I clench my teeth in frustration at his valid point. “Fine.”
That damn faint grin spreads into a slow smile that raises my hackles surprisingly only a little bit. “All right,” he drawls before he ambles to my side. “Ready?”
“Rea—”
One swift motion, and then we’re scooped up into his strong arms.
“—dy,” I finish weakly. This is like when he carried me upstairs yesterday, but now my baby is in my arms instead of my belly. He doesn’t press me against himself obscenely, butthere’s no ignoring the feel of him as he carefully places me onto my feet. The heat of his hands burns me even after he removes them, and I force a dry swallow as I hazard a glance up at him.
“Welcome home, Mara.” Warren’s voice is a little deeper than before. Because he’s tired? “I’ll show you around and then put the horses up.”
I press a kiss to Emmaline’s bonnet for strength and nervously follow him up three steps and through the doorway. But my nervousness fades a bit when he shifts and grins sheepishly. “Sorry about the mess. If I’da known I’d be coming back with a wife, I’d have cleaned up a bit better.”
Peering around him, I take in the cozy little parlor with its sofa, two cushioned chairs, and a rocker. Paintings line the walls, and the fireplace has a clock on the mantel and a shotgun above that, but where’s the mess? I step in further and understand.
Dirty boot prints all over the pine floors.
A plate with leftover food on it shoved halfway underneath the sofa.
One upside-down boot in the window with no sign of its missing mate.
When I glance at Warren, he rubs the back of his neck, a hint of red coloring his cheeks. While it seems to embarrass him, this puts me slightly more at ease. His home isn’t as pristine as Mrs. Smith’s, so there’s less chance of me sullying it.
“Don’t you worry,” he promises. “I’ll get it all cleaned up when I get done with the horses. Lemme show you the rest of it.” A hesitant hand reaches for my waist before dropping back to his side. “So...this is the parlor, obviously. Kitchen’s through that door.”
He points to an open doorway on the left, but my mindis turning over his earlier words. “You’re going to clean it up yourself?” I just need to be sure I heard him correctly, because none of the men I’ve known would ever deign to lower themselves to women’s work.
“Yup. I made the mess, I’ll clean it up. And on second thought,” he says with a grimace, “maybe you better not see the kitchen just yet. Come on.”
Disbelief eats at me, but I follow him through the second door that leads to a short hallway. Warren gestures between the doors. “Privy’s here. Got indoor plumbing so you don’t have to worry about going outside at night. And this here’s our room,” he finishes proudly. “I’ll be making a cradle for her so she won’t have to keep sleeping in a drawer, the poor little one. But she’ll have to make do with it for a few nights.”
Dread chills my limbs as Warren pulls out a dresser drawer. “Wait. You don’t have another room for us?” My arms tighten around my baby.
I can’t even focus on the part about indoor plumbing. One bed is all I can see now, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.
“Mara…” Now he seems like a threat again instead of an oversized pup as he stands there with the bed behind him and clothes from the drawer in hand. “You’re my wife, and I’m your husband. While I told you I wouldn’t lay with you, that didn’t mean we weren’t going to share a bed. There’s nowhere else to sleep.”
“The floor,” I blurt out. Lord knows, I’ve spent many a night there myself while some man snored in a bed above me. “I could sleep on the flo?—”
Whiskey eyes narrow. “Damn it, woman, I’m not letting my wife sleep on the floor like a dog. You belong in a real bed—my bed—and since there’s only one of those in this house, that’s where you’re gonna be.”
“But you…” He could be a gentleman and sleep on the floor. Or out in the barn. Or even I could sleep in the barn.
“Trust has to start somewhere, Mara,” he says gently as I scowl at him. “Let it be here.”
Trust, he says.
That’s not going to happen easily.
CHAPTER 5
MARA
Splintersfrom the wooden floor dig into my knees, but the black boots and polished mahogany cane methodically circling me are the greater danger. Burning droplets of sweat trickle from my hairline into my eyes again, blurring my sight. With other men, I can almost always hide myself away and imagine I’m in a field of flowers, but not withhim. The stinging in my eyes intensifies from his overwhelming cologne, and before I can think better of it, I wipe it away.
Then I freeze in horror, fingers resting limply against my cheek.
“Hands.” Only one simple word, but the dark satisfaction in his voice ices my blood and makes my hair stand on end even in the sweltering heat. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Mara.”
