Beneath Spring's Rain (Ashton Brides Book 1) by Rebecca J. Greenwood

Author:Rebecca J. Greenwood [Greenwood, Rebecca J.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2020-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

His body aching from a wretched night’s sleep, he dressed without waking Eliza in the low, early morning light.

He paused before donning his boots and indulged himself in several minutes of just watching her: the slow in and out of her breaths, the way she curled on her side like a child with her hand under her chin, the blankets wrapped tightly around her. She was so beautiful.

Her cap was askew, her dusky braid coming loose. He had never seen her so disheveled before. So soft and vulnerable.

How he loved this woman.

He fought off the compulsion to crawl, like a beggar on his knees, onto the bed, bury his face in her neck, and sleep for several more hours with his arms around her.

Too soon. Not yet.

* * *

The door clicking open woke her. She blinked in the morning light, momentarily disoriented in an unfamiliar space.

Betsey bustled in and began pulling items out of Eliza’s trunk.

Daniel wasn’t in the room. The trundle was back under the bed.

She rolled onto her back and blinked up at the canopy. She was a married woman. Should she feel different?

But she hadn’t a customary wedding night, so perhaps not?

Not yet.

A weird nervous thrill went through her. An emotion she did not know how to handle or what to do with. She ruthlessly shoved it down into herself and left the bed to ready for another day of travel.

They set out, the new horses fresh and eager.

“Could we continue our bargain of yesterday?” Daniel asked. “May I hold your hands again today, Eliza?

“Merely one hand.”

He took it, toyed with her gloved hand in his ungloved one. He peeked up at her. “Could I remove the glove?”

Her heart gave a jump. She looked away, took a breath. “I suppose.”

He pulled off her glove finger by finger, till her hand was exposed. He wrapped his long hand around hers, bare skin on bare skin. The roughness on her hands from the work at the Magdalen House was still healing. Hand salves had hurried the process, but they were not yet the hands of a lady once again.

She refused to feel shame at it.

His hands were masculine, long and strong. Feeling bold, she caught up his left with her right and drew his hand under her gaze. She examined it. His injuries from last week’s altercation with those horrid men were still healing, the bruises yellowed, the cracked knuckles covered with scabs. He had the calluses of a hard rider, a few scars from gunpowder burns and battle.

She compared the length of his fingers to hers.

“Do you play pianoforte at all?”

“No. A few youthful attempts were made to teach me, but my talent and interest did not lie in that direction.”

“A pity. Your reach would be remarkable. There are several pieces I cannot play adequately because my hands are not quite large enough.” She traced each of his fingers with her own.

He leaned close as if he might kiss her. She drew back, gave him a sharp, scolding look.

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