Minutes later, as their laughter eased, they both heard Ren shout from the cabin directly beneath them, "You're what?"
E
pilogue
Late August, 1838
"W
ake up, my sleepy-head," Lucky whispered in Mary-Michael's ear as she struggled to remain in her dream-filled slumber. When she refused to respond, her husband grew more insistent, sliding his hand seductively up the length of her thigh, resting it over her womb.
He didn't suspect, she was fairly sure. She hadn't told him yet because she wanted to be certain first. It wouldn't be the first time she was late with her monthly courses. Only this time she had other symptoms which led her to believe she really was about to present her husband with another daughter, or perhaps a son in about seven and a half months.
"But I'm comfortable and warm," she whispered into his shoulder, slipping one hand under his silken robe.
"A letter came for you," he replied. "It's from Michael."
She paused her exploration of her husband's muscled abdomen. Touching Lucky, feeling the dips and ridges of his hard-muscled body, excited her already sensitive breasts and her woman's core, and Mary-Michael wanted him again.
While the letter was surely interesting, it would still be there in thirty minutes. There could be nothing of such great importance in the letter that stopping her sensual foreplay might change. She ached for him again, sliding her hand down and wrapping it around his already hardened shaft, moving it up and down in a slow, rhythmic motion that he'd told her he enjoyed.
"If you don't stop now, we will be seeing this through to completion," Lucky growled into her mussed hair as he kissed the top of her head.
"I like completion. It's so... satisfying." She squealed as he rolled her onto her back and climbed on top, throwing off his black robe. Mary-Michael wrapped her legs around his hips and welcomed his second invasion. He thrust into her deeply, filling her so perfectly. She grasped his bottom, and held onto him as he struggled to control his lovemaking.
But she didn't want control. Not this morning. She wanted abandon. Joyful, wild, uncontrolled abandon. Reaching up to kiss him, she parted his lips and with her tongue traced the sharp planes of his teeth, begging for him to duel with her.
His hot, damp breath on her flesh caused her to shiver. The hair on his chest made her already sensitive nipples harden as he moved inside her. She reached up to kiss his neck, then lick and nibble her way to his ear lobe. He enjoyed this, she knew because of the way he reacted. He growled and returned her feverish kisses while attempting to keep the frantic pace that would lead to release.
She was right. Lucky's pace grew faster and his thrusts deeper and more purposeful. Mary-Michael joined her husband in the frantic pace he set for this round of lovemaking. She held onto him for dear life as they rode together on that upward spiral, the one that would send her once again diving off the highest yardarm and into the deepest ocean of ecstasy. The rising pressure built within her, the peak of orgasmic pleasure crested, and she knew her husband would be right beside her in that glorious dive into rapture. All she had to do was let go.
She did, and they dove together.
One hour later, after Lucy's nurse took their daughter back upstairs, Lucky handed her the letter from their brother-in-law, Lord Camden. Mary-Michael opened it and began to read, as her husband read a shorter missive from his partner.
She stared at the page, the words growing blurry and watery. For some reason, her eyes burned and when the drop fell onto the page, her husband took it from her and read what Michael had written. When he was done, he smiled.
"We can go home, Mary," Lucky said softly while he continued reading. "...While they were never able to prove he orchestrated the deaths of Mr. Frank Baxter and the Slocum brothers, Nicholas Barlowe
has
been found guilty of the murder of Nelson Potts, and for that crime has been sentenced to hang. There will, of course, be an appeal, but according to Michael having an eye witness to the murder testify in the trial was the determining factor for the jury."
The knot in her throat preventing her from speech burst. "Thank God!" The words came out with a deep, relieved sigh. Mary-Michael wanted nothing more than to bring her family back to Indian Point. "This is good news, husband," she said as she wiped her eyes with her fingers, sniffled and tried to smile.
His grin was as brilliant as sunshine on this summer day in this place called Haldenwood. His eyes sparkled with true, deep happiness for them. But she had a special reason to be thankful for going back, and she had to share it with him. Now.
"I want our son born in America, Lucky."
T
he
E
nd
P
utting our work “out there” makes most artists feel vulnerable in some way. But, for a few of us, there is nothing in the world we would rather be doing than creating stories that touch the heart, no matter the fear of scrutiny. I hope you enjoyed reading about Lucky and Mary-Michael as much as I enjoyed writing their story. If you did, please leave a rating or review at the vendor where you purchased this book because I truly believe all constructive criticism helps writers better themselves at this craft we love so much.
A
bout the
A
uthor
S
andy Raven has a husband who spoils her rotten, and kids that are just a hair’s breadth away from perfect. She’s addicted to House Hunters International and has never missed an episode, though she acknowledges that she could never live in most of those countries because the houses are just too small. She is also addicted to Starbucks’ chai latte, and never passes up an opportunity to have one.
Sandy grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast with sand between her toes and perpetually frizzy hair. Which is why she now lives in the middle-of-nowhere Virginia, in a place with minimal to moderate humidity (for perfect, non-frizzy curls) rolling hills and farmed forests. The only downside to living where there are no lines on the paved roads, is having to drive at least one hour to get herself a chai latte.
Home is a renovated old farm house she shares with her hero husband, in the foothills of Blue Ridge Mountains, where she’s owned by more cats, dogs and horses than she cares to admit to. She’s a long-time member of RWA, and is a member of VRW and the Beau Monde. Second to writing is her love for her animals. She practices natural horsemanship, and loves to ride her barefoot Tennessee Walkers on the trails and in the woods around her home.
You can visit her at