He turned from me again.
“I murdered a man, Violet. ‘Twasn’t the way I thought it would be. It was . . . The Lord knows how I admired your father and his Quaker sensibilities and yours. Still, I found out where Kimball was jailed. He was here—well, close to Concord, if you can believe that. As if someone among the redcoats wanted that man dead.” He paused, and I noticed his hands trembling. “I found him. He was roped to a tree, sleeping, and like a coward I reached around the tree and slit his neck. It was . . . not what I thought. I—I—” He sucked in a breath and bowed his head.
As dark a deed as murder is, a devious side of me gurgled in appreciation.
He was the one that beat me to Kimball. He was the one that bought my family’s farm for me. He was the one.
During the wedding ceremony I’d mimicked the reverend, not even listening to the words I swore to God and before all of Concord. By doing so I was a blasphemer now too, to add to my ugly list of sins. But not anymore.
I would be a good wife to Mathew. I would—over the years, no doubt—somehow make it up to Mathew for my indiscretion and my insincere vows. I made my own promise at that moment. I would love Mathew. I would be devoted to him and him alone. He deserved that. He was my family now. He was the one.
Tentatively I wrapped my arms around his waist, arms and all. He didn’t struggle, but held his breath.
“I do not share my father’s Quaker sensibilities, Mathew, for I must confess to you: you beat me to him,” I whispered, “to Kimball.”
He spun around and my arms hung loose beside me as he searched my face. I continued. “I found Kimball, and, aye, Colonel Devlin came to me in private to see about . . . justice, I think he called it, for that rapist. I went to kill Kimball myself, but you were there first. What you call yourself a monster for, I am also guilty of.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out of his perfect lips.
Reaching up, I softly held his lightly whiskered cheeks between my palms. I forced him to bend to me, to lower his head, so I wouldn’t have to stand on my tiptoes anymore, but he stiffly stepped back.
I heaved for air, my arms still outstretched, suddenly realizing how I needed his body’s warmth against me, to feel something other than dead inside.
“Am I understanding you correctly?”
I nodded.
“You think me no demon?”
I shook my head. “As demonic as I.”
He blinked then slowly swallowed.
He flopped back, luckily within reach of my parent’s bed. He sat with shock rippling through his face.
“You don’t despise me?”
I shook my head again as I gingerly approached him. His legs were wide apart, as if helping him with his balance, and I lowered myself between his long limbs. Tentatively I wrapped my hands around his knees. The warmth from his body spread its way up my fingers, like the way whisky can race its heat into the belly. I smoothed my hands up a few more inches, feeling the steel structure of his thighs. I let myself gaze upon his body for once. I’d always felt hesitant and wondered what he might think of me, what others might think, if I’d let myself investigate what might lie under his clothes. His legs seemed impossibly long and muscular. I wondered what it would be like to touch every inch of them. At that thought my breasts ached against the constraints of my stay. The apex of my legs became lusciously warm. My eyes ventured onward to his flat stomach and the way he breathed. He seemed to be struggling for air, and I looked up at his angst-ridden face.
His voice strained when he said, “Do you—do you think you could love me, after all?”
I nodded.
His hands were in fists beside his hips, and I didn’t pause for a moment when I reached for them. First I stretched out his fingers, then I clutched his hand around my cheek. Mathew’s eyebrows were still furrowed.
“Mathew,” I whispered. “My Mathew, you are the one I choose.”
I thought I heard a twin boom from two cannons then, but it dawned in me that I was listening to Mathew’s heart again. His brows lifted, but his countenance was still tormented. I released his hand, and he immediately withdrew it to his lap. I began to unpin my dress. His heart thundered. His eyes widened, but he didn’t move, didn’t seem to breath, and it took me forever to finally unhinge myself from the top of my dress. He sucked in a sip of air as he looked me over, but he still didn’t move. It took me another eternity to loosen my corset, and even longer to wiggle myself free from my outer clothing. I sat on my shins in my shift, loving the rhythm Mathew was offering me in his fast paced heartbeat.
He made like he was going to touch me, but stopped himself. His arm was frozen in the air, but I caught it and urged his hand to my shoulder. My wide necked shift, seeming to know my wishes, moved and revealed my shoulder the second before I forced Mathew’s hand on me.
His fingers burned my skin, but I welcomed the too hot touch. He, again, didn’t move. He looked like a drowning man, needing to gasp for breath, yet not free to do so. I panicked, wondering if he would ever respond to me. But it was then that my eyes fell on his breeches, at the apex of his legs. Men’s anatomy wasn’t a complete mystery to me. After all, I’d been raised on a farm, but I must admit that what I saw in one instant both intimidated and fascinated me. The fabric of his breeches tented toward me, and between my own legs heated more. Curiosity got the better of me. I once more wrapped my hands around his thighs and slowly ascended toward his narrow hips. He clutched at my shoulder. Raising myself on my knees, I pleaded with my eyes, for I knew not the words to ask.
“Mathew.”
He swallowed.
My hands discovered the crease between his legs and his stomach on either side of him, then, finally, he grabbed me and lifted me in an all-encompassing kiss.