The Marriage Bed

SHE SMELLED WONDERFUL, LIKE LILACS AND POWDER.

Olivia's hair, released from the braid it had been in, lay spread against the white pillow, making an elaborate frame for her face. The top two buttons of her gown were open and the hem was raised to her thighs in a very modest invitation to Spencer.

"What happened to your braid?" he asked, lifting a long strand and letting it slink through his fingers. Livvy's hair was soft and silky, and just the feel of it across his palm made drawing a deep breath harder.

"I thought—" she began, then stopped herself. "I could do it now if you want."

"Leave it." Spencer's voice sounded gruff to his own ears. More softly he added, "You can tie it up later."

He turned to face her, knowing that sooner or later he had to get started, and his leg slipped between hers as if by its own accord. Before he could pull it back, her hand rested on his thigh. It was, perhaps, the boldest thing Olivia had ever done.

He had meant to tell her he was too tired. He had thought to put her off until tomorrow or the day after that, or when he might feel more in control. But now, as he grew hard against the roundness of her hip, he tried to concentrate on things he could control in the hope of stopping things he couldn't.

HIGH PRAISE FOR

STEPHANIE MITTMAN

THE MARRIAGE BED

"THE MARRIAGE BED IS A BEAUTIFUL AMERICAN ROMANCE, emotionally uplifting and bittersweet. Stephanie Mittman has the talent and the spark of genius to become the next Candace Camp. Ms. Mittman might very well be the standard against which all future American romance is judged." —Harriet Klausner,
Affaire de Coeur

"THE BEST OF AMERICAN ROMANCE. Stephanie Mittman creates warm, true-to-life characters who will work their way into your heart. Stephanie Mittman is a name to be remembered." —
Romantic Times

"Ms. Mittman is truly an up-and-coming star in the world of romance."

—
The Paperback Forum

"TERRIFIC . . . Stephanie Mittman portrays rural America with warmth and authenticity."

—
Pamela Morsi

Also by Stephanie Mittman

Bridge to Yesterday

A Taste of Honey

THE MARRIAGE BED

Stephanie Mittman

A DELL BOOK

Published by

Dell Publishing

a division of

Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

1540 Broadway

New York, New York 10036

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright © 1996 by Stephanie Mittman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted' in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

ISBN: 0-440-22182-X

Printed in the United States of America

Published simultaneously in Canada

May 1996

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

OPM

This book is gratefully dedicated to my critique partner and friend, Sherry Steinfeld, who read every word and asked me to change only a few of them. Thank you for making me replace ordinary phrases with "Mittman-isms," for keeping me honest, and for liking my books. Thanks also for coming to my rescue at the drop of a hat, offering always to listen, andgiving me good advice. I'm so glad we're friends.

And, as always, to Laura, who is the best editor a woman could ask for—always available, encouraging, and supportive. But I still liked the line about the old maids being like vultures.

To all my friends and supporters on AOL—a bouquet of roses, which I can't figure out how to do, and a ;-).

And last, but never least, my incredible family, each of whom, at one time or another, was called upon to convince me one more time that I am really a writer.

I hope I've done you all proud.

Prologue

Maple Stand, Wisconsin

March 1894

He lay on the old oak bed in the darkened bedroom listening to the thud, thud, thudding of his heart compete with the sound of his new wife's ragged breathing, and stared through the window at the last two stars in the Big Dipper's handle. How did that little rhyme Kirsten had taught the children go?
Star light, star bright, something about the first star at night . . . wish I may, wish I might, have my wish come true tonight?

Nearly that, anyway.

I wish ...

He glanced over at the woman nestled beneath the covers just inches from his side. Outside, the few dried leaves that still clung tenaciously to the dormant lilac bushes scraped against the glass panes. Wind whistled through cracks in the painted white frames of the windows.

I wish ...

She shifted slightly, the mound of covers moving like a snow drift in the wind, and a tiny whimper escaped her lips.

I wish I was dead.

"Olivia? You all right?"

"I guess," she answered softly. She sounded bewildered, confused. Of course she was. So was he.

"I'm sorry," he said, grateful the room was too dark for her to see the rush of embarrassment that heated his cheeks..

Not that she needed to see him to know how mortified he was. He told himself once again it was just too much wine, too many toasts drunk to a newly wedded pair.

The white mound moved again as she extricated a hand to lay softly against his arm. "Don't apologize," she said, sidling up closer to him. "It's not your fault. When a man and a woman . . . that is, a husband and wife . . . well, I knew it would hurt. I didn't mean to cry out. I'm fine now, really."

"I'm sorry about it hurting you," he said, annoyed with himself for being so lost in his own distress that he hadn't even thought to apologize for the pain he had caused her. "But, then," he said. "After . . ."

"After?"

Could it really be that she was unaware of what had just happened between them? Or was she simply being kind? Could she be so naive she actually thought that what they had done was all there was? No, she must have felt him suddenly grow soft inside her. Mustn't she?

"So then I guess I'm really, finally, truly your wife now."

He couldn't help but hear again her choked scream as he had broken through the thin barrier that separated a maiden from a wife. With no small amount of regret, he conceded as much. "I guess you are."

"I thought it would feel, I don't know, different."

So had he. Certainly it had been different with Kirsten. Hell, with a few minutes' rest in between, he had taken her over and over on their wedding night. He'd expected to get through it at least once with Olivia. After all, it had been more than two years since he had lain with Kirsten.

And it had started out well enough, considering it was Olivia's first time. He'd been gentle, slow, giving her time to get over the initial pain before setting up a rhythm between them.

In truth, it had been all right. Better, maybe, than just all right. But then she'd started to respond. He'd heard that same little moan from deep in her throat that he'd heard a hundred times, no, a
thousand
times, escape Kirsten's lips. And suddenly he'd been unable to go on. The sadness just welled up in him and ended his wedding night almost before it had started.

"I waited a long time for this," she said, admitting quietly what he and everyone else in Maple Stand already knew. "To be your wife and have you love me. Do you suppose we might have made a baby?"

"A baby?"

"Mmm-hmm," she said dreamily, squeezing his arm. "Do you think we did?"

It was as if she were looking for something good to have come out of the mess he had made of their wedding night. A mess of which, thank the good Lord, she seemed blissfully unaware.

"I ... I don't know," he choked out, choosing to lie rather than admit to her that there was no chance of it.

At least there was that to be grateful for. There would be no child from their aborted union. And, given Olivia's lack of experience, if he was very careful, and he swore he could be,
would
be, there might never be any children.

Oddly, the idea gave him solace and he warmed to it, even in the face of his failure. "The odds are against it."

"But it could be, couldn't it? I mean we've done it and—"

"Not everyone gets with child on their wedding night, Olivia. Surely you must realize that, at least."

"But it could be," she said more strongly, her voice betraying the hope she felt. "Spencer, we could have just made a baby."

No. We couldn't have.
"It's not a good idea to get your hopes up. Lots of couples don't have any children at all."

"But not us. That won't be us. After all, you've been a father. Peter and Margaret—"

He interrupted her. "Peter and Margaret are dead, remember? My children are dead and so is my wife."

"But I'm . . ."she started, then put the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. In the dim light of the quarter moon he couldn't make out her features, but he didn't need to see her to know that she was biting the back of her hand and crying silent tears. It was Olivia's way. The way she had cried when her mother died. The way she had cried soon after that when he'd told her he was marrying Kirsten.

He could have apologized. He could have simply rolled onto his side and pulled her against him. He considered both options and thought better of them. Best not to fill up her heart with false hopes or her head with silly dreams. "It's late, Olivia. You're tired. It was quite a day of celebrating. Go to sleep. We've got a lot of work to do come morning."

She turned onto her side, away from him, her chestnut braid whipping his cheek as she settled herself. It smelled faintly of lilacs, and he fingered the soft ends as he moved it away from his face.

It was silent for a minute or two, and then, quietly, tentatively, she asked, "Was it ... was I ... all right?"

Funny that she should be asking him, when he had failed her so miserably. The least he owed her was some reassurance. "Perfect," he said, patting her back gently through the layers of quilts their friends had given them as wedding gifts. And truly, she had been perfect. Softer than he had expected, her breasts fuller, her arms more willing.

And innocent. Completely innocent of what had happened and of the plan that even now was forming in his head. The plan that, ironically, would surely restore his manhood. Just knowing that he would never leave his seed within his new wife was settling the hackles that had risen on the back of his neck. He could withhold his essence just as he was withholding his affection.

And Olivia need never know.

Oh, but her innocence was a blessing. Another woman would have known that his groan had' been born of frustration and not satisfaction, as Olivia must have assumed. Another bride would have known that his trip beneath her nightdress had been cut short before his mission was complete.

Surely Kirsten would have known, for theirs had been a perfect union. They had soared like the eagles together, even from the first.

But then their little blond eaglets had faltered, and all his dreams and hopes had been dashed against the rocks and lost. Diphtheria, they had called it, as if giving it a name could make sense of the senseless.

His little Margaret had been the first to go, her skin so flushed with fever that she was still warm long after her little chest had ceased to rise and fall. Beautiful, delicate Kirsten was next, he and Peter struggling to keep her alive even after her tongue was furred with slime and her throat had all but closed, long hours after the doctor had said there was no hope. Then, before she was gone, Peter, too, had succumbed to the fever. And all Spencer could do was stand by and watch as everything he loved was put into the frozen ground and covered with cold clumps of the pale frostbitten earth.

A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, trickling silently down his temple to the pillow beneath his head. He made no effort to wipe it, but swore silently that it would be the last he ever shed.

Beside him, Olivia released a shuddering breath. If there had only been another way, he'd have taken it. But Olivia's brother, Remy, had been right. The farm was too much for one person to handle, and he couldn't go on there alone.

And Olivia was so willing, so eager, Despite all his misgivings, he'd finally had to give in. He'd taken another wife.

But married though he might be, this time he was going to protect himself. He could make sure that he never lost another child because he would see to it that he never had another child. And he would never lose another woman he loved, because, quite simply, he would never love another woman. Not even sweet, innocent Olivia.

And that would keep him safe.