The Unexpected Bride (The Brides Book 1) (9 page)

Jack?

It took all Isaac’s will to hold still and not explode from the bed.

“Who’s Jack?” he asked carefully, so as not to wake her.

Her sleepy laugh warmed his cheek.

“Oh, Jack.” Her lips gently brushed his, the slightest touch, really, but it felt like a fire. “Darling.”

She’d said it twice now—
darling
—and both times it soured his belly.

“So, you love this ‘Jack’ fellow?” he asked, appalled at the slight croak in his voice.

“Love you? Of course I love you. You’re my sun, moon, and stars.” She punctuated each celestial being with a little kiss.

Had this
Jack
taught her to kiss? Isaac groaned silently, ashamed to find himself enjoying each soft kiss, despite the fact that he wasn’t her intended target—
Jack
was.

“Dance with me?” She hummed a few sleepy notes, enough for him to recognize a lively waltz.

He froze as she rested her hand on his shoulder. The touch of her fingers against his nightshirt. They burned right through.

His wife loved another man.

His blood slowed to a trickle, like an icy mountain stream.

“Wake up or go to sleep, but either way, no more kissing.” He pushed her resolutely away. “Go back to sleep,” he repeated more firmly. It was the tone he used with his men when something urgent needed done. The tone they jumped to.

She rolled over and snuggled into her pillow with a sigh.

“Yes, Mama,” she mumbled, at which point she promptly began to snore—a delicate, feminine-sounding snore—but she was asleep nonetheless.

She’d obviously done this sleep-awake talking before. Somehow he felt she should have warned him about that.

A burst of anger hit him hard and fast on the tail of that thought.

She should have told him
a lot
of things.

She’d come out here to marry a stranger—to marry
him
, Isaac—when she loved another man? Why? Tonight, in her sleep, she’d laughed playfully,
kissed
him, and seemed a different person altogether. If she’d been widowed, wouldn’t she have said so? Of course she would have. Besides, she seemed too young to have been married. So who was Jack?

Who are you, Rebecca Sullivan?

Rebecca Jessup
, he corrected himself.

And then he thought:
I’m married to a woman who’s in love with another man.

The realization took the heat out of his anger fast. All he felt was empty.

If she loves this Jack fellow, how can she ever come to love me?

The pain of that thought revealed one thing: he’d begun to hope they could build a loving marriage like the one his father and mother had enjoyed. Sure, he’d started out with thoughts of pleasing Pop, but to Isaac’s mind marriage was a lifelong commitment, one he didn’t take lightly. Somewhere along the way, he’d resolved to give it his all. And he’d let himself indulge in some imaginary tender feelings for his little wife. Heaven help him, he’d dared to imagine she might come to care for him too.

Her loving another man changed all that. Their whole marriage was one big glaring mistake.

Well, he obviously couldn’t touch her now. It wouldn’t be right, would it?

Of course not
.

Maybe someday she’d forget this Jack. Maybe he’d fade from her memory in time...

How long would that take?

If ever.

Isaac stared sightlessly up at the ceiling until, at last, he managed to sleep for a few hours perhaps.

When he woke again, he found Rebecca turned toward him, her eyes wide open, staring at him.

***

Becky watched her husband, amazed at the sight of a man sharing the pillow next to hers. From the light peeking in through the curtains, she knew it was certainly morning. Her wedding night was over. She barely remembered anything, save a vague memory of a kiss or two...?

Or had that been a dream?

One thing was sure—Isaac had shared her bed last night, because he was here, right beside her, fixing her with the most intense stare. It was like he was trying to pry a confession from her. As if she’d done something wrong.

She wrinkled her brow, wondering what she’d done.

He gave an embarrassed sounding cough as her gaze wandered to the open neck of his nightshirt. She quickly averted her eyes.

Had he tried to wake her up last night? Her cheeks warmed at the thought of him watching her sleep. What a strange and awkward marriage they’d tumbled into. She looked into her husband’s deep brown eyes, eyes holding a hint of reproach. She nearly groaned aloud. The perfect wife wouldn’t have slept through her wedding night, would she?

“I’m sorry for falling asleep last night. You should’ve woken me up.” She gave him a shy, apologetic smile and snuggled down into her pillow, waiting for him to respond.

How very, very strange to have a man beside her. She may as well have been walking down Main Street in her nightclothes—that’s how strange it felt.

On the heels of that thought she remembered what she’d learned last night. Isaac hadn’t sent for her. Sam had.

She should ask him. She should ask him straight out if he wanted to be married to her or not.

She moistened her lips. Tried to form the words.

How could she?

Time would tell, soon enough, wouldn’t it? She could at least try to make the best of it.

***

Isaac shifted under Rebecca’s inquiring eyes. He had to confront her about this Jack fellow.

So…who’s Jack?

Is there anyone back home—anyone
important
I should know about?

But he couldn’t get the words out. It was all too humiliating.

She never claimed to love me.
In fact, she’d said she didn’t expect a love match. Was that why? Because she already loved another man?

The little smile she was giving him turned his belly all soft and warm. She had no call to smile at him that way when she loved another man.

He had to do it.

He had to swallow his discomfort and ask.

Get it out in the open.

Clear the air.

Okay then.

Anytime now.

Turning onto his side toward her, he propped himself on one elbow and rested his head on his hand. He stared at her for a moment and asked, “Who’s Jack?”

“Jack?” She stiffened a little and moistened her lips.

“Yes,
Jack
. I think you know who I mean?” At her miserable looking nod, he continued, “Didn’t you think I deserved to know that your heart is consigned to another?
Before
we got married?”

“I... I...” She stammered, and her brow wrinkled in confusion.

He waited. His heart seemed intent on hammering as loudly as his construction crew banging on the roof a couple of days ago.

Her throat worked and, after a minute of looking around the room as if for answers, her gaze met his, and she nodded jerkily. “You’re right. You had a right to know. And I—and I’m sorry. My heart’s not free. That—that’s true. I won’t lie.”

“I see.” He felt his jaw clench with equal parts anger and hurt.

“And what about you?” she whispered.

“I’m not in love with anybody.”

Something flickered in her eyes, recognition of what he’d just said, but some other expression he couldn’t read. Some womanly thing probably. How should he know?

“I—”

“Never have been,” he added for good measure. Which probably revealed more than he’d intended, he realized belatedly.

“I mean, what about you not sending for me? What about that?”

She had a point there. He hadn’t told her.

He still didn’t feel like bringing it out in the open.

Now look what you’ve done, Pop. See? What a fine mess.

“I—”

“Exactly,” she said, a slight militant glint in her eye, as if she wasn’t going to let him get away with anything. Good to know.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe I should have said something.” It was a small admission. “I was just trying to spare your feelings.”

She pressed her lips closed. Maybe she was trying to hold her words back. He also got the impression she was waiting for something, for understanding to catch up with him, and it did.

To spare her feelings.

That’s what he’d said.

And she hadn’t told him about Jack for the same reason.

It wasn’t nearly the same. He told her that with a level glance.

The look she gave him seemed a little wounded, as if he’d hurt her. And that wasn’t at all what he’d intended.

His conscience tweaked him. Okay, maybe a little. But just the smallest amount.

Because
loving another man
was on an entirely different scale than the secret he’d kept from her. Entirely different. What Pop had done, they could’ve laughed about that one day, years down the road when they were happy, with a handful of children running around.

And now he had a headache.

He’d meant to stay home today, to spend some time showing her around the area, maybe taking a walk down by the stream together. He’d envisioned quite a different day, but now he couldn’t bear hanging around and pretending all was well between them. He needed some space to breathe and to think.

“I’ve got work to tend to today. Understand? I’ll leave you so you can dress.” He quickly pushed the covers off and jerked on his pants, which were lying over the chair next to the bed. He spared a thought to be grateful that his nightshirt came down over his knees, sparing them both more embarrassment. He flicked a glance at her, seeing her wide-eyed look of apology. Before he could say something he regretted, he grabbed up his work shirt and marched into the other room so he could finish dressing in privacy, leaving Rebecca to do the same.

About twenty minutes later, he watched as she prepared breakfast. The black stove dominating the corner had been his mother’s. It belched up clouds of smoke occasionally, true, but it got the job done.

He noticed that Rebecca seemed a bit jumpy with the skillet, and she’d burned the first round of flapjacks. It puzzled him, and he frowned at her back as she ladled out another batch with a big wooden spoon. Her excessively full skirts seemed out of place in the tiny cabin, a constant reminder that she belonged in some city somewhere, not up here in the forest. But, to his mind, even a city girl should at least know how to cook. Or maybe she came from one of those houses where servants did all the work? That didn’t bode well. Pop had made a mistake this time, for sure. How could a woman used to having servants do her bidding survive in a place like this?

His wife loved another man, and now she couldn’t cook either.

Oh, this is getting better and better.

Rebecca placed a sad stack of blackened flapjacks before him, and he tried to offer her a grateful smile. He’d need about twice that amount plus a rasher of bacon to make it to noon, but he kept the thought to himself. He stuck his fork gingerly into the cakes and was rewarded by an ooze of batter.

“Oh, no! Let me put them back on.” She looked frantic.

“No, don’t bother,” he said quickly. “That’s how Pop makes them.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Pop couldn’t make a decent flapjack either. He’d hoped she could at least take over the cooking duties, but that looked like it wasn’t going to work out so well.

Isaac forced himself to eat the soggy cakes and pushed back from the table, squelching a groan.

“I’m, uh, going to go check on my men.” He ducked his head, avoiding those vulnerable green eyes staring at him. It didn’t feel right leaving her here alone. Plumb wrong, actually.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. The way she lifted her chin made him feel she was just trying to put a brave face on it. “You’ve got work to do.”

“Stay near the cabin. It’s not safe to go off wandering,” he warned, hesitating for a moment. Perhaps he should stay?

Stay and do what? Go for a walk with her? Pretend nothing had happened?

A band of pain tightened around his skull.

No, not today. He couldn’t. He needed to get away—if only for a little while—to clear his head. He turned away and headed for the door.

***

Becky watched his lanky swagger as he crossed the room. He bumped into a huge crate of chains and kicked at it with the toe of his spiky-bottomed, calked boot, but he didn’t bother to move it. Did they like living in this mess? Or maybe they just never had the time or energy to clean it. She stared as he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone.

As soon as the wooden door latch clunked into place, she sagged onto her chair, defeated. She groaned with embarrassment. Her first day as a wife and she’d neglected her wifely duties in the bedroom, admitted to his face that she loved another man, and now she’d failed to make him a decent meal. It was that ancient monster of a stove—it was impossible to control the temperature.

Isaac hadn’t kissed her goodbye. It was a small stray thought that hit her from nowhere.

And why would he?

After her confession early this morning, he probably couldn’t stand the sight of her. The day he’d held her hand in the Pearsons’ parlor, she’d come to hope they could at least share some affection. She quelled the sharp feeling of loss that struck her. They were married right and proper now, and he was her husband. She’d be a good wife to him, a real helpmate—well, once she mastered that beast of a stove.

If only he knew how much she wished her heart
was
free. If she could somehow blink and make it happen—make herself
not
love Jack—she would, but that was impossible. That wasn’t the way the heart worked, was it? She’d tried often enough to know it wasn’t possible to wish love away, even an inconvenient love such as hers, the kind that wasn’t returned. The one-sided kind.

The realization left her feeling unfit to be Isaac’s bride. He wanted something more than she could give him. When he’d questioned her about Jack, she’d yearned to deny she was in love with someone else, but what else could she do except tell him the truth? To do any less would be showing him a lack of respect, and he’d been kind to her so far. Generous even. He’d paid for all the expenses for her journey out here, hadn’t he? Or maybe Sam had, seeing as he was the one who’d sent for her, which was a whole other headache. And, looking around, it seemed to Becky that neither one of them had a cent to spare.