Creed had forbidden her to drink and obtained Tom and Amy’s cooperation in assuring his order was obeyed. Little had he known his command would cause no hardship for her except at one time during the month. Unfortunately, that time had arrived. The only way she was going to survive the next day or so was with the help of a little whiskey. Make that a lot of whiskey, Cricket thought with a wry smile.
Well, she’d stolen whiskey from Rip often enough to know how it was done. The question was whether she could hide her discomfort until everyone went to bed tonight. A hard spasm doubled Cricket over where she stood. White-faced, she grasped a nearby doorjamb and slowly straightened up. She could do it. Unless she wanted to confess her dilemma to Jarrett Creed, she had no other choice.
Creed noticed how quiet Cricket was during supper, but attributed it to their morning confrontation. However, her eyes were unnaturally bright, almost feverish, and her face flushed and glowing. He’d have said she was planning some mischief, but the taut line of her lips wasn’t the least bit playful. Something was going on, though, and he intended to find out what it was.
At the first opportunity Creed said, “Cricket and I had a long day. I think we’ll go up to bed early tonight.” Was that relief he saw on Cricket’s face?
“Oh, but you promised we could play cards tonight. Did you forget?” Amy’s disappointment almost made Creed change his mind, except from the corner of his eye he noticed that Cricket’s face had blanched white.
“I’m sorry, Amy. Not tonight. I’m just too tired.” Yes, that was definitely relief on Cricket’s face. What was bothering her? Creed’s concern brought him around the table to pull back Cricket’s chair and take her elbow to help her to her feet. Surprisingly, she didn’t resist his assistance, but she stopped for a moment where she was, and he felt her whole body unaccountably stiffen. Seconds later she relaxed again.
“Brava?” he murmured.
“Creed, can we go upstairs, please? Now.”
Creed reached out and lifted Cricket into his arms. He knew something was terribly wrong when, instead of arguing with him over the presumptuous move, Cricket merely turned her face into his shirt and clung to his shoulders.
“Is something the matter with Cricket?” Amy asked as she rose from her chair. Tom rose also, his concern unvoiced but present nevertheless.
Cricket stiffened in Creed’s arms, and he recognized her unspoken plea not to disclose that anything was amiss. “Can’t a husband carry his wife up to bed?” he asked with a lascivious grin.
Amy blushed.
“That’s not a bad idea.” Tom whisked a laughing Amy into his arms. “Let’s go, Jarrett.”
Creed preceded his older brother up the stairs, sharing a wink as they each disappeared into their separate bedrooms. As soon as he was inside the door, Creed crossed quickly to the bed and laid Cricket upon it with anything but romantic intentions. She allowed him to help unbutton her dress and strip it off, another first between them that passed uncommented-upon, almost as though it were an everyday occurrence.
Creed had little time to be pleased by Cricket’s wifely behavior. She turned from him as soon as he was done, her lower lip clasped tight in her teeth, and closed her eyes, effectively shutting him out. He sat down next to her and anxiously examined her, his hands whisking over her, checking for some sign of injury. Again, she endured without complaint or, in fact, any acknowledgment that he was even in the same room with her.
“Did you hurt yourself somehow today?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong, then?”
“What makes you think something is—” Cricket gasped and bit into her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her whole body tensed, and she grabbed the quilt in her fists and held on tight. Come on, Cricket, you can do it. Just a little bit longer. But the litany she’d repeated all afternoon and into the evening didn’t seem to be working anymore.
Cricket moaned.
Creed gently brushed a strand of auburn hair from Cricket’s agonized brow. “Let me help, Brava,” he pleaded. “What’s wrong?”
Cricket moaned again.
“Tell me what I can do to help.”
Cricket’s feverish gaze caught the look of desperation in Creed’s topaz eyes. She would have to tell him.
“I need some whiskey.”
She’d said it so softly that at first Creed didn’t think he’d heard her right. “What?”
“Whiskey. I need some whiskey,” she repeated, agitated that she had to admit her weakness. While Cricket watched, Creed’s eyes turned stone cold. She shivered as she saw the sympathetic concern disappear, the anger grow.
“Is that what this is all about? You want some goddamned belly-wash?”
“Keep your voice down,” she warned. “You said you’d help. I need whiskey.”
Creed scowled at her, eyes flashing dangerously. “I told you no more drinking and I meant it. That’s one bad habit you’ll get over if I have to sit on you to keep you away from the bottle.” Creed was appalled by the glittering brightness of Cricket’s eyes as she glared back at him. There was something else there. Pain? But she’d said she wasn’t hurt. How was that possible? A ruse, perhaps, to trick him? She was cunning. In fact, he’d constantly underestimated her cleverness.
Cricket moaned again.
Her act wouldn’t fool him this time. “Moan all you want,” he said. “You’ll get your rotgut firewater over my dead body.”
Cricket turned her back to Creed and curled into a fetal ball, tucking her chin down and hugging her knees to her chest. He thought she was a lush. Well, she had a problem with the belly-vengeance, all right, but not the kind he thought. She could never tell him the truth now. After all her talk about being able to take care of herself, how could she admit there was, of course, this small exception, when she endured her female miseries. It was too humiliating.
Creed’s chest ached. He’d known of men tied to that snake-poison, but how had it happened to his brava? His brava—a drunk. Dear God, he thought, where had she been getting the whiskey to feed this habit over the past weeks? He’d taken her flask away, but she must have had some whiskey stashed somewhere else that she’d guzzled. It mattered little now. The damage was done—and he’d never even suspected.
He’d heard that withdrawal from whiskey could be awful, and he determined that the least he could do was comfort her through it. But when he touched Cricket on the shoulder, she jerked away from him. It was as though he’d tried to free a wild animal caught in a trap. He saw only fear in her eyes.
“Don’t you come near me. I’ll take care of myself.”
“All right, Brava, have it your way. If you want to fight the effects of that hell-broth alone, be my guest. But you’re not going to be doing any more drinking, because I’ll be here, and I’ll be watching.”
Cricket never moved. Creed readied himself for bed, blew out the candle, and crawled onto the feather mattress next to her. It was warm, so he didn’t trouble her to turn down the covers. He knew there was no way he could sleep with Cricket moaning and groaning on the other side of the bed, anyway. Why wouldn’t she let him help?
He reached over again in the darkness, but she stiffened as soon as he touched her shoulder and snapped, “Leave me alone.” He removed his hand and turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He lay that way until Cricket’s moans stopped. He closed his eyes for an instant, and the hard labor he’d done with Tom sent him into a sound sleep.
Cricket had been praying for at least the past hour, and it seemed finally her prayers had been answered. Creed was breathing steadily, a sure sign he was asleep. She need only sneak down to Tom’s cache of liquor, steal a bottle, and disappear into the barn until morning. By the time Creed found her, she’d have made it through her crisis.
As it turned out, her simple plan was easier said than done. In the first place, she couldn’t light a candle without awakening Creed, and it was as dark a
s the back end of a bear’s den. In the second place, she was decidedly unsteady on her feet. She’d eaten very little since morning, and fighting the cramps had taken a toll on her strength. Finally, the cramps attacked her at the most unpredictable times, and she had to stop and wait for them to pass.
When she reached her goal, the cabinet that held Tom’s liquor, she found out why Creed had felt so safe falling asleep. It was locked!
She hadn’t the vaguest idea where to look for the key, but she knew where she could find a knife to jimmy the lock. She headed for the silverware drawer in the dining room. There was a slight clatter of silver as she jerked the drawer open, and she waited motionless to see if anyone might have been disturbed. When it remained quiet, she stuck her hand in the drawer and ran her fingers from piece to piece until she located the pointed silver knives. She removed one and headed back to the parlor.
Cricket pried the lock open in minutes, then tried to determine in the dark which of the bottles was whiskey. She resorted to tasting them and ended up with a mouthful of sweet sherry, a disgusting sip of something bitter that she couldn’t identify, and a gulp of elderberry wine before she finally found what she was looking for. It was a good whiskey, very smooth and very welcome.
Cricket had tipped the bottle up and leaned her head back to drink again, when Creed lit a candle across from her. The shadows made his expression seem even more grim than it was.
“Hand it over, Brava.”
Instead, Cricket tried to swallow, only to have the bottle jerked away, spilling whisky on her underclothes and the carpeted floor.
“I need that!”
“No one needs whiskey. It’s a crutch you can do very well without.”
“You don’t understand. I have to have it! Otherwise I can’t stand the pain.”
Even through Creed’s fury, Cricket’s words registered. What pain couldn’t she stand? She’d said she wasn’t hurt. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. If this was a trick . . .
“All right, Brava, you can’t stand the pain without whiskey. What pain?”
Cricket’s hands came up to cover her face, and she mumbled through them. “The female miseries.”
Creed was stunned, and then furious that he’d worried himself half to death over a natural female bodily function. “You created all this ruckus over that? Of all the mooncalf, nickninny—”
Cricket’s groan cut him off. She really was in pain. He could see that. From what little he knew, she wouldn’t be the first woman who needed to retire to her bed for a few days each month. Naturally, Cricket hadn’t resorted to typical female behavior. She never did anything the normal way.
“Why don’t you take some laudanum and go to bed like everybody else?” he asked with frustrated helplessness.
Cricket peeked through her fingers at him. “Laudanum?”
Creed looked at her in astonishment. “You mean Rip never suggested you take laudanum for the pain?”
Cricket looked down at the balled fists in her lap and whispered, “I never told Rip about the pain.”
Creed shook his head. Surely the man had known. After all, he’d carried her up to her bedroom drunk often enough. Why hadn’t her father offered to help? Because that would have meant acknowledging Cricket wasn’t a son. Instead, Rip had let her hurt all these years.
Creed’s lips flattened in determination. She didn’t belong to Rip Stewart anymore. She belonged to him. And he wasn’t going to let her hurt one more double-damn minute!
Creed kneeled down beside Cricket. “Would you try some laudanum, Brava, if I can find some? It’ll ease the pain.”
Cricket nodded her head glumly. What choice did she have if he wasn’t going to let her drink whiskey? She was surprised when Creed picked her up in his arms and held her close to his chest.
“Come on, Brava, let’s get you back in bed where you belong.”
Cricket could hear Creed’s steady heartbeat in her ear, could feel the smooth skin of his chest against her cheek. She turned her face to him and pressed her nose against his skin like a child at the window of a mercantile store. She inhaled the special, delicious scent that was his, which she’d recognize anywhere.
She’d found a lot to admire about Creed over the past couple of weeks. Now, as he had the night of the fandango, he was taking care of her again. It was so nice to relax and let someone else take control for a little while. He was an exceptional man, and if things had been different she might even have liked being married to him. And, she admitted in a moment of honesty, she was very sorry she wasn’t going to have his baby.
All too soon Creed reached the bedroom. Cricket resumed her fetal position as soon as he laid her down. He left again to rummage as quietly as a thief through the dining room cabinets, where he found Amy’s store of medicinals, including her supply of laudanum. When he returned, he spooned some down Cricket’s throat, setting the bottle on the table next to the bed in case she needed more.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked.
“All over.”
Creed chuckled at Cricket’s emphatic complaint and shook his head. “Be more specific.”
“My belly . . . and my back.”
Cricket was in so much pain she didn’t realize at first what Creed intended as he sat down beside her and placed his hands on her back at the curve below her waist.
“Here?” he asked, his thumbs finding the clenched muscles with great accuracy.
“Yesssss.”
She tensed when Creed began gently but firmly massaging the tight muscles of her lower back under his fingertips.
“Don’t fight it, Brava,” he whispered. “Relax.”
Cricket could feel the tension easing as he moved his strong hands lower, just above the swell of her buttocks. His thumbs caressed in ever-widening circles. Slowly, the combination of Creed’s massage and the laudanum began to work. Her legs unfolded, and she was able to stretch out flat on her stomach.
As soon as she did, Creed let his hands roam. He soothed the muscles in her shoulders. He discovered the curve of her spine. He measured the span of her waist. He enjoyed the shapely firmness of her buttocks.
Cricket felt like she was floating. The pain had become no more than a memory, and it seemed entirely natural to enjoy the feel of Creed’s hands on her through her underclothes. She felt better than she’d imagined possible during the female miseries.
“Creed?”
“Hmmm?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, Brava. It was my pleasure.”
Tomorrow, when the mellow mood induced by the laudanum wore off, she was probably going to be furious at the way he’d touched her. But Creed couldn’t deny himself that joy tonight. He slipped into bed and pulled her into his arms, so they fit together like two spoons in Amy’s silverware drawer.
“Creed?”
“Hmmm?”
“Shouldn’t you be on your own side?”
“Not tonight, Brava. Tonight touching is the only way I can help you. And I want to help.”
He splayed his hand on her belly and gently caressed her taut skin, working to ease the constricted muscle beneath it. Cricket snuggled her rump deeper into the pocket created by Creed’s groin and thighs and gave him sway to do with her as he pleased. She didn’t think about their closeness, she just enjoyed it. She felt peaceful, languorous, sheltered . . . and before she knew it, she was asleep.
When she woke in the morning, she was alone. From the look of the sun, it was nearly noon. She sat up and was surprised at how well she felt, although things were still a little muzzy. She seemed to remember Creed dosing her again with medicine in the middle of the night, like he would a sick horse. He’d stayed close to her, his hands constantly moving, soothing, taking away the pain.
Cricket flushed. It wasn’t as though she’d voluntarily slept in Creed’s embrace. It had taken the female miseries to put her there. But—and she was having far too many moments of this God’s-truth kind of honestly lately—it ha
d been wonderful.
When the door opened to reveal Creed with a tray of food, Cricket felt a sudden shyness. After all, he’d been treating her for a delicate female condition.
However, there was nothing timid about Creed’s greeting. “Good morning! How’s the girl with the female miseries feeling today?”
Cricket blushed scarlet as she sank back down into the feather bed and pulled the covers up over her face. Husbands didn’t talk about things like that with their wives, did they?
Creed laughed heartily. He brought the tray over and set it down on the table next to the bed.
“Come on, Brava. Sit up and eat something.”
“I’m not hungry,” Cricket muttered from under the sheet.
“Sure you are. As a matter of fact, if you think about it, you’re probably starved.”
Right on cue, Cricket’s stomach growled.
“See what I mean?”
He obviously wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, and she was hungry. . . . Cricket slowly sat up, keeping the sheet modestly in front of her. “What do you have there?”
“It’s soup,” Creed said. “A broth, actually. I wasn’t sure how you’d be feeling.” He searched her face for a clue as to how well she’d survived the night, and their eyes caught and held. Something passed between them that hadn’t been there before.
Creed tried to ignore it, but couldn’t.
Cricket tried to identify it, but couldn’t.
Creed cleared his throat.
Cricket cleared hers, too.
She blinked once.
So did he.
But it didn’t go away.
Whatever it was crackled between them like lightning in a thunderstorm, and Cricket could feel her neck hairs standing on end. She searched Creed’s eyes for some clue to the mystery and lost herself in their depths.
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