Free The Right Wife by Beverly Barton

hoarsely, “Open your mouth, my love.”
    When she obeyed, he thrust inside, stroking her tongue, exploring her softness. Slowly, almost reluctantly, her own tongue responded, easing into his mouth, dueling sweetly with his.
    The kiss deepened and intensified. Maggie had never known such mindless pleasure. Her mouth throbbed from his assault, but pleaded for more as it met his with equal passion. Innocent and unknowing, she could not understand what was happening to her body. Why did her breasts feel swollen, her nipples tight? Why did her blood feel like fire coursing through her veins?
    Aaron’s lips moved to the pale softness of her neck, his tongue sliding downward until it reached the barrier of her collar. His breathing uneven, he whispered against her ear, “I want to touch you.”
    She buried her face against the hard muscles of his big shoulder, a hot ache filling the secret depths of her femininity. Her fingers inched upward into the thick whorls of his tawny chest hair, and a sensation of heated longing shot through her body, hitting her womanly core.
    Just as he reached to unbutton her dress, his hand stopped, resting against the quivering pulse in her throat. Aaron’s befuddled brain barely registered the sound of voices in the hallway until they were right outside his door. He did not want to stop kissing the responsive woman in his arms, but, when he recognized Thayer’s voice, he knew he must.
    “Please, Eunice, wait,” Thayer said as Eunice Arnold thrust open the door of Aaron’s room.
    “I must see Aaron,” Eunice said in a shrill voice.
    Just as the Widow Arnold pranced in, yellow parasol in hand, Aaron pushed a stunned Maggie out of his arms. Perplexed, but quickly recovering, she jumped up from the bed and turned to face the intruders.
    “Aaron, my . . .” Eunice halted midsentence when she saw the beautiful blushing redhead standing by Aaron’s bed.
    “Please come in, Eunice,” Aaron said, groping for the covers at his feet. Seeing his dilemma, Maggie tugged the covers up to his waist.
    “Eunice, may I introduce Miss Margaret Campbell,” Thayer said. “She was kind enough to administer to Aaron’s needs since Dr. Cooper was unavailable. Maggie, Mrs. Eunice Arnold.”
    “Are you a nurse?” Eunice asked.
    “No,” Maggie replied, taking a long, leisurely look at the tall, elegant woman who stood eyeing her rather contemptuously.
    Eunice Arnold was at least five feet nine, with a body as willowy as a young girl’s. Her fine, white-blond hair was parted in the middle with a row of curly bangs gracing her forehead. She looked every bit the well-dressed lady in her French-gray faille with an accordion-pleated underskirt of yellow silk and a waistcoat trimmed in velvet. A black felt hat decorated with a yellow ostrich feather adorned her head.
    “Pleased to meet you,” Maggie blurted out as she practically ran to the door. “I have to go. Aunt Tilly’s expecting me.”
    “Wait, Miss Maggie,” Thayer called as she rushed past him and out into the hallway, almost knocking over a small walnut table.
    Thayer looked at Aaron, who nodded in a silent plea. Thayer excused himself and followed Maggie, not catching up with her until he reached the lobby.
    Just as Thayer spoke her name again, Wesley Peterson walked through the front entrance. Ignoring Thayer’s call, she walked straight to the reverend.
    “I was beginning to worry, Margaret,” Wesley said, taking her hand. “Why, you’re trembling, my dear. Is something wrong?”
    “No,” she answered in a weak voice. Summoning all her courage, she smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to men like Mr. Stone.”
    “He didn’t—”
    “No, no. He’s just a bit rough-spoken,” Maggie lied, wanting to be as far away from the Parshall House and Aaron Stone and his fine lady friend as she could get. “Take me home, Wesley.”
    “Of course, Cousin Margaret,” he said, escorting her outside to where Daisy and Phineas stood