Chapter 9
Amelia awoke to darkness. She stretched to the warmth of the blankets on top of her and the sofa cushions beneath.
That meant she’d fallen asleep again before Thatcher had returned from the barn. She hadn’t wanted to, had tried to keep her eyes open . . . mostly for an update on Queen’s condition. But maybe a small part of her had wanted to talk with Thatcher again too.
She’d actually wanted to go out to the barn with him and tend to Queen one last time for the night. But Thatcher had insisted she remain inside and rest. She’d acquiesced, mostly because she had been exhausted and because she had to take care of herself for the baby’s sake.
She pushed up to a sitting position. The glow of a low fire provided some light, as did the glimmer from the stove. Through the open door of the bedroom, she could see the outline of Thatcher’s boots and trousers on the floor, where he’d discarded them before climbing into bed.
He was sleeping alone for a second night in a row.
He couldn’t be happy about it, not after how excited everyone had claimed he was to get married.
Of course, there were probably lots of reasons why he was excited.
But as a man, he would be wanting to have his needs met. There was no getting around it.
She flopped back to the couch and stared at the dark outline of the ceiling beams overhead. She could go on ignoring Thatcher, pretending the marriage bed didn’t exist and putting it off as long as possible.
But what would be the point of that? She would eventually need to fulfill her marital duties.
Huffing out a breath, she sat back up. She might as well do her part. After all, he’d been so kind to her—had taken her in, had agreed to raise her child, and was providing for her every need. Withholding herself from him would make her seem ungrateful and selfish and uncooperative.
She pushed off the blankets and swung her feet over the edge of the sofa. As her stocking feet touched the floorboards, the draft as well as the coldness of the boards made her shiver. But she stood and shuffled toward her bags.
She dug around inside and found her nightgown. It wasn’t a heavy wool one like she’d had on the farm. No, it was a thin, silky gown that was cut low, one that Charles had given her after throwing away all her others.
The revealing gown wouldn’t be warm enough for the winter nights ahead. But she had nothing else now, and it would have to do.
She changed rapidly, then wrapped herself up in one of the blankets from the sofa before tiptoeing past the table. She halted in the bedroom doorway, a nervous tremor racing through her.
Of course, she’d been nervous on her wedding night with Charles as well as curious and maybe even a little scared.
But this nervousness was different. Because the truth was, she already liked Thatcher much more than she ever had Charles. And she didn’t want to disappoint him tonight. She wanted him to like her too, and she wanted him to be happy that he’d chosen to marry her.
She adjusted the thin straps of the nightgown, pulling the material up so that she wasn’t showing so much cleavage, which was difficult because God—and her mother—had given her a curvy bust.
Although the bedroom was dark, her eyes adjusted within seconds, and she could distinguish Thatcher’s form taking up most of the bed. He was sprawled out on his back, with both his legs and arms tangled in the covers.
She couldn’t see his handsome face, but it was easy to view his muscular limbs and brawny build. The sight of his body brought back the memory of how he’d carried her to the house again with such ease and tenderness, yet also with such strength.
Yes, there was something different in the physical tug she was feeling toward Thatcher, something she’d never felt with Charles, probably because she’d never liked him as a person. Maybe if he’d been caring and had made an effort to get to know her, she might have felt more of a tug toward him too.
Whatever the case, she wasn’t dreading joining Thatcher in bed. Instead, more of that nervousness tingled inside her stomach. She flattened a hand there, and then before she lost the courage, she silently crossed to the bed.
What should she do? Slip under the covers beside him and wait for him to wake up?
Surely her movement would rouse him. Hopefully she wouldn’t need to say anything for him to know why she was there.
And hopefully they wouldn’t have to talk about their nighttime activities in the morning and could pretend nothing had happened.
She liked their relationship so far and didn’t want things to become awkward between them.
Steeling herself, she dropped the blanket from her shoulders, letting it puddle on the floor next to his trousers. Then she folded the covers down enough that she could slide first one foot underneath and then the other.
As she lowered her whole body onto the mattress, the chill in the unheated room skimmed across her scantily clad body. Sinking down and stretching out, she tugged at the covers to free them from his limbs and brought them up the rest of the way over her body, all the way to her chin.
She lay rigidly, without moving. Even though the sheets were cool, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He was only inches away, but he didn’t move either. Not even a change in his steady and even breathing.
She waited and listened again. He continued to slumber undisturbed, just as peacefully as when she’d first stepped up to the bedroom doorway, probably unaware that she was in bed.
Maybe she would have some time to ease her way into the situation and get comfortable lying beside him before he woke up and reached for her.
Drawing in a breath, she tried to calm her racing heart. She didn’t need to be afraid. Hadn’t Thatcher proven himself to be a man of character in every way so far? She’d never met a man quite like him before, so well-liked by everyone in the community.
As nice as he was, if she kept from awakening him, maybe she could have another night of freedom. In the meantime, she would show him that she wasn’t the one holding back and that she was willing to sleep with him.
Long minutes passed, and when he still didn’t awaken, she let herself begin to relax.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she took in the room, which was only big enough to hold the bed, a narrow chest of drawers, and a trunk.
There was very little room to maneuver, but it was cozy and private, and that’s all that really mattered.
She shifted slightly so that she was reclining on one side, facing Thatcher. She was close enough that, even through the shadows, she could still see his features—the strong lines of his jaw, his broad chin, his well-defined nose, and his deep eyes.
Her heart gave a stuttering patter, and she had the unusual urge to lift her hand and trace every handsome line of his face.
Should she make the first move? What would he think of her if she did?
With a soft exhale, she returned to her back and lifted her gaze to the ceiling again. No, it was much safer if she kept to herself. She’d done her part and made herself available to him. Now the next move was up to him.
As her eyes grew heavy again, she finally shut them. Thatcher was no threat to her. In fact, now that she was next to him in the bed, a sense of security fell over her. She was in a safe place, she was on the cusp of a new life, and maybe she could rest easily for the first time in months.