She’d work until her muscles ached and her fingers bled. And before she left, she would make sure the cabin had become a more comfortable home for him.

Jumping up, Charlotte rushed to the cookstove, an iron monster made pretty by a coat of pale green enamel on the front. “I’m going to call you Vertie,” she said and gave the top a friendly pat. “It comes from vert, the French word for green. And now you’ll have to help me make coffee.”

She found a tin of coffee on the open shelves, the beans already ground. A big copper pot hung from a peg on the wall. Two steel buckets stood on the counter, one empty, one half full. Rather than risk a musty flavor, Charlotte picked up the empty bucket and set off in search of the well.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the ridge of the hills and the air was turning cool. Clouds of tiny flies swarmed in the twilight. A pair of blue jays quarreled on the ground, screeching and flapping their wings. Rodents rustled in the undergrowth. It appeared the evening was the rush hour in nature.

The path rounded the side of the house and led to a stone circle rising from the ground. A crank handle and a spout protruded on the right. Charlotte hung the bucket on a hook under the spout and tentatively yanked the handle. A gurgling noise came from deep within the earth.

Encouraged, she attacked the pump with vigor. After a moment, a loud rumble erupted, and a jet of water exploded into the bucket with so much force it bounced up, drenching her face and chest.

A startled cry left her lungs, shattering the evening calm. Charlotte blinked away the droplets clinging to her lashes and mopped her face with her sleeve.

Down the path, she heard the heavy thud of footsteps heading in her direction. Twigs snapped and birds scattered in fright. She looked up and saw Thomas hurtling through the trees. When he reached her, he gripped her shoulders and towered over her. His eyes roamed her features in a frantic inspection.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded to know.

“No.” Laughter rose in her chest. “Only wet. And feeling stupid.”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.” He released his hold on her and stepped past her to the pump.

“Yes, I should.” She shoved him out of the way, her hip butting against his rock-hard thigh.

With a grunt of surprise, Thomas yielded and moved aside.

“I’m not made of glass, and I’m not made of sugar.” Charlotte cranked the pump handle, taking care to keep her movements slow and measured. When water started spurting out of the pipe, she ducked to avoid the spray from the bucket. “I won’t break if I fall, and I don’t melt if I get wet.”

She glanced over at Thomas to see if he’d understood her meaning. He hadn’t. She doubted he’d even heard her. His gaze was riveted on her breasts, which heaved up and down with the rhythmic motion as she operated the pump. She had discarded her corsets before setting off on the train journey, and the soaking wet blouse clung to her body, like lichen on a wood nymph.

Charlotte couldn’t think. She ceased cranking the pump handle. Suddenly, she felt a great surge of heat on her skin, so great it surprised her not to see steam vapors rising from her drenched garments.

A sense of inevitability filled her. Whatever her misgivings, whatever her desires, whatever her plans, the needs and wants of Thomas Greenwood might be more potent than hers. It might turn out that her married life would be a much harder ocean to navigate than she had allowed for.

“You’ll catch a chill.” Thomas spoke in a husky rumble. “You should change out of those wet clothes into something dry.”

She had to clear her throat before the words came. “I don’t have anything to change into, apart from a nightgown.”

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asked. “Do you want any supper?”

Charlotte shook her head, unable to speak.

“I’d like to see you in your nightgown.” He reached for the overflowing bucket and effortlessly lifted it down from the hook beneath the spout. “Why don’t you go inside and get out of those wet clothes. I’ll heat up water for you to wash.”

Thomas waited for her to move away but she stood rooted on the spot. His expression softened. “Go on now, Maude,” he said gently. “You can undress in the bedroom, in privacy.”

The name broke the spell between them. “Call me Charlotte,” she said, her voice rising with a touch of despair at how little control she seemed to possess over her situation. “I dislike the name Maude. I want you to call me Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” Confusion flickered across his features. Then his frown eased and he gave a slow nod, his eyes steady on her. “I like that.” He lowered his voice and added in a low murmur, “More syllables for a man to whisper in the throes of passion.”

Charlotte gave a shocked gasp and fled inside.

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