Yankee Wife (30 page)

When Brigham reached his front gate, someone ran ahead to open the door. He carried his bride into the entryway and up the stairs without slowing his pace, stopping only when he'd come to his own room. There, he laid her gently on the bed.

Polly sent Devon to the kitchen for a basin of clean water, while McCauley matter-of-factly began to untie Lydia's shoes. Brigham helped, numbly, only vaguely aware of the cuts and burns on his own flesh.

Lydia smiled up at him, her expression dreamy and fey. “You were right, Brigham,” she said, as he and the doctor peeled away the last of her clothes and Polly wrapped her in a blanket.

Brigham made a consummate effort to speak normally. “You don't say,” he rasped. “What was I right about, Yankee?”

She sighed. “I don't precisely remember, just now,” she told him.

He chuckled, felt surprise that the sound hadn't come out as a sob. “Remember this, then, Yankee—I love you. Do you hear me?
I love you
, and I'm not going to let you forget it, ever. There will be no more wandering, no more living apart. Is that understood?”

Lydia ran her tongue over dry, soot-smudged lips. “Yes, Mr. Quade,” she replied sweetly. Brigham knew this docile mood of hers couldn't possibly last. “It's perfectly clear.”

Joe handed him a cup of water, and Brigham raised Lydia's head, gently touching the rim to her lips.

There was a knock at the door, and then Devon came in, carrying a basin and some clean washcloths. When he was gone again, Polly and the doctor unwrapped Lydia, gently cleaned the soot from her skin and treated her burns and scrapes. Brigham sat with her the whole time, holding one of her hands in both of his, thinking how close he'd come to losing her.

Only when Lydia was sleeping comfortably did Brigham agree to have his own injuries taken care of, but though he felt the searing pain of his burns, he barely acknowledged it. Once Joe and Polly had finally left them alone, Brigham stretched out on the bed beside his wife and gathered her into his bandaged arms.

“Don't leave me.” She sighed the plea, without awakening, when his lips brushed her forehead.

Brigham's eyes stung, and the emotions that moved through him then were so powerful that he shuddered in their wake. He held her closer still. “I'm here,” he assured her quietly. Tenderly. “I'll always be right here.”

Three Years Later
…

 

L
YDIA WATCHED FONDLY AS THE TWO BOYS, ONE DARK AND
one fair, sat on the wooden floor of the mercantile, within the warmth of the stove, chattering as they made a fort of colored blocks. Fat flakes of snow drifted past the windows, and the spicy smell of hot cider filled the air.

“Devon,” she said, when her blond son reached out to steal a block from his cousin, whose name was Brigham. “You promised to share, remember?”

Polly, her stomach huge with Devon's second child, perched happily in a nearby rocking chair, embroidering a tiny nightshirt. She looked as serene as a madonna, sitting there. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes were shining with happiness.

“Don't fuss, Lydia,” she said good-naturedly. “Brigham and Devon need to learn to work things out between themselves.”

A soft cry from the bassinet beside Lydia's chair distracted her, and she reached down for her younger son, Seth, who was now eight months old. She covered her chest with a small, soft blanket, unbuttoned her bodice, lowered her camisole, and gave the baby her breast.

He took the nipple greedily, as though eager to garner all the nourishment he could get, grow up fast, and make a place for himself in the world. Seth's hair was light, like Lydia's, but his eyes were the same pewter-gray color as Brigham's, and he had already revealed a nature much like his father's.

The door opened and a rush of wintry air swept in, along with Brig. He nodded a friendly greeting at Polly and lifted his elder son deftly into his arms, but his gaze was fixed on Lydia from the first. She felt a sweet heat as he stood there, watching her as if he could see through the blanket that hid the baby and her breast.

He smiled at Lydia's blush of response and hoisted little Devon onto one shoulder. Polly made some fluttery excuse about checking a merchandise list and bustled off into the back room as quickly as she could.

“It's time you took yourself home, Mrs. Quade,” Brigham said, his gray eyes twinkling. “On a snowy day like this, a man needs a wife to keep him warm.”

“Hush!” Lydia hissed, though secretly she was pleased. She found as much joy and fulfillment in the marriage bed as her husband did. “There are children present!”

Brigham reached up to tickle the little boy riding on his shoulder, and the child shrieked with delight. “All Dev knows is that his mama and papa love each other,” Brig said. Then he reached out to tug at the blanket and take a peek at his other son and Lydia's full breast. “As for Seth, there, he's not thinking about anything but that nipple. And I can't say I blame him.”

Lydia went crimson. “Brigham Quade!”

Still holding Dev, Brigham crouched beside Lydia's chair and put a finger beneath the blanket. He stroked Seth's tiny head, then Lydia's breast, taking care to tease and excite. “Once our son's had his fill,” Brigham promised quietly, “I mean to take you to bed, Mrs. Quade, and have a taste of you myself.”

It infuriated Lydia, the way Brigham could send a hot shock of need pulsing through her system so easily. He had only to look at her a certain way, or touch her, or speak to her in a low, husky voice, and she was ready to obey his every whim. For the life of her, she couldn't rebel.

She shifted Seth to her other breast and closed her eyes as Brigham reached beneath the blanket again to play with the nipple his infant son had just abandoned.

“I have some business at the mill,” Brigham said idly. “Charlotte and Millie won't be home from Seattle until tomorrow afternoon, and the boys will be asleep before dinner.”

Lydia swallowed. She was terrified someone would come into the store, and yet she didn't want Brigham to stop teasing her breast. “And?”

“And I would like you to serve supper in our room, Mrs. Quade.”

Lydia imagined how it would be; they would dine beside a crackling fire, with candlelight flickering in the darkness and snow rimming the windowsills. Brigham would insist on eating slowly, savoring every bite of his food with a sensual languor, making an erotic ritual of drinking his wine. By the time he actually made love to her, her senses would have reached such an explosive state of wanting that the merest touch would send her tumbling over the edge.

“I'm not one of your bull whackers, and I'll thank you not to give me orders as if I were,” Lydia said. She'd never persuaded Brigham to close down the Satin Hammer Saloon, though she knew he didn't patronize the place except to have an occasional glass of whiskey, nor had she ever gotten him to apologize for selling timber to both the Confederate and Union sides during the war. For all of that, she liked to think she'd made some progress in softening his stubborn ways; he was a tender and thoughtful husband, and he'd sought her advice over and over again when the new schoolhouse was built. He was a fine, attentive father to all four of his children, and it seemed to Lydia that she loved him more with every passing day. Moreover, he freely admitted that he loved her in return, and though he wasn't the sort to compose verse—or recite it, either, for that matter—Lydia often found one of his well-read volumes on her vanity table. She would open the book to the place he'd marked with a scrap of paper or a colorful leaf and find a passage that moved her to tears.

It was for all those reasons that Lydia almost invariably obeyed her husband, in matters of romance at least. When he opened the door of their room later that night, when the boys were asleep, she was waiting for him in a frothy gown of satin and lace and ribbon.

She had lighted candles and set the logs in the fireplace ablaze, and the covers on the bed had been turned down to reveal fresh linen sheets scented with rosewater.

Brigham closed the door and stood looking at her in quiet amazement. His voice, when he spoke, was gruff. “I always think I'm prepared for your beauty, but when I walk in here and find you waiting for me, looking like a lost angel, the sight of you never fails to take my breath away.”

Lydia smiled flirtatiously, but her own heart was swelling with love, and she didn't know how she'd ever wait through a meal before losing herself in her husband's embrace. “You behaved like a perfect scoundrel in the mercantile today,” she told him. Her breath caught in her throat as he approached and curved a finger under her chin.

“And you've been thinking about me ever since,” he replied. Gently, unhurriedly, he drew one strap of her gown down over a milk-white shoulder. “Haven't you?”

Lydia wanted to deny his words, for the sake of her pride, but she couldn't. “Yes,” she confessed. “Damn you,
yes
.”

He lowered her other strap, ran the tip of his finger across the cleavage swelling above her bodice, and smiled as a blush rushed up to her neck and then pulsed in her cheeks. Then, with a teasing tug, he bared one of her breasts and caressed it with a look of wonder in his eyes. She lifted her palms to the sides of his face, clean but stubbled with a late-day beard, and pulled him close for a kiss.

The contact was long and lingering, weakening Lydia's knees and setting her heart to racing. Brigham pulled down the other side of her gown and fondled the second breast, chafing the eager nipple with the pad of his thumb.

“Please,” she gasped, beyond all ability to wait, when Brigham finally freed her mouth.

He continued to caress her for a few excruciatingly glorious moments, then gestured with one arm toward the table. “Supper first, Mrs. Quade,” he said. “Then dessert.”

Brigham ushered a distracted, flushed Lydia to the small table next to the fire and seated her as graciously as if they were in a fine restaurant in Paris or New York instead of their own bedroom. Awkwardly, she pulled her gown up to cover her breasts again, but Brigham only smiled. He was a patient man.

Just as Lydia had known he would, he took the time to enjoy every bite of his food, every sip of his wine. She was barely able to contain her need by the time he finally set aside his glass and stretched out his hand to take hold of hers.

Gracefully, he drew her to her feet and then onto his lap, astraddle his thighs. Lydia's breath quickened as he brought down her bodice again.

“So beautiful,” he said, meeting her eyes. While she stared back at him, mesmerized, he reached out, dipped a finger in the sauce topping the remains of their brandy cake. He touched the sugary substance to her nipple, then bent to lick it away at his leisure.

Lydia tried to wait—she always tried to wait—but this new game sent fire rushing through her veins. She cried out, flinging back her head like a mare calling to her stallion, and clutched Brigham's shoulders. Her legs stiffened on either side of his lap. “Brigham,” she whimpered.

He put sauce on her other breast, enjoyed it slowly and thoroughly.

By then Lydia was bouncing shamelessly against his thighs. Brigham slid his hands beneath her gown, grasping her bottom with one, stroking the inside of her thigh with the other. When, without warning, he gave her his finger in a sudden, fiery thrust, she came unwrapped like wire wound too tightly around the spool. Brigham sucked noisily at her breast while she convulsed around his finger, knowing all the while that the night's lovemaking had just begun.

He held her close when the first bout was over, his arms tight around her, his shoulder strong and warm under her cheek. He stroked her and spoke to her soothingly until she was calm again, until her breathing had evened out and her heartbeat had slowed to its normal pace.

She sighed when he carried her to the bed and arranged her there, trembled as he spread her legs wide apart and burrowed in between them to tease her with his tongue. As always, she begged for appeasement; as always, he granted her requests, though he took her through every note of a grand symphony before letting her soar on the crescendo.

Brigham quieted Lydia again, when she'd ceased trembling and the heat of the fire had dried the perspiration from her skin. She cherished those tender times, just as she did the peaks of ecstasy, and wished the night would never end.

He gave her a long, searching kiss when he was ready to put her through the last sweet paces of passion—at some point, he'd gotten rid of his own clothes—then turned her onto her hands and knees in front of him. Lydia gasped in weary delight; the pleasure was always keenest when Brigham took her like this, his hands cupping her breasts while he delved deep into the caressing warmth of her femininity.

The first long, slow stroke was Lydia's undoing. She shuddered violently against Brigham, sobbing with the splendor of her release, only to find that each subsequent sheathing of Brigham's sword set her off all over again. Finally, mercifully, when she was certain she would swoon if her body responded even once more, Brigham lunged deep and stiffened, moaning her name as he spilled his seed into her.

They collapsed, entwined, struggling for breath, and lay spent, watching the snow waft past the windows. It would be a cold night, but within that room, there was only warmth for Brigham Quade and his Yankee wife.