Marianne's Marriage of Convenience Page 18

  He couldn’t have asked for a more perfect summer night. The heat of the early July day had faded into a soft warmth, and it was so peaceful even the evening sparrows were silent. The wagon wheels crunched over a patch of dry leaves, and Sammy leaned over to say something to his mother. Lance heard her quiet laugh.

  Rosie Greywolf was the handsomest Indian woman he had ever seen. She didn’t say much, Marianne had confided, but when she did speak, it paid one to listen. Which was why, he supposed, his wife had returned from the mercantile one afternoon with a pair of boy’s jeans and a red plaid cotton shirt. “For horseback riding,” she had said. Lance had hid his surprise and went on reading The Montana Renegade. He couldn’t help wondering how his wife’s predawn riding lessons were going; she had confided how much she wanted to fit in out here in the West, and he knew most women on the frontier rode horseback.

  The wagon turned into Jensen’s lane and rolled to a stop in front of a large red barn. Music rolled out the open double doors, and with a dart of apprehension Lance acknowledged he had never danced with Marianne. They were sure doing things in reverse. First the proposal on the back steps of Mrs. Schneiderman’s boardinghouse and then the wedding and then the courtship. It was all backwards. For other couples, the courtship part came first. Life with Marianne would always be surprising. It sure kept things interesting, and he didn’t want a wife who wasn’t interesting.

  Rosie had brought a platter of what she called “sand cookies.” Abe sneaked one and grinned in approval before Rosie batted his hand away, then they both climbed down from the bench and waited for Sammy to park the wagon.

  Lance handed Marianne’s potato salad to Abe, who sniffed at it appreciatively. Then he vaulted out of the wagon, held his arms out for his wife, and swung her to the ground.

  “I’m a little nervous,” she confessed.

  “It can’t be any worse than our wedding reception, meeting all those new people,” he offered.

  “Or getting married in the first place,” she said. “I was nervous then, too.”

  Lance chuckled and took her elbow. “You weren’t the only one. I’d never been so scared in my life.”

  She looked up at him. “Really? Someday will you tell me more about how you felt that day?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  They moved through the barn door into the interior, and Marianne gasped. “Just look at all these people!”

  Behind them, Abe chortled. “Ever’body in the county comes to these here dances so they kin whirl around with each other and let off some steam.” He set Marianne’s potato salad on the long wooden table already crowded with salads and covered dishes and an assortment of pies and cakes and marched off toward an arrangement of three wide planks laid over a pair of sawhorses which served as a bar.

  Music poured over the crowd, two guitars, a banjo, a violin played by Sheriff Rivera, and a washtub bass strummed by none other than mercantile owner Carl Ness.

  “I think they’re playing a two-step,” Lance said.

  Marianne looked at him in disbelief. “I think it’s a waltz.”

  “Dance with me anyway. We’ll compromise.” He took her arm and turned her toward him.

  “Oh. I… I…”

  “It’s a dance, Marianne,” he said with a smile. “We’re supposed to dance.”

  “Shouldn’t we first find our hosts?”

  He sighed. “You were taught too many good manners when you were growin’ up,” he murmured. “I wasn’t.” He swung her into his arms and moved out on to the dance floor.

  Those were the last words they exchanged for a long time. Lance might not have been taught a lot of society manners, Marianne noted, but somewhere along the way he had certainly learned to dance! She couldn’t help wondering where. He guided the two of them around and around the huge barn with ease, and gradually his assurance calmed her jittery nerves.

  They were playing a schottische. He surprised her by not only knowing the steps but adding some turning-under-his-arm flourishes. He certainly knew what he was doing on a dance floor. Lance Burnside was turning out to be a most unusual man. She scanned the other couples swirling around them with varying levels of expertise and counted herself fortunate. Not only could Lance cook, he could dance, and he was by far the best-looking man in the room. Of course none of those things were important, she reminded herself. Of greater significance was a man’s integrity.

  With a stab of guilt she recalled how she had blackmailed Lance into marrying her with that outdated Wanted poster. She wondered if he was even the slightest bit sorry. She wasn’t.

  “I can almost hear your brain whirring,” he said near her ear.

  She glanced up with a look of amusement in her green eyes. “Oh? What am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking you don’t know how you got to this point, and you’re wondering where we go from here.”

  He said it with such certainty she almost missed a step. “I was not!”

  “Liar,” he whispered. “I bet you’re also thinking about our new bed.”

  She missed another step. “What?”

  He grinned at her. “Well, aren’t you? I know I am.”

  She came to a complete stop. “I am certainly not thinking about our new… Certainly not,” she lied.

  Lance laughed. His eyes darkened to a midnight blue when he was amused. Odd that she hadn’t noticed that before, but of course, when he had been amused in the past, she hadn’t been this close to him.

  Or maybe she was just noticing more about him tonight.

  Or maybe she was in fact thinking about their new bed. About lying close to him tonight and…and…

  She bobbled another step. Lance’s arm tightened across her back, pulling her closer, and she closed her eyes. He smelled of leather and pine soap. He folded her hand under his chin and began to hum along with the music. “Oh, my darling…oh, my darling Clementine.” Her breasts brushed the front of his blue shirt, and he stopped humming.

  All at once she was short of breath. Light-headed. Hungry.

  And confused. Oh, Lord, what was happening to her?

  Nothing, said a reasonable voice inside her head. Just the normal feelings a woman has for a man when she—she sucked in a shaky breath—desires him.

  “Something wrong?” he asked. “You’re breathing funny.”

  “Am I?” She worked to keep her voice steady. “My mind may have been wandering.”

  “Yeah? Was it wandering any place interesting?” he murmured.

  Suddenly she wished she was a cold, hard marble statue whose mind couldn’t wander. As it was, she felt decidedly not made of cold, hard marble but flesh and blood. Warm flesh and even warmer blood.

  “Did you ever in a million years think we could be this happy together?” he whispered. “Like we are now?”

  All at once she felt like crying. And then just as suddenly she wanted to stop dancing and press her mouth to his.

  Lance felt her stop moving, and when she gazed up at him, her eyes looked shiny. She tried to smile, but her lips were trembling. What the—?

  “Marianne?”

  “Don’t talk, Lance. Please.”

  “Do you want to sit down and rest? I could bring you some lemonade and—”

  There was that funny smile again. She smoothed her fingers over the front of his shirt, and he caught her hand and held it against his chest. Again she tried to smile at him, and this time she succeeded.

  “No, I don’t want any lemonade, Lance. I am perfectly happy right here, dancing with you.”

  His pulse skittered into an irregular rhythm and then sped up. He couldn’t wait for this damn dance to end so he could be alone with her. He wished there was something he could do to speed things up because he could hardly wait to get back to their apartment and try out that new bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the time Rosie, Abe, Lance and Marianne got back to the shop and climbed down from Sammy’s wagon, the moon was floating high over the maple trees and the
barn owl that lived above the livery stable was making tu-whooing sounds. Lance walked a sleepy Marianne up the stairs into their apartment, where she immediately slipped off her shoes and stepped behind the folding screen. He wished she hadn’t; he wouldn’t mind watching her take off her clothes instead of her hiding behind that screen.

  After twenty minutes of total silence he began to worry. It was sure taking her an extra-long time to undress tonight. Seemed kinda funny that she was still so shy after weeks of marriage.

  Face it, Burnside. You know nothing about women or about being married. And you know even less about Marianne.

  For some reason that made him chuckle.

  “What’s funny?” she asked from behind the screen.

  “You. Me. Everything, I guess. Life is hard to figure out sometimes,” he admitted.

  “It’s a little like one of Abe’s dime novels, isn’t it?” she said. “Just when you think you know what’s going to happen next, it doesn’t.”

  “Abe’s novels are unrealistic,” Lance said. “Real life isn’t like that.”

  She stepped out from behind the screen in her long white nightgown, but instead of getting into bed, she floated aimlessly about the room. Her gown was just sheer enough for him to see the outline of her body in the lamplight, and that made the last of his patience dissolve.

  She stopped to look out the window over the kitchen sink. He knew she couldn’t see anything; it was pitch-black outside. So why was she—?

  All at once it dawned on him. Marianne was purposely delaying coming to bed. But that made no sense. She’d slept next to him every night since their wedding, so why was she being so skittish tonight?

  Because tonight we have a real bed for the first time. And she knows that I want a real marriage.

  He tossed back the quilt and strode across the room toward her. “Marianne…”

  “Yes, I know,” she said quickly. “I’m… I’m coming.”

  He moved behind her and cupped his hands around her shoulders. “Not very damn fast,” he whispered. He turned her into his arms and laid his cheek against her hair. It smelled of violets. When she said nothing, he bent and scooped her up in his arms. She sighed and nestled her face against his neck, and he moved toward the bed.

  “You know what?” he murmured.

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a soft laugh, “I think I do know what.”

  “No, you don’t.” He laid her down on top of the quilt and bent to blow out the kerosene lamp. “You couldn’t possibly guess what I’m thinking.”

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “Nope.”

  “No?” She sounded so surprised he chuckled.

  “Nope,” he repeated. “I’m gonna show you.” He leaned over and kissed her. To his surprise, she reached her arms around his neck, and when he lifted his mouth from hers she kissed him back.

  His senses ignited. When she kissed him again, a choking sense of humility flooded him. It warred with his physical desire for her, but in a flash of clarity he resolved he would ask nothing of her that she did not freely want to give.

  She continued to surprise him, encouraging him to touch her by moving suggestively and occasionally murmuring, “Yes, I like that,” when he did. He tried not to rush things, but God knew he wanted her. He ached to smooth his hands over every inch of her body, caress her breasts and run his tongue over her nipples. He wanted to make her his.

  “Lance?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Kiss me other places, too,” she breathed.

  He concealed his surprise and drew her nightgown over her knees, then kept going, pushing it higher, past her waist. Finally she sat up and shrugged it off over her head. Then she slid back down and reached one hand to his chest. He caught her palm against his bare skin and bent to press his mouth to her breast.

  Her quick inhalation told him she liked that, too, and he licked first one nipple and then moved to the other until her breathing told him she was ready for more.

  Very slowly he slid his hand to her waist and then on down across her belly to the soft curls between her thighs. She sighed, and he could tell she was smiling, so he moved lower and slipped one finger inside her.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, yes.”

  She was wet and hot, and he fought to go slow, but when she moaned and opened her thighs, he changed his mind. From her response he guessed she didn’t want him to go slow, and that halted his breath.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “You sure? I know you’ve never—”

  She reached up and touched his lips with one finger. “I’m sure,” she murmured.

  He hesitated, swallowed hard and rolled on top of her.

  Taking Marianne was the biggest surprise of all. She was responsive and spirited in ways he would never have dreamed possible. At the end she cried out and clung to him, and he lost himself inside her.

  Afterward they lay side by side, breathing heavily, while Lance tried to float back down to earth. Finally she rose up on one elbow and leaned over him.

  “Lance,” she breathed. “Why did we wait so long? Being married is wonderful!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When he awoke, Marianne was gone. The space where her body had lain was still faintly warm, and the sheets were faintly scented with violets.

  “Marianne?”

  No answer. He flung back the quilt and swung his bare feet to the floor. Damn it was cold! But a warm kernel of pleasure still glowed inside him, and he caught his breath. He padded to the stove, stirred the banked coals to life and added some wood.

  She had left slices of raw bacon in the iron skillet, and a bowl of eggs sat on the counter. Looked like she was planning to make breakfast, but maybe he’d beat her to it. He moved the skillet over the flames, stepped behind the screen to splash water on his face and pulled on his jeans.

  It wasn’t exactly clear who had conquered who last night, he mused. A man would probably say that he was the victor, having taken his wife for the first time, but this morning he felt so poleaxed he felt like he was the conquered party.

  The bacon began to sizzle. He moved the coffeepot over the heat, snagged two mugs from the hooks in the china cabinet and stared at the bowl of eggs. Marianne was…somewhere. Maybe out riding with Rosie Greywolf.

  But, he realized, today was July Fourth. The day of the horse races. He figured Rosie wouldn’t be riding this morning; she’d want to save her horse for the women’s race this afternoon.

  The eggs sat in the bowl, looking back at him. He could have them fried or scrambled, but he had to admit he didn’t know how to fry or scramble them. Well, he reasoned, he could at least get them out of the shells.

  He reached for Mrs. Beeton’s recipe book. Let’s see, eggs…eggs…

  “Fried eggs,” it read. “Break eggs into a skillet…”

  He scanned down the page. “Scrambled eggs. Break eggs into a bowl…” He groaned. Cookbooks were written for people who already knew how to cook!

  He picked up one of the eggs and cracked it against the edge of the bowl. Too hard, he realized when it oozed sticky yellow yolk all over his hand. The next eggshell didn’t crack at all, and when he tapped it just a bit harder, runny egg stuff slopped on to the counter.

  He began to perspire. So much for making breakfast this morning. This egg business was harder than cutting out pieces of cowhide.

  He was pretty sure he had succeeded in satisfying Marianne last night, but he sure wasn’t succeeding at breakfast; he couldn’t cook eggs worth a damn.

  *

  When Marianne arrived at the livery stable she found Rosie waiting. But she was not saddling up the horses. Instead, she insisted the two of them should walk the racecourse Sammy had laid out the previous day. “On foot, see everything,” the woman said. “Think like horse.”

  So the two of them tramped along the wide path where Sammy had marked the route. It ran behind the stable, past the train station and over the wide, dandelion-studded mea
dow and through the woods, then back along the river and up the hill to the church and around the big oak tree. Then it doubled back on itself to the finish line at the edge of town.

  The sun was just turning the sky peach-colored when they returned to the stable. “Eat little,” Rosie advised. “Otherwise, get belly jiggles.”

  Marianne nodded, fed Dancer a ripe red apple and a handful of oats and walked back to the shop. She already had “belly jiggles.” Just the thought of tearing along the racecourse with lots of other horses gave her the shakes. Part of her apprehension was just plain fear; part of it was knowing she was deliberately ignoring Lance’s objection to her riding in this race. Knowing she was deliberately deceiving Lance about riding in the race.

  She’d thought a lot about it these past weeks. She felt caught between her wish to be a good wife and her fear that Eugenia Ridley was up to no good and needed watching during the ladies’ race. The more she wrestled with her dilemma, the more uncertain she got. Lance might never forgive her for defying him. And after their glorious night together last night she knew it mattered a great deal to her if she displeased him.

  But she knew she couldn’t have it both ways. As much as she needed to please Lance, she needed even more to do what she felt was right.

  She returned to the apartment to find Lance bent over one of her cookbooks. When she came in he glanced up and his frown evaporated. “Thank God you’re back! I finally figured out how to crack an eggshell, but I made a real mess doing it.”

  Sure enough, the kitchen counter was awash in egg yolks which were now dripping on to the floor, and frizzled bacon slices lay in the skillet, swimming in congealing bacon grease. Lance looked so abject she took pity on him. Together they mopped off the counter and cleaned the floor, and then she gave Lance a quick lesson on how to scramble eggs.

  “You mean that’s all there is to it? Just add some milk and pour them into the skillet?”

  Marianne grinned. “That’s all.”

  “What if I want to fry an egg instead of scramble it?”