16. A Letter of Note

16

A LETTER OF NOTE

Despite being alert and active most of the prior night, Leo woke long before dawn. A life at sea saw to that.

Even without the sun or the birds' songs (in the warmer months) to herald the day's beginnings, he came awake—and aware—in an instant.

Knew full well where he was and who lounged atop him. Slender in places, lush in others, the body that resided, with a delightful heft and presence, against his torso nestled between his thighs, along the spread of his legs.

Nothing would mar him savoring the next hour or so, while he waited for the day to begin, for her to stir.

Nothing.

After their hours of one-sided chattering (all his) that somehow, with Susanna Oliver (Nate Oliver's sister —how the mind still boggled over that) seemed to flow with such joyful relaxation he could scarcely believe it, expectancy brimming through him shouldn't have surprised.

But it did.

Had he become so benumb to joy that to bask in its presence near bewildered?

Excited by the lift to his typically troubled first-awareness thoughts (thanks to war and life), excited more by the presence of the woman snug atop him, Leo welcomed the rising sun with a foreign anticipation infusing his muscles.

Daytime. Which would give them opportunity to converse again, the bedamned lantern run to fumes stalling anything she might say to him. Stalling her words, but not her touches.

Her questing caresses, as she'd explored his face in the dark, the puckered scarring along his neck and sorely mottled the flesh of one ear.

Halt, Tucker. Think you more of her touches and the primed prick you woke with will only pain you further.

No clanker, that.

Soon enough, prodded forth by his impatience, the sun yawned awake. With it, daylight came, edging through the old roof, the split planks high on the walls.

Draggled weakly enough through the grimed-over windows and into the carriage where he'd reached over his head and rolled the leather covering up and away.

Allowed him enough light to skim again their early conversations from last night, the crowded words a hash of ink and pencil. The one he had sharpened thrice or more during the night for her with his ever-present penknife. Her precious hand and the lively chatter that issued from it thrilling him anew at the chance to savor every scribbled syllable again…

Susanna Oliver Mitchell.

Brother. Navy.

Charity Faith Hope

Her nieces, the mischievous ones who managed to wrangle an unexpected spouse for their father, thanks to Susanna's assistance as well.

25 come May

Her age.

Crisp bacon and roasted cabbage

Her favorite meal, which he'd twitted her over.

1815 Christmas Eve Eve

When he'd asked her favorite holiday—and written with a decided twinkle; one he'd returned, it not escaping his notice that she described that very moment, with him.

A shove. Into the table

When he questioned what happened around the tragic birth of her baby.

Sheer will alone—not the poor roads and weather nor the preposterousness of the notion—kept him from seeking out the grave and digging up her wretch of a spouse to carve his remains up as bait.

Now, as his gaze stroked over every word, his thumb caressing a few while his other arm curved about her waist, palm splayed—indecently comfortable, possessive even—over one buttock, he "saw", for the first time, the writing beyond the myriad penciled phrases. The ink alongside.

The letter beneath.

The one also in her hand. The slope and curve of her letters now as familiar to him as his own.

WANTED: For Matrimony

What the devil?

One kind, dependable man. Desirous of children a boon.

Desirous of me? A prerequisite! (Dare I say covetous of me? Unwilling to share.)

To share? Leo's body stiffened.

Generous of nature but stingy with his fists.

Muscles strained.

Easy to smile and willing to join in together on chores.

Not obsessed with drink nor cards nor gambling (nor gambling while drinking over cards).

Content to return home each evening alone. Not cause me to lose sleep worrying if his sorry hide will stumble in drunk and angry, or simply stumble in and pitch floorward before sleep overtakes.

FLOORWARD? Is that even a word?

At her self-mockery, her gentle humor, his screaming muscles slowly, ever so slowly, unfurled from the fury clenching them.

Bah. Stupidest list ever!

Nay, it wasn't. 'Twas the most informative list. Mayhap the most important one he had seen since leaving the war efforts—even before. Leo wasn't so nog-headed that he couldn't deduce this described the lass's late husband.

The next page, the second one abounding with her scribbles from last eve was even further packed with ink…

Desired: For Matrimonial Life

One stalwart, kind man, in possession of both manners and teeth,

He had to subdue a laugh over that, grateful when his tongue ran over his, satisfyingly, intact chompers.

seeks a lady to share his life.

What, ho? Speaking of teeth and manners, what manner of letter was this? His brows drew tight in a frown as he roved eyes over the entire page.

Aye. All in her writing. Yet written from the direction a man would pen. A man also seeking a wife.

A silent whistle circled his lips as he allowed his surprised, astonished breath to feather from his lungs. A measured, rolling inhale to calm the uneven beat of his heart and he went back to the top, reading with less haste…

She need not be titled nor fanciful, filled with nonsensical knowledge of fashion or the latest on dits about town. She does need to desire me in return. To wish for a life of love and joy and perhaps hope we might be blessed with a child or two of our own. If God sees fit to provide.

Most importantly, she need be steadfast in both manner and with her smiles.

In return, I shall hold her each night, laugh with her each morning and love her throughout our years.

The description heated the air about his face, for did he not, deep down, also crave that very thing? Steadfastness of character, unlike Farnsworth's chit he'd nearly offered for? But of vastly more importance, the love and laughter? What he missed from his innocent, early years with Ann-Marie more than anything else. Did he not crave that most of all?

What of the desire the lass alludes to? his contrary side wanted to know.

So obvious between us it needs not stated! he argued back.

Very well. Carry on.

The page was littered with abrasive Xs, swirling loops and all manner of cross marks and scratch outs, but a few additional phrases remained legible:

Dear Lady Reckless

Dear Lady Adventure,

How daft can you be, Susanna?

Lady Reckless? Adventure?

Bah. More like Lady Clod-brain.

He pried his fingers from their warm bed atop her flank and used both hands to fold the note along its creases with precision and care. Leo sighed. Then again. A long, thoughtful exhale, as he felt the welcome weight of Lady Reckless Clod-brain settling easily against his chest, his heart.

Steadfast of manner…

In possession of teeth.

Another smile cracked at that.

Desirous of children. Desirous of me .

Hmm. She had given him much to ponder this fresh, new morning.

Seconds ticked silently by. Minutes that flew with the swiftness of a bird soaring overhead. Yet they crawled too… Crawled with the excruciating pace of a spider down the wall (when one was naked—in a hip bath, and the insect not easily within squashing distance).

Leo wasn't bathing.

Nor did arachnids dare well within the duke's carriage.

But the temptation to read more? The acute ache to know more about the cinnamon-sugary bundle still sleeping over him could not be quelled.

Temptation so easily within reach…

Another letter, this one open but not pencilled over nearly as much, with the top portion folded lazily forward, compelled him to risk the uncrinkling of it…

Are you not jumping far beyond propriety, crossing bounds and violating her privacy?

She's wearing my shirt and naught else.

Nay, her feet are covered.

Aye, with my socks!

Not anymore!

Granted, for she now had one trim, bare foot wedged against his calf.

She had also left the stack of open letters right there , on the opposite squab, and by blazes…

He would apologize when she awoke, but nay, he wouldn't—couldn't—stop. Not when the conviction of her penmanship greeted him once more…

Dear Lord Not At All,

I write to you as only a caring, wise and protective older brother could.

My sister is the sweetest, most stubbornly independent woman I know.

She is overly generous, overly giving, sometimes to her detriment. Overlyforgiving too.

But after assisting my three outlandish daughters in securing a most un-sought-for yet perfect marriage and bedmatefor myself, 'tis the least I can do to see her satisfyingly shackled as well.

Hmm. Written as though inked by her brother yet still in her hand as well.

A letter of recommendation? One in the same vein as those imposterous ones she and her nieces had provided that aided in Nate securing his wife?

In exchange for your (nonexistent) title, you shall receive an eager female of child-bearing age who would love nothing more than to take care of you and your home together.

Susanna is faithful, true and sincere in her statements. Unafraid of hard work, but would appreciate it be shared. She will love you to distraction, delight in your company and be most thankful for whatever attention you can spare.

Something hard and hot squeezed his chest.

In exchange, what she wishes, fervently so, from you:

Be true as well.

Come home at night, sober and alone, so she need not be anxious over escaping unwanted attentions, and after, should she not be successful ? —

Good God above. Further proof of what that brute had subjected her to.

…not be successful, spend hours crying into her pillow, vowing to resist with greater fervency the next time.

His hand shook with rage. The words wavered as the page trembled before his eyes.

Imbecile! 'Tis no more than you deserve.

Not what she deserved, though. The horrors her husband had put her through…

Nor does she deserve you abandoning all honor and continuing to read. You ? —

What she deserves is to be cherished the rest of her years!

She would tell you herself, part of him rejoined, if you would but give her time.

Time they had not. For who knew how soon the bridge might be repaired? How soon the stage would charge through again?

The stage? Pfft! You know you have every intention of escorting her yourself.

True.

So be patient.

Patient? I have waited forty years for her, his mind snarled, yelling back, silencing his conscience for the nonce. As several still shaken, decidedly deep breaths steadied his hand and saw the gentle weight upon his chest lift and mayhap hmmm or sigh—felt, not heard—the rage toward her deceased spouse transformed from blind fury into fierce curiosity as Leo steeled himself to continue; to learn what she wished for…

Kisses, and many of them. (Invited ones, that is.)

Hugs too.

A two-room abode would be lovely.

An already sharpened axe for chopping wood come winter.

Pin money would be most appreciated as well.

Remember her birthday.

Remember to celebrate Christmas and retrieve mistletoe every year.

Attend services with her and

And the rest was so scratched over, marked through and inked beyond recognition that not a single letter shown through, much less a sensible word.

Angling the page, he devoured the rest, what she'd written along the bottom, perpendicular to the primary.

Susanna, you foolish spinner of air castles. Nate may have found his "lady" but you are a pitiful loon to expect the same.

No man worth having will ever accept a used bride. Not one more than husband-used, but used, on occasion, by his horrid cronies. A woman who felt relief equal to her sorrow when her sister-in-law sickened, giving her—me—an escape some days.

Though (I hope and pray daily) that our good and gracious God has forgiven me, no man walks this earth who will accept those sins and my other, greatest ? —

Good God, indeed. 'Twas a wonder her smiles and spirited nature had not been crushed beneath the boot of the knave she'd taken to husband.

But she was wrong.

Vastly so. To think no man would accept her, along with her past burdens, the "sins" alluded to—and, in particular, the one that, given the somewhat newness of this particular page (not nearly worn about the edges as the other two), still marred her present.

Troubled her so.

Well, Tucker, your affinity for trouble cannot be denied.

True.

Neither could his desire for the lass.

The one who had no inkling he now knew her secrets. Much of them, anyway. And remained desperate to learn the last: the one unwritten .

So he could purge from her conscience whatever guilt she still harbored. Blow it from her memory with a puff of his breath.

But what of the rest?

Her dream man, mayhap?

His eyes skimmed back over the legible lines. The simple wishes.

Kisses. Shared labor. Hugs. Church services together. The sharpened axe. Mistletoe.

He wanted to chuckle at that. Wanted to curse and cry too. What sort of devilish lout had brought her to yearn for such simple things?

The sort who would toss her to others for coin.

Too damn troublesome to contemplate.

There was not a thing on her list he could not provide. Not a single thing.

She asked naught of conversations, of hearing.

And had their scant hours together not already shown they could communicate far better than he had with any female not family? With any one ?

A long, long, loooooong while later, as he continued to congratulate himself for resisting the lure of reading another, she stirred.

Awake at last?

Relief stormed through him.

Breath held, waiting…

Waiting…

Expelled in utter dismay.

For she turned on her side and cuddled closer, the fingers of one hand slipping past his shirt to curve over one pectoral, her slumberous breaths warming the skin all around.

He shifted to his side as well, his spine to the seat, long legs bent awkwardly as he held her to him, rested his jaw against her head. Tried to keep his eyes closed and return to sleep.

And tried.

And…tried.

And

…

tried.

Sincerely.

Attempted

…

to

sleep.

…

To

be

calm

…

and

still

and

settle

…

his

rampaging

thoughts.

…

To

be

silent

and

honorable

and

…

and

…

But then his restless gaze fell upon it.

Another letter, partially open. The new angle of his head propped upon his arm revealing what had been hidden before.

This one, emblazoned with DO NOT POST across the top.

And temptation proved stronger than patience.

… …

… Olivia, Mama, Papa, Nate, Ellen, Sarah: I confess to you all that my evil thoughts and lack of strength to leave while I still could killed my precious baby and I will suffer that burden, that scar upon my soul forever.

Dear Lord… Dear sweet, innocent Philip, please forgive me for acting the monster and not protecting you as a mother should.

Leo's clenched hand shook anew. Blurred the words before his eyes. Pressure filled his jaw, a tooth may have dared crack, as sorrow burst, hard and heavy, across his heart.

This.

This explained the unshared secrets shading the soft hue in her eyes.

This unposted letter that he had dared to read.