The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (20 page)

Lacey gasped. "More than ten, you say. But why—"

"I canna in all decency go into more detail. I'll just say that 'tis possible the woman found a modicum of pleasure in the arms of the man she loves. 'Tis another of nature's ways when the match is a good one." She paused, her cheeks blooming like springtime as she wondered if she would ever feel those pleasures in Caleb's arms. "God willin', ye'll be findin' that out for yerself, and soon, I hope."

Her cheeks burning, Lacey turned her back to her friend and closed her ears to the incredible words she was saying. A modicum of pleasure, indeed. A ridiculous thought, but even if it were true, she simply wouldn't do it. She couldn't, and not just because the idea appalled her so, but because Kathleen Lacey O'Carroll Winterhawke could not in all good conscience take the risk of bearing children—not now, and not ever.

Although the authorities never pronounced her as such, she'd heard the nurses whispering among themselves about her precarious grip on sanity, understood they were insinuating that she had something to do with the mysterious way her parents had died. She herself had no recall of that terrible night save for the brand she would carry forever to remind her that it had indeed happened. Raising her right hand to eye level, Lacey stared hard at the scar on her palm and thought back to what it represented.

She'd gone mad the night her family perished in those same flames—she must have—and had been mad days and years after when she slipped into the longest of her mute, mind-numbing spells. Surely those were all signs of madness, and if that be so, couldn't this madness be a blight in the O'Carroll family blood? Lacey couldn't even bear to think of bringing children in the world not knowing if they'd be dangerous, judged insane, or locked away from gentle society. Somehow, she'd survived the taunts and whispers of others along with the thinly veiled pity and disgust that went with them, but she could never bring a child of hers into this world if there was even a chance it might have to endure the same stigma.

Kate cleared her throat. "Are ye all right with it then, lass? Yer awfully quiet."

Her mind made up, Lacey turned back to her only true friend. Kate met her gaze for a fleeting moment, then blushed again and looked away, acting as if she had something more to say on the matter, but didn't know quite how to say it. Then as before, she twined her fingers around each other and smiled an uneasy smile. Obviously the former nurse found this bedtime business between husband and wife as distasteful as Lacey did, and was ready to put the subject behind them as easily as they'd discarded their past lives. Which was fine with Lacey.

"Aye," she said, returning Kate's smile. "I'm all right with it and knowing what I must do. Shall we turn in then?"

* * *

The following morning, Lacey assisted Kate in the preparation of a huge breakfast, then jotted down several notes on the preparation of the foods both women thought she could handle with enough competence to succeed. She even scribbled careful directions for the making of pie crusts and one filling—berry—in the event she felt confident enough to try to bake one for Hawke before the women had an opportunity to see each other again. Then, with what Lacey thought was a fair amount of relief on her friend's part, Kate bid her adieu.

The ride back to Winterhawke was interminable, filled with long, awkward moments of silence between Lacey and Hawke. Even the little bits of conversation they shared were strangely shy and polite, as if they'd never met at the Laramie Depot or glimpsed the other's soul during the tender moment when Taffy's foal finally gained entrance into the world. Most awkward of all, was acting as if they'd never shared that passionate kiss out by Phantom's corral, the scent of the lathered stud and sun-drenched wilderness all around them.

Lulled by yet another long stretch of silence, the sound of Hawke's voice startled Lacey as the wagon rounded the final bend and started along the aspen-lined road leading to Winterhawke, her favorite part of the drive.

"I understand you've met Crowfoot," he said.

There was no question in Hawke's tone, and he didn't turn to her as if to gauge the veracity of her answer. It was a statement of fact. The lad specifically asked Lacey not to mention the fact that she'd come across him, and yet how could she just out and out lie to her new husband?

Hedging, she said, "Are you, by any chance, referring to the fairy I thought I saw in the barn?"

"I suppose so if you're talking about the Crow Indian boy who lives on my ranch. He says he gave you a pair of his old boots."

"Uh, aye... him." Nothing left to do but tell the truth. "Aye, and we did speak briefly. Will he be staying with us at the ranch house from now on?"

"He divides his time between Winterhawke and Three Elk, but as far as I know, he'll be at my place for a while. That's why I asked you about him, so I could be sure he wouldn't startle you if you should run into him in the barn again."

"Oh, aye, but what about in the house? Surely he stays in your office or somewhere when I'm not around. I do not wish to turn him out."

"You're not." Home at last, Hawke reined in the horses and set the brake. "Crowfoot lives in the barn."

Lacey's head whipped around. "But why? I do not mind if the lad—"

"He belongs in the barn," Hawke said abruptly as he climbed down from the wagon. Closing the subject, he added, "I just wanted to make sure you knew he was there, not argue about him. I'm going to check on the horses now. Why don't you get yourself settled in the house? I'll be along to help you in a little while."

Then, without waiting for her answer, he disappeared in the direction of the barn. Lacey thought of following her new husband to let him know in no uncertain terms what she thought of his cruel treatment of the boy. Then she realized she was ill-prepared to broach the subject without explaining a little of her earlier life and how well she understood Crowfoot's need for silence in order to nurse his inner wounds. But as the new mistress of Winterhawke, she decided it would most certainly be in her power to see to the boy's comfort. She would see to it, Lacey vowed, and soon—no matter what the master of all that surrounded her thought. No matter a'tall.

* * *

Much later that night, well after Hawke and his bride had nibbled on the basket full of leftovers from their wedding supper and he'd taken a large portion of those same foods to the barn for Crowfoot, he found himself fresh out of excuses for remaining downstairs while his wife waited upstairs in their "bridal chamber." He'd gone to his former bedroom ahead of her to light a nice fire and make sure the starkly furnished room was tidy and neat, then invited her in and left her to prepare for bed in private. By Hawke's calculations, he'd paced the length and width of his living room long enough for Lacey to have prepared for a month of wedding nights.

Thunder rolled in the distance, reminding him of the newly approaching storm and how quickly the temperature was dropping. Even though he still wasn't quite sure how best to approach this woman who was now his bride, he knew he couldn't just leave her shivering alone in his—
their
—room any longer. So with a deep breath and no small amount of trepidation, Hawke banked the smoldering embers in the downstairs grate, then made his way upstairs in hopes of lighting a fire of another kind.

When he reached the top of the stairs, it occurred to him that Lacey might have fallen asleep, so long was her wait. Considerate to the extreme on this most special of nights, he quietly turned the knob, then slowly pushed the door to his room open. She'd blown out the lamp on the bedside table, pitching the room into near darkness, but Hawke had no trouble spotting his bride. The glow from the low flames still crackling in the fireplace bathed her exquisite skin, making it seem pearly and almost translucent in the otherwise drab room. She'd freed her glorious hair, too, leaving the bounty of those coppery curls to spread across his pillow and down along the sheet. Lacey's eyes were closed as he'd hoped, but the sight of her lying there like a luscious angel, his for all eternity to boot, fed the sparks of his rapidly growing ardor, and turned it into a sudden inferno.

No longer remotely concerned about approaching her with stealth, Hawke strode purposefully to the edge of the bed and sat down. Behind him, Lacey stirred, her sweet voice reaching his ears in a mew-like sigh. Hastily removing his clothing and not caring where or how the articles landed, at last he raised the bedding and climbed in between the sheets beside her. Again she stirred, this time murmuring something he couldn't understand.

"What did you say?" he asked, rolling to his side and reaching for her.

"Hummm?" Lacey's eyes fluttered open. "Wha—oh."

Hawke leaned up on one elbow, hovering just above her, and smiled down into Lacey's startled eyes. He brushed one of several errant curls off of her forehead as he murmured, "I thought you said something to me, but I guess you were just talking in your sleep. Sorry if I... disturbed you."

Her gaze fixed to his naked chest, Lacey favored him with a shy smile. "Umm, 'tisn't a problem."

"Did you find everything you need up here?"

Again a shy smile, this one punctuated with a sharp nod. "Aye, and thank you kindly for seeing to everything." She tugged the covers up tight around her throat and inched toward the edge of the bed—away from him.

"Look at me, Lacey," Hawke whispered, his voice low, coming from the core of his being. She slowly lifted a troubled gaze, meeting his eyes, but looked cornered, trapped as surely as his snares had trapped countless rabbits. It was a look Hawke didn't care for in the slightest. Relaxing the intensity of his own gaze, he softly whispered, "Don't be afraid, Lacey. I won't hurt you. You know that I would never hurt you, don't you?"

Her expression less worried, but still guarded, she whispered back, "Aye, and I'm believing that of you, my husband."

"Good." He ran his fingers along the column of her neck, feeling the tense muscles beneath her silken skin. "Relax a little, Irish. There's nothing to fear."

Keeping his movements smooth and unhurried, Hawke slowly eased himself closer to his nervous bride, then carefully settled his lips against hers. Lacey did not encourage him, or even shift herself to better accommodate his mouth, but she did allow the kiss. Even as he gathered her into his arms, obliging her to bear more of his weight, and then deepened the kiss, Lacey complied. Finally, at long last, he could feel her body moving beneath him.

Taking her busy hands and gently twisting hips as encouragement, Hawke slid his fingers up to the tight collar of her nightgown and began to unfasten the row of buttons there, kissing her all the while. He breathed deeply of this wife of his as he manipulated the little pearl fasteners, smelling the usual hint of cherry blossoms, but something more, too—softness? If such a virtue could even have an aroma, softness was exactly what Lacey smelled like, the downy, velvety essence of her seeping through his tough hide to perfume even the most acrid corners of his hardened heart.

Buoyed by the new sensation and the warming it spread deep within him, Hawke slipped his hand inside Lacey's nightgown and began to caress the gentle rise of her breasts. With an abruptness that startled them both, she pushed away from him. Lacey's little show of uncertainty did nothing to discourage Hawke, in fact, it prompted an almost primal aggression, one that had been building up inside him on its own. His ardor renewed, he followed the still-warm path Lacey had taken to the edge of the bed, then reached out to take her into his arms again—and came up grasping nothing but air.

First a soft
thump
met his ears, then this was quickly followed by a sharp cry.

"Lacey?" he called, leaning over the edge of the mattress to peer at the darkness below. "Where are you? Are you hurt?"

"Oh, goodness, me... no, I do not think so." She sat up and stared at him in the semidarkness, her eyes wide with surprise. "Are you wanting me to sleep on the other side of the bed? Would that be what you're hinting at?"

"On the—Oh, no, Lacey." He extended his hand to her. "Come back up here. I'm sorry if I was a little rough with you. I didn't mean to push you out of bed."

She slipped one of her hands in his, and with a gentle tug, Hawke had his wife beside him again. Exactly where he wanted her. "Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself when you fell?" he asked, caressing her hip through the thick layers of her cotton nightgown.

"No, no. I'm in splendid health, really I am." She swatted his hand away even as she leaned over and bestowed a chaste kiss to his cheek. Then, with one casual remark, she rolled over onto her side and offered her back to him. "The need to sleep has covered me up as surely as mist over a bog, so I'll just be bidding you goodnight now, my husband."

An incredulous Hawke watched as Lacey snuggled her head into the down pillow, carving out a niche the way a wildcat fashions a soft bed by clawing the ground. Then at once, she lay perfectly still. What the hell had he done wrong? Hawke wondered. He'd been gentle and affectionate, sensitive to her innocence and her needs, and with the exception of accidentally pushing her out of bed, very considerate. He thought back to the way she'd opened her mouth to him, encouraging, then mimicking his every movement. Damn it all, Lacey had responded to his touch, and wanted him at least a little bit—he was sure of it. Where had he gone wrong?

Hawke and Caleb had touched on the subject of his wedding night as they drank their morning coffee earlier in the day. Although frankly, his friend didn't know any more about polite society and innocent maidens than Hawke did, Caleb did make a point of telling him that Lacey was inexperienced, and that she'd never had a husband or lover before. In the course of that discussion, Hawke also learned that Kate and Lacey had discussed this part of the marriage, and that his bride had been prepared at least mentally, to submit to her husband. While he expected that she might be a little afraid of him, and even understood those fears, he never dreamed she'd be so flat-out skittish as to shut him out completely. How was he to proceed from here? Or was he to leave her be, allowing them both a little more time to get used to the nearness of the other?