Ashton's Bride

  At last they were alone.

  Ashton closed the door softly, the sounds of the party downstairs still audible through the thick wood and walls, muffled slightly by the plump carpets.

  He glanced over at his wife, who was leaning heavily against the mahogany wardrobe, her eyes closed in exhaustion. Her face was drawn and pale, her shoulders rounded, slumped forward, and without the furniture for support, Ashton knew she would simply tumble over.

  "Margaret, why don't you lie down? You must be fatigued—I noticed you didn't sit down once during the party."

  For a moment he thought she had fallen asleep standing up, a trick he thought only soldiers could manage. But the corners of her mouth curved slightly.

  "I couldn't sit down." She smiled, her eyes still closed.

  "Why ever not?" He began to unbelt the saber and pistol, still watching his wife. He wanted to memorize her, every angle of her face, the errant strand of hair that twisted in a silky spiral against her slender neck.

  "The hoops." She sighed.

  "Excuse me?" He laid the cumbersome belt on a table, coiled and menacing, and untied the yellow sash underneath.

  Suddenly her eyes opened, and he was startled by the vibrant color, almost lilac, the sparkle in the depths.

  "The hoops. I can't get the hang of these things. I was afraid I would sit down and knock myself out with the flying hem."

  The sound of raucous laughter below punctuated her comment, and they both smiled.

  "The parson finds you amusing," Ashton concluded.

  "Why is he still here? I thought he had a funeral to conduct." She reached behind her, fumbling with the tiny buttons and hooks that ran down her back. Ashton walked silently to her, turning her back to him with his strong hands, and began to unbutton the gown. Her head leaned forward, the soft hair swirled at the nape of her neck, and he stared, longing to kiss her there, but not sure if it would alarm her. How much did she know of wedding nights? Her mother and older sister had probably not told her about it before they died, and it was unlikely she had discussed such an intimate subject with another woman. But she did not seem frightened or even apprehensive.

  "Ash?" Her hand reached behind her, and she placed her fingers on his forearm.

  "Yes." What would she ask? For separate sleeping quarters? For him to leave her alone?

  "Had the parson been drinking?" She turned to face him, a playful smirk wavering on her lips.

  "As a matter of fact, he had indeed been drinking," he answered, his hand smoothing up the gentle curves of her arm. "Uh, Ethan was able to procure some whiskey. The parson had a few shots and told me in confidence that the funeral could wait. He hadn't performed an enjoyable ceremony in so long that he fully intended to have a good time."

  As he spoke she had stopped smiling, her fingers unfastening his own buttons, her eyes transfixed on his face. Even in the dim flickering of the oil lamp, his features were extraordinary, almost harsh because of his leanness, but composed of such even planes and angles that it took her breath away.

  With unsteady hands she pulled the jacket over his shoulders, and he wordlessly rolled the heavily muscled arms forward to assist her, his eyes searing into hers. She ran her hands along his chest and unfastened the white shirt, becoming increasingly clumsy with each button.

  His hand clamped over hers, and she blinked. "Margaret, my love. Do you know what is going to happen tonight?"

  Her gaze was one of befuddled stupor, and he continued. "When a man and a woman are, well, married, they do something, something very beautiful . . ."

  But her giggle cut him off. How could she explain that she had understood the 'married' thing since elementary school sex education, and that although she had never been married, she had experienced her first wedding night in her freshman year of college?

  With supreme control, she managed to assume a more sober expression. "I know, Ash. I understand all about the birds and the bees."

  He cleared his throat, momentarily averting his eyes, staring with false interest at a chair in the corner. "It's very different with people. You see, it's more comparable to other warm-blooded beasts. For example, your barnyard animals, such as the bull and the cow, or the pig and the sow, or the ..."

  "Moose."

  "Pardon me?"

  "I saw a moose once. I believe it was his wedding night, too. So it's all very clear to me." With that she slipped the cotton shirt over his shoulders and let out an involuntary gasp.

  Never had she seen a more glorious body— beautifully shaped muscles sculpted over the lean form. There were small scars on the bronzed skin, but those imperfections, evidence of the rugged life he had led thus far, simply made him even more appealing. Tentatively, she touched his chest, the smooth skin under the brittle amber hairs, and his iron grip clasped her wrist.

  "My dear." His voice was husky and low. "I am not a moose. I fear you will be"—he swallowed heavily— "disturbed and perhaps offended by the, eh, natural course of. . ."

  But her unbridled gaze silenced him, and before he could form another word, she reached up, raking her hands through his hair, and forced her lips on his.

  "Margaret, I..." but his voice trailed off as her hands slithered down his back, kneading the tightly sprung muscles.

  With a force that left them both stunned, she pushed him backwards, toward the large four-poster bed in the center of the room. His arms banded around her satin-wrapped waist, lifting her up as their kiss vanquished all reason from their fevered minds.

  His mouth clamped on hers, her head tilted back, held firm by his powerful forearm. She leaned into him, senseless now, only aware of the pounding need that had turned her knees to liquid, of the tantalizing sensation of his chest hairs pressed into the bare skin above her breasts.

  Her shoes dropped off her feet; her toes, still covered in white silk stockings, curled as he hoisted her effortlessly in his arms, rocking backwards and onto the expansive bed.

  At once her hoops flipped up, like a rubber dinghy suddenly inflated, with a will of its own. The skirt sprang up so quickly, Ashton—his attention focused so completely on Margaret—was struck between the eyes with a ruffled ring of steel.

  Startled and breathless, they simply stared at each other in shock for a few moments. Margaret reached up and gently rubbed his forehead, and they both began to laugh, a skittish, self-conscious chuckle.

  Wordlessly, Ashton reached behind Margaret and completed the task of unfastening her gown. He carefully laid it on the bed beside them, his eyes never leaving her flushed face. He then tugged on the corset ties, and with a sigh of relief, Margaret was finally free of the confining whalebone stays.

  The hoops slid unceremoniously to the floor, followed in quick order by three petticoats, and Margaret was at last clad in nothing but the light chemise, lacy drawers, and the delicate white stockings.

  He watched in astonishment as she untied the ribbon at the collar of the chemise and shrugged the slender white shoulders, the blousey fabric tumbling airily to the floor, on top of the shoes.

  With a sharp intake of breath, he allowed himself the languorous pleasure of simply gazing at his wife, the flawless breasts, rounded and full, quivering with each of her own rapid breaths. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out his roughened hand and cupped one of her breasts, his thumb stroking the nipple, his palm savoring the feel of her heart beating madly in an answering frenzy.

  "Margaret," he groaned, pulling her toward him. But she was unable to reply, an astonishing surge of desire welling within her abdomen, reverberating throughout her entire body.

  Somehow his trousers were hastily pulled away, her drawers and stockings joined the ever-growing pile of flimsy white fabric on the carpet by the bed. The oil lamp illuminated their bodies, slick with wanton perspiration, their skin glistening under frantic hands and lips. They couldn't seem to move fast enough; there weren't enough hands to delight in each other's feel, the salty taste of skin.

  Margaret felt his need, urge
nt and molten as her own, and guided him to her.

  He tried to speak, but again she stilled his voice with her fiery lips, his fingers running lingeringly along the nape of her neck.

  "Please," she murmured, her voice cracked and compelled by the most primitive of wants.

  Tenderly, he eased into her, braced by her clinging arms, and then he thrust forward. Margaret gasped at the pain, mingled with an absurd desire to laugh. She was perhaps the only woman in history to endure the indignity of losing her virginity twice.

  "Margaret, forgive me . . ." he whispered, now moving with her in exquisite rhythm. Then, with shattering beauty, they exploded together, holding on to each other as one, the indescribably magnificent joining of a man and a woman.

  They were both incapable of speech, completely absorbed in the astounding sensation of simply being together, a closeness neither one had ever imagined possible.

  They lay together for a long time, an eternity of shared moments that truly united them as one being. Margaret's hair lay across them like a wild tangle of seaweed, and Ashton closed his eyes, rolling a silken strand of her hair between his thumb and index finger.

  Her shoulders began to shake gently at first, and Ashton tilted her face toward him.

  "Are you well?" he asked gently, then realized she was giggling. His own mouth bent into a grin before he asked, "What, my dear one, is so funny?"

  "Perhaps next time, Ash," she whispered, "you could remove your boots."

  And downstairs, Mrs. Thaw and Aunt Eppes, clearing away the last of the wedding dainties, exchanged perplexed shrugs at the unmistakable sound of the general's laughter.

  Margaret awoke with a slow stretch, her arm lumbering over the sleeping form of her husband. He was solid and warm, his arm clamped around her.

  The fluttering eyes of slumber played over his closed lids, and she marveled at the beauty of the man asleep. A lock of sun-brightened hair fell lopsidedly over his eyes, and she brushed it aside, breathlessly, tenderly.

  A painful knot welled in her throat. He was her husband. This was her fate. She ran a delicate finger along his mouth, so well-formed, so beautifully cut. Part of her wanted to cry—was such beauty possible? Was such happiness allowed? He swallowed in his sleep, a deep, comfortable motion, absolute ease.

  She slid out of the bed, momentarily bereft of his comforting warmth. The carpet was cold, heartless, and she walked, wrapped in a fragment of her gown, to the window.

  It was a brilliant day, the sun striking bold patterns of yellow and scarlet on the fading green of the lawn. On the table beside the window was his saber and pistol, the heavy leather belt twisted like a drowsy snake.

  The sword seemed a relic of another era, glinting in a sinister sneer of defiance, smiling in reptilian triumph. So forbidding, so foreign.

  But it was the pistol that fascinated her. She had never seen one before, a cavalry revolver, an actual weapon. It was enormous and oddly weighted, top-heavy and awkward, like a musket that belonged to the Pilgrims. She was not able to hold it upright; it had to weigh at least fifteen pounds, all shiny wood and brass, all flash and power.

  "Hold the weight in your elbows." Ashton's leisurely drawl slid over her, goose flesh forming on her skin. She faced him, her eyes questioning, and he moved in a liquid vault toward her, powerful yet utterly unthreatening.

  "Lean it back there," he whispered when he reached her side, naked yet unself-conscious. "It's too heavy to hold with just your wrist."

  "How on earth can you shoot this thing?" she wondered.

  "There is usually some form of inspiration, such as a charging brigade of Union soldiers, all pointing a similar weapon."

  "I think I'd just throw it," she concluded, and he gently pried the pistol from her hand and returned it to the table.

  "It's terrible but beautiful," she whispered, unable to ignore the weapon. "This isn't at all what I thought it would be like."

  "What isn't?"

  "This war." Margaret said nothing else, but could not pull her mind away from her thoughts. From the safe distance of one hundred and thirty years, this war had seemed a glorious event, filled with enough triumphs and tragedies to fill thousands of books. The people who had actually lived through the war, the witnesses, were all long gone, and their memories and recollections had proceeded them to oblivion, muffled by decades of retelling and exaggeration.

  The reality was a petty brutality that made everyday life miserable. There was constant hunger, far more potent than fear or any noble ideals. Worn shoes were uncomfortable, but most of the Confederate soldiers she had seen were barefoot.

  She had yet to see a battlefield, still everything around her reeked of war, a peculiar stench that seemed to cling to people no matter how often they washed. Unlike the black-and-white photographs of Brady and Gardner, images of frozen formality, there was color to the Civil War, but it was muted shades of earth and mud, vivid spots of scarlet on filthy bandages and seeping through clothing.

  "None of us really understood what it would be like, not at the beginning." Ashton's voice startled her. His potent gaze shot to hers, a weariness there she had not seen before. "You know, Margaret, I wasn't one of those gadflys who thought this would be over in a month. I thought I was a realist, flattered myself that I knew we were in for a long haul. But I never imagined this. Never in my darkest nightmares."

  Downstairs they could hear the sounds of a household awakening, the clatter of pots, drawers being opened and closed, someone talking in the yard. Margaret and Ashton remained silent, and his arm tightened around her shoulders, and he leaned his cheek against her hair.

  While the rest of the house was waking up, Ashton and his bride softly, but urgently, returned to bed.

  CHAPTER 11

  Nothing could delay Ashton's return to his command. Margaret watched as he prepared to leave, brushing invisible dust from his now-pristine uniform, folding the extra cotton shirts with his scent still lingering and placing them into the saddlebags.

  There wasn't much for her to do. The scouts had cleaned and oiled his sawed-off rifle, the weapon of choice for the cavalry, and cared for his pistol and sword. The hilt of the saber was visible from its sheath, hardly used now in favor of the more deadly guns.

  Her balled fists were tucked under the generous folds of a simple light burgundy gown with a small collar piped in black silk. There was a question she longed to ask, she needed to know the answer to, before she could watch him leave.

  "Ashton," she said softly, and he stopped at once, his hand pausing as he buckled the leather bag. "I need to know something."

  His face dissolved into a brilliant smile. "Are you going to ask me what my favorite dinner is again?"

  "No. This is serious, Ash. I need to know what you think of slavery. I am absolutely serious." Her hand patted a strand of hair beside her ear, but her gaze never wavered.

  "Margaret," he began. "You know how I feel. The truth is that I am against slavery, and I always have been."

  "Then why are you fighting?" She was unable to give into the relief that had washed over her at his answer, not yet. She needed to know why he was so willing to risk his life for a cause he was partially against. Somehow, she knew this was the very key to her husband.

  "Why, I'm fighting for states' rights, of course." His voice was full of disbelief, as if explaining a very basic and simple truth to a dull child. "States' rights?" she repeated mechanically. "I believe, Margaret, that Mr. Lincoln is riding dangerously close to a complete dictatorship. Now isn't that what our own grandfathers fought against? Why, Lincoln is no better than King George if he ... Margaret, what's wrong?" "Do you really despise slavery?" He stiffened, "I always have. It is the most evil injustice on the earth. No man can own another." "What about Aunt Hattie?" "Aunt Hattie has been free for over thirty years. My father released her when his own father died, and she is paid just as any other servant, although she is far more important than any employee, and she has stayed on even when Mother is only abl
e to pay her partial wages."

  Margaret closed her eyes for a moment, her trembling hand rising softly to her mouth as Ashton continued packing. He was against slavery, she repeated over and over again in her mind. Although she disagreed with his notions of states' rights, she now knew she had married a man who viewed slavery as the vile institution it was. Aunt Hattie was not a possession.

  At last she opened her eyes, able now to concentrate on her husband, on the man she loved. She watched his every movement, etching his brisk motions in her memory, in case this would be the last time they would have together.

  There was a timeless feeling to the scene, a wife watching her warrior husband prepare for the brutal uncertainty of war. This had been happening for centuries and would be repeated in the centuries to come, yet still there was a dreamlike quality to the occasion. The simple motions were so mundane, but the implications were staggering. Countless others had left just the same way, packing the clothes, making sure everything fit into the bag. And countless others had never returned.