LITMIR.BIZ

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the crown of her head and in a swirling knot at the nape of her neck. By that time, Lydia had returned with a carpetbag, from which she removed a yellow day dress sprigged with tiny pink roses.

      Willow couldn’t prevent the soft gasp of pleasure that escaped her lips as the women stripped off the shapeless garment she’d been doomed to wear for months and replaced it with the fitted cotton gown.

      The waist proved too large for Willow and the hem too long. However, Lydia had come prepared. Taking a needle and thread, she artfully tucked up the skirt, drawing the fullness toward the rear in a mock bustle. Then she took a length of pink ribbon from the carpetbag and tied it around Willow’s waist.

      “There.”

      Both Lydia and Iona stood back to eye their efforts.

      “Beautiful,” Iona murmured. “She looks every inch a bride.”

      Lydia’s brow furrowed. “Not quite.” She opened the door and called out, “Greta!”

      Greta Heigle had traveled to the Territories all the way from Bavaria. A plump, blond-haired woman with pink cheeks and snapping blue eyes, she’d boarded the train without knowing a word of English. After a month marooned with the other mail-order brides, she was beginning to learn how to communicate with hand gestures and a sparse English vocabulary.

      Willow heard soft footfalls running up the staircase, then Greta burst inside and gasped, “Die Männer sind hier.”

      When the women looked at her blankly, she offered, “Men. Men.” Then she pointed to the floor.

      “The men are here?”

      “Ja!”

      Greta then held out a length of lace, and before Willow could fathom what they meant to do, Lydia and Iona began pinning it to the crown of braids.

      “Now she looks like a bride,” Lydia breathed with satisfaction.

      Iona took Willow gently by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.

      For a moment, the air whooshed out of Willow’s lungs. She’d spent so much time in staid black school uniforms or charity day gowns that she couldn’t remember when she’d ever worn color. The soft yellow dress made her skin milky, her hair bright as a flame. And the veil...the veil softened the effect even more. She did indeed look like...

      Like a bride.

      Even more...she looked...

      Pretty.

      “Schön. Lovely,” Greta murmured. The stout woman drew her close for a bone-crushing hug.

      When she drew back, Willow fingered the delicate veil. The lace was soft, fashioned from gossamer silk floss. “I’ll return this as soon as possible.”

      Greta’s brow knitted in puzzlement, so Willow mimed the action of unpinning the veil and handing it to her. Greta shook her head. “Nien. Geschenk. Gift.” Then the woman beamed.

      Willow’s eyes welled with tears. The piece of hairpin lace must have taken hundreds of hours to complete. The fact that it would now adorn a sham marriage made her inwardly cringe. Nevertheless, she couldn’t dim the joy shining from Greta’s eyes.

      “Thank you, Greta. I’ll treasure it always.”

      “Miss Granger!”

      There was no mistaking the booming voice that reached them from the main room. Ezra Batchwell and his retinue had returned, and he was eager to see that the formalities were finished.

      Lydia hugged her as well, then Iona.

      “Best wishes,” Lydia said, before backing out of the room.

      Iona took a handkerchief from where it had been tucked in her sleeve. Sniffling, she dabbed her eyes. “May this be the first of many happy days,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion. “I always cry at weddings.” Then she hurried from the room, leaving Willow alone.

      From below, Willow could hear the deep murmur of male voices combined with a few higher pitched ones. She knew she wouldn’t be given much time to think.

      But even as she considered running downstairs, calling the whole thing off and confessing her deceit...

      She couldn’t do it.

      Not just because the thought of that many eyes turning her way in censure made her quake, but because Jenny had been her friend. Her first real friend. Those babies downstairs were Jenny’s and they were motherless and defenseless.

      No. Not defenseless.

      They had her.

      And they had Charles.

      Pinning that thought in her mind, she smoothed a hand over the ribbon at her waist, adjusted the veil around her shoulders, then headed for the door.

      * * *

      Charles shifted nervously from foot to foot, feeling as if a herd of ants were crawling beneath his skin. At Ramsey’s insistence, he’d taken time at the Hall to wash his face and hands, slick back his hair and don the clean shirt, vest and tie that Gideon had loaned him.

      He swallowed against the dryness of his throat, easing a finger beneath the tie, which seemed to be cutting off his ability to breathe. He was sure that Gideon had tied it too tight—probably on purpose, since he’d joked that Charles would soon feel the noose of matrimony closing around his neck for the second time.

      From the corner of his eye, he could see the two wee bairns being rocked in the arms of the Claussen twins.

      Charles knew better than most what would happen to the babes if they weren’t claimed. If Ezra Batchwell had exploded at the idea of having women on the premises, there would be no containing his ire at the thought of a pair of children running about. As soon as the pass cleared, they would be taken to the nearest foundling home. Once there, they could be separated, or worse, live their childhoods in an institution—a fate that Charles had himself endured and wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

      No. If Willow was agreeable, he’d see this charade to the end, then sort things out when they’d both had time to plan what was best for the youngsters.

      As if she’d heard him, Willow suddenly appeared at the top of the steps.

      For a moment, the air left Charles’s lungs. For a month now, he’d caught glimpses of the girl—at the Devotionals, behind the counter of the cook shack, or peeking between the curtains of the Dovecote. He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t paid her much mind.

      He regretted that now, because the woman who stepped toward him was beautiful. The soft cotton dress she wore seemed to highlight the fairness of her skin, the dusting of freckles across her brow and cheeks. And that hair...it shone in the lamplight like a blazing sunset.

      She moved to stand beside the fireplace, and then turned to face him.

      Ignoring Batchwell’s scowl, Charles caught her hand and leaned to whisper next to her ear. “You don’t have to do this.”

      Nevertheless, when he met her gaze, those cornflower-blue eyes blazed with determination.

      “They need us,” she whispered.

      “Enough!” Batchwell barked. “Let’s get this over with.”

      Even then, Charles kept hold of Willow’s hand. Despite her bravado, he could feel the chill of her fingertips and the trembling of her extremities. When he repeated his vows, she clung to him even tighter. As she offered her own promises, he thought he heard a quaver in her voice. Then, before Charles could credit how quickly his life had altered course, there was a cheer and someone was pounding him on the back.

      “Kiss the girl!” a deep voice shouted, and Charles could have sworn it was Gideon Gault. Knowing that all eyes were upon them, Charles brushed a light kiss over Willow’s lips.

      When he drew back, her cheeks were pink with color, and he automatically drew her into the lee of

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