His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (29 page)

"We will have to tell Sera," she said, striving for a lighter tone.

He blanched. "No." For the first time since he'd knelt before her, his reservoir of strength drained enough for her to glimpse his gnawing dread. "You mustn't tell Sera. Please. Eden, promise me."

"But—"

"She mustn't know I'm sick."

His hand shook as it tightened on hers. She swallowed. He'd misunderstood her. She'd meant to say they should tell Sera the good news about their arrangement. But his illness... that was another matter entirely.

"You can't keep it a secret much longer," she said gently.

"I have to. For as long as I can."

She could feel the desperation in his grasp. "She's my friend."

"She's my sister," he countered hoarsely.

Uneasiness coiled through her. She hated secrets and lies. How could she pretend to Sera? Then again, how could she refuse her husband his request for privacy?

"All right, I promise," she said reluctantly. She rationalized that if Michael were her patient, she would have kept his health matters confidential as a matter of course. Still, she felt duplicitous. And she worried that if she did become his healer—an inevitability—she wouldn't be up to the challenge.

"Thank you," he murmured, drawing her to her feet. Color, in the form of relief, rolled back the grayness in his cheeks. He raised her hand to his lips before tucking it in the crook of his arm. "Let's get married, then," he said huskily.

That had been nearly five hours ago. The ceremony itself had been a hasty affair; Claudia and Sera had served as witnesses, and Henry had presided without looking her once in the eye. Eden hadn't cared.

She hadn't cared, either, that a thin crowd had dragged themselves away from the square dance at the fairgrounds. Apparently scandal was more scintillating than promenading with your best sweetheart. The handful of couples who had gathered outside the church came mostly to gawk, although some had remembered their manners long enough to stammer an insincere congratulations.

Bonnie, sitting in her carriage at the top of the hill, had watched venomously as Michael handed Eden into his phaeton and had driven her to her new home. At the time, as Eden recalled, he'd grown unsettlingly pale. She wondered if shame or his illness had been to blame.

She wondered, too, if resentment for her or yearning for an old sweetheart kept him from coming to bed now, at this late hour, on their wedding night.

The clock chimed the quarter hour, sounding strident in its reminder of the passing time. She wondered if Michael had fallen asleep in his study. Or worse, if he'd had another seizure. She halted before the door. Should she venture down the stairs to check on him? She knew he was alone. Sera had volunteered to stay with Aunt Claudia for several days, "to let the lovebirds nest," as she'd so cheekily put it.

Eden shifted from foot to foot, trying to imagine what illness she would have diagnosed based on Michael's unrelated set of symptoms.

Shortly after they had foiled Sera's hastily plotted shivaree by chasing Aunt Claudia and a handful of noisy mischief makers off the porch, Eden had gathered her courage and asked Michael's permission to examine him by lamplight. He'd grown stiff with insult, telling her to put away her sage sticks and her bullhorn, that he was her husband, not some greenhorn seeker, and that their marriage was not a circus side show. Excusing himself curtly, he'd retreated behind his office door, leaving her to feel inadequate once more as a Medicine Woman.

Perhaps her secret longing for his approval was just a pipe dream. Perhaps it was better to forget Talking Raven's teachings, Eden mused, and ignore her inner guidance, which was so rarely based in logic or fact.

No matter how many times she'd seen Talking Raven emerge from a trancelike vision with new insights that eventually helped her patient, Eden couldn't quite shake her father's belief that faith healing held no medical validity. And Michael clearly shared her father's view. So if she were ever to earn Michael's respect, she would have to make a choice.

She would have to sacrifice her female intuition.

She sighed, deciding to seek out her husband for a reconciliation. But as she reached for the handle of the door, she heard a creak on the stairs.

She hastily retreated, her heart ricocheting off her ribs. His footfalls were almost soundless, despite his size, despite the hush in the house. If not for the occasional protest of the timbers under his feet, she might not have been able to track his approach: past the family portraits—all preachers—who frowned down upon the narrow stairwell, past the shrinelike alcove where a vase of wild roses guarded his mother's dog-eared prayerbook, past the closed door of the bedroom in which Gabriel had breathed his last.

Michael halted, and Eden held her breath. In her mind's eye, she could see him standing on the other side, silent and somber, haunted by all his ghosts. Torn between fascination and dread, she riveted her gaze to the doorknob and waited for it to turn. When he quietly knocked instead, she almost jumped out of her skin.

She licked her lips. "Come in."

He didn't. Instead, he towered on the threshold, polite, erect, and unrumpled. Even his cravat remained tied. So much for her worry that he'd collapsed, or that he'd forgotten about her because he'd been dozing, his dreams filled with happy memories of making love to Bonnie.

"I thought you'd retired, but then I heard you stirring," he said, the resonant echo of his voice chasing tingles down her spine. "Do you need a sleeping draught?"

She blushed, shaking her head.
Of course
she was awake on her wedding night! She hadn't been this nervous since Papa had first coaxed her to sing, "Oh, Susanna!" to a boot-stomping crowd of miners. Now that her doctor husband had finally come to their room, she couldn't help but wonder: Did Michael offer a potion so she'd relax for the intimacies he planned, or did he want her to sleep so he could avoid the ordeal of lovemaking altogether?

She did her best not to look crushed. "I was waiting for you."

Some elusive emotion flickered over his features, touched his lips, was quickly gone. As careful as he was to stand beyond the lampglow, she couldn't read his mood. He stood split between shadow and light.
Half man, half angel.
She wondered which Michael, the mortal or the seraph, would determine his behavior tonight.

"I didn't want to disturb you," he said, as if to explain his delayed arrival. "You've had a trying day."

"No more than your own," she murmured, wishing he'd step inside, wishing he'd kiss her the way he had that afternoon, passionately, unabashedly, without apology or excuse. In the butterfly field, she could believe he'd felt affection for her. Here, in the room where Jedidiah Jones used to sleep, she wondered if that affection had turned to contempt.

Bruised to her core at the notion, she tried another tactic. "I'm sorry, Michael. I didn't mean to offend you about... about burning sage to cleanse the room. I wanted to help."

"I know." His response was the closest thing to an apology she figured she would ever hear. "It will take time for us to get used to each other's ways."

"I'm willing to take that time," she offered shyly.

The shadowed side of his mouth curved. "I've left you little choice, it seems."

Was that what was bothering him?

Encouraged to think he didn't despise her for being sexually forthright, she gathered her nerve to speak candidly. "Michael, I'm not ashamed about how we touched today. I don't care what other people think. You and I know the truth of what happened. That's all that matters."

"Bravely spoken. But the months ahead won't be easy. Bonnie will make life difficult for you."

"She'll try," she corrected him. "Papa used to say lies are like weeds: They wither in the light of a strong truth. Let Bonnie say what she likes. People will see she's speaking out of spite. Eventually, they'll discount her."

He bowed his head. For an uncomfortably long moment, he stared at the floor. When he sighed, she wondered what he was thinking. Did he regret that Bonnie had been among the picnickers who'd found them together? Had he hoped for more time to explain the truth before she'd leaped to the worst possible conclusion?

"I won't always be around to protect you, Eden."

His reminder, so poignant with regret, made her vision sparkle and blur. It had never occurred to her that he was worrying about her, rather than Bonnie. It had never occurred to her he was contemplating the future she would face without him at her side.

"I want to make the most of our marriage, Michael," she nearly pleaded. "I want to be a good wife to you—if you'll let me."

He stepped into the room. The lamplight swirled around him in a harsh, gilded blaze, exposing the stark emotion on his face. A heartbeat later, the breadth of his shoulders blotted the lamp from her view, and she blinked, adjusting to the dimmer dance of moonbeams that feathered over his chiseled jaw and torso. When he halted, leaving less than an arm's length between them, his eyes were in shadow, yet they glowed with an elemental yearning too captivating to ignore.

"Eden." His voice held a throaty cadence, throbbing with an intensity that made her knees weak. "Do you know what it means to be a wife to a man?"

She could only nod, her breath raveling somewhere in her throat.

His lashes fanned a mesmerizing degree lower to veil the glittering hunger in his eyes. "When you agreed to marry me, I did not presume you would let me share your bed."

"B-but why?"

"Because I've wronged you. In more ways than one."

"It takes two to touch, Michael."

The smile flickered again, a slash of irony before it faded into self-reprisal. "I have wanted to touch you that way, and other ways, for a long time. Ever since the first night I met you. I'm sure you don't remember. It was years ago, near the livery at Whiskey Bend. You couldn't have been more than seventeen when you knelt beside me in the straw."

"I remember," she said softly.

He started. But his surprise couldn't completely dispel the grim, brooding irony. "I had hoped you wouldn't. I wasn't exactly gracious."

"You saved my life. You didn't have to be."

He shook his head. "I'm not the man you think I am, Eden. I've whored, I've brawled, I've gotten stinking drunk—"

She started to protest, but he cut her off.

"I know. You won't listen to me. You won't listen now any more than you would then"—amusement vied with his frustration—"any more than you would in the parlor. I tried to send you away for your own good. I've been trying to send you away ever since that night in the livery.

"But you're stubborn—my own stubborn angel. You insist on giving me assistance whether I want it or not. Now look at what your goodness has brought you." He swallowed, and for the first time, he allowed her to glimpse the anguish and the longing he'd bottled up inside.

"You haunt my dreams, Eden," he confessed fervently. "You've filled my nights since Whiskey Bend. I tried to stop the fantasies, but I couldn't help myself. At times, loving you seemed so real..." His voice trailed, and his fists clenched at his sides. "I never thought I'd see you again. I convinced myself the dreams weren't sins because the woman I'd conjured could never be human.

"And then you came to Blue Thunder, all summer and sunshine. You
are
my fantasy made flesh. It nearly killed me to have you within reach, to realize I might never be well enough to make you my own, to picture some other man touching you, kissing you, loving you into the night—"

"Michael..."

His chest heaved. His struggle against his inner demons was almost tangible. "I can't help but wonder," he whispered hoarsely, "if I didn't somehow create this marriage to keep you for myself."

She fought back tears. His pain was like a knife in her chest, and she didn't know how to help him. She didn't know how to heal the self-contempt that festered beneath his rationale and led him to shoulder the onerous burden of a dead brother, a rebellious orphan, and a young woman who'd secretly fantasized about loving him, too. Here was his real illness, she reasoned: the merciless judgments he heaped on himself.

"Michael." She chose her next words carefully, sensing that he would balk if he misconstrued her love for him as hero worship. "To blame yourself," she murmured, "is to deny that I have a mind of my own. I didn't choose to be your wife out of pity. And I didn't choose to marry you out of shame or fear. I made the decision to let you touch me, and I would choose to let you touch me again. I would
marry
you again, Michael. You're the husband I want, for however long God blesses us both with life. Nothing else matters. I want to be with you.
You,
Michael. Will you let me?"

His breath hissed in with a groan, and he opened his arms. She hurried inside, her throat aching as he folded her closer, as his lips buried in her hair. Waves of emotion broke over her; she would have crumpled to her knees if his arms hadn't wrapped her so fiercely. She felt his chest shudder beneath her, felt the tempest in her own breast.

And then, as if from far away, she heard his rough, choked rumble of sound: "You're more than I dreamed of, Eden."

She raised her head, and his mouth courted hers. The velvet penetration of his tongue chased a bolt of desire down her limbs. He possessed her with a restrained hunger even while his calloused palm trembled against her cheek, a tender affirmation of his own onslaught of feeling. She let his kisses enthrall her; she let the thrumming of his heart speak to her in ways that manly pride would have silenced.