Free The Journal of Lucy Quince by Gem Sivad Page A

became my wife, Lucy. Tonight, I will make you my woman.” I did not know if I wanted to be his woman. The way Ambrose looked at me made me doubt his intent. His eyes were burning with an emotion I didn’t recognize and his usual calm demeanor was interrupted by an excitement that frightened me.
    He would not let me retreat. “Please,” I asked him. “Could we talk for a minute?” Fear made my voice husky.
    In answer, he buried his face between my breasts while at the same time he rolled the straps of my nightgown, down my shoulders. My arms were held captive as he explored my body. I was shocked when his mouth closed over my nipple, even more so when he suckled, using his tongue and teeth to elicit stirrings within my body.
    My womb clenched when he cupped my breast and gently bit the tip, growling around the nub, “You talk. I’ll listen.”
    It was his ability to make me laugh that was my undoing. I had rarely seen Ambrose smile in the days of our friendship. I realize now it had been a one-sided courtship. But I giggled at the decadent brush of his words across my turgid peaks, at the same time he suckled one and then the other, pulling strongly with his mouth. Ambrose hummed with pleasure.
    It amazed me to see him enjoy himself pleasuring me—because it was pure bliss that he gave. He coaxed me away from shyness. “Nothing between a man and wife is wrong, Lucy,” he assured me when I protested the liberties he took with my body.
    I watched him in the mirror, as he tongued and stroked first one peak and then the other. Then, perceiving that I gazed at our image, he held my breasts so that I might better see and, cupping them as if they were precious jewels, he nibbled a trail inward, teasing me with want, before he took my nipple again.
    I cannot write the rest of our wanton actions that make me blush remembering.
     
    July 2, 1866
    I have been a wife, Ambrose’ woman, for a week…the hours of darkness are spent learning new ways to find pleasure in the marriage bed. If all things were thus, life would be wonderful. Alas, daylight on the Double-Q ranch is not so joyful.
    After my night of first passion, Ambrose woke me the next morning for breakfast. I was mortified to learn that he expected me to cook it. I don’t know how.
     
    July 15, 1866
    I write today because I have no one to speak to but you, Dear Diary. Ambrose and Hamilton are gone from the house and I am alone. The men are at a camp in the foot hills, rounding up strays and herding them to the closest water. It has been a dry summer. ~
    There, I’ve practiced speaking like a ranch wife. Ambrose says I need to converse about Texas and how the climate and the customs influence our livelihood. I’d rather think about redecorating the house. It is very plain.
    I went into Eclipse yesterday. I put my side-saddle on one of Ambrose’s horses and rode to town. He was angry that I’d not asked permission. I am not a child.
    He said, “My house, my rules, and you’ll obey.” Ha! Ambrose Quince is very dictatorial. But I have found a way to make him soften his rules.
    Last night he was insatiable, urging me into new carnality. We had argued earlier about my social visit off the ranch, and I’d told him about the household goods at the Mercantile and my intent to use my money at the bank to buy some decent furniture.
    He was upset with me, but I didn’t know why. He left in the wagon and didn’t return until hours later when he presented me with a rosewood vanity that had flowers carved around the lavish mirror. It is a beautiful piece of furniture, as fine as anything I’d seen in Boston, with small panels for hidden treasures tucked away, and a key that locks the middle drawer.
    His gift reminded me of how my father had spoiled me. The thought was vaguely disturbing as I looked at my husband, sprawled naked on the bed, watching me brush my hair. I had arranged it so that I could see his reflection as I performed my bedtime ablutions.
    I lifted one