Page 16 of Bedded Under The Christmastide Moon

A treacherous sob broke free from her lips as she covered her flaming face with her hands.

She’d known all along this could very well be the outcome. Years had passed since they wed, and never once had either of them sought comfort or pleasure in the arms of the other. It could only mean that Brigham had searched for those things with another outside their marriage. She could not, would never, blame him for finding love and affection elsewhere.

Brigham was a man with needs; needs Mellie had been unable to fulfill either physically or emotionally.

Was there another woman he sought to birth his child?

Without another glance at Brigham, she turned and fled the cottage, leaving the door open in her wake—escaping into the icy cold December morning, her cloak and gloves forgotten, her attire in disarray.

Mellie hadn’t a direction in mind, nor was she capable of such focus as she ran through the biting wind, its frigid tendrils lashing at her face and exposed skin. Clumsily, she kept moving as she pulled up her gown to cover her, but clasping the buttons at her back proved impossible as she stumbled over the hem of her dress.

Righting herself, she sped on, never glancing behind her.

For what would injure her more: his initial rejection and horror at her words, or that he didn’t chase after her?

Chapter Eight

Brigham paced back and forth in the tiny cottage office, unable to bring himself to return to rational thought. He removed his spectacles and tossed them onto the desk, but they skidded and fell off the side, clattering to the plank floor. He didn’t retrieve them, he did not even hurry over to see if he’d damaged them…blast it all, but he had no desire to even look at them.

Much as he was doing now with Mellie. He should have run after her. Should have hurried to her and made certain she was uninjured despite his harsh, cruel words. He should want to behold nothing but her.

She was selfless to a fault.

…and he’d failed her once again.

Peddling her body to give him an heir? She deserved far more than to be reduced to a breeding tool as a way to serve both Brigham and society, producing a much coveted and demanded heir. She was worth far more than what her body could produce. Using her for that purpose would be the ultimate betrayal, something beyond forgiveness, no matter how profusely he begged at her feet.

And that was exactly where Brigham deserved to be: at Mellie’s feet, begging her for mercy he didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned.

First, he’d convinced her to wed him when she was grieving her dead father.

Then he’d abandoned her to her own hell, leaving her to care for her dying mother.

And lastly, he’d only returned but once a year, sharing nothing of himself. In turn, she’d kept her longings and desires to herself. He’d been rash to think she’d ever open up to him when he’d done nothing but keep her at arm’s length.

He shouldn’t have come to Hockcliffe. He should have accepted her choice to remain in the country unburdened by him.

To think Mellie thought she owed him something—anything.

It was Brigham who owed her everything.

He hadn’t been man enough to stick by her side after they wed, help her care for her mother, and discover if there could be true affection between them. They’d kissed once. They’d spent nearly every holiday together, their families being very close. They’d played, they’d laughed, they’d conversed together for all these years. Since childhood, they’d spoken of grave matters and trivial occurrences; however, that had all stopped when they wed. But why?

Brigham had long held that they had, indeed, shared a mutual affection in their youth.

He scrubbed at his face, running his hands through his tangled curls. That was a bad choice, too, as all he could think of was Mellie’s delicate fingers caressing his neck and tugging at his hair when they were wrapped in their intimate embrace.

Why had he sought his own work, leaving their budding love to deteriorate?

Love.

Neither had ever so much as spoken the word before or after they wed. Brigham because it would have crushed him, left him without drive to go on if she did not return his love.

Nevertheless, Brigham had loved her. Continued to love her, if only from a distance.

How had they never found time to discuss this?

His heavy steps echoed angrily in the tiny cottage, mirroring the disdain he felt for himself.