Tatiana March - His Mail-Order Bride

Thomas turned to soothe the horse, which had grown nervous by the wait. What could he say? To save you from shame and destitution. To make sure this child does not have to grow up as I did, unwanted and unloved. He gritted his teeth and kept silent. Some things were too personal to reveal, too painful to discuss.

“Why did you pick me as your wife despite the child?” she pressed.

Thomas cleared his throat. “The child deserves a home. He’s done nothing wrong. You might have made a mistake, but I can’t see why you should spend the rest of your life paying for it, and the child should not pay for it at all.”

Thomas finished untying the horse and faced his wife. He wondered if his breath would ever stop catching in his throat when he looked at her. She stared up at him, an odd, stricken expression on her exquisite face. Regret rippled through Thomas at the thought that she might be comparing him with the man who had fathered her child.

“Let’s get going,” he said gruffly. “Do you want to sit on the bench, or lie down in the cart?”

“I’ll sit with you.” She eyed the high bench. “Provided I can find a way of getting up there.”

Thunderstruck, Thomas froze before her. His heart kicked into a gallop. He curled his hands around her narrow waist, wondering once again how she could remain so small with the baby growing inside her. Holding her carefully, the way one might handle a precious ornament, he lifted her up to the bench of the cart.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” he asked as he noticed the beads of perspiration glinting on her brow. She had strapped on a green bonnet, and the sunshine filtering through the fabric gave her pale complexion a sickly hue.

“I’m fine,” she replied with a strained smile.

For the first time, Thomas saw the dimples that decorated her cheeks. He could do nothing but stare. After a moment, he shook himself awake and climbed up beside her. Conscious of her pregnant state, he kept the horse to a slow walk.

As they left Gold Crossing behind and turned onto the desert trail, Thomas could feel his body tingling at her nearness. How had it happened? He had chosen a plain wife, abandoned by another man. But instead, he had gained a wife who could start a riot in any gathering of males, and the feelings she stirred up in him alarmed as much as fascinated him.

* * *

Charlotte bounced on the rattling bench. The sun beat down on her. Her skin itched inside the thick wool skirt. Dust clogged her nostrils. Her thoughts churned round and round in her head. Beside her, her husband sat in silence, controlling the cart horse with practiced ease. Every now and then, he slanted a hungry glance at her.

Each time, her breath stalled and her body tensed.

He thought she was with child.

Charlotte bit her lip as she recalled the lifeless body of poor Miss Jackson. If Thomas Greenwood had accepted the pregnancy, what had caused the young woman to sacrifice her life and that of her unborn child? Had she been unable to overcome the shame of being abandoned by the suitor who had ruined her? Or could it be that she had loved him so much that she could not tolerate the thought of becoming someone else’s wife?

With a sigh, Charlotte pushed Miss Jackson out of her thoughts. It was unlikely she would ever find out the answer, or hear anything of Miss Jackson again.

She slanted another look at Thomas Greenwood from the corner of her eye. He sat leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees, dust painting streaks of brown on his black suit. A jolt of guilt struck her as she remembered the denim trousers and flannel shirts she’d seen most of the men in Gold Crossing wear.

Her husband had dressed up for her, had done his best to celebrate their wedding. Getting a wife must be important to him. When the time came for her to make her confession, she would explain, beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps he would understand. And she would offer him ample financial compensation for the inconvenience of having to find another wife.

“Did the agency tell you how far gone the baby is?” she asked.

Thomas arched his brows and cupped one hand behind his ear, to indicate he hadn’t been able to hear her words. She repeated her question, raising her voice to carry over the clatter of the horse’s hooves and the grinding of the wagon wheels.

“Five months,” he replied. “I’ve arranged to take a job at the copper mine in Jerome to earn enough to pay for the doctor when the baby is due in September.”

Five months. By the end of the summer, he’d expect her to waddle about. Experimentally, Charlotte puffed out her stomach, until her muscles strained against the waistband of her green wool skirt. It was no good. She couldn’t fake a belly ballooned in pregnancy, even if she gorged to gain weight.

And, judging by her husband’s comments about scraping the money together to cover the medical expenses of childbirth, overeating wouldn’t be a solution, even in the short term, for food would be too scarce. Charlotte gritted her teeth. She had a month. Two at best. Then she would have to either make her confession or escape.

Chapter Three

The bouncing of the cart made her stomach twist with nausea. Charlotte swallowed hard to keep down the bile rising in her throat. If she retched up the remains of last night’s beef stew perhaps she should blame it on the plight of a pregnant woman instead of motion sickness.

“How long before we get there?” she asked.

They had been traveling at least an hour. After the first few miles, they’d left behind the sandy plateau and were now weaving between rolling hills covered with desert scrub. It seemed impossible fertile farmland could be located anywhere nearby.

Her husband turned to her, his gray eyes flickering over her with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little tired.” Charlotte tugged at the stifling fabric of her wool skirt. “And hot.”

“You ought to have changed into something cooler.”

She gestured at her leather bag that rocked up and down in the cart behind them. “Do you think I carry an entire wardrobe in there? All I have is another blouse, the undergarments you’ve already seen and the petticoats you complained about.”

His brow furrowed. “You should have told me. We could have stopped at the mercantile to get you a plain cotton dress.”

A plain cotton dress. Charlotte pursed her lips. She’d never owned such a garment in her life. Seeking to blend in with the crowd when she escaped from Merlin’s Leap, she’d worn her oldest clothing, but she hadn’t expected to end up in a hot climate.

“Dresses cost money,” she commented.

Thomas stiffened by her side. “I can provide what you need, and what the baby needs, even if it means selling my land and working for others.”

“Don’t say that!” Charlotte sat bolt upright on the bench, twisting around to stare at him. A gust of wind caught the brim of her bonnet, and she raised both hands to hold it secure.

Their eyes locked, and the naked longing in his gaze slammed into her heart like a blow. In that single look, all his dreams, all his hopes poured over her.

Every thought scattered from Charlotte’s mind as the strength of her new husband’s emotions flooded out to her. Without thinking, she released her grip on the bonnet and reached out to brush one fingertip along the curve of his cheekbone.

A strangled sound tore from Thomas Greenwood’s throat. His hand came up to capture her wrist and he pressed his cheek into her palm. His eyes closed, as if he wanted all his senses to focus on that simple touch.

Charlotte couldn’t breathe. An alien tension tugged deep in her belly.

She’d hated it when Cousin Gareth touched her, but this was different. She fought the temptation to slide her fingers into the golden hair of Thomas Greenwood, so she could hear him make that sound of longing again.