"Esme sweet," he whispered against her throat. "You already know the things I value about you." He ran a hand down the length of her spine and then naughtily cupped the temptingly curved behind he found there. "Why don't we just lay ourselves down in that soft feather bed I've got upstairs"—he soothed the hot words against her throat— "and talk this out in the morning."
Her heart pounding in her throat, Esme decided that she'd made a terrible mistake. This wonderful man she thought she wanted for a husband was an insensitive, unfeeling clod who thought himself far too good for her. Did he think her some stray cat that had just wandered up on his porch? With a hasty glance at her surroundings, the shiny pine floor at her feet, and the massive, elaborate hall tree, Esme wondered if perhaps she was.
Angrily she pushed him away. "I don't care to talk to you in the morning," she claimed in a near shriek. "In fact, I don't care to talk to you at all. I'm going home."
"What?"
"You heard what I said," she snapped. "I'm leaving. I may be poor and got no learning, but I won't be looked down on by anyone. Surely not the man who's supposed to be my husband!"
"I wasn't looking down on you."
"Well, what do you call it?"
"I call it asking for my rights as a married man. This wasn't my idea, you know. I wouldn't have married you in a million years if you hadn't trapped me into it."
"Oh, you ..." Esme raised her hand to hit him, but he caught it easily, and his expression was black.
"Don't you try to strike me," he said furiously. "Just because you saw another woman get away with slapping me doesn't mean you can do the same. You are not Miss Sophrona!"
Esme's eyes widened in horrified shock. "How dare you bring her name up between us on our wedding night!"
Cleav opened his mouth to make a crude comment on what should be between them on their wedding night, only to be interrupted by an anxious voice from the second-floor landing.
"What in the name of heaven is going on down there!"
The two combatants stood silently staring at each other. Neither had remembered that they were not alone in the house.
Cleav stepped away and fumbled for a match to light the lamp. "It's me, Mother," he called upstairs with a more controlled tone. "Esme and I are home at last," he commented conversationally. "How are you feeling?"
"I was feeling fine and sleeping peacefully until I was awakened by what sounded like a Saturday-night brawl in my own foyer." Mrs. Rhy's words were clipped and haughty.
Cleav managed to light the lamp and then gave Esme a beseeching glance.
"Evenin', Miz Rhy," Esme said sweetly as she stepped closer to Cleav. "We's real sorry about waking you up. I'm sure glad you're feeling better."
Cleav wrapped his arm loosely around Esme's waist.
When she started to squirm in protest, he tightened his grip.
"The wedding was lovely, Mother," he said evenly. "Everybody in town was there."
Eula Rhy peered curiously at the couple at the foot of the stairs. "You look awful. How did you get so muddy?"
Esme glanced down at her ruined dress and wanted to die with mortification.
"They had a shivaree," Cleav explained calmly. "It's a custom among the hill people to—"
"I know what a shivaree is, Cleavis," his mother replied sharply. "I've lived in these mountains all my life. Your father had to get me down out of a tree, and we both were covered with poison oak." Her eyes stared out into nothingness for a moment as if she were recalling the unpleasant incident fondly. Then, looking at the young couple at the bottom of the stairs, she actually smiled.
As if the memory of her youth had somehow fortified her, the older woman pulled up the sleeves of her wrapper and headed downstairs.
"You'll both be needing baths, no doubt," she said practically. "Esme, do come help me get the water heated."
Chapter Twelve
What a way to start a marriage! Esme thought to herself as she helped Mrs. Rhy draw water for their bath.
"We can just have a basin bath," she had assured her new mother-in-law. But the older woman was having nothing to do with it.
