A Bride in the Bargain Part 30

"What about eggs and doughnuts and potatoes and oats and hot cakes?"

Standing, she shook peelings from her ap.r.o.n. "I'm not a lumberjack, Joe. A cinnamon roll and a couple of slices of bacon is all I need." She noted his four peeled potatoes and raised a brow. "Is that all you've done this whole time?"

He scowled. "Don't you have a floor to scrub?"

Smiling, she set her potatoes on the table and swept up the peelings. He continued to work as she tossed a bucket of hot soapy water on the floor, then switched back and forth with her broom. By the time she'd rinsed the floor in the same manner, he was finishing his task, careful not to let any peelings fall from his bed to her clean floor.

"Thank you," she said, collecting the bowl.

"You're welcome." He snagged her fingers. "You smell good." He wondered if she'd made a sachet with the twinflowers she'd dried.

Blushing, she fiddled with her watch pin. She wore the blue gingham today, her hair bound in the back with a ribbon to match. "You going to eat something, now?"

She nodded.

"Will you sit by me while you do?"

Hesitating, she glanced at his chest. "Will you put your shirt on?"

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I was hoping to shave first."

"I'm not sure that's such good idea. What if you get lightheaded standing up like that?"

Pretending to consider her words, he let out a long sigh. "Yes. I suppose you're right. It sure does itch, though."

She glanced at his shaving instruments. "What if I hold the mirror for you? Then you could shave right here."

He brightened. "You sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all."

"Well, eat something first. Then, we'll give it a try."

Anna tried to hold the mirror still, but she could not completely suppress the tremors besetting her. Always before, she'd taken only surrept.i.tious peeks at him when he shaved. Now she had front-seat viewing.

The tangy smell of his shaving cream hung like a cloud around them. He angled his head to one side and painted white, frothy lotion on his cheek, jaw, and neck.

Dipping the brush back in the bowl, he glanced up at her. "Is your arm getting tired?"

"No. What about yours?"

He hesitated. "I'm all right."

But he wasn't. She could see that the entire affair was taxing his strength. She bit her lip. She should never have let him help with the potatoes. Clearly it had been too much. And now, after he'd sharpened his razor and mixed up his lotion, he could barely lift his arm.

She lowered the mirror. "Perhaps it would be best if I did that for you."

He considered her offer for a long moment, then handed her the brush and bowl.

With an air of unconcern, she whipped up the lather and began to spread it on in long, straight strokes.

He placed his hand over hers. "Circles. It's better if you swirl it on in circles."

He demonstrated, guiding her motions, then released her. The tips of his fingers brushed her arm on their way down. b.u.mps covered her skin and the hairs on her arm rose.

"Cold?" he asked.

"No. Yes." She swallowed. "A little."

He kept his eyes on hers. She kept her eyes on what she was doing. Finally, she set the bowl and brush down, then reached for the razor.

Frowning, he eyed the blade. "Have you ever done this before?"

"No. Never."

He pressed himself back into the pillows. "Maybe I'd better do this part."

"You can barely lift your arm, Joe."

"I'm feeling better now."

She tsked. "I can do it. How hard can it be?"

"It's not hard, exactly, but it does take a steady hand and a smooth touch."

"I can do it." She placed a finger on his chin and lifted.

The closer she came with the razor, the more alarmed his expression until his eyes rolled like a spooked horse. A giggle bubbled up from inside her.

He grabbed her wrist. "Stop. Your hand shakes when you do that."

Her giggle turned into a laugh. And the more she tried to stop, the more tickled she became.

He wrenched the instrument from her hand. "Hold the mirror. I'll do it myself."

"No," she gasped, clutching her side. "I'll stop. I will."

He raised a brow, sending her off into another round of laughter. When she finally settled down, he was trying to hold the mirror with one hand and shave with the other.

She grasped the mirror. "I can do it."

"No thank you."

She shook her head. "For a big, strapping fellow, you sure are skittish."

"I happen to value my jugular."

She smiled. "I value it, too."

Heat leapt into his eyes. All humor fled from her, replaced with something just as likely to give her unsteady hands, though.

He released the mirror.

She gently took the razor from him. Touching his chin with her finger, she lifted.

"Start from the bottom and come up." Joe's fingers closed around her wrist. "Don't press too hard. The edge of that is extremely sharp."

She wiggled loose from his grip. "Quit talking. Your Adam's apple jumps around when you do that."

Starting at the base of his neck, she pulled the blade up along the curve of his throat. A faint sc.r.a.ping noise accompanied its ascent. Lotion piled up along the flat side of the razor.

Keeping her finger on his chin, she swished the blade in a bowl of warm water, then repeated her action. When she came to the center of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbed.

"Hold your breath for a minute," Anna said, taking little sc.r.a.pes around the bulge in his neck. Straightening, she released his chin and touched her neck. Nothing. She pressed along its entire length.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm looking for an Adam's apple. Do girls not have those? Yours is gigantic."

He touched his neck. "No it's not."

"Yes it is." She shrugged. "But I've shaved it now. You don't need to hold your breath any longer."

That was a matter of opinion. He'd thought only to find an excuse to get her near. Never occurred to him that she hadn't done this before. But of course she hadn't. How could she have?

She held her tongue clamped between her teeth as she finished his neck. Twisting around to swish the blade clean, she gave him an unrestricted view of her silhouette. The blue-and-white fabric strained against her chest. He flattened his hands on the sheet.

Grasping his chin, she turned his face to the side.

"Wait," he said. "Why don't you sit down for this part. It'll be easier to reach that way."

He scooted over. She settled down next to him, then leaned close. Very close. Contorting her face, she flattened her cheek against her jawbone, mimicking what she needed him to do. He mirrored her actions. She shaved his cheek.

When she got to the part between his nose and lip, she stretched her lips down over her teeth. Joe did the same, wondering if she even realized what she was doing.

He inhaled, trying to see if he could catch another whiff of the twinflower, but all he smelled was the minty aroma of his shaving cream.

When Anna finally finished, she turned his face this way and that, inspecting her handiwork. "Not so much as a nick." Smiling, she picked up the shaving instruments. "Hold on and I'll get a warm cloth."

She returned, both of her hands covered with a steaming rag. He sucked in his breath as she laid it on his face, then began to relax as the heat dissipated. Cupping the cloth-and his face-with one hand, she used the opposite corner of it to blot up remnants of the shaving cream.

He could have easily taken over the task, but did not. Her gaze followed her ministrations. Down his sideburns, over his jaw, round his chin, across his lips.

She lifted her gaze and stilled, the rag in her hand forgotten.

Without breaking eye contact, he took the rag, then dropped it on the chair beside the bed. Sliding his hand to the back of her neck, he slowly, slowly drew her to him, giving her plenty of time to withdraw. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The kiss was soft, hesitant, and gentle. Then she moaned and all cognizant thought deserted him. Pulling her against him, he deepened the kiss. Her hands slid up his arms, onto his shoulders, and into his hair. He ripped his mouth from hers, kissing her eyes, nipping at her ears, nuzzling her neck.

She squirmed against him.

Recapturing her lips, he pulled her onto his lap and fell back against the pillows, twisting her around so she lay half on the bed, half on him.

If you plan on compromising her somehow in order to get her to wed you, you're going to have a bunch of fellows to answer to.

He stilled, then gently pulled back. Pillows cushioned her head. She stared at him, wonder and desire fogging her eyes. Bits of honey-colored hair curled along the white of her neck.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then her eyes cleared.

Gasping, she shoved him back and scrambled off the bed. "Good heavens!"

Her cheeks filled with color. Whirling, she ran from the room and up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

Anna fell onto her bed, burying her face into her pillow. Was that what people referred to as sins of the flesh? She rolled onto her back and touched her lips.

No wonder mothers were so adamant in their warnings. If Joe hadn't stopped, no telling what would have happened. He certainly was gaining his strength back in a hurry, though.

She flung an arm over her eyes. How could she ever go down those stairs and face him again? What must he think after she'd sprawled herself clear across him and his bed?

Shame and embarra.s.sment washed through her. She might have decided she'd marry him if he asked again-and if that kiss was any indication, she felt sure he would-but that was no excuse for putting the cart before the horse. And it was up to her to see that things remained circ.u.mspect until after the vows had been said.

She glanced out the window. In another hour or so, she needed to serve him his lunch. Yet she couldn't simply hide in her room the whole time.

Pushing herself up, she went to her washstand and poured a bit of water into the bowl. It had been a while since she'd given the upstairs a thorough cleaning. Maybe she'd do that now.

She cooled herself with a rag and water, then headed to one of the vacant upstairs rooms. She worked her way through the entire floor and all too soon stood at the threshold of Joe's room. Pushing on the door, it slowly swung open.

A ma.s.sive family bed-a symbol of strength and stability-dominated the far wall. She'd been in his room many times before and it always disconcerted her. This time it was worse. Worse because she'd given herself permission to accept his marriage proposal. Worse because the remnants of their kiss still lingered. Worse because she realized much more than kisses would take place in here once they wed. If they wed.

The walnut headboard consisted of three levels of carved finials that triangulated to a narrow peak near the ceiling. A nightstand and matching bureau topped by a huge mirror completed the bedroom set. Stepping into the room, she opened the curtains, illuminating the exquisite Rococo Rose wallpaper.

It never ceased to surprise her. It simply wasn't what she imagined a lumberjack would choose. Of course, he'd prepared this room for his bride. The one who didn't live long enough to see it.

She smoothed his bed covers, which featured an English countryside printed in red against a white background, then wiped down the oil lamp on his nightstand. The Taming of the Shrew lay on top of a small writing box.

Had he continued to read it? He must have. Why else would it be here? She quickly dusted it and the writing slope. A piece of paper protruded from a corner of the box. Lifting the lid, she tried to tuck the correspondence back inside, but it was snagged on the pages above it. She pulled it from the stack, meaning only to lay it on top of the pile, when Bertha's name leapt from the page.

. . . Bertha Wrenne's husband not dead STOP Is returned from confederate prison camp STOP . . .