Lydia momentarily debated whether she should undress now or wait until after the lantern was doused for the night.
Nervously telling herself that Ben had every right to see her in a nightdress, she began to nervously unbutton her day gown. Stepping out of her dress, she hung it on a clothes hook. Hesitant to remove her undergarments with the lantern still lit, she stepped behind a barrel, quickly divesting herself of all her clothing.
Automatically r eaching for the same nightdress that she’d hung on a wooden peg upon waking that morning, she thought better of it at the last. Instead, she opened her clothing trunk. From it, she removed a clean garment, the smell of lemon verbena filling her nostrils as she pulled the white lawn nightdress over her head.
She then hurriedly yanked bone hair pins loose, unraveling her hair from the tight coil at the nape of her neck. Grabbing hold of her bristle brush, she pulled it through her unbound hair. Wanting to have her toilette completed before Ben returned, she greatly reduced the number of brush strokes.
No sooner had she set down the brush than Ben climbed into the back of the wagon, his stooped posture reminding her of just how tall a man he was. Somewhat gingerly, he maneuvered his broad-shouldered physique around the stacked boxes and barrels which lined the four-foot-wide wagon box.
When he saw that she’d already changed into her nightdress, Ben’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure that you want me to see you dressed like that?”
Lydia took a deep breath to shore her courage. “You are my husband, are you not?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Ben retorted as he pulled his cotton work shirt over his head. Given the heat of the day, he’d not bothered with an undergarment.
For one brief moment, Lydia wished that he had, the sight of his muscled torso having an unsettling effect on her, emphasizing that he was too big, too masculine, for the cramped space. And though she knew that it was an illusion, the bed seemed to shrink with each passing second.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Ben glanced over at her. “I thought you were going to put some ointment on my shoulder.”
“Yes . . . yes, I was. Thank you for reminding me,” Lydia babbled, feeling like a flustered young girl who’d just gotten her first surreptitious glimpse at a bare-chested male.
Taking a deep breath to steady her faltering nerves, Lydia stepped over to the wooden box where her herbs and medicinal tonics were stored.
A moment later, ointment in hand, she returned to the bed.
In a quandary, she suddenly realized that because of all the barrels that were jam-packed next to the bed, there was no room for her to stand beside her husband. Muttering under his breath, Ben opened his knees, affording Lydia enough room to stand between his booted legs.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she poured a li beral amount of tonic into the palm of her hand.
Unnerved to see that her hand was shaking, Lydia began her ministrations. After smoothing the tonic onto Ben’s skin, she began to dig her fingers into the taut muscles of his shoulder. When, a few moments later, her husband grunted, she was unsure whether it was pain or pleasure that incited the guttural response.
To Lydia’s vexation, the next several minutes passed in complete silence.
“What are you thinking about?” she impulsively inquired, unnerved by Ben’s grim-faced reticence.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.” Too late, Lydia realized that her tone had a sharp edge to it.
Ben tilted his head, spearing her with a gray-eyed stare. “I was thinking that it’s a hell of a thing for a married man not to know what his wife’s breasts look like.” As he spoke, Ben’s gaze brazenly slid from her face to her chest, his eyes boring into her with a heated intensity.
Not giving herself time to change her mind, Lydia took several backward steps. When she was at a safe enough distance,
Nervously telling herself that Ben had every right to see her in a nightdress, she began to nervously unbutton her day gown. Stepping out of her dress, she hung it on a clothes hook. Hesitant to remove her undergarments with the lantern still lit, she stepped behind a barrel, quickly divesting herself of all her clothing.
Automatically r eaching for the same nightdress that she’d hung on a wooden peg upon waking that morning, she thought better of it at the last. Instead, she opened her clothing trunk. From it, she removed a clean garment, the smell of lemon verbena filling her nostrils as she pulled the white lawn nightdress over her head.
She then hurriedly yanked bone hair pins loose, unraveling her hair from the tight coil at the nape of her neck. Grabbing hold of her bristle brush, she pulled it through her unbound hair. Wanting to have her toilette completed before Ben returned, she greatly reduced the number of brush strokes.
No sooner had she set down the brush than Ben climbed into the back of the wagon, his stooped posture reminding her of just how tall a man he was. Somewhat gingerly, he maneuvered his broad-shouldered physique around the stacked boxes and barrels which lined the four-foot-wide wagon box.
When he saw that she’d already changed into her nightdress, Ben’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure that you want me to see you dressed like that?”
Lydia took a deep breath to shore her courage. “You are my husband, are you not?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Ben retorted as he pulled his cotton work shirt over his head. Given the heat of the day, he’d not bothered with an undergarment.
For one brief moment, Lydia wished that he had, the sight of his muscled torso having an unsettling effect on her, emphasizing that he was too big, too masculine, for the cramped space. And though she knew that it was an illusion, the bed seemed to shrink with each passing second.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Ben glanced over at her. “I thought you were going to put some ointment on my shoulder.”
“Yes . . . yes, I was. Thank you for reminding me,” Lydia babbled, feeling like a flustered young girl who’d just gotten her first surreptitious glimpse at a bare-chested male.
Taking a deep breath to steady her faltering nerves, Lydia stepped over to the wooden box where her herbs and medicinal tonics were stored.
A moment later, ointment in hand, she returned to the bed.
In a quandary, she suddenly realized that because of all the barrels that were jam-packed next to the bed, there was no room for her to stand beside her husband. Muttering under his breath, Ben opened his knees, affording Lydia enough room to stand between his booted legs.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she poured a li beral amount of tonic into the palm of her hand.
Unnerved to see that her hand was shaking, Lydia began her ministrations. After smoothing the tonic onto Ben’s skin, she began to dig her fingers into the taut muscles of his shoulder. When, a few moments later, her husband grunted, she was unsure whether it was pain or pleasure that incited the guttural response.
To Lydia’s vexation, the next several minutes passed in complete silence.
“What are you thinking about?” she impulsively inquired, unnerved by Ben’s grim-faced reticence.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that.” Too late, Lydia realized that her tone had a sharp edge to it.
Ben tilted his head, spearing her with a gray-eyed stare. “I was thinking that it’s a hell of a thing for a married man not to know what his wife’s breasts look like.” As he spoke, Ben’s gaze brazenly slid from her face to her chest, his eyes boring into her with a heated intensity.
Not giving herself time to change her mind, Lydia took several backward steps. When she was at a safe enough distance,
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