Smiling, she felt his warm lips on her cheek. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he murmured, sending little shivers down her spine. “You rest, because you’re going to need it.”
As the door closed behind him, she stretched, put her hands behind her head, and looked up at the ceiling, but she didn’t really see it. Tonight was her wedding night. Last year one of the kitchen maids had gotten married, and the next day everyone teased her mercilessly, but the girl had been so radiant that nothing anyone said bothered her. Now Regan understood why.
Suddenly, she sat up. She may be expecting his baby and far from being a virgin, but tonight she certainly felt like one. With one adoring look directed toward the closed door, she thought how kind it was of Travis to give her this time alone to prepare herself. Hot water waited for her on the old dresser at the corner of the small room, and she guessed he must have sent someone ahead to prepare for them. He
’d even left the keys to the trunks on the dresser.
Hurriedly, because she knew Travis would be an impatient bridegroom and wouldn’t stay away very long, she opened her trunk and began to rummage through the beautiful clothes she and Sarah had sewed. Toward the bottom was a gown of gossamer silk with a bit of silver sheen to the surface. It was translucent, allowing just a hint of her hand beneath it to show through, revealing yet secretive. She’d been saving this lovely bit of moonlit silk for just such a time as this.
Quickly, she unbuttoned her linen dress, not dwelling on the fact that this traveling dress had been her wedding gown. At least she’d be able to wear something elegant for her wedding night. Naked, she began to wash, laughing all the while. Then she slipped into the gown, shivering in delight as the silk touched her skin. The feel of it was heavenly, soft, caressing, clinging to her curves in just the right places. Moving to the mirror, she was a bit startled to see the way her breasts impudently lifted the lovely fabric, the rosy crests barely visible yet somehow emphasized. Oh yes, she thought. Travis would love this gown.
Out of the trunk came the silver-backed hairbrush Travis had given her, and she pulled the pins from her hair, allowing it to cascade down her back, wispy curls about her face. She was glad she’d never cut her hair short as so many women had since the revolution in France. After only a few quick strokes of the brush, she hurried to the bed, knowing she’d taken long enough, feeling just as impatient as Travis must be.
Once in bed, she arranged herself in what she hoped was a seductive pose, half-reclining against the pillows, one arm extended, the other with fingertips grazing her shoulder. With what she hoped was a sophisticated look, she gazed languidly toward the door.
It was late and the inn was quiet, yet every time a board so much as creaked, she found herself smiling, imagining the look Travis would have when he came through the door. Each time she thought of him she arched her back a little more, thrusting her chest forward. She kept remembering how Farrell had said he dreaded the wedding night with her, that she’d probably cry and pout like a two-year-old. Tonight, although of course Farrell would never know about it, she’d prove him wrong. Tonight she’d be a temptress, a seductress, a woman who knew what she wanted—and got it. Travis would be on his knees, trembling like a bit of calves’-foot jelly, and she’d be his master.
Perhaps it was the awkward position of her back arched so far forward that first caused her pain; then she realized her arms ached and one side of her hip was asleep. Moving a bit, lowering her arm to her lap, she began to return from her dream world. She was a master at being able to escape from reality for long periods of time, and now she wondered how long she’d been in this position.
Glancing about the room, she saw there was no clock, and neither was there any moon outside the window—and the candle by the bed, which had been new, was inches shorter.
Where was Travis? she wondered, throwing back the covers and going to the window. Surely he couldn’t believe she needed this much time to get ready for him. A bolt of lightning flashed and for an instant illuminated the empty courtyard below. Within minutes a soft rain began to fall, and Regan shivered as cold air came in through the poorly fitting window.
Getting back into the warmth of the bed, she looked about her, idly thinking that this room was very much like the one where Travis had held her prisoner in England. Then she’d been his slave, and now she was his wife. Of course, she had no ring, and the paper the Judge had signed was with Travis, but, she thought smiling, she had Travis’s child and he’d certainly come back for that.
The thought that he might not come back made her frown. Why had she even let such an absurd idea cross her mind? Travis was an honorable man, and he’d married her.
Honorable, she murmured. Did honorable men kidnap women and take them to America against their will? He’d given her reasons for his forcing her to accompany him, but maybe all he’d really wanted was someone to warm his bed on the long voyage across the sea. And she’d certainly done that! They’d nearly set the bed on fire, and now she carried the product of that fire with her.
The rain started falling more heavily, lashing against the dark window, and with it Regan’s despair began.
Travis had never wanted her. He’d said so himself a hundred times. Even once they were on board the ship, he’d still been trying to find out who she was so he could rid himself of her. He was the same as Farrell and her Uncle Jonathan—they’d never wanted her either.
The tears began to fall down her cheeks on a par with the turbulent rain outside. Why did he marry her? Had Travis somehow found out about her inheritance? He’d taken her to America, married her immediately, and now that he had that piece of paper and could claim her money he wanted nothing more to do with her. He’d abandoned her in a strange country with no money, no help, and maybe a baby to care for.
She began to cry furiously, fists beating into the pillow, sobs tearing through her. When her first passion was gone, the tears became slower, flowing out of her quietly as her anger turned to hopelessness as she asked herself why she was so unworthy of love.
The rain outside turned to a hard, steady downpour, and, after hours, her grief began to be lulled by the sound as she fell into a deep, deathlike sleep. When the first heavy steps sounded on the stairs she did not hear them, and it was only the pounding on the door that was finally able to wake her.
Chapter 11
“OPEN THIS DAMNED DOOR!” BELLOWED A VOICE THAT could only belong to Travis. Obviously he was unconcerned about waking the other occupants of the inn.
Her head feeling as heavy as a piece of granite, Regan tried to sit up, staring through her swollen eyes at the door that threatened to break under Travis’s pounding.
“Regan!” Another shout came that sent her flying to the door.
Turning the knob, she said dazedly, “It’s locked.”
“The key’s on the dresser,” Travis replied, his voice heavy with disgust.
The door was barely open before Travis burst into the room—but Regan could hardly see him, for he was buried behind the most flowers she’d ever seen in her life. As an amateur gardener, she recognized many of them—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths, irises, violets, three colors of lilacs, poppies, laurel, and beautiful, perfect roses. There was no order to the flowers as they trailed behind Travis, hung down in front of him, some tied together in bundles, some loose and falling, a few covered in mud, others beaten by the rain. Even as he stood there, they fell about him like a colorful riot of lovely raindrops.
Going forward, scattering more flowers, walking on some, he tossed the whole mass on the bed and exposed himself as a man covered in mud—and his face showed his anger.
“Damned things!” he said, pulling a bunch of violets from his shirt collar and throwing them onto the bed. “I never thought I could hate flowers, but tonight I may change my mind.” As he removed his hat, water poured onto the floor. Disgustedly, he pulled three dwarf irises off his hat and tossed them with the others.
So far he had barely glanced at Regan, and his anger was so great that he didn’t even notice her sheer gown or the way the early sunlight made her body glow beneath the gossamer silk.