The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (22 page)

Retracing his steps, Hawke stormed back into the barn and looked into all the stalls and feed rooms again in hopes of stumbling across some hint that she'd been there. Still he found no sign of Lacey. He paused for several moments outside the foaling stall, wondering if she'd been fool enough to try walking down the road to Three Elk again. After what happened here today, it made sense, he supposed, to seek her friend Kate. Deciding it couldn't hurt to take a ride in that direction, Hawke had just stepped away from the stall when he heard scratching sounds coming from above. The loft. Since it was Crowfoot's domain, he hadn't even thought of looking for his wife up there, but given the circumstances—none of which he understood—he decided to have a quick look. Once he'd climbed up the ladder and maneuvered through his dwindling supply of alfalfa, Hawke approached the carefully arranged bales of straw which served as the boy's lair.

He hadn't really expected to find Lacey there, so it was with a good bit of surprise that he discovered her sitting in the straw, wrapped in the boy's thin arms. "What the devil...?" Hawke took another step toward them.

"No." Crowfoot raised a hand, warding him off. "You go."

"The hell if I will." He moved in closer, only to be held at bay by a pair of lethal onyx eyes.

"You
go.
She not... she—" Crowfoot beat a tattoo against his own chest. "She hurt. You go."

"Damn it, son, you think I can't see that for myself?" And he could, easily. Lacey was staring out through the opened doors of the loft as if looking at the house, but her eyes were glazed over, seeing absolutely nothing. He didn't know exactly what was wrong with her or what drove her to this, but he did recognize the look for what it was: Shock.

Crowfoot renewed his grip on Lacey, then glanced up at Hawke and glared. "You go. She cannot talk. Maybe later."

"If anyone's going to go, it'll be you," he said, reining in his temper as best he could. "I'm Lacey's husband and I'll take care of her."

Instead of relinquishing his hold, the boy shook his head defiantly and pulled Lacey even tighter into his small embrace. Hawke could hardly believe this of Crowfoot, a boy who was barely more civilized than a wild animal at eight years of age when he and Caleb first took him in. It had taken them months to get even one word out of the withdrawn child. How had Lacey reached him so quickly? And how was Hawke to reach her? Something ugly rolled through him at the thought, and along with it, the feeling that he was on the outside looking in. Hawke recognized the sensation as jealousy, which he thought was ridiculous since the object of this insane rage was a boy, not a man. But Hawke was jealous, in any case. And he knew it.

Dropping to his heels, he softened his voice, using the tone he reserved for gentling horses. "I can see your concern for Lacey, son, but surely I'm the better choice to help my own wife. Have I ever done anything but help you when you needed it?" The bright glare slowly began to leave Crowfoot's dark eyes. "Didn't I even have enough sense to leave you to yourself when you didn't want anyone around? I never pushed or pressured you, did I?"

The boy gave a surly shrug, but averted his gaze.

"Then what are you worried about? You must know that I would never do anything to hurt Lacey. I only want to help her."

Releasing his grip on Lacey at last, Crowfoot hung his head. "You not hurt lady. I know."

"Then leave me alone with her for a while. Fair enough?"

The boy regarded him for a long moment before he said, "Hawke fair. And good, too. I go." Then in an instant, his wiry body moving with its usual stealth and speed, he jumped up and took off.

"Lacey?" said Hawke after Crowfoot had gone. "Look at me, will you?"

But as she'd done during his exchange with the boy, she just sat quietly without so much as flinching, and continued to stare out at the house. Trying another tack, Hawke approached his uncommunicative wife and sat down in the straw beside her.

After slipping his arm across her shoulders, he spoke to her in a low whisper. "Hello, Irish. A little mad at me, are you?" Not that he thought he had anything to apologize for, but even this didn't draw so much as a flicker from those wide blue eyes. "Well, if you are mad, don't worry about it. It's a common affliction to anyone who's unlucky enough to meet up with me—and I do know how much you Irish folks value your luck." Still nothing, so he tried a little silliness. "Why, I once got Caleb so damn riled over something I did, he kicked
himself
in the butt."

Chuckling lightly, Hawke glanced at Lacey's expression, hoping to find at least a little crack in her armor. She was as stiff as a new saddle. Even Crowfoot hadn't been this distant when he and Caleb first came across him. The boy at least looked at them when they spoke.

As he considered other ways of reaching her, Hawke took Lacey's hands in his. Absently caressing the soft skin at the back of the hand she was always hiding from him, the right, he considered grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her to awareness. Or perhaps, he thought, there was a less violent way. What if he were to kiss her or take her into his arms? She might even—

His thoughts stalled on the last word as his fingers passed over an extremely rough patch of skin on Lacey's palm. Turning her hand over, Hawke was startled to see that almost the entire area was webbed with scarring. When he recognized those scars as the telltale reminders of a bad burn, all of her little eccentricities began to make sense to him; especially her reluctance to get close to the fireplace or stove. It even explained in a small way why she hadn't tried to douse the flames in the kitchen.

Remembering how he'd shouted at Lacey when he found her standing there watching his house burn down, Hawke brought her palm to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it as he muttered, "Oh, Lacey—why didn't you show me this before now, or explain what happened to you?"

She heard Hawke's voice in the distant part of her mind, and had heard it since he started calling her name in the yard. It was a sound she couldn't shut out as easily as the nurses at the hospital, a deep, insinuating voice which had the power to reach her heart even through the walls of the spell. Still, it wasn't until his lips touched her scar that Lacey became fully aware of her husband's presence—and of what he was doing. A new kind of turmoil started within her at that display of tenderness, lifting her above the spell, but leaving her completely confused. She didn't know what to do, how to do it, or even who she was. Then the tip of Hawke's tongue touched down on that pad of damaged flesh, searing her body and mind clear through to the core.

With a sharp intake of breath, Lacey snapped out of her spell and jerked her hand from Hawke's grasp. Then she met his gaze, her mind and vision, if not her heart, clear. "Don't do that. How can you? My palm must feel like—like a plank to your poor mouth."

He glanced at the fist she'd made of that hand and shrugged. "Not to me, it doesn't."

"But it must. I can put my finger to this," she stroked her damaged palm, "and feel that 'tis like rubbing up against the bark of a tree or touching something... dead."

"Think what you will. It's just a little scar to me, a part of you." Hawke reached for her hand.

"Don't touch it." Lacey shrank away from him. "Please don't even look upon me there."

He shrugged. "If that's what you want, all right. Is it still painful, or something?"

"Only to my mind." She hung her head. "I cannot bear to see the look in your eyes when you, if it..." Embarrassed, Lacey let the sentence die out. Her eyes filling with tears, she remembered what drove her to the barn and quietly added, "I'm sorry, too, for what happened in your kitchen. 'Twere an accident, I swear it. Is the house badly burned?"

"The house is... fine. I never did like those stupid curtains with the daisies all over them, anyway." Tilting his head toward her hand, he asked, "Tell me what happened to you. How were you burned?"

"I—I wish I could tell you, but... truth is, I cannot remember. I was but a wee lass not quite seven when it happened." Seeking his gaze, wondering how much more she could tell him and still have at least a little of his respect, Lacey watched Hawke carefully as she explained a small segment of her past. "I only know that my dear mother and father died in the same fire that burned me." The heavy sense of guilt that always weighed her down grew heavier at the thought, swelling her throat with a pain that ached all the way down to her heart. Lacey tried, but she couldn't go on.

Hawke didn't press her for more details. If he'd learned one thing through his experiences with Crowfoot, it was that information such as this came slowly and painfully, and that forcing too much too soon could do more harm than good. Instead, he slipped his arm across her shoulders again and gave her a gentle hug.

"Thank you for telling me about it, Irish. I just wish you'd have told me when we first met, or at least, after we got married." Hawke gave her a wry smile. "I wouldn't have been quite so determined to make you learn how to cook, that's for sure."

"Aye, you're right. I suppose I should have told you a wee bit more about myself before now. Please know that I'm truly sorry for everything."

Uncomfortable with the conversation and trying to end it, Hawke took his share of the blame. "Yeah, well I'm sorry for the way I hollered at you in the kitchen."

"
You
—sorry? Oh... oh, Hawke." Tears spilled down to Lacey's cheeks in spite of her efforts to hold them back. "'Tisn't a thing in the world for you to be sorry about. I only want, I only hope that..." She couldn't go on, so fast was the flow of her tears by now. Lacey brought her hands to her face in hopes of hiding this newest embarrassment, but Hawke caught them before she could stop him, then gently eased her down on her back in the straw.

"I don't know about you," he muttered, settling in beside her, "but I'm getting tired of all this apologizing and forgiving. I can think of a lot better things to do with our lips than talk."

When he saw the glimmer in Lacey's eyes and the tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth, Hawke impulsively touched his lips to the spot. The kiss started out slowly at first, the sealing of a pact of forgiveness, but soon it became much more than a gentle sharing of the tender feelings growing between them. In fact, this was different than anything they'd ever experienced before; more passionate to be sure, but also more profound somehow. Hawke could feel Lacey relaxing beneath him; his, in a trusting sort of way, for the first time since they'd taken their vows.

That kiss led to another, then another, until Hawke finally realized that he wanted his wife so badly, he'd almost convinced himself it would be all right to take her right there in the straw in broad daylight. Not the best of ideas considering that Crowfoot could stumble upon them at any time. The image this prompted gave Hawke the strength to tear himself away from her, even though regret and frustration followed swiftly on the heels of the passion they'd shared.

At first he assumed his normal rigid control and sense of privacy were the things which drove him to back away from Lacey, but as he glanced down at her lying there in the straw, Hawke realized there was something more than simple control at work here, a new force he'd never felt before. Perhaps, he thought, it was Lacey's expression. She no longer looked frightened, scared, or withdrawn, but shone with a radiant sense of peace, a happiness which lit her lovely face from within. He wanted her, there was no doubt about that, and wanted her still, but the actual physical joining between himself and Lacey suddenly seemed almost a secondary concern. Was this the way it was supposed to be between a man and his wife, or had that soft spot inside gotten the best of him again?

Wondering at the changes coming over him, concerned too, how those changes might affect the strong independence he coveted so, Hawke climbed to his feet. "I need a little air," he explained gruffly. "You lay there and rest a minute."

Lacey watched him stride across the straw to the doors of the loft, her captivated gaze fastened on Hawke's tight jeans and the firm round buttocks beneath them. Even if he was her husband, it seemed wrong to stare at the man so blatantly, but she could no more stop ogling him than she could cool the heat radiating up through her cheeks. In fact, her entire body was on fire with wanting him, an almost desperate need to have Hawke back in her arms. What had come over her?

Lord!
she thought, bolting upright. Could this be that modicum of pleasure Kate mentioned? Or maybe, she thought, trying to find a way to rationalize her uncivilized reactions to Hawke, this had something to do with her spell after he'd hollered at her in the kitchen. Whatever the reason, Lacey knew if he looked into her eyes just right or touched her the way he had again, she'd probably melt like butter under the summer sun, leaving him to do his ghastly bidding on her poor helpless body.

As if he realized what she'd been thinking, Hawke chose that moment to look over his shoulder, gazing at her with eyes glistening in almost the same black green of the Irish yews. Then he favored her with a lazy smile. Unable to control the response, Lacey shuddered from head to toe. Her cheeks, which had finally begun to cool, instantly caught fire again, the flames within burning hotter than before. Why did the man have to look so bloody good to her? And how was she to keep her wits about her now that she knew how deeply he could affect her?

There was only one thing to do: Keep Hawke at bay. And the first thing she had to do to accomplish that was learn to avoid his demanding, disconcerting, and worst of all, hypnotizing gaze. As long as she didn't allow those incredible eyes of his to collide with hers, trapping her as surely as the most deadly of bogs, she'd be just fine.