He said, “That’s my sister and brother and the rest of them on the way home.”

They stood there against the door for five minutes and then another five, listening as the others passed. The talk was far more subdued this morning than it had been last night, but that would have mostly to do with lack of sleep. Daniel waited for one of them—Hannah or Jennet, most likely—to call out a hello. Or Ben or Ethan might just come and open the door, see if he was back from the village. Ask if he had done any swimming this morning and did Martha get home all right? With a grin and a nod. Nothing mean about it, all good-natured.

The truth was, he didn’t care to talk to anybody just now, no matter how well-meaning. They were just about to settle some things, he and Martha, and they didn’t need any interruptions. With luck this was something a man only did once in his life, and he wanted to do it right. Now that he had made the decision.

Just exactly when that had happened, he couldn’t say. The moment she settled the shawl around his shoulders at the end of the last dance, right then it was clear to him he had known for days what he wanted. He’d marry Martha Kirby as soon as she’d have him, and count himself lucky. She was one of the strong ones, though she didn’t seem to realize it herself.

Women on the edge of the endless forests grew up tough or they didn’t last long. A steady stream of girls left Paradise for Johnstown and Albany and beyond. They took jobs as servants and cooks, nurses and seamstresses, married and settled, and never came home again.

Some who shouldn’t have stayed did, and turned mean. Martha’s mother was a prime example, as people kept reminding him. As his sister Lily kept reminding him. She would take this hard, but Simon was there to talk sense to her. In the end Martha herself would need to win Lily over, but that would happen. He didn’t doubt it for a minute.

There was something whole about Martha, something solid that he had never known in women outside his own family, and that was something even Lily couldn’t ignore. It was a fine thing and a rare one and she couldn’t begrudge him. It was true it had happened fast, but he argued with himself as he would with Lily: He was old enough to know his own mind. And then the voice that came to him wasn’t Lily’s or even his mother’s, but Curiosity’s. Telling him he might know his own mind, but did Martha know hers? Or was he sweet-talking her into something she wan’t ready for? She was a rarity, all right, and she would suit him just fine. But why the hurry?

That was a question he would be asked by Curiosity and his mother and every other woman he knew. Why the hurry?

He closed his eyes and reached for an answer, but all he got was Martha, the smell of her. He had the urge to put his face to the line of her neck and pull in her scent until it filled his lungs, but she was already anxious, breathing shallow and quick. When he looked he saw that she had turned her head hard to the side, listening still for voices. He studied her profile in the half-light from the one open shutter and saw how high her color was. Her upper lip and her forehead were damp, and as he watched a single drop of sweat moved from her hairline to travel down her temple, though the room was cold.

Where the light touched her hair, the rich dark color sparked a deep copper. Her skin was milky, the faintest blush of color high on her cheekbones and at her earlobes. Like sugar candy that would taste of strawberries.

She gasped when his lips touched her neck and then again, a small sharp intake of breath when he reached her earlobe. Now she would push him away, walk away and stare at him from across the room, accusing him and rightly. Instead she turned her head sharply and their mouths met. Something gave way, some last bit of barrier between them. She was so close that he could feel the shape of her legs against his own, the curve of hip and breast. He was aroused beyond all experience, but he made himself stop. To remind himself what she was owed. What was right and reasonable. Of his mother’s infernal categorical imperative.

Think for a moment. Think if everyone were to handle this kind of situation and act as you are acting now.

Martha was very still, but for the triple beat of the pulse at her temple. “What is it?”

“I’ve been standing here reading myself a sermon,” he said finally. “Am I trying to take you someplace you don’t want to go?”

Her eyes widened. “And where would that be, exactly?” The grin surprised him. A little uncertain but a grin nonetheless. Whatever she was feeling, it hadn’t robbed her of her wits.

Daniel found that he was grinning back at her. “You want me to say it plain?” He ducked and nipped at her earlobe.

She wiggled and she was gone, on the other side of the room with her arms wrapped around herself, almost rocking on her heels. Ready to run a race.

“Don’t smile like that,” she said. “It’s too early to congratulate yourself.”

Daniel began to cross the room at a casual pace that fooled neither of them. But she held her ground until he was in front of her, looking up as if there was something written across his face in bold letters.

She said, “There’s too much to think about. It’s too complicated.”

So the play was over for the moment. Daniel took her by the hand to the settle that stood at right angles to the hearth, and when they were seated he took a deep breath.

“It ain’t complicated. People get married every day with no fuss at all. Unless you were wanting a big party and a new dress and all that. Is that it?”

Martha studied the hands folded in her lap. “No,” she said. “I’ve been through all that and I didn’t like it the first time. But there are things to be settled, Daniel. If you’ll only stop and think. Where are we to live? Here? In the village? Some other place? And forgive me for raising this subject, but all my property will pass to you as my—my husband.”