Jonah's Bride

and how crushed Tessa had been without the hard armor she'd built over the years, the sharp-tongued spinster who could handle any insult or any situation.

He saw for the first time what a grave mistake he'd made, assuming she had a heart as lost to love as his, lost from too much pain and too many dark nights without comfort or hope or dreams.

He bowed his head and began reading, the meter and imagery of the poem rolling off his tongue, but never touching his heart.

'You mean so much to him.' Tessa felt the candlelight glint in her eyes, saw how it softened the hard chiseled angles of Jonah's jaw and the strong blade of his nose.

His well-shaped hands cradled the open book, as if he treasured the words there. 'I'm his eldest son. Such high expectations he set for me.'

' 'Tis why he's so proud, no doubt.'

'Proud?' Jonah shook his head in disbelief and closed the volume. 'He sleeps now.'

'Aye, he fought the sleeping powder I made him. He has been sleeping, but not well. As I said, 'tis best for him that you're here. He seems brighter, more determined.'

'If this is truly his time, there's naught either of us can do to stop it.'

'Aye, I've seen it often enough.' Tessa stood and reached to the low shelf over the bed. Her fingers grasped three fresh candles. 'Some who seem strong enough to fight die, whilst others who are more ill survive. Sometimes I think it has to do with the will to stay with loved ones. I've not given up hope on your father.'

'Truly?' How deep his eyes, filled with an abiding affection.

'Truly. He has you.' And so do I. She held those words back, although they lived deep inside, in a place that had not known love in too long.

'You place too much importance on me.'

'On strong, heroic Major Hunter?' She now believed him to be.

'Trust me, I'm not so heroic.' He bowed his head.

Tessa lit a new taper with the stub of a dying one. ' 'Tis all your father talked about, how you received this commission or that, another promotion, or won a greater victory. You made him proud, Jonah. Everyone in this village knows it.'

He said nothing, but sat in silence as the candlelight brushed at his shoulders and the edges of his face, as the clock ticked and wood smoke puffed into the room with a gust of wind. 'I'm but an ordinary man, Tessa. With ordinary flaws and failures.'

'I never said you weren't flawed.' She set the last lit candle into its holder.

'So I have you to remind me, lest I get too big of a head from listening to such high praise.' It hurt to smile, it hurt to feel.

And yet she touched his heart in ways he could not explain. How she moved, the way she smiled, the steady quiet strength of her. She did not seem afraid of death, not afraid to touch it, to breathe it, to feel its cold shadows creeping from the corners of the room toward the light.

'Let me guess. You didn't like the army.' She knelt at his side, bringing with her the sweet scent of roses and the herbs she'd last steeped for Father's tea. Her hands, not silken and soft as many of those silly young women's in the village, were slightly rough and reddened, but were beautiful just the same. And the touch of her heated skin to his moved him like nothing else.

'Nay. I was just a small boy fed on my father's tales of his time in the army, and I loved him.'

'You wanted to be just like him.'

'Aye.' He didn't like how Tessa's sharp gaze could look inside and see his thoughts, his truths. 'I left home a man determined to do my father proud and protect this land from marauding Indians and the French.'

'I can't believe there is much pride in war.'

'Why do you say that? Others think-'

'I have seen far too much dying. I can't think 'twould be easy to inflict such suffering, to become a killer.'

'You see into my soul, then.'

Her eyes shadowed. 'Nay, just into your eyes.'

Relieved, he was glad she could not see the darkness there, for every life he had taken in battle and for every life he saved. He'd not expected brutality, and the burden of it still weighed on his shoulders. 'He was an Indian brave, no older than I.'

'Who was?'

'The first man I killed.' He did not want to tell her this, did not want her to see the flaws so deep. 'My first battle.'

'You remember?' How dark her eyes, full of sympathy, of unspoken questions. But not judgment. Nay, that would come in time.

'I've never forgotten.' His throat closed tight on the truths he kept silent for ten long years. 'He was like me, fighting for what he believed in. I had the luck to dodge his arrow meant for my heart. 'Twas naught but luck. I slashed and killed him in one swift act. I will never forget his face, never forget what I saw there.'

'What?'

His chest squeezed when her fingers curled around his. 'That he was like me and no different. He probably had a father who loved him, and younger brothers at home who would miss him. His life was gone, spent on the muddy field that day. That is battle. I've not been the same since or held the same beliefs over what is right and what is wrong.'

'You're not so bad of a man as you think.' Her mouth brushed his, gentle and comforting, like sunlight after winter, bright and earnest and full of hope.

Hope. If Tessa could see the good in him, mayhap there was some after all.

* * *

His throat scratchy from reading aloud for hours without stop, Jonah reached for a glass of water. Father slept, breathing unevenly, a rattle clearly audible with each exhaled breath.

The water was cool, for he was on the far side of the bed and the fire didn't warm this side of the room, the north side where a night wind chilled the wall and window.

'Tessa?'

She didn't stir. She sat straight up in the wooden chair, her back resting heavily on the wooden spires. Her chin tilted forward, and her rich mane of dark curls hid her face from his sight.

So, she slept. The clock chimed the hour-three in the morning. He remembered the long nights without relief caring for Father, and then their wedding night when he'd loved her thoroughly and late, and there had been little sleep. How tired she must be, and his heart cinched tight.

Father slept, and he could always awaken her if the old man worsened. Jonah set aside the volume of poetry and circled the bed.

How still she looked in sleep. 'Twas an intimate thing, to watch her like this. Her body relaxed, her hands curled loosely in her lap, her breathing light and steady. How soft her face was in this light, surely not the face of a spinster his age, feared by the entire village.

Indeed, today on the docks, many a man had wished him luck with such a bride, mayhap believing he'd been forced to marry for having a little bit of sport, as men were wont to do.

And he had done his best to straighten out that misconception. He didn't want anyone to think ill of this woman he had taken to wife. She had a courage and a strength he'd never dreamed of having, the patient honor it took to care for the dying and the living. She in her own way had probably saved more lives and made a better mark on the world.

There were many kinds of heroism, many different brands of courage.

He lifted her gently, gathering her slight weight into his arms. Her head nestled beneath his chin, her sweet woman's body settled against his chest. He carried her to bed, slipped off her shoes and dress, and tucked the quilt up to her chin.

She did not move, not even to nestle into the pillows. She slept as still as an angel and to him looked twice as beautiful.