Page 6 of Papa's Little Bride
Chapter Three
Kingston
Holding the stool out,I continue glaring at Faith while awaiting her acquiescence. The idea of her running out of my house and back to the orphanage fills me with cold anger. If I must be firm with her, then I’ll be firm with her. I’ll do whateverit takes to keep her from returning to that dreadful place. Besides, she already admitted she won’t be living there much longer. She’s on the verge of homelessness.
Her cheeks still a deep pink, she approaches me and the offered seat. Without thinking, I lift her up and place her on the stool myself. Her hands fall on my shoulders while I hold onto her tiny waist, but she doesn’t resistmy assistance. Once she’s fully seated, I fetch a clean cloth from a drawer and dampen it with warm water. I return to her side and commence wiping the dirt from her face, careful not to aggravate the bruise on her cheek or her split lip.
She’s quiet while I tend to her, though a nervous, thoughtful expression keeps crossing her pretty face. I proceed to wipe the dirt off her hands, andonce that’s complete, I make a cold compress and touch it to the bruise darkening her cheek. The swelling on her lower lip has already gone down and a small scab has formed where her lip split. Mrs. Summers ambles in with a small case of medical supplies, and I thank her and politely dismiss her from the kitchen.
From the case, I find an ointment for Faith’s hurt lip, as well as a numbingsalve to rub onto her cheek. The bruise is small, at least. I also give her two pills for the pain. She obediently takes a sip of water and swallows them down, all under my watchful eye.
I’m not happy she got hurt, but I can’t deny that I enjoy taking care of her.
Memories of happier times wash over me, pleasant times from years’ past. Faith doesn’t know it, but she reminds me ofwhat I once had. Her sudden presence is filling up the empty parts of me and shining light on my darkness.
“Are you married, Mr. Freemont? Do you have children?” she asks, and her inquiry plunges me back into despair. Somehow, I force myself to stay calm and not become angry over her innocent question. I take a deep breath. It’s not her fault my wife and infant son perished years ago, andit’s not her fault I have been alone in mourning ever since.
Meeting her gaze, I press the cool compress to her cheek again. “I’m a widower,” I finally reply. “I had a son once, too. They both died of an illness five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” She places a gentle hand on mine and squeezes, her gaze brimming with compassion. “I lost my mother when I was six years old, also to anillness that swept through the town.”
“What of your father?”
“He passed away before I was born.”
“It must have been frightening, being sent to the orphanage at such a young age, after losing your mother.” I lift the compress from her cheek and notice the swelling has gone down considerably. Just before I return the compress to her face, a tear trickles down over her bruise.My eyes drift to hers, and I curse myself for saying something to upset her. Before I can offer my apologies, she wipes the tear away and folds her hands in her lap.
The heat of her hand squeezing mine lingers, and I mourn the loss of her touch.
“Yes, it was frightening.” She studies her hands and fidgets in her seat. Her golden tresses cascade forward, over her shoulders.
She’s an angel fallen from heaven.
That’s the only explanation I can think of for her sudden appearance in my life. Surely we haven’t run into one another today only to part so soon.
My mind abruptly wanders, down a path of heartening possibilities.
Lately, I have considered taking a wife again, so much so that after years of avoiding anyone outside of business, I’ve recentlystarted attending social gatherings, hoping the act of being around others would help thaw my heart.
Hoping that maybe I would meet a woman who moves me.
Faith moves me.
Far too easily, I can imagine keeping her here. Two lonely strangers in need, getting to know one another during the long winter months. I gaze upon her loveliness, considering all the ways I might convinceher to stay.
I could offer her a job. She’s looking for a maid position. I mull this possibility but quickly rule it out, because I don’t want her as my employee.
If I’m being truthful, I want her in my bed.
But it’s more than that. The urge to tend to her every need, coddle her, guide her, even discipline her, also dominates my thoughts. She’s never had a father figure, andI wonder if she might be open to an arrangement of sorts, one that puts her in my absolute charge.
“Well, I really should be going now, Mr. Freemont. Thank you for everything.” She places her hands on the counter and starts to slide off of the stool.
I immediately crowd around her, pinning her between myself, the stool, and the counter. Her breath catches and she peers up at me,her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her cloak slips from her shoulders, and I pick it up and place it neatly on the back of the stool, leaning around her and not allowing her a chance to escape.
“You will sit your little bottom back on that chair right now, young lady. You haven’t been excused.” My tone is firm but kind, and I once again lift her up onto the seat. I take note of her increasedbreathing and her flushing, as well as her continual fidgeting on the stool.
My cock throbs, knowing I’m the reason she’s squirming and flushing so adorably.
