Free Lessie: Bride of Utah (American Mail-Order Bride 45) by Kristin Holt

question, Mrs. Cannon?” His voice sounded rough and yet tender at the same time.
    Did his wordless response answer her question?
    He’d kissed her as if she were his much-desired bride. As if they’d courted for months or even years and he’d proposed marriage out of love or at minimum, affection.
    He’d responded like a groom was supposed to kiss his bride on their wedding night, a kiss that whispered promises and echoed the vows spoken as if they were true.
    Somehow, she knew kisses couldn’t lie. At least not Richard’s. And his tone of voice when asking if he’d adequately answered her question said it all.
    But she must’ve taken too long to respond because he kissed her again. Twice in rapid succession, then lingered.
    Oh, lingering… so sweet.
    Tears stung her eyes as if she couldn’t quite grasp it all. She’d never expected this from a marriage of convenience. And certainly never from day one.
    “You want a wife.”
    A low growl sounded in his throat as he secured her in his arms, somehow backing her up until she bumped the vanity containing the modern washbasin with hot and cold water on tap. And a drain that miraculously found its way outside.
    He took advantage of the furniture at her back, pressing himself indecently close… except this man was her husband, and therefore all of the rules changed.
    He shook his head, denying her statement: you want a wife. “I want you , wife.”
     

     
    Somewhere between that stunning first brush of lips and now, Richard’s blood had ignited.
    This petite, too-slender woman, his wife , willing in his arms— gave him a rush of adrenaline that made it hard to remember he needed to slow down.
    She was so young, likely innocent. At least he hoped she was untouched. The primal part of him wanted to growl, howl, mark her with his scent, his name, his ring… she was his .
    “Richard.” She stilled, pushed her little hand against his chest.
    The fog lifted just enough for him to realize she’d called a halt.
    He didn’t want to hear her. It would be so easy to finesse her into another kiss, allow the passion to lure her into his arms, into their bed.
    What had he done? Had he pushed too fast, too far? True, he’d found himself caught up in the moment… but he hadn’t offended her tender, innocent sensibilities…had he?
    “Sweetheart.” He whispered a kiss over jaw. So smooth, compared to his own. He really ought to shave before this went any further. He didn’t need to scrape her tender flesh with his stubble. But now he couldn’t bear to leave her long enough to shave. Why hadn’t he thought about it earlier, during her three-and-one-quarter hour bath?
    His shaving kit was upstairs in the lavatory.
    “Let me take the towel you have around your hair,” he asked. “Let it down. I want to touch it, run my fingers through it. I’ll comb it through for you. I’ve always wanted to comb a woman’s hair— my wife’s hair.”
    She shivered, but surely in the fading heat of such an unseasonably warm afternoon she really wasn’t cold, was she?
    “Richard— I don’t want to do this.”
    He couldn’t have been more stunned, doused, than if she’d dumped a bucket of cold bathwater over his head.
    This.
    I don’t want to do… this.
    He could play dumb, and the Neanderthal in him had to try. “You don’t want me combing your hair?” He caressed a thumb over her full lower lip. “I’ll be gentle.”
    He’d show her infinite gentleness, through every moment of their marital consummation, if she’d just give him a chance.
    She leaned further back, effectively distancing herself from his touch.
    Ouch .
    It took focus and self-control, but he eased away from her. He nearly shivered in the early night breeze coming through the raised window sash.
    If the lady asked him to stop, he’d stop. Good breeding had impressed that upon him from the earliest of ages. If a lady asked him, then a young boy, to stop raising his voice inside, he stopped. If a lady