But, realistically, what other options did they have? Sleeping outside again? “Will it rain, do you think? On this festival we are to attend?” She turned away as she asked.
She could feel the silence stretch, just long enough to make her skin prickle. He was watching her, she knew. Reading her.
“It might,” he said at last, his voice low. “But I think it will hold off.”
Still, he didn’t move. She could feel the weight of him there, in the breath she held tight in her lungs.
“I’ll take Mrs. Wooten up on her offer of tea while you freshen up,” he added a second later, the sound of his departing footsteps soft on the floorboards.
Only once his footsteps had faded down the stairs did she dare to move. But even with him gone, he hadn’t truly left her. His presence lingered in the room—like the aftershock of a lightning strike.
Her hand drifted to her lower belly, pressing there as if she could soothe the ache coiled deep inside. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t nerves.
It was hunger.
An aching pulse that throbbed low and steady, reminding her of all the places his hands hadn’t touched. Her breasts felt too heavy, her skin too sensitive.
She inhaled to steady herself, but it didn’t help.
His scent hung faintly in the air—earthy, leather and spice, along with the echo of his voice in that low, accented murmur that made her knees go weak.
God help her.
She shouldn’t feel this way. Not about a man she barely knew. Not like this.
But her body did not care what she ought or ought not to feel. It clung stubbornly to this… yearning.
Even in his absence it lingered, a silent, burning want she could not will away.
She busied herself brushing at her gown with unsteady hands, as though neat pleats might restore order to her thoughts. It was in this state that Mrs. Wooten bustled back into the room, wiping her hands on her apron.
“That man of yours is right handy, I’ll say that much,” Mrs. Wooten declared with a brisk nod. “Took his tea with thanks, but then went and noticed my woodpile was low—insisted on bringing in a fresh stack from out back before I could say a word about it. Got me to thinking…”
She shuffled across the room. “If you’ve been coming all the way from Rockford, I imagine you’ve worn that frock a time or two by now.”
She bent at the knees, lifting the lid of an old, weathered trunk, its hinges creaking like a memory. “Now, it’s not new, mind,” she said, reaching in, “but it’s still got some magic left in it, I think.”
Magic.
When she stood again, something shimmered. A gown. It was a soft spruce green—like moss in shadow—with a lace overlay that rippled like mist. Tiny vines and curling tendrils had been embroidered along the bodice and hem in silver thread. The neckline was a modest but feminine scoop, and the sleeves were sheer, lightly puffed, gathered above the elbow with a silk tie.
Ambrosia’s breath caught.
She hadn’t worn anything so pretty since the start of mourning. No. Longer than that.
Not since she’d become someone else's shadow. Since she’d been a woman who no longer belonged to herself.
Now, a dress like this—soft, fanciful, unnecessary—looked like the most indulgent thing in the world.
“You need to wear this. Being a new bride and all…”
“I can’t. It isn’t necessary—” she began, shaking her head, because she wasn’t really a newlywed.
“I know it’s not,” Mrs. Wooten said with a knowing smile, “but you ought to wear something he hasn’t seen you in yet.” She winked. “The festival’s not only for the children, after all. I’ve the fondest memories of it, back when Bart and I were courting.” Her eyes softened with nostalgia. “There’ll be tasting booths, and dancing, and vendors from every village between here and Salisbury. If I were new bride, I’d want to look special for my husband.”
She gave the dress a pat and laid it across the bed.
Ambrosia stared at it for a long moment. It was nothing like anything she'd worn before—not severe, not practical, not dictated by grief or duty. It was frivolous. Joyful.
