James River - Lost Lady Part 11

Warmed by David's sentiments, she leaned over the rail and saw Travis frowning up at her. Raising her hand, she waved gaily at him and thought for the first time that perhaps she could make it alone in this new country. After all, she'd made friends on board s.h.i.+p. Perhaps*

Travis gave her no more time to think, because minutes later he was telling her to hurry up and eat, to wear something st.u.r.dy, to finish putting her clothes in the trunk—in general, running her life.

He couldn't wait to get rid of her, she thought, obeying him but with a slowness Travis found maddening.

"Either you finish that in two minutes or I carry you out of here," he warned. "I have a wagon waiting for us, and I'd like to get there before sundown."

Her curiosity won out over her resentment. "Where are we going? Did* did you find me employment?"

Pausing, the trunk across his back, Travis grinned at her. "I found you a great job! One you're especially good at. Now, come on, let's go."

Using all her strength, Regan tried not to let his words upset her but followed him down the gangplank, her head held high.

He tossed the trunk into the ugliest, most dilapidated vehicle she'd ever seen.

"Sorry," he laughed at her obvious disgust. "I told you we were early, and this was all I could get. We're driving to a friend of mine's tonight, and tomorrow I'll borrow a sloop."

Nothing Travis said made sense to Regan. She knew a sloop was some sort of s.h.i.+p but didn't have any idea why Travis would want to borrow one. Grabbing her waist and plunking her down on the half-rotten wagon seat with as much ceremony as he'd used with the trunk, he climbed up beside her and clucked for the two tired-looking horses to go.

The country they traveled through looked wilder, more forbidding than England, and the road was atrocious, really little more than a rutted path. As her jarring teeth attested, Travis. .h.i.t all of the ruts.

Chuckling, he watched her. "Now you see why we travel mostly by water. Tomorrow we'll be in a smooth little sloop, with no holes to fall into."

She had no idea where she'd be tomorrow as Travis seemed to want to keep her employer a secret—and she wasn't about to ask him for details, not when she knew her questions would earn that infuriating look of his.

The sun was just setting when they stopped at the first house they saw—a neat, clean, whitewashed little clapboard. Early spring flowers graced the front path, a warm breeze gently bending the colorful petals. It was a plain house but certainly of a higher caliber than Regan had expected in America.

Travis's knock was answered by a plump, gray-haired woman wearing a calico ap.r.o.n over her muslin dress. "Travis," she said. "We thought something was wrong. The man you sent said you'd be here hours earlier."

"h.e.l.lo, Martha," he said, kissing her cheek. "It just took us longer than I thought. The Judge here?"

Martha laughed. "You're as impatient as ever. I take it this is the young lady."

Possessively, Travis put his arm around Regan. "This is Regan, and this is Martha."

Gulping once at Travis's crude manners, Regan held out her hand. "I am happy to meet you, Mrs.—?"

"Just Martha," she smiled. "You're in America now. Come into the parlor. The Judge is waiting for you."

Swept forward by Travis's arm around her, Regan was propelled into a pleasant room with clean, well-worn furniture covered in a soft green, the windows draped in a fabric of the same color. Before she could say any more, she was introduced to the Judge, a tall, nearly bald man who seemed to have no name besides Judge.

One moment Regan was shaking hands, and the next she heard the words, "Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of our Lord*" Bewildered, thinking her hearing was faulty, she looked at the people around her. Martha was smiling angelically at her husband, who had a book open in front of him and was reading a marriage ceremony. Travis, holding her hand, had an astonis.h.i.+ngly solemn look on his face.

It took Regan several minutes to realize what was going on. Without having been asked if she agreed, she was being married to Travis Stanford! She was standing in front of these strangers, wearing a dark green traveling dress of heavy linen, her face dirty, tired, her brow creased with worry about her future—and she was going through a marriage ceremony! Glancing up at Travis's solemn profile, she thought that for once he'd gone too far. When she got married, she was going to be asked, and she was going to wear her prettiest dress.

She realized that everyone was watching her. The Judge smiled and said, "Regan, wilt thou take this man for your husband?"

Looking up at Travis with the sweetest, most lovesick smile she could muster, she whispered, "No."

It was a moment before anyone reacted. Martha gave out a giggle that showed she knew Travis's domineering ways well, while the Judge hurriedly looked at his book. His face aflame with anger, Travis grabbed Regan's upper arm and half dragged her into the entrance hall, closing the parlor door behind him.

"Just what the h.e.l.l was that little display supposed to mean?" he growled, his face very near hers.

Involuntarily taking a step backward, Regan tried to keep her courage up. She was in the right, and she had that on her side. "You never even asked me if I wanted to marry you. You didn't ask if I wanted to come to America either. I'm tired of your making all my decisions for me. "

"Decisions!" he gasped. "There are no decisions to be made by either one of us. Fate has made them for us."

At her look of consternation, he groaned. "I'd try to shake some sense into you, but I'm afraid it'd hurt the baby."

"Baby?" she whispered.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Travis seemed to be praying for strength. "You can't be so d.a.m.ned starry-eyed that you didn't realize that what we do in bed creates babies. " At her silence, he continued in a quieter tone. "You didn't really think you'd been seasick these last few weeks, did you?"

Gently, he caressed her cheek. "Sweetheart, you're carrying my baby, and I make it a rule always to marry the mother of my children."

Stunned, Regan could form no coherent thoughts. "But employment," she whispered. "And I can't get married in this dress, and I have no flowers, and* and*oh Travis! A baby!"

Gathering her in his arms, he held her tightly. "I thought you knew. I thought you were just trying to keep it from me. I wouldn't have known either, except my friend Clay's wife threw up right in front of me one day. She told me a lot of women did that the first few months. Now, love," he said, lifting her chin. "Will you marry me?"

When she hesitated, he continued. "You can do all the work you want at my place, " he smiled, "so you can satisfy any need you have to earn your keep. And as for your dress, I like you better wearing nothing, so whatever dress you wear is fine, and, besides, it's only Martha and the Judge here. For flowers I could pick some from Martha's garden. "

"No," she whispered, blinking back tears. His words were so logical. Of course she was going to have a baby, and of course she'd marry him; there wasn't much else she could do because she knew she couldn't escape Travis when she had something he owned. As for her clothes, what did they matter? If she could get married without love, she could certainly do so without a pretty dress.

"I'm ready," she said grimly.

"It's not an execution," he chuckled. "Maybe tonight I can make up for today."

As she walked ahead of him into the parlor, she knew he'd never understand. A wedding was supposed to be a woman's greatest moment, a time when she felt everyone loved her and wished her great happiness. For the rest of her life she'd remember this secretive, dreary little ceremony, surrounded by strangers, the marriage taking place not because of herself but because of what she carried in her stomach. Mechanically, at the proper time, she said she would take Travis for her husband and ignored the searching look he gave her. When it came time for him to place a ring on her finger, Martha offered her own, but Regan shrugged and said politely that a ring didn't matter.

By the end of the ceremony no one was smiling, and when Travis turned to kiss her, Regan offered him her cheek. She barely tasted the wine the Judge offered and made no comment when Travis said they must leave.

Trying her best to smile, Regan bid them farewell and thanked them as Travis helped her back onto the wagon seat. The tension of the day, the wedding—if it could be called such—had exhausted her, and as she slumped in the seat Travis pulled her close to him.

"It wasn't much of a wedding, was it?" he asked heavily. "Not something a girl can tell her grandchildren about."

"No," she said simply, not daring to say any more or she'd start crying. All she wanted now was to go to sleep, and perhaps tomorrow she could think happy thoughts about her baby and about being Travis's wife.

By the time the wagon stopped, she was almost asleep, barely waking when Travis lifted her down and carried her up some stairs.

"Are we home?" she murmured.

"Not yet." His voice was serious, without its usual hint of laughter. "We're at an inn. In the morning we'll start home."

She merely nodded and snuggled against him. At least this was her wedding night. If Travis didn't know how a wedding should be conducted, at least he knew how to make the night the best a woman could imagine.

Lying on the bed where he'd left her, she listened as he carried their trunks up the stairs. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad being married to Travis; at least now she didn't have to worry about being abandoned.

Smiling, she felt his warm lips on her cheek. "I'll be back in a little while," he murmured, sending little s.h.i.+vers 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 unb.u.t.toned 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, s.h.i.+vering 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.h.i.+vered 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, las.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sion 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 d.a.m.ned 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 k.n.o.b, 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 ma.s.s on the bed and exposed himself as a man covered in mud—and his face showed his anger.

"d.a.m.ned things!" he said, pulling a bunch of violets from his s.h.i.+rt 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.

Heavily, he sat down in a chair and started to remove his boots, but first he lifted himself and with a grimace removed a th.o.r.n.y rose from beneath him.

"All I planned was a simple trip north," he said as he pulled a boot off, pouring water out of it. "I have a friend who has a gla.s.shouse, and he only lives five miles north of here. And of course a bride should have flowers, so I thought I'd just get you some."

Still, he didn't look up as he began removing his soaked, filmy coat. A flood of flowers fell from inside his jacket; crushed, falling apart, they cascaded to the floor.

Travis ignored them with a determined aloofness. "I was halfway there when it started to rain," he continued his story. "But I kept on, and when I got there my friend and his wife got out of bed and personally cut the flowers for me. They cleaned out the garden and the gla.s.shouse."

His s.h.i.+rt, soaked to his skin, came off next, and more flowers drifted to the already considerable pile at his bare feet.

"It was on the way back that the trouble started. The d.a.m.ned horse threw a shoe, and I had to walk in that strip of mud Virginia calls a road. I couldn't stop and have a new shoe fitted and miss my own wedding night."

Fascinated, Regan could only watch him, her heart beginning to heal with every word he spoke.