Saturday Mornings (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

  He played his hands over her legs, and suddenly all his reasons changed. Pleasure surged through him. She had the soft satiny skin that he loved so well. She had the delicious curves that made his muscles tighten and his breathing heavy. And yet, she was more than seductive curves and soft skin. She was more than a sex object in the hay. With Margaret Leigh under him, acquiescent, he felt as if he'd never loved before. She made him believe that she was his first.

  That wouldn't do. He was teaching a lesson, not falling in love.

  With great effort, he separated his emotions from his actions.

  “Is this what you want, Margaret Leigh?”

  He slipped her coat off, then slid her zipper down with the expertness born of experience, at the same time pulling her dress down to her waist. His mouth skimmed down her throat and across one shoulder.

  “See how easy it is for a man, my love.”

  Suddenly she stiffened. “Is this an object lesson?”

  “Yes.” Andrew sat up and drew her dress back over her shoulders. She tried to twist away, but he held her fast, his face grim as he fastened her zipper. “You're no match for a man, Margaret Leigh. You're not strong enough.”

  He smoothed her skirt over her legs, ignoring the way she fought against him.

  “I'm not going to let you destroy yourself with some fool notion about climbing into bed with the first man who comes along.”

  She drew her fist back and took a swing at him. He caught her wrist. She glared at him, panting.

  “Who made you my keeper?”

  “Don't think I wanted to be your knight in shining armor. Slaying the dragons you create is not my idea of a fun-filled evening.”

  “Nobody asked you to slay dragons.”

  “I guess it's my great nobility of character. I can't stand to see you throw yourself away on the likes of Hooter.”

  “I’ll find somebody else who is willing.”

  “Not tonight, you won't.”

  He plucked her out of the hay with embarrassing ease. She was not a small woman, but Andrew McGill had a knack for handling her as if she were a hundred-pound weakling. She guessed it must be all that fresh country air that made him so strong.

  She studied him as she took the time to regroup. Hay clung to his clothes and his hair. He looked good enough to eat, like something picked fresh from a country garden.

  It was a new experience for Margaret Leigh, looking at a man and feeling warm inside. And if she thought about his kisses.... She wouldn't think about his kisses. She'd concentrate on ways to get away from him.

  She was no match for his strength; that was a fact. And he was far too clever to outwit. She'd just have to make him so mad, he'd be glad to see her go.

  “I suppose you're planning to tie me to your bed.”

  His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. Instead, he scooped her coat out of the hay and stood up. She'd be darned if she'd ask where he was taking her. He stalked out of the barn, bearing her like a sacrifice. The cold wind slapped her in the face, but she refused to shiver.

  “It's too bad you can't keep a woman in your bed without tying her up.”

  “It depends on the woman.”

  This time she was the one who retreated into icy silence. She lay stoically in his arms, taking pleasure only from the knowledge that he was as disturbed as she. His muscles were rigid, and the usual fluid grace of his walk was replaced by the tight choppy gait of a man walking around land mines.

  The dogs created a ruckus when they passed the kennel, but Andrew didn't speak to them this time. He marched silently on until he reached the back door of his cabin.

  Balancing her in his arms, he opened his screen door and let them in.

  “Welcome home.” His voice was clipped and icy as he put her down.

  “I've had warmer welcomes in funeral parlors.” She angrily brushed the hay from her skirt.

  “It's a warm welcome you're looking for, is it?”

  Too late, she saw the gleam in his eye. He had her back in his arms before she could even think about running. She decided her best ploy would be to endure. She tipped her face up and waited for his kiss.

  His laughter was quick in coming, but it wasn't a sound of mirth. It was the hollow laughter of a man wrestling with demons.

  “Do you think I'm going to kiss you again, Margaret Leigh?”

  “When you manhandle me, that's usually your intention.”

  “Not this time, my sweet. What I'd love to do is paddle that pretty bottom of yours.”

  She still had the grace to blush over the fact that a man had actually seen her bottom. To cover her discomfiture, she jutted out her chin and glared at him.

  “It's mighty tempting, my pet, but I'm not in the mood for more games,” Andrew told her.

  “You're the one playing games.”

  “If that wasn't a game with Hooter, what was it?”

  “Maybe it was love.”

  “And maybe I'm the king of England.”

  He picked her up again and carried her through his kitchen, through his den, and down the hallway to his bedrooms.

  “No, my feisty little minx, the warm welcome I have in mind for you is a good hot bath and big hot toddy.”

  A bath sounded like heaven, but Margaret Leigh wasn't about to say so.

  “You can't make me bathe.”

  One eyebrow quirked upward over his sizzling blue eyes. This time his chuckle was genuine.

  “Would you like to bet on that, Margaret Leigh?”

  “I’ll bathe, but not for you. Only because I want to.”

  “Now that's my sweet little girl.”

  “You arrogant pirate.”

  “You say the nicest things.”

  He kicked open his bedroom door and marched straight to his bed. He dropped her coat over the footboard and lowered her to the sheets, then he leaned over her.

  “Now, listen carefully, Margaret Leigh. I'm tired and I'm ready for bed. You're going to get out of your clothes and take a nice relaxing bath while I make you a hot toddy. Then you're going to drink it without protest and go to bed.”

  She glanced around the room. It was filled with solid furniture and leather-bound books and pieces of Indian pottery. There was a colorful Indian rug on the wooden floor.

  “This is your bed.”

  “Right. You'll sleep across the hall again.”

  He straightened up and left the room quickly, giving her no time to argue. When he was gone she collapsed. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her head into his pillows.

  That was her first mistake. His particular smell clung there, the fresh scent of wind in the pines mixed with the heady scent of leather. She sat up quickly, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them.

  She was truly thankful that she'd been spared the night in Hooter's garlic embrace. Maybe she should just give up the fight and go back home.

  She lay back against the pillows. In the distance she could hear Andrew banging cabinet doors and slamming around the kitchen. A sense of security stole over her, and she relaxed.

  The voices came unexpectedly. Who is my mother? I am. I am. I am. She clenched her jaws and pressed her hands over her ears until the voices subsided; then she got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

  With quick movements, she undressed and climbed into Andrew's shower. There was only one way to stop the mocking voices. And she'd find that way soon, as soon as she could get out of Andrew's prison.

  o0o

  Andrew stood outside the bathroom door, holding her drink and listening to the sounds of running water. Good. She was talking a hot shower. It would relax her.

  He pushed open the door and went inside. She was silhouetted against the shower curtain. He didn't mean to linger, but he couldn't help himself. Seen through the thin layer of semitransparent plastic, her body was lovely. He leaned against the doorjamb for another look. He figured she owed him that much for all the aggravation she'd caused.

  She was the most agg
ravating woman he'd ever met. Furthermore, he was spending time on her as if time were Texas and he owned half of it. He hadn't spent that much time with a female since Trixie, and she'd gone on to win the National Field Trial Championship. Tennessee Tiffany Trixie. She'd been a good old bird dog. One of the best.

  He smiled. Bird dogs always made him smile.

  “Here's your drink.”

  Margaret Leigh jumped and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “You're in my bathroom.”

  “It's my bathroom.” He caught one side of the shower curtain and passed the drink through. “Want me to scrub your back?”

  “Have you no shame?”

  “None.” He jiggled the drink. “Are you going to take it, or shall I bring it in to you?”

  She shut off the water and snatched the glass out of his hand. He had a sudden hindsight.

  “Do you drink, Margaret Leigh?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  He smiled. She didn't, and he was glad.

  “Don't drink it too fast. And if you need any help getting out of the shower, just give a yell. I’ll be right outside the door.”

  He let the shower curtain drop back into place, then he gathered up all her clothes and left the bathroom. He thought about hanging them in his closet, but that was too chancy. She might find them.

  He walked to his bed and stuffed them under the covers. A naked woman couldn't go far.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots, a satisfied grin on his face. He'd solved the problem of how to keep her with him without having to sleep in the same bed, tied together.

  He was only human. He didn't think he could spend another night in bed with Margaret Leigh and come out with his honor and her virginity intact. And he had no doubts whatsoever that she was a virgin. Good grief. Why would a pure woman be moving heaven and earth to give herself to the first man who would have her?

  Tomorrow he would find out. If she wouldn't confide in him, he'd go see her Aunt Bertha. She was bound to know.

  He was unbuttoning his shirt when she yelled. “What have you done with my clothes?”

  Her words were carefully spaced. The toddy had done its work.

  “They're safe. You'll get them back in the morning.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “Tonight we're going to bed and get a good night's sleep.”

  “If you think I'm coming out of this bathroom without my clothes, you're mad.”

  He was delighted. A woman truly bent on seduction wouldn't be worried about a man seeing her without her clothes.

  “Come on out. I’ll shut my eyes.”

  “I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you.”

  “Smart woman. I wouldn't trust me, either.”

  He walked to his closet and pulled out a robe. It was pink and silky, a three-year-old reminder of his affair with Joyce Laton.

  Joyce had been a fine woman. His parents had harbored high hopes that he might marry her. He'd never even been close. She bored easily, and besides that, she didn't like dogs.

  He opened the bathroom door a crack and held out the robe.

  “What's that?”

  “A robe. I think it might fit you.”

  “A woman's robe.”

  “That's right.”

  “You expect me to wear something left behind by one of your floozies.”

  Her fury shocked him. He had thought she'd be glad for something feminine.

  “It's just a piece of clothing. She's not coming back for it.”

  “How gratifying. I would hate to be rousted out of my sleep by one of your lovers looking for her clothes.”

  “Dammit, Margaret Leigh—”

  “Don't you start, Andrew McGill. You're the one who brought me here. Against my will, I might add.”

  He pulled the robe back and shut the bathroom door. “You could show a little gratitude. Remember what I saved you from.”

  “I've gone from the frying pan into the fire if you ask me.”

  “If you keep shouting, you're going to wake up Christine.”

  “I'm not shouting.”

  Women. Why couldn't they be as uncomplicated as dogs? He tossed the robe onto a chair and finished unbuttoning his chamois shirt. Opening the door again, he shoved it through.

  “Here. This ought to cover the essentials.”

  She snatched it from him and slammed the door, barely missing his hand. In a few minutes she emerged, the shirt sleeves dangling below her hands and the tail ending above the knees. He'd never known his shirt could look so sexy.

  Her color was high, and she spared him only a brief glance when she marched unsteadily past.

  “Don't bother to show me the way. I already know.”

  “Good night, my sweet. Sleep tight.”

  The slamming door was his only answer. He unbuckled his pants and thought about heading for the shower, then he remembered her purloined clothes. The shower would have to wait. He couldn't risk her searching while he was bathing.

  He climbed into his bed, satisfied that he had secured Margaret Leigh for one more night. If he knew her, and he thought he did, she wouldn't dare set foot out of the house wearing nothing more than a man's shirt.

  Across the hall, Margaret Leigh stalked toward his guest bed, crawled between the covers, and made her plans. Andrew McGill couldn't beat her. As soon as Hooter and James brought her car, she'd be on her way.

  She turned on her side and prepared to sleep. She was a light sleeper. The sound of her old car would be her alarm. All she could do was pray that it wouldn't wake Andrew.

  Lulled and warmed by the drink, she tucked herself into a ball and drifted into sleep, wrapped in Andrew's shirt.

  o0o

  Bertha heard Margaret Leigh's car. There was no mistaking that rattle. She turned her head and squinted one eye at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. Five a.m. She threw back the covers and crept across the floor. Lord, she was going to an early grave worrying over Margaret Leigh.

  She heard the footsteps on the stairs and stood waiting until she was sure Margaret Leigh was in her room, then she followed her. She'd always condemned eavesdropping, but there were circumstances that demanded it, and this was one of them. Without shame, she pressed her ear against Margaret Leigh's door. She was dialing the phone.

  “Tess, it's Margaret Leigh.... Yes, I know what time it is.... No. Nothing's wrong. I guess I'm catching a cold.” Margaret Leigh paused to blow her nose.

  Bertha wasn't fooled. She stood outside the door, torn between going in to comfort her daughter and staying outside to find out what was going on. Sure of a rebuff, she stayed outside.

  “Tess, I called you to get some advice about men.... I know you're an expert on the subject.... How do you find a nice man to take you to bed?... Stop cussing. I'm serious.... Well, Harry Cox is the only one I know, and there is a carnival in town.... All right.... Okay.... I don't know if I could do that.... I'll try.... I'm fine, Tess. Stop worrying.... I love you too. Bye.”

  Bertha hurried from her post and crept back down the stairs. Lord, what was happening to her Margaret Leigh?

  o0o

  The first thing Andrew did when he woke up was go across the hall to check on Margaret Leigh. He eased open her door and stuck his head around the corner. The bed was empty. At first he couldn't believe his eyes. He stood in the hall, dumbfounded that his plan had failed. He wasn't accustomed to failing.

  He shoved open the door and strode to the bed. It didn't even look slept in. The spread was tucked neatly under the pillows. Don't panic, he told himself. Maybe she was in the kitchen making breakfast.

  He hurried through his house. It was small, and it didn't take him long to discover that Margaret Leigh was nowhere on the premises. Where had she gone? Surely not back to Hooter's.

  There was one way to find out. On his way to the phone he glanced at the clock. It was only seven. She couldn't have been gone long.

  Hooter answered on the first
ring.

  “Hooter, this is Andrew.”

  “How are you, boy? And how's that pretty little filly this morning?”

  Relief flooded through Andrew. At least Margaret Leigh hadn't gone back to Hooter. He fished for information. “She's fine, just great. Say, thanks for bringing her car back.”

  “Shucks, it wadn't any trouble. Me and James was up all night playing cards, anyhow.”

  “I didn't even hear you when you came. It must have been early.”

  “Shoot, it was. We left here right after James had beat my pants off. I swear he's cheating.”

  “What time was that, Hooter?”

  “Around four-thirty, I'd say.”

  “Thanks, Hooter. If I can return the favor sometime, let me know.”

  “Well, there's that old dog of mine. Possum. I've been wondering what a good trainer like you might do for him.”

  “Bring him over. I’ll do it. Free of charge.”

  Hooter wanted to talk about Possum's training program, but Andrew found a way to end the conversation, then he hurried outside to feed his dogs.

  When he came back inside, he woke a sleepy Christine, fed her, and carried her outside for her toilet. By the time he'd taken his own shower and dressed it was almost eight o'clock. And he didn't even have a vehicle. His stallion was fine for the woods, but it wouldn't do to take him cross-country and onto the streets of Tupelo. There was only one thing to do. He called his brother.

  “Rick, I need a favor.”

  “Can you speak up, Andrew? The girls are yelling about their wet diapers and the boys are trying to get to the moon in their homemade rocket.”

  “They're too young to build rockets.”

  “I built it for them. Every boy ought to have a rocket.”

  Andrew chuckled, then got to the heart of the matter. “I need to borrow your Corvette, and I need to borrow it fast.”

  “You're never in a hurry. Woman trouble?”

  “How'd you guess?”

  “I lived through it once myself.” Rick stopped talking, and Andrew heard the sound of kissing. There was no telling how long Rick and Martha Ann would have gone on smooching if Andrew hadn't interrupted them.

  “Hey, Rick! What about that favor?”

  “All right. Here's what we’ll do.”