More Than Words Can Say Page 11

  “You can place your belongings in here.” Abigail stepped inside the room and held the door for him as he entered.

  He set his trunk at the foot of the bed and glanced at the bureau across from the bed and the wardrobe to the left. Not a trinket in sight. He knew Abigail was a practical woman, but even a practical woman had brushes and hairpins and such, right?

  “Make use of any drawers you like,” she said.

  He turned to her. Any drawers?

  She started backing out of the room. “I’ll be sharing Rosalind’s room. A man needs his privacy, after all. His space.” She dipped her chin, clearly aware that privacy was the last thing a husband wanted on his wedding night. “All of my things are already moved, so make use of whatever you like.”

  She waved her hand at the furnishings, but his gaze never wandered from her eyes. At least he knew what the sister had run off to do.

  He stalked toward her. She retreated into the doorway.

  “I usually retire around eight o’clock,” she babbled, “since I get up at four to prep the ovens and prepare the sweet breads. I wouldn’t want to disturb you.” She backed into the hallway.

  He wasn’t about to let her get away. Not without some kind of understanding between them. He lengthened his stride and caught her about the waist.

  Abigail’s palms flattened against his chest. Her eyes widened, but only in surprise, not fear, thank the Lord. “I-I’m very tired,” she protested.

  He raised a brow. The excuse was weak, even if she had gotten up at four o’clock that morning.

  “Good night, husband.” She actually managed to make that sound like a command. Impressive.

  Zach grinned. He liked her take-charge side. It showed gumption. Grit. But that didn’t mean he’d be leaving the field of battle with his tail between his legs. He had his own supply of grit.

  “You don’t have to share my bed until you’re ready, Abigail, but tonight you vowed to obey me . . . in domestic matters.” He let that sink in for a moment. They had been her words, after all, not his.

  She stiffened. Her mouth pursed, no doubt preparing to issue a severe dressing down aimed at putting her arrogant husband in his place. Well, this husband knew his place, and it wasn’t across the hall from his wife. At least not in a permanent arrangement.

  “A good-night kiss,” he said before she could lash into him.

  She blinked.

  “Before you go to bed each night, I want a kiss.” If he couldn’t have the closeness of sleeping beside her, he’d just have to manufacture it another way. And since memories of their wedding kiss had been plaguing him all night, it was the first strategy that came to mind.

  She cocked her chin upward. “A kiss.”

  “Yep.”

  “I suppose that’s a reasonable request.”

  It was actually more of a demand, but if it made her feel better to call it a request, he’d go along.

  “All right. I agr—”

  He didn’t let her finish. Just swooped in and claimed her mouth. Man, but he’d been wanting to do this again. He held her close, relishing the feel of her against him. The taste of her lips. The softness of the skin at her nape as he supported her head while deepening the kiss.

  Slowly, he separated his lips from hers and peered into her face. Her lashes fluttered open, revealing beautifully dazed brown eyes.

  It might not be the wedding night a man dreamed about, but it was a block to build on.

  CHAPTER

  15

  She was avoiding him. She knew it. Rosalind knew it. Zach probably knew it too. Yes, she had a bakery to run, but that didn’t explain why she’d sent her sister upstairs with a plate of sticky buns and a mug of coffee at precisely 7:20 a.m. Abigail told herself she was being a considerate wife, anticipating her husband’s needs and meeting them with efficiency. Yet as much as she wanted to believe that lie, she recognized the delusion at its core. Her actions didn’t denote consideration, they revealed her insecurity.

  If he ate upstairs, she wouldn’t have to face him in the shop with memories of their good-night kiss zinging through the air between them. None of her customers even knew she had married. What would they think if Zacharias Hamilton entered the shop from the kitchen instead of the front door? Her cheeks would fire hotter than her ovens.

  Better to have Brother Samuelson announce their newly wedded state at church tomorrow. Then everyone would know, and Zach could stroll into the shop from whichever direction he liked.

  Of course, that did nothing to solve the problem of how she was supposed to act around him. Logic dictated that he was the same person he’d always been, so she should carry on as she had in the past. Unfortunately, rational thought failed to keep her heart from palpitating whenever she saw him . . . or heard his voice . . . or even just thought about him. It was a wonder she had only spoiled one batch of muffins this morning instead of all five.

  Marriage to a man with a penchant for kissing was proving to be a trial. Maybe the newness would wear off in a few days, and she would regain control of her mind. At the moment, her husband held it hostage.

  Was he in the sitting room enjoying his breakfast, or had he already left through the alley to head for the lumberyard? Would he leave without telling her good-bye? Did she want him to tell her good-bye?

  Oh, for pity’s sake. Get your head back in the bakery where it belongs. Abigail bit the inside of her cheek as she focused on the customer standing at the counter. Had she asked for one croissant or two? Sometimes the schoolmarm bought a second pastry to have for lunch, but Abigail couldn’t recall what she’d said. Her hand hovered over the croissant shelf, so hopefully she had at least that much correct.

  Abigail placed one croissant on the square of butcher paper on the counter, then decided to admit her distraction. “I’m sorry, Miss Eider. Did you ask for one or two?”

  The teacher offered a friendly smile. “Just one today, thank you.”

  Praise God for kind patrons. Abigail returned her smile as she wrapped the pastry in paper and handed it over. Just as Miss Eider dropped a pair of copper coins into Abigail’s palm, the bakery door flew open, jangling the bell with enough force to cause every customer to turn and look.

  Sophia Longfellow swept inside, her overly puffed sleeves clearing her path more effectively than a pair of flanking guards. People backed away as she marched toward the counter. Even Miss Eider skittered sideways to let the mayor’s wife pass.

  “Tell me it isn’t true, Abigail.” Sophia’s dramatic utterance echoed throughout the shop with all the subtlety of cannon fire. “I knew you were desperate to save your shop, but I never thought you would go so far as to–to sell yourself to some man.”

  Silence instantly smothered the shop. No teacups clattered against saucers. No spoons rattled in coffee mugs. No chairs scraped against floorboards. The room had gone so still, Abigail swore she could hear dozens of eyes widening in shock. Her own among them.

  Sophia enjoyed lashing Abigail with that barbed tongue of hers, but never in so public a forum. Never with such deliberate intent to destroy her reputation. Abigail held her head high beneath the assault, but the cruelty of it sliced her heart to ribbons. They had once been as close as sisters.

  Preening under the attention, Sophia took full advantage of the silence. “Dearest Abigail.” She reached across the counter and clasped Abby’s balled hand, Miss Eider’s coins still clenched inside. “Mr. Gerard was more than willing to purchase your shop at a fair price. You had other options. There was no reason to—”

  “Enough.” Zach’s deep masculine voice reverberated behind Abigail. The single word was soft, but it carried such menace that even Sophia looked uneasy. She released Abigail’s hand and straightened her posture.

  Suddenly Rosalind was at Abigail’s side. Was her sister the reason for Zach’s sudden appearance? She had been in the kitchen fetching a fresh pot of coffee when Sophia had barged in.

  While Abigail was thankful for her new husband’s s
upport—more than she wanted to admit—she couldn’t allow him to fight her battles for her.

  With her sister at her side and her husband at her back, Abigail’s confidence renewed. “My reasons for marrying Zacharias are my own and none of your concern, Sophia.” Abigail made sure to enunciate marrying very clearly as she spoke. Best to chop the gossip off at the knees before Sophia’s purposely vague insinuations took root. “He’s a good man, and I am especially blessed to claim him as my husband.” She glanced up to address the room at large, raised her voice, and forced her lips to curve upward in what she hoped was a smile. “We intended to share the news tomorrow at church, but since Mrs. Longfellow has spoiled the surprise, I might as well announce that yesterday evening, I officially became Mrs. Zacharias Hamilton.”

  She lifted her left hand and showed off the gold band circling her third finger. It still felt odd there, rubbing against her other fingers. Foreign. As if it wasn’t really hers. She’d nearly taken it off while kneading her loaf dough that morning, not wanting to coat it in flour paste. But at the last minute she decided to leave it on. Dough residue would wash off, and not wearing it seemed disloyal to the man who had given it to her.

  “Congratulations to you both.” Miss Eider smiled with genuine warmth, and the tightness in Abigail’s chest eased a fraction.

  Zach played his part well, stepping up to her side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

  “Way to go, Hamilton!” some loud fellow at the back called.

  The room erupted with laughter and applause after that, transforming a potential scandal into a celebration.

  A situation that left the mayor’s wife silently fuming, though she hid it well. Were it not for the slight pursing of her lips and the narrowing of her eyes, Abigail might have believed her smile solicitous.

  “So, have the two of you been courting, then?” Sophia just couldn’t leave it alone, could she? “You never mentioned having a beau, and I haven’t seen you together at church or about town.”

  “Really, Sophia,” Rosalind said, sweeping around the counter and saving Abigail from trying to formulate an answer to that web of a question, “such a Nosy Nellie.” She made a tsking sound and playfully hooked her arm around Sophia’s tightly corseted waist. “Abby and Zach have been married less than a day. Let’s give them some time to breathe before peppering them with questions, shall we?”

  Rosalind forcibly drew Sophia away from the counter, covering her exertion with a smile that was even more sugary than her counterpart’s.

  “But I’m concerned for her,” Sophia protested, trying to turn back even as Rosalind continued to gracefully drag her toward the door. “I fear she’s being taken advantage of—”

  “By Zach?” Rosalind laughed. “You can’t be serious. That man is the best thing to happen to our family in years.”

  Rosalind had Sophia nearly to the door. Abigail had never realized her sister was so strong. Or so clever. She’d sidestepped every one of Sophia’s verbal traps, responding but not actually answering any of her questions.

  Zach squeezed Abigail’s shoulder as if equally impressed. Or maybe his fingers just twitched. How would she know? Instinct told her it was more than a random tic, though. She felt connected to him in this moment, allies on the field of battle, appreciating the skilled maneuvers of a younger soldier.

  “This is too much.” Sophia planted her feet and jerked away from Rosalind’s hold. “I won’t be ushered out like some kind of pathetic street urchin. I’m concerned about my friend.”

  “Tell you what,” Rosie said, smile never wavering, “why don’t you come by later this afternoon? Say, around four o’clock? After the bakery is closed for the day. That way you and Abby will have plenty of time to talk. In private. A place of business isn’t really the appropriate venue for this conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  It was all Abigail could do not to cackle with glee. The look on Sophia’s face! Hoisted with her own petard. She’d wanted to make a scene. Why else would she time her entrance to coincide with the peak of the breakfast crowd? But thanks to Rosie, if she pressed the issue now, she’d appear insensitive and rude. Sophia cherished her reputation almost as much as her husband’s position. Staying would endanger both.

  Sophia glanced around at the staring patrons. “Of course.” She manufactured a touch of abashment. “I was just so swept up in my concern for Abigail when Chester told me the news this morning that I dashed over without a thought.” Her gaze shifted to Abby. “Forgive me, Abigail. I didn’t intend to disrupt your business.”

  Mouth tight, Abigail stepped away from her husband. Zach’s support buoyed her, yet Sophia needed to see that she wasn’t intimidated. With the public looking on, Sophia no doubt expected Abby to demure, to accept her apology as if no harm had been done. But harm had been done. Or at least intended.

  Shrugging off the insult was not acceptable, yet neither was lashing out like a shrew. So Abigail took a page from her new husband’s book and said nothing. She just stared at her former friend until the quiet grew oppressive and Sophia glanced away.

  The victory might be small, but it was a victory nonetheless, and it felt good to watch Sophia sashay out the shop door unsatisfied. Their war wasn’t over—Abigail could feel that truth biting into her like a cramp in the side—but she’d won this skirmish, and that was enough for now.

  “Are you all right?” Zach’s voice rumbled gently in her ear as the door closed and chatter in the shop resumed.

  She nodded.

  He touched her elbow and drew her away from the counter. “I can leave work early, be back by four, if you want.”

  Abigail frowned for a moment, then recalled Rosalind’s invitation to Sophia. She smiled, touched by his offer, but shook her head. “There’s no need. She won’t come. Not if there won’t be an audience.”

  Zach raised a brow, questions nearly popping from the furrows in his forehead. Yet he didn’t ask them, because he recognized this wasn’t the time. She had a business to run, and he had his own vocation to see to. He’d already stayed later than usual.

  “We’ll talk later,” she promised. And maybe they would. He was her husband now, after all. Her problems were his problems, just as his were hers. Yet she didn’t want to burden him so soon after saying their vows and make him regret tying his life to hers. It wasn’t fair for her to be the only one making deposits into that particular account.

  He looked at her hard, as if privy to her thoughts and not pleased with their direction. “We will talk,” he said, his tone giving no quarter. “We’re partners now, Abby. Whatever affects you affects me too.”

  “All right.”

  At her agreement, his face cleared. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  She nodded absently, giving him a good-bye smile as he turned and exited through the back.

  One thought echoed louder than any other in her mind as he left. He expected her to share her troubles with him, but would he share his with her?

  CHAPTER

  16

  Dear Evie,

  Weather’s been nice. A little on the warm side, but

  Zach groaned and crumpled the paper. His sister didn’t care about the weather. She wanted to know how he and Abby were getting along. He knew this because she’d left strict instructions before heading back to Pecan Gap, demanding letters on a regular basis with details about how the courtship was progressing.

  He scratched at an itchy place beneath his chin, grimaced, then pulled a second piece of paper from the desk drawer.

  Courtship was a slow business. Especially when one’s wife retired an hour after supper every night. But if he didn’t put a few words to paper soon, Evie was likely to sic Logan on him. The last thing Zach’s courtship needed was the sins of his past hanging around in the flesh.

  He situated the clean sheet of writing paper in the middle of the walnut desk and dug around in his brain for a handful of words to satisfy his sister’s curiosity. He came up empty. Grinding his mol
ars, Zach twisted his pen between his fingers and glanced at the walls for inspiration. They were the only masculine walls in the entire house, but like a friend who didn’t want to get involved in personal affairs, they offered no input.

  He thought he’d been prepared to move into a feminine household. All he needed was a bed, after all. Maybe a chair and a place to put his feet up. The surroundings didn’t much matter. Or so he’d thought. But after nearly a month of lacy curtains, roses blossoming on the walls, and female undergarments dangling above the bathtub in the washroom, he’d started feeling a tad claustrophobic. Even the pitcher and basin on his washstand had been smothered with blue flowers. A matching shaving mug had been set out for him, as if that made the collection more masculine somehow. His plain white mug had supplanted the botanic blight the first morning of his residence, but he’d hesitated to replace the remainder of the set.

  Abigail seemed the practical sort who wouldn’t balk at a plain white ewer and basin, but if he hoped to woo her into sharing the room with him, he didn’t want to do anything that might deter her from feeling welcome there. If she liked floral washbasins—which she must, since petal-bearing specimens adorned everything from seat cushions to dinner plates in this home—he wouldn’t banish them from his room. He’d just try not to look at them. A strategy that had earned him several nicks on the thumb while rinsing his razor blade over the past four weeks.

  Thank the Lord for Edward Kemp. He might have been an insensitive clod when it came to appreciating his daughters, but he’d managed to carve out a corner of masculinity in the sea of flowers that was his home. A tiny study at the end of the hall boasted dark wood paneling. A desk and chair stood at the rear, in front of a narrow bookcase. A lumpy armchair and scuffed lamp table sat near the entrance. A thin brown rug with worn edges adorned the floor. The room was a cave, especially at night, but like all good caves, not a single leaf or bud bloomed anywhere within. The perfect male retreat.