Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

“I believe you must take your clothes off. I was swimming once when I was very young with my dratted boy cousins, and they took off their clothes. They were certainly different from me, but I don’t know how it all would work to make a baby.”

“I did ask, didn’t I?”

“Are you jesting with me, Thomas? Perhaps laughing at me?”

He seemed to think about this for a goodly number of seconds. He said more to himself than to her, “No, I wouldn’t jest about this, not at all. Now, it must be done, it must.” It was almost as if he was angry with her, Meggie thought, suddenly panicked. He said nothing more, didn’t kiss her, just picked her up in his arms and walked to the large tester bed. “I’ll be your maid,” he said, sat her down on the edge of the bed, realized the buttons on her dress were in the back and pulled her to her feet again. Thomas saw that she was pale, his exuberant Meggie looking a bit on the ragged edge, particularly since they were this close to the bed and his hands on her. He kissed her hard and fast, didn’t try to part her lips with his tongue because he thought she just might bite him in her nervousness, then turned her around. He unfastened the long line of buttons down her back.

She was looking over her shoulder at him. “Thomas, perhaps I could have a glass of water?”

“No, Meggie. Hush. Don’t worry about any of this. Let me do the worrying. It will be all right. Trust me.”

“You certainly are very efficient with all those buttons.”

He smiled, couldn’t help it. “Yes. Some men believe it to be a calling. Others must practice assiduously to be competent at it. Be quiet.”

“Thomas, is this going to be a nice thing? Despite the blood?”

At the sound of her quavery thin voice, his fingers stopped, three buttons from the bottom. He looked at her back, at the soft batiste chemise, the lace straps, all of it so feminine, so unlike him, alien from him, this soft creature who now belonged to him. Not to anyone else. To him. No, nothing hard about Meggie at all, particularly not her heart, and he knew it, but he didn’t want to let it matter. He had to be strong about it, couldn’t let her know. He couldn’t. A man had to have his pride. He said, “I will try to make it a nice thing.”

“All right, then I will try not to worry overly about this.”

Slowly he turned her to face him. He pulled the gown down until her arms were trapped against her sides. He lightly stroked his fingers over her jaw, her throat, came to rest lightly on her bare shoulders. She was so bloody soft. “Meggie?”

“This isn’t quite what I had expected, Thomas.”

“What did you expect?”

She shrugged, but he saw that she was embarrassed.

“Come, tell me.”

“Perhaps a small dinner by the fire, though it’s quite warm, isn’t it, so a fire might make us uncomfortable. All right then. We could leave the table by the window. We could speak quietly to each other, perhaps watch the moonlight play over the water, and comment on the feelings it brings to our souls.”

“That is a bit sentimental for my tastes.”

“I thought it might be. All right, some champagne then. You didn’t want any in the carriage. Were you afraid that I would become ill? Were you afraid I’d really force you to sip it out of my mouth?”

He just smiled down at her. So young, he thought, too young. She didn’t deserve that he maul her. He leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers. “You array yourself in your nightgown and I will go downstairs and order up a bit of food and champagne from Mrs. Miggs. I believe she is quite pleased that I chose her inn for our wedding night.”

“Maybe she was, but Mr. Miggs just grunted at me and stared down at his shoes.”

“It is Mrs. Miggs who deals with the patrons. Now, do you need a maid to help you?”

“No. I can reach the rest of the buttons.”

He turned to go.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He paused a moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. At the moment she was afraid to ask.

Thirty minutes later they were seated opposite each other at a small table next to the window, Meggie wearing a very lovely peach silk peignoir that her aunt Sinjun had brought her from Edinburgh. Thomas, however, was still dressed in his very nice trousers and jacket and his beautifully polished boots. His cravat looked as fresh as it had in the church that morning. So many changes on this one single day. Tomorrow she wouldn’t wake up the same Meggie as she had just this morning. So few hours had passed, and yet her life had changed irrevocably. She wondered if Thomas felt the same way. Surely he must. Men couldn’t be that different from women.

“It’s strange,” she said, nibbling on a piece of bread, “to be sitting in my nightclothes across from a man who isn’t either my father or one of my brothers, or one of my dratted boy cousins, for that matter.”

“Come, Meggie, I cannot imagine you ever wearing that delicious confection to bed in the vicarage.”

“Well, you’re right about that, but still, you’re still dressed, Thomas, and I’m not.”