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Authors: Sweetwood Bride
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reasonable husbandly request.”
He watched her hands flutter nervously at the front fastenings of her bodice, but she made no move to undo them.
“Are … are you going to shag me?” she asked in a wary whisper.
The coarse term from her lips had Moss standing up straight in shock.
“Where’d you hear such a word as that?” he asked her.
“I heard it,” she answered, her chin raised bravely. “I know what it is. I don’t know what else you call it.”
“Well, decent women sure call it something else,” Moss told her. “I don’t want to hear things like that from you.”
His scolding tone actually seemed to please her. But then, Moss figured he shouldn’t be surprised. The woman made no sense at all.
“What do you want me to call it?” she asked him.
Completely at a loss, he had no answer.
“You don’t need to call it anything,” he answered.
“Well, I sure need to call it something.”
“Just … just call it obeying your husband,” he said finally.
She nodded. “Are you going to … have me obey my husband?”
It was truly annoying. The woman didn’t show nearly enough fear to suit him.
“Just take off your dress,” he ordered.
Nervously her hands went to her throat and she clumsily began to undo the fasteners of her bodice.
Moss watched as his throat became dry.
Are you going to shag me?
He could hear her bawdy question again and again in his mind. He no longer knew the answer.
She removed the bodice completely and scooted off the table. Carefully she hung it on the ladderback of the chair, as calmly as if she were unaware that thin material of her josey chemise barely covered her, leaving exposed the length of her arms and the enticing flesh between the curve of her throat and the swell of her breast.
She was thin, he noted, though her arms and shoulders appeared more muscled than emaciated. His new bride obviously worked too hard and ate too little. Beneath the worn thin fabric of her josey, there was more than a hint of a shapely rounded bosom.
“You’ll not regret that you married me,” she was telling him.
He heard the words as if they came from a great distance, the sound nearly drowned out by the pounding of his own pulse.
“Me and my youngers, we’re all hard workers,” she said. “We can fix this place up, care for your uncle, and give your life a bit of ease. A man is bound to marry anyway. You might as well do it where he makes a fine bargain and brings a family together at the same time.”
Moss was hardly listening. He was watching the rise and fall of her not-inconsequential bosom beneath the gauzy covering.
Her fingers went to slip the knot on the ties of her skirt Her movements were practical and no-nonsense. But Moss could see that her hands were shaking. The circle of worn calico dropped to the floor and she stepped out of it Her josey came to just above her knees, and as she bent to retrieve the pile of discarded calico, Moss got an expansive glance at the back of a pair of bare thighs, no evidence of pantaloons within sight.
“Don’t you wear no drawers?” he asked her.
Her hand went protectively to the tail of her chemise. Her face was bright red with embarrassment.
“It’s … it’s a waste of good muslin,” she answered defensively. “If a woman keeps her skirts long and stays out of the wind, why, there’s no purpose for them at all.”
Her adamant declaration hinted at defensiveness.
“The old grandmas never seen fit to wear them,” she said. “And what’s good enough for grandma is good enough for me.”
Moss could hardly argue with that. And at the present moment, the usefulness of such a garment was inconceivable.
“You’ll find that I’m a thrifty wife as well as hardworking,” she assured him. “I won’t be pestering you for pretties or gewgaws or fancy raiment of any kind.”
There was nothing fancy about the raiment in which she was currently clothed. As his bride stood next to the table, he could see that the
He watched her hands flutter nervously at the front fastenings of her bodice, but she made no move to undo them.
“Are … are you going to shag me?” she asked in a wary whisper.
The coarse term from her lips had Moss standing up straight in shock.
“Where’d you hear such a word as that?” he asked her.
“I heard it,” she answered, her chin raised bravely. “I know what it is. I don’t know what else you call it.”
“Well, decent women sure call it something else,” Moss told her. “I don’t want to hear things like that from you.”
His scolding tone actually seemed to please her. But then, Moss figured he shouldn’t be surprised. The woman made no sense at all.
“What do you want me to call it?” she asked him.
Completely at a loss, he had no answer.
“You don’t need to call it anything,” he answered.
“Well, I sure need to call it something.”
“Just … just call it obeying your husband,” he said finally.
She nodded. “Are you going to … have me obey my husband?”
It was truly annoying. The woman didn’t show nearly enough fear to suit him.
“Just take off your dress,” he ordered.
Nervously her hands went to her throat and she clumsily began to undo the fasteners of her bodice.
Moss watched as his throat became dry.
Are you going to shag me?
He could hear her bawdy question again and again in his mind. He no longer knew the answer.
She removed the bodice completely and scooted off the table. Carefully she hung it on the ladderback of the chair, as calmly as if she were unaware that thin material of her josey chemise barely covered her, leaving exposed the length of her arms and the enticing flesh between the curve of her throat and the swell of her breast.
She was thin, he noted, though her arms and shoulders appeared more muscled than emaciated. His new bride obviously worked too hard and ate too little. Beneath the worn thin fabric of her josey, there was more than a hint of a shapely rounded bosom.
“You’ll not regret that you married me,” she was telling him.
He heard the words as if they came from a great distance, the sound nearly drowned out by the pounding of his own pulse.
“Me and my youngers, we’re all hard workers,” she said. “We can fix this place up, care for your uncle, and give your life a bit of ease. A man is bound to marry anyway. You might as well do it where he makes a fine bargain and brings a family together at the same time.”
Moss was hardly listening. He was watching the rise and fall of her not-inconsequential bosom beneath the gauzy covering.
Her fingers went to slip the knot on the ties of her skirt Her movements were practical and no-nonsense. But Moss could see that her hands were shaking. The circle of worn calico dropped to the floor and she stepped out of it Her josey came to just above her knees, and as she bent to retrieve the pile of discarded calico, Moss got an expansive glance at the back of a pair of bare thighs, no evidence of pantaloons within sight.
“Don’t you wear no drawers?” he asked her.
Her hand went protectively to the tail of her chemise. Her face was bright red with embarrassment.
“It’s … it’s a waste of good muslin,” she answered defensively. “If a woman keeps her skirts long and stays out of the wind, why, there’s no purpose for them at all.”
Her adamant declaration hinted at defensiveness.
“The old grandmas never seen fit to wear them,” she said. “And what’s good enough for grandma is good enough for me.”
Moss could hardly argue with that. And at the present moment, the usefulness of such a garment was inconceivable.
“You’ll find that I’m a thrifty wife as well as hardworking,” she assured him. “I won’t be pestering you for pretties or gewgaws or fancy raiment of any kind.”
There was nothing fancy about the raiment in which she was currently clothed. As his bride stood next to the table, he could see that the
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