The mountain man noticed her wince.
“That’s what I mean.”
His voice was much quieter than a man his size had any right to possess.
“The dress.”
Her face burned.
He looked away from her body almost immediately.
“That thing underneath it is crushing you.”
“It is proper.”
“It’s hurting you.”
“My aunt said—”
“I don’t care what your aunt said.”
The answer came too sharply.
The bride flinched.
The mountain man’s expression changed instantly.
He took another step backward.
“I’m sorry.”
She stared.
Men in her family did not apologize for raising their voices.
Usually they raised them higher.
He gestured carefully toward the chair beside the hearth.
“You can sit.”
She did not move.
He nodded as if he had expected that.
Then he turned his back completely.
Not halfway.
Completely.
He walked toward an old cedar trunk positioned at the foot of a narrow bed near the opposite wall.
The bride watched every movement.
The man knelt.
Lifted the heavy lid.
Inside were blankets.
Folded shirts.
Wool stockings.
A small bundle of dried lavender.
And, beneath all of it, clothing that clearly did not belong to him.
He moved aside a brown shawl and lifted an ivory cotton nightgown.
It was simple.
Soft.
Long-sleeved.
High at the throat.
Trimmed with narrow lace around the cuffs.
Nothing indecent.
Nothing designed for seduction.
He placed it gently across the trunk.
The bride stared.
The mountain man still did not look toward her.
“You can change into that.”
Her suspicion sharpened.
“Whose is it?”
“Yours.”
“You bought it?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know my size?”
He hesitated.
“I didn’t.”
She almost laughed despite herself.
The nightgown was loose.
Very loose.
Made for comfort rather than shape.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I told the seamstress to make something that wouldn’t squeeze you.”
The bride stared at him.
Nobody had ever commissioned clothing for her with that instruction.
Usually it was the opposite.
Take in the waist.
Hide the hips.
Bring up the neckline.
Use darker cloth.
Make her look smaller.
Her aunt’s voice lived in every fitting room of her memory.
A woman with your figure must learn to compensate.
The mountain man reached into the trunk again.
This time he removed a folded sheet of legal paper.
He set it beside the nightgown.
The bride’s eyes narrowed.
“What is that?”
“Something you need before anything else happens tonight.”
Fear returned.
“Is it another marriage paper?”
“No.”
He straightened.
Then deliberately moved away from the trunk.
“Read it.”