Free Rachel's Choice by Judith French

do that?”
    â€œI …” He felt awkward talking about something so intimate, but a sense of wonder and his innate curiosity overcame his reluctance. “I didn’t know they were that strong … before they were born, I mean.”
    â€œYou should be on this side. Sometimes I think I’m carrying a mule instead of a baby.” Her features softened. “Want to feel it again?”
    â€œCould I? It wouldn’t hurt it? Or you?”
    Her eyes brightened with amusement. “No, it wouldn’t hurt me or the babe.”
    Chance held out his hand tentatively, and she took it in hers and laid it high up on her apron under her full breasts. For a moment he didn’t feel anything, and then there was a definite movement, followed by three strong thrusts.
    Chance swallowed, dropped his hand, and moved away. “It’s a wonder you get any sleep nights with that going on,” he observed. He’d never taken much notice of pregnant women before, and he had to admit that he’d gone out of his way to avoid contact with that part of a woman’s world. But he didn’t think of Rachel as fat or cumbersome as he had those other females.
    Instead, oddly enough, Rachel’s advanced condition made him feel protective and something more … something that was uncomfortable to admit to himself.
    She was almost a mother, and she was another man’s wife. Only a cad of the worst sort would imagine … Chance turned away, afraid that the growing tension in his loins might show.
    Think of the baby inside her, he told himself.
    He took a deep breath and then another. Yes, he had to think of Rachel’s delicate condition, not her full, ripe breasts or the delicious feminine glow about her.
    Having the baby pushing against him seemed a miracle of sorts. For the first time he thought of the child to come not as part of Rachel but as his or her own person. And he hoped mightily that he was wrong, that Rachel’s man wasn’t dead or a runaway, and this little one would have a papa coming home from the war. He wanted Rachel and the baby to have a strong man to put food on the table and to cut firewood to keep the house warm in winter. He didn’t want to think of Rachel Irons as a widow or her infant as an orphan. Neither of them deserved that. They should be cherished and cared for.
    He looked back at her, hoping that she had missed what could have been an awkward moment between them.
    Rachel’s cheeks flushed crimson. “You’d … you’d best see to your bath,” she said stiffly, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll salvage what I can here and start the sausage cooking.”
    â€œIf you’re sure that you’re all right?”
    She nodded. “It was a stupid thing to do. Burning the biscuits, I mean,” she said in a rush. “I’m fine. My handsare tough,” she assured him as she gathered the fallen biscuits off the floor. The broken pieces went into a pail; the best of the bread she brushed off and put on a plate on the table.
    He picked up the bucket of milk. “Where do you want this?”
    â€œSet it in the sink. I have to strain it through a cheesecloth before … before I put it down the well to keep it from souring.” Rachel had gathered a mantle of dignity around herself and was suddenly his jailer-employer again.
    â€œWe wouldn’t want the dogs to get the milk after all the work I had to—”
    Rachel’s eyes widened. “They’d never touch the milk. What kind of dogs do you have in Virginia that you can’t trust them to stay away from—”
    â€œIll-trained ones, I suppose.”
    She folded her arms. “Go on with you,” she said. “And don’t forget to shave. I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what’s hiding under that thicket on your chin.”
    â€œAre you insulting my beard?”
    â€œYou