Kasey Michaels - A Most Unsuitable Groom

“Such a large family. I had only my father,” Mariah said. “It must be wonderful, having so many brothers and sisters.”

Spencer smiled. “Many would think so, I suppose.”

“But you don’t?”

“That’s not—of course I do. But I’m a younger son and sometimes I feel as if I’m standing at the end of a long queue, awaiting my turn to—never mind.”

“No,” Mariah said, truly interested. “Waiting your turn for what, Spencer?”

My turn to live. The words were in his mind, but he didn’t say them, ashamed of his desire, his need, to be his own man, unburdened by the shadow of Ainsley’s past and the dangers that past still held for them all. Because he’d always believed there was a life away from Romney Marsh and, now that he’d seen it, he felt more confined than ever. Because to say the words out loud would brand him as an ungrateful bastard.

Mariah felt the sudden tension in the room and raced to fill the silence. “So Ainsley was once in the shipping trade, you said. What do you all do here? Farm? Herd sheep? What do people do in Romney Marsh?”

Free trade. Ride hell for leather across the Marsh after midnight as the mist rises all round, outrunning the militia as the casks of brandy and tea are moved inland. Race ahead of the wind on the Respite upon occasion, just for the thrill of it, playing cat and mouse with a French frigate patrolling the Channel. Cool their heels two weeks out of every four and stare at the choppy sea, aching to see what lies beyond the water.

Spencer bit back a smile. “We keep ourselves busy,” he said, standing up once more. “I’ll go find Odette.”

“They’ve already bound my breasts,” Mariah heard herself say, and then lowered her head, her cheeks hot. “They won’t even let me try. But if it’s best for William, I suppose I understand.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Spencer said, sure that Mariah was upset. “You haven’t had an easy time of things. I’m sure your woman is only thinking of your own health, as should you. I don’t remember most of my voyage home. Was yours an easy crossing?”

She shook her head, wishing away these silly tears that kept threatening. “We had storms most of the way. For six long weeks I spent the majority of my time with my head over a bucket, I’m afraid.” She lifted a hand, let it drop onto the coverlet once more. “I know they’re right.” Her face crumpled slightly. “But I’m his mother.”

Spencer felt as useless as a wart on the end of Prinney’s nose and sighed in real relief when the door to the hallway opened and Odette came sailing in, a young woman following behind her.

“Here now,” Odette said, taking in the scene. “Is this what you’re good for, Spencer Becket? Making the girl cry? Take yourself off and be glad I don’t turn you into a toad and step on you.”

“But I—oh, never mind. Who’s this?”

“I’m Sheila, sir,” the small brunette said. “Jacob’s wife.”

“Jacob Whiting? Morgan’s Jacob?” Spencer asked, remembering how Jacob had followed Morgan like a puppy for years, the poor besotted fool.

“Not no more he ain’t, sir,” Sheila said, raising her chin. “I’m weaning my own little Jacob now, and Odette asked for me to nurse the new little one, and that’s what I’m doing. Sir.”

It seemed he was being put in his place every time he opened his mouth, so Spencer merely nodded and quit the room, promising to return later to see his son again, adding to himself: when there weren’t so many damned women around.

Mariah sniffled, still feeling sorry for herself, and watched him go, because asking him to stay would make her appear weak and she had the feeling that, no matter how rosy a picture Spencer had painted of Becket Hall and its inhabitants, she would need to be very strong in order to survive here in this strange place. What was odd was that she was beginning to think that Spencer thought the same thing about himself.

FOUR DAYS PASSED with Mariah sleeping almost constantly, regaining strength dissipated by the long journey and the hours of labor. And she was content, except when she was complaining. She could see William. He could be laid on her bed. She could stroke his head, kiss his fingers. But she couldn’t hold him because, Onatah explained, to hold him would be to draw more milk into her breasts.

She saw Spencer twice during that time, as he seemed to be avoiding her chamber, even as he used the separate door from the hallway to the dressing room to see his son. He could hold William and, irrational as she knew her feelings to be, she hated him for that.

On the fifth day, Mariah decided she’d had enough. Remain in bed for ten long days? What nonsense! She had given birth. Surely a natural process for a woman. And she felt fine. Well, as fine as anyone could possibly feel, being deprived of most fluids in order to keep the milk away, her breasts strapped tight to her—not to mention the layers of folded cloth between her legs as she continued to bleed, also something she had been told was perfectly natural.

Onatah and Odette had already come and gone, fussing over her, subjecting her to the indignity of washing her, just as if she couldn’t do such basic things for herself—it was an amazement to her that they let her clean her own teeth! William was back in his cradle, sleeping the sleep of the well fed; Sheila Whiting had gone back to her own baby.

Mariah was alone. Blessedly alone.

She pushed back the covers and swung herself into a sitting position, ignoring the fact that lying prone for five days could tend to make a person slightly dizzy when that person first attempted to stand up. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, then looked down at the floor, which seemed quite far away.

There was a knock at the door moments before it opened. “Damn it!”

“Mariah? Mariah, what are you doing?”

“Shh, Callie,” Mariah called quietly. “Come in here and close the door. Lock it, if necessary. I’m getting up. I’m getting up, I’m getting dressed and I’m going downstairs to see something besides these four very pretty but confining walls before I go stark, staring out of my mind. And it wouldn’t be quietly, I promise you.”

Callie closed the door and padded across the room to stand at the bottom of the bed. Such a petite, pretty child, all golden-brown curls and huge velvet-brown eyes over a small, pert nose and bee-stung mouth. An angel of a child. Except that, as Mariah had learned to her delight over the past days, Cassandra Becket had the heart of a warrior. And all the deviltry of a born mischief-maker.

“Odette won’t like this, you not obeying her orders. Everyone obeys Odette, you know, and is afraid to take a step wrong around her,” Callie pointed out and then grinned. “Should I get your clothing for you?”

“Would you?” Mariah asked, sliding off the mattress until her bare feet connected with the carpet. “Everything has been washed and pressed, thank God, not that there’s much I didn’t strain at the seams these past months.” She looked down at her belly beneath the voluminous white night rail. “Oh, would you look at me? Do you think there’s another babe still to come out? I still look as round as a dinner plate.”

Callie giggled. “Oh, you should have seen Morgan after the twins were born. Ethan called her his pumpkin, which earned him a shoe tossed at his head. Do you ride? Morgan was back on her horse before anyone could say differently and she swears it helped. I’ve always been a little plump, although it’s finally going away—Odette said it was baby fat. But I know how you feel. Not that I’d want to be all bones like Elly, but no one wants to have someone else shaking their head and tsk-tsking, just because you’ve reached for a second muffin.”