He paused for just a minute, as the light flared up to illuminate her shuttered face. Then he lifted one hard palm to her cheek in a clumsy but surprising caress. His voice was noticeably thickened when he spoke. “It’ll be all right, Camellia. You’re home now. Trust me. Everything is gonna be just fine.”
Chapter Nine
IT WAS AND IT WASN’T.
Camellia woke early next morning to a room flooded by sunshine and birdsong but an empty space beside her in the bed. So. Ben was already up and away, and she had neither heard nor felt his departure. The gesture radiated consideration. Or stealth.
Turning sideways from her face-down position, she took her time to wake and stir, all the while pondering the hours that had passed before.
Her wedding night. Had any other bride endured that astonishing, somewhat undignified, possibly traumatic experience with her heart left untouched?
Having never undergone “the talk,” she had had no idea what to expect. Or how to react. Should she have taken advantage of Dr. Havers’ offer to enlighten her, after all? Ben had been careful with her. Gentle, even, to the point of holding back when urgency seemed in order. Once their initial union was over and finished, he had apparently been left satisfied, despite the lack of cooperation on her part. Or maybe not, since the physical act had taken place twice more in the silent, entombing darkness.
Camellia wondered if her sense of bewilderment, of being almost bereft, were normal in this situation. Would the discomfort he had inflicted eventually ease, with time and repetition? Would her restless, frustrated body ever find true pleasure and fulfillment in all that had been done? Or must she simply submit, with resentful grace, whenever this less-than-earth-shattering event occurred?
More apt, where exactly had her errant husband escaped to?
“Good mornin’,” he greeted her rather shyly, when, having quickly availed herself of the indoor facilities, sponge-bathed, and dressed, she appeared in the kitchen a half-hour later. He didn’t meet her gaze; he was busily frying bacon at the stove, and his back was turned.
“Good morning.” She felt as shy and uncomfortable with him as he appeared to her.
“Thought I’d fix us some breakfast, and let you sleep in a little later. You—uh—well, you seemed pretty tired, after all the hullabaloo yesterday, and I—uh—well, you—uh—well, with your—uh—accommodation, when I—uh—”
“Yes, yes, thank you, I was very tired!” She needed to stop his rambling before he got out another word. Already her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment, and she longed to run and hide. Awkward, awkward—she felt like a ten-year-old girl instead of a grownup married woman!
“Ahuh. Well, okay, then. Here—coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”
She obeyed, as quickly as possible, staying out of his range of reach. Just in case. “You can cook?” she finally asked, from the safe distance of the table. “If that’s true, I’m surprised you advertised for a mail order bride.”
“Yeah, I can cook—in a pinch, when I have to. Usedta take most of my meals at one of our cafes, though, or over the counter at my store. But bein’ handy in the kitchen ain’t the only reason a man takes him a wife.”
He sent her a long, significant glance over his shoulder, one that set her blushing anew to the roots of her hair. Instead of answering, since her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, she took a piece of the bread loaf he had sliced and added butter.
The bacon, transferred to a platter, had stopped sizzling; four soft-cooked eggs found themselves scooped onto the side, in savory juxtaposition. Joining her, Ben served up breakfast with a flourish.
Camellia discovered she was surprisingly hungry, and dug in. “Ben, it was very thoughtful of you to do this for me. I promise not to be so lazy from here on. It’s only fair that I acquit myself at that monster stove of yours.”
He had cut into an egg and was chewing busily. “You forget,” he drawled, after a minute, “that I’ve had the misfortune of samplin’ a couple of the meals you fixed. I wouldn’t say I got sick afterwards, but my insides felt twisted around some.”
“Oh, you wretch!” Laughing, she then pretended to pout. “Kindly give me the benefit of the doubt. I was just learning my way around, if you’ll recall. Simply because the flapjacks were—”
“—a runny, burnt mess.”
“—not exactly to your liking, and the steak I fried—”
“—couldn’ta been cut up with a hacksaw.”
“—was a bit more well-done than planned, and the potatoes were baked—”
“—nowhere near long enough. Hard as rocks, and cold in the middle, to boot.”
Leaning back in her chair, she folded both arms over her front and challenged, “At least my coffee tastes fine.”
He grinned at her, and the tone of his voice turned from teasing to husky. “Your coffee tastes downright delicious, Mrs. Forrester.”
Thank heaven. This little bit of banter, back and forth, had dispelled that very uncomfortable feeling of both parties walking with two left feet. Gradually, she was learning. But she did wonder if they would ever be able to honestly discuss what had or had not happened in the bedroom.
“It’s Sunday,” he finally commented, after finishing the mug of coffee on which he had just complimented her. “Wanna head over for the church service pretty soon?”