Comfort and Joy by Sandra Madden Page B

cheeks.
    “‘Tis a nightshirt,” she replied with great dignity.
    “A man’s nightshirt?”
    “Aye.” Embarrassed to be caught in men’s clothing and blushing to boot, she shifted her weight uneasily.
    “How interesting.” Charles cocked his head, slowly perusing the length of her once again. The corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. “Do women wear men’s nightshirts as a rule or is it a custom from your mother country?”
    She briefly thought about claiming her garb as a cultural phenomenon but decided on the truth. “Sure’n I do not be knowin’ about other women, but a man’s nightshirt is most comfortable.”
    “And colorful.” Charles gave a twist of his lips that might have passed for a grin. A glint of amusement sparked in his eyes.
    “ ‘Tis me brother Shea’s shirt,” she explained.
    “Aaah.” He sank to the tufted velvet sofa obviously satisfied with her explanation.
    With trembling hands, Maeve lit the group of candles set on the marble-topped table between them.
    He looked so fine. Her stranger husband filled a room with a subtle male magnetism that ignited a heat in Maeve from the tips of her toes to her hammering heart. The moment she came upon him more than a week ago, she’d found his dark, brooding features intriguing. She thought him handsome in a rough-hewn way. And she knew that beneath his elegant suit, white linen shirt, and striking silk vest lay the body of a lusty man. Maeve knew Charles intimately. Craved him desperately.
    She had spent their wedding night in wondrous exploration, delighted to discover Charles’s well-honed, muscular form. On that night of all nights, her bridegroom’s tender touch ignited a firestorm of passion Maeve never guessed she possessed.
    Now, as the silence between them deepened, the memory of the sensuality simmering just beneath Charles’s placid exterior sent wave upon wave of tingling warmth shooting down Maeve’s spine. Fearing her wobbly knees might not hold her another moment longer, she sank to the chair opposite him. Marveling.
    Even as he contemplated the crease in his trousers, Charles exuded a powerful, masculine presence. His deep pine woods scent filled Maeve’s senses, leaving her as woozy as an Irish boxer who’d taken too many blows to the head.
    She had slept beside this man, nestled against his warmth. And despite his cool indifference, Maeve yearned to do so again. Aye, even though he wasn’t an Irishman, Charles Rycroft was a grand specimen of a man. If only he didn’t hold his thoughts and feelings so close.
    He raised his eyes to rest on the tray of untouched food gone cold.
    “Have you eaten anything tonight?” he asked.
    “I’ve not been hungry. Besides, I do not need any more food settlin’ on my hips.”
    With a twitch of his lips, Charles quickly lowered his head again.
    Why had she said such a thing? She knew better. A lady did not discuss such concerns with a man. But she was still learning to be a lady. With an agitated intake of breath, Maeve pulled her clasped hands against her roiling stomach.
    Charles lifted his head again. He gave Maeve a crooked smile as he met her gaze. “I hadn’t noticed anything amiss with your hips, Maeve.”
    “You’re a fine gentleman to be sayin’ so.”
    He tipped his head as if her compliment was debatable and swiftly moved onto another subject. “How did your fittings go today?”
    “Sure’n more dresses and coats and gowns will be delivered to this house soon than a body can ever find time to wear.”
    “A woman can never have too many gowns.”
    Maeve did not agree, but she did not disagree, for once managing to keep her thoughts to herself and any argument at bay. In the ensuing silence, she gazed down at her hands, familiar, working hands. Hands almost as red and rough as her nightshirt. She clasped them together tightly, having no pockets; no place to hide them.
    Charles seemed to be having difficulty making conversation and Maeve had little heart