Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] by Border Wedding Page B

been trying to imagine himself hugging a post.
    “What must I do?” she asked.
    “Did your mother not tell you?”
    “She said only that I should do whatever you say.”
    To his surprise, a tingling sensation stirred below at the notion of having her wholly at his command. That he could tell her to do anything he liked, that she would have to obey him . . .
    He pondered a future of such total obedience. Then the image of her as she had spoken her first words to him intervened, looming large in his mind’s eye.
    The young woman who had said she had no wish to marry him had not struck him as subservient. That young woman had known her own mind.
    Even so, if they were going to accomplish what they had to accomplish, perhaps he ought to explore the possibilities a little further.
    “Did your mother say aught else?” he asked.
    “Only that no one would watch us because my father would judge the results by the sheets. I do not know how that can be so, but mayhap you do.”
    He did, and he realized that he ought to have expected some such test. True consummation of a man with a maiden usually did provide certain expected results. Moreover, they were both young and healthy, and he was normally virile. They should be able to achieve those results without such hesitation and shuffling about.
    A memory stirred then of a favorite tutor who had introduced him to some of the lesser-known works of Greek and Latin scholars, including Plutarch’s
Conjugal Precepts,
in which the great moralist had written that “when the candles are out, all women are fair.”
    “
Do
you know what my mother meant?” Margaret asked bluntly.
    “Aye, and I’m thinking we’d best get on with it,” he said. “It would be as well to get into bed, perhaps.”
    “Will you unwrap me, then?” she asked.
    Since the kirtle’s bodice laced up the front, he nearly asked if she could not undress herself before it occurred to him that touching her might stimulate him. She was female, after all, and only a bit plain-looking, not hideous.
    He stepped nearer, eyeing the horrible headdress. “Is that thing on your head pinned to it in any way, or does it just lift off?” he asked.
    “There are two pins,” she said. “But I’ll pull them out for you if you like.”
    He nodded, watched her do so, and then lifted the headdress carefully, half-expecting it to catch in her hair. But it came off easily, and he saw that one reason for its mass was the amount of hair wrapped around her head underneath it.
    As she reached to deal with the pins keeping the mass of hair in place, she said, “I’m glad to have it off. That coif is very tight.”
    “Then my first command as your husband is that you must never wear it again,” he said.
    “Pray, sir, do not be silly. I do not have so many that I can simply discard one, especially my best one. It was a dreadful price when my mother had it made, being so elaborate. ’Tis called a nebula and was so dear because of all those turned-up ruffles and the rows and rows of crimping and fluting required for its veil.”
    “I don’t care about the price,” he said, watching in fascination as she went on to remove what seemed to be dozens of pins from her hair. Clearly, it took many, many more to confine the tresses beneath the coif, than to hold the coif itself.
    She stared at him in similar fascination and said, “Do you
never
count cost?”
    He grinned. “Do you imagine yourself becoming a great spendthrift, my lady? I warn you, I can be as tightfisted as any man when the occasion warrants it. Nevertheless, my wife will be dressed as befits her station. If I think you are growing too costly, I will tell you so. Until then, you must tell me what you need and I’ll pay for it. But I do not want to see that headdress again.”
    Although her eyes widened, she said nothing. She still held both hands close to her head, controlling the heavy coils of hair with a seemingly magical pressure of fingers and forearms as she