Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (3 page)

Keenly
aware that it was now too late to change her mind, Lydia pasted a civil smile onto her lips.

No matter the circumstance, a
lady must always maintain an agreeable disposition.
Even in moments of severe duress.

“ . . . ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.”

Finished, Lydia carefully laid her bristle brush in its customary place on top of the marble-topped bureau. She considered plaiting her hair into a braid, but quickly vetoed the idea. The trembling in her hands had become so severe that she feared she wouldn’t be able to perform the simple task.

Uncertain what
she should do next, Lydia fidgeted with the lace that adorned the cuff on her white nightdress.

While
the earlier wedding supper had been grueling, waiting for her new husband to join her in their bed chamber was fast becoming sheer torment. Although, in all honesty, Ben seemed to have suffered through the lengthy meal with the same heightened sense of discomfort as she. Since Reverend Witherspoon had pronounced them man and wife, they’d exchanged only scant words with one another, their verbal exchanges having become more stilted and awkward as the day had progressed.

Nervously
realizing that there was too much illumination in the room, Lydia reached for the bureau lamp and inched the oil flame down several notches. Glancing behind her, she could see that the diminished light did little to dispel the flickering shadows that fell across the feather tick mattress.

Staring at the familiar four-poster
bed, Lydia suffered a pang of guilt.

She’d shared
the same bed with her first husband on
their
wedding night. Much to the amusement of her in-laws, when she and James migrated west, she’d insisted upon transporting the behemoth piece of furniture from Tennessee to Missouri. Now, she wished that she’d not been so insistent.

Desperately trying to steady
her nerves, Lydia rearranged the toiletries on top of the bureau, making a mental note of those items that she would need to pack for the upcoming trip to Kansas. Suddenly, succumbing to a bout of anxiety, she opened the mother-of-pearl jewelry box. Almost frantically she sorted through the menagerie of earrings and brooches, relieved when she finally found what she was searching for – the gold wedding band given to her by James McCabe. Today marked the first time in nine years that she’d not worn it.

Since her new husband had not seen fit to buy her a wedding
ring, Lydia’s left hand was now bare.

Fondly recalling
that
other
wedding night, Lydia slowly, reverently, raised the gold band to her lips.

“It’s nice to finally see you attired in
some color other than black.”

At the sound of that deep, masculine voice, Lydia pivoted, startled to fin
d Ben standing in the open doorway.

“Need I remind you
, sir, that I wear black—”
Because I am a widow.
Thinking better of the declaration at the last, Lydia clamped her mouth shut.

For the first time in what had been an interminably long day, the ramification
s of what she’d done were beginning to hem in on her. No longer could she lay claim to being James McCabe’s widow. As of this day, she was now Benjamin Strong’s wife. Even more distressing, the same marriage vows that had sealed her marriage to James, now bound her to another man. A man who, for all intents and purposes, was a stranger to her.

‘Until death we do part.’

Afraid that Ben might catch her in the act, Lydia decided against returning her wedding ring to the jewelry box. Instead, she hid the ring in the palm of her hand, her fingers tightly clenched around the gold band. As soon he turned his back, she would slip the ring into the box.

With surprising nonchalance
, as though it was his nightly habit, Ben crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him. Attired in his blue uniform pants, a white linen shirt tucked into the waistband, he seemed too large, too masculine, to be sharing her lace-filled bed chamber.

“Since you’ve not yet had time to purchase civilian attire, I could alter a pair
of Spencer’s trousers for you,” Lydia offered, if for no other reason than to break the unnerving silence. “I judge the two of you to be nearly the same height.”

“So you fancy yourself a good judge of men, do you?”

“I married you, did I not?”

“That you did, Mrs. Strong.” Ben slipped his suspenders over his shoulders, the canvas straps dangling around his hips. “That you did. And no need to rustle me up any hand-me-down
britches. The ones I’m wearing will do just fine.” Seating himself on the edge of the bed, Ben proceeded to remove his knee-high riding boots. “I’ll outfit myself with new clothes once we arrive in Kansas.”

Lydia averted her gaze,
her heartbeat quickening as Ben brazenly began to disrobe.

Turning her back on h
im, Lydia said over her shoulder, “I was made to understand that Kansas jayhawkers set fire to your farmhouse. What will we do if it’s beyond salvage?”

“Maybe you should have asked that question
before
you married me.”

“The answer to that particular question would have made no difference to me.”
Lydia turned to face him, flustered to see that Ben was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. “As I told you before, I intend to assist you in rebuilding the farm.”

“Wait ‘til we get to Kansas. You might st
art singing a different tune.”

“I most certainly will not! Although I might very well
—” Lydia stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, utterly confounded. Married less than half a day, she and Ben were off to a less than amiable start.

Grimacing, h
er new husband ran a hand over the back of his neck, making Lydia think that his thoughts ran a similar course.

“
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Rising to his feet, Ben yanked his shirttails free of his trousers. “It’s just that I’m bone weary, and it’s been a long day.”

Lydia
concurred with a nod. “Much too long, in my estimation.”

One side of
Ben’s mouth noticeably quirked upward. “Well, at least we agree on something. Maybe there’s hope yet for this marriage.” That said, he yanked his shirt over his head, tossing it onto a nearby chair.

Lydia
stifled a breathless gasp.

Clearly, she was a better judge of men than she
’d originally laid claim to. Without a doubt, Benjamin Strong was the most perfectly formed male that she’d ever set eyes upon. Not only was he broad of shoulder, but his heavily muscled chest was covered with a pelt of dark curly hair.

Taken aback by
the virile display, it took several moments for her to even think about protesting Ben’s immodest state of undress.

“I l
aid out a nightshirt for you.” Lydia pointed to the neatly folded garment that she’d earlier placed on Ben’s designated pillow.

Her new husband
didn’t as much as glance at it.

“This is my wedding night, Lydia.
Our
wedding night.” Ben’s gray eyes bore into hers with a burning intensity. “I don’t plan on either of us wearing much of anything.”

At hearing that,
Lydia’s heart slammed against her breastbone.

“I refuse to . . . to remove my nightdress,” she
husked, struggling to maintain her composure.

Outflanked,
Ben Strong stared long and hard at his new bride, the stricken look on Lydia’s face hitting him where it hurt. While she may be a widow, she’d been without a man for eight years. He supposed it was only natural for her to be skittish. Hell, they hardly knew one another. This wasn’t the same as having a wild romp with an army camp follower. She was his wife. The woman that he’d earlier pledged to love, honor and protect.

“Okay. You can
wear the nightdress.” He appraised the voluminous garment with a critical eye. “I’ll figure out a way to maneuver around it.”

“Thank you.”

Ben bit back a piquant retort, figuring that’s what a man got for marrying a bonafide southern lady. Instead, he said, “How about shuffling over here so we can get this wedding night underway?”

Though her green eyes measurably widened, Lydia did as he bid, wordlessly taking the necessary steps to bring herself within arm’s reach of
him. Because it was now his right as Lydia’s husband to take a good, long gander, Ben’s gaze brazenly swept up and down her person, from buttoned collar to frilly hem.

Damnation. Just how many yards of fabric went into making
that nightdress, anyway?

While
he was admittedly annoyed that Lydia had insisted on remaining fully clothed, to his prurient delight, the glow cast by the oil lamp perfectly silhouetted her body against the white lawn fabric.

Suddenly h
it with a burst of unmitigated lust, Ben couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Having seen Lydia garbed only in widow’s weeds, he was out-and-out poleaxed at the sight of so much womanly beauty hidden beneath the folds of that contentious nightdress.

Oh, how
I do love a long-legged, full-breasted woman.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Lydia. I want you in every way that a man can want a woman. You do know what I’m
getting at, don’t you?”

Although her lips
began to quiver, his new wife solemnly nodded her head.

Ben took
the nod as a good sign. Hoping to alleviate her skittishness, he said, “I know that you haven’t been with a man since . . . well, in a good, long while. And because of that, I’ll try to be as gentle with you as possible.”

Having said
his peace, Ben captured a handful of Lydia’s unbound hair. Amazingly, the auburn tresses were even silkier than he’d imagined.

God help
me, it’s like touching liquid fire.

Awestruck,
Ben brought the handful of red hair to his face and slowly rubbed the luxurious strands across his cheek.

A few moments later
, needing to put his brand on her, he grasped Lydia by the shoulders, fully and completely covering her lips with his. Earlier in the day, at the preacher’s prompting, they’d shared their first kiss, a perfunctory, fraternal peck. He now kissed her like a man who hadn’t had a woman in a good, long while. Which was nearer to the truth than Ben cared to admit.

Although
Lydia kept her mouth chastely closed, Ben didn’t let that stop him from enjoying himself. Leisurely he explored the soft swell of Lydia’s lower lip, alternately sucking and licking the tender flesh. When he’d had his fill, he turned his attention to her upper lip. Detecting a slight weakening in Lydia’s defenses, his tongue finally breached the moistened boundary and slipped into her mouth. While unable to completely wear down her resistance, he did manage to put a dent in it, Lydia moaning softly as she swayed toward him. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ben swung her into his arms.

As he carried
his bride to the bed, Ben considered extinguishing the lamp, only to reject the idea at the last. In his experience, a man should never turn his back on an unbroken mare. If he left Lydia alone, even for the few seconds that it would take to walk over to the bureau, she might have a change of heart.

Gently,
not wanting to cause undue alarm, Ben placed Lydia on top of the quilted bed coverlet. He then took his place beside her, the feather tick mattress sagging beneath his weight.

While Lydia had
expressly forbidden him from removing her nightdress, Ben assumed he could touch her all that he wanted. Game to test the theory, he smoothed the fabric over her bosom before palming a breast. Within seconds, Lydia’s nipple hardened, nudging his palm through the cotton fabric.

B
en bit back an agonized groan.

Reaching for the buttons on his breeches, he decided to get right to it. He’d been fantasizing about this moment for the last four nights, his body in a heightened state of arousal since accepting Lydia’s proposal.
Not to mention, he’d been celibate too damn long. While this first time was doomed to be little more than a fast romp, the second time would be for her.