Loving Against the Grain (Into the West #2)

Chapter 10

 

Noah awoke early the following Sunday to muffled sounds of retching. Having not fallen asleep till the wee hours of the morning, he felt groggy and disoriented. Last night he’d been so afraid he’d wake up from one of his battle nightmares and scare the bejesus out of his new bride that he’d stared up at the beamed ceiling for hours, trying not to listen to the small feminine sounds of a woman preparing for slumber. He had imagined Emmaline shedding each layer of her wedding garb, peeling them off like the most exquisite Salome until she stood in the thinnest, gossamer underclothes he could envision, before lying down upon his freshly made bed with the softest of sighs. And the further rustling of his wife settling beneath the covers only had aroused Noah more, sending him painfully stiff with no relief in sight. Her quiet little “Good night” from behind the curtain he’d erected for her privacy did nothing to alleviate his arousal. How had he ever thought he could live in this close proximity to the woman he desired?

He hadn’t thought; that was the problem. He’d only jumped at the chance to tether Emmaline Townsend to him for as long as he could without thinking of how agonizing seeing and hearing her on a daily basis would be to him, physically and emotionally. Now that the deed was done, Noah faced the consequences of his actions in the form of sleepless nights amidst taunting thoughts of consummating this sham of a marriage. It served him right for thinking he could have it all. Oh, he had it all, alright; he just couldn’t do anything with it!

Sitting up in his cot by the fireplace, Noah scrubbed at his face with both hands before inquiring huskily, “Are you alright?”

Immediately all sounds suspended behind the blanket curtain that designated Emmaline’s private area within the one-room cabin. Ah, perhaps she’d awakened just as muddled as he, forgetting she was no longer alone! Finally a clipped “Yes” returned to him. And a lengthy silence.

Swinging his legs off the cot, Noah stood, stretching and padding over to the stove in hopes of stirring up some still warm ashes before adding kindling from the neat stack he kept by the now dark hearth. The cabin was cool, so he was glad of the long underwear and loose, homespun pants he wore in deference to the woman recently encamped in his humble abode. Reaching first for the silver pocket watch he’d received as a coming-home-from -the-war gift from the McQuade’s, Noah stared at its face in consternation, even shaking it to verify it hadn’t wound down. Nope. It was most definitely half-past five on Sunday morning!

Turning from the cold stove, Noah narrowed bleary eyes on Emmaline’s curtain, and the returning sounds of vomiting emanating from that corner of the cabin.

“Does…that…wake you every morning?” Noah ventured after the noises faded, knowing quite well how prickly Emmaline Townsend—no, Lawson, could be when questioned. Immediately she stepped out from behind the curtain, swathed in a blanket with dark hair hanging down her front, unpinned and uncombed. Another spear of desire shot through Noah at the sight of all those beautiful tresses tumbling around her, along with tiny bare toes peeping out from under the blanket and nightgown he assumed she wore underneath. Could a man die from perpetual arousal? Noah figured that he would find out in this cockamamie arrangement he’d gotten himself into, especially if he regularly saw her in these various stages of undress.

“No,” Emmaline replied dully. “It’s as soon as I start moving around. I don’t know why, and I wish it didn’t. I feel sick as a dog every day. Muriel says it will pass the farther into…this…I go.”

She did look ghastly. All pale of face and dark circles under her eyes. Although, and here Noah heartened briefly, maybe some of these symptoms were directly related to the fact that perhaps Emmaline hadn’t had any better sleep than he, for the same reasons! A man could hope…