Well, she wouldn't let him depart for Edinburgh without a kiss. She would forget her pride and melt this terrible coldness between them. She would show him that despite his ill humor she meant to stay.
But she rose too quickly and suffered a bout of illness. By the time she felt able to run down the icy stairs, hastening out into the blustery morning, her husband was already riding away on his big black horse.
He never even looked back.
Alex delayed his return until well into the new year.
The medical lectures had ended the third week of December. Yet he dallied in the city, tending to business concerns and visiting acquaintances. He hated to admit it, but a part of him ached to spend the holidays with Helen, taking care that she ate during the feasting, making certain she stayed inside during the bitterly cold weather. His concern was only for the bairn, he told himself. Toward his wife he felt nothing but resentment.
And lust.
He lay awake at night in the rooming house and thought about her. He thought about the silkiness of her hair against his skin. The snug velvet glove of her body enclosing him. The soft joyful cry she made when she climaxed. He wanted her with shameful ferocity.
He was a bloody coward, he knew, for lingering in the city. A blasted fool for fearing the effect his wife had on him. Despite all his reasons to despise Helen, he found himself looking forward to her letters. He had expected a few terse lines of complaint, but instead she wrote pages describing the minor illnesses that Flora treated in his absence, recounting amusing incidents in the village, and making light of her own infirmity.
The more Helen breezed over the state of her own health, the more he wondered if her condition had worsened. He imagined her lying in bed, frail and wan. One morning in early February, he read in a medical journal the case history of a pregnant woman who had died from an inability to eat. That very same day he received an unusually brief letter from Helen. If a few sketchy notes was all she could manage, she must be on a decline.
Heedless of the ice and snow, he rode hard for home, arriving late in the afternoon, the winter sun a dying spark beyond the ashen hills. The house shone like a beacon in the gathering dusk. The ground-floor windows glowed bright yellow except for the drawing room, where something covered the glass, a faint luminescence shining from within.
Flora would never light so many candles. Something must be wrong.
In the stable, Jamie didn't come running to take his mount. Cursing in the darkness, Alex led the horse into an empty stall, gave him a quick rubdown and a handful of oats. Then he dashed toward the house.
The kitchen was deserted, too. An enticing aroma eddied from a bubbling pot over the fireplace. A bowl of half-peeled apples sat on the long wooden table, as if Flora had been called away from her baking.
Something must be terribly wrong.
He saw visions of Helen wasting away to nothing. Helen gasping her last breaths. He'd been bloody daft to stay away for so many weeks.
Alex stormed down the corridor toward the front of the house. The chatter of voices pulled him to the drawing room. So did an odd, acrid odor.
He skidded to a halt in the doorway.
The furniture had been pushed into the center of the room and draped in dust covers. Holding a bucket, Cox balanced on a ladder and daubed the wall with a brush. Wielding another brush, Jamie crouched at the baseboard while Flora directed him. Half the walls bore the familiar dull brown; the rest shone a sunny yellow. Nearby, Miss Gilbert and Helen conferred over swatches of fabric, their heads bent together, one gray, the other golden.
The wee mongrel raced toward him, tail wagging, claws clicking on the wood floor. But Alex had eyes only for his wife.
She looked up and saw him. Her lips parted first in surprise and then formed a smile that turned his insides to mush. She bloomed with health, her cheeks glowing pink and her eyes bright. Her sky-blue gown showed the slight mound of her pregnancy.
She dropped the swatches and hastened toward him. "Alex! You should have sent word you were coming home."
A slow burn crept over him. He felt like a daft auld woman for worrying. "You were ill when I left," he ground out. "And you dinna say much in your last letter."
She stopped a few paces away. "I was too busy to write more. But I'm perfectly fine now. In fact, I've been eating rather too well." Laughing, she caressed her belly. "Soon you'll be thinking you wed a cow."
Nothing could be further from the truth. She embodied a fantasy with her lush breasts and fertile curves, the delicate beauty of her face framed by spun-gold hair. He wanted to carry her straight up to bed and slake his need. Even worse, he wanted to cuddle with her all the long, cold night.
The others crowded around him. "Is not our lady looking bonny?" Flora said, her hands clasped to her gaunt chest.
Jamie said, "On Hogmanay, I fetched the cream from the well for her."
"She hasn't been ill a moment since," Miss Gilbert added.
Alex knew the old custom. The cream was the first water drawn at midnight on the New Year. Drinking it brought great luck to a person.
"It's amazing," Helen said, beaming at the others,, who clearly adored her. "I cannot thank you all enough."
"Dinna be daft," Alex said. "You passed the first three months, that's all. 'Tis nature you should thank, not superstition."
She wrinkled her nose. "Whatever the reason, I feel wonderful after that beastly sickness." She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. "Come, Alex. I want to hear all that you've been doing."
The last thing he needed was to be alone with his wife. Her radiance drew him like a lodestone. He ached to laugh with her, to share in her natural joy, to let down his defenses. But then she would plunder the most vulnerable part of himself when she left.
She pulled him through another doorway. The morning room too had been renovated. The walls were painted a soft moss green to complement the new striped chairs and rosewood tables. Green and gold draperies framed the tall windows. The cozy aura invited him to sit down and stretch out his cold feet to the crackling fire.
He remained standing. "I dinna give you permission to refurbish my house."
"Our house," she said. "And you weren't here to voice an objection." With the loving care of a wife, she removed his wool scarf.
Her floral scent, the brush of her breasts, nearly drove Alex mad. He stomped away from her and jerked open the buttons of his overcoat. Knowing he sounded petulant, he said, "I liked the house the way it was."
"With chipped paint and nary a stick of furniture?" She smiled slyly. "Dinna be daft, Alex."
"Dinna mock me." He threw down his coat. "Once you leave here, I'll be stuck with your changes."
"Then I'll take the new furniture and draperies with me when I depart. Not that I ever intend to-oh!l" Her hand flew to her abdomen.
Alarm sent him striding to her. "Are you in pain? Lie down and I'll have a look at you."
"I'm fine." A serene softness curved her mouth. She took hold of his hand and spread it over the gentle rise of her belly. "I felt our baby move."
He stood transfixed by her warmth, his hand splayed over her thickened middle. Her closeness bathed him in a sweet rush of wanting, a desire that plumbed deeper than mere lust. He told himself to draw back, to declare she was mistaken.
Then he detected the faintest fluttering against his palm.
The breath snagged in his lungs, and a tremendous awe shook him. In his role of physician, he had often felt the fetus kick inside the mother's womb. But those bairns had not been his own.
Our baby.
Helen's small hand covered his. Their gazes met, and he was aware of a bond between them, a bond more compelling than vows spoken in kirk. The tenderness in her clear blue eyes lured him with rich promise. He wanted to give himself into her warmth, to tumble headlong into the wonder of her love.