by Tessa Bowen
“I’m not hiding them,” she argued. “I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
He laughed hoarsely. “You think your naked breasts will make me uncomfortable?”
“Well, you turned your back when I got undressed.”
“Because I’m the world’s biggest idiot—I missed my chance at a high class peep show.”
“That’s sort of an oxymoron, isn’t it?”
“If you’re the one doing the stripping, it’d be high class.”
She blushed through her already flushed face, fluttering her dark lashes.
“What’s the matter?” he grinned. “I’ve seen them before—you rode me topless like a sex-crazed maniac that night in the barn.”
She backed away from him, laughing nervously. “Oh, don’t remind me of my brazen behavior. Besides, the light was rather…I mean quite dim that evening.”
“Dim light made it easier for you to pretend I was Barrington.”
“I thought we weren’t mentioning him and…I wasn’t pretending. I could never mistake you for him.”
“Oh yeah—why not?”
She licked her lips. Her voice sounded thin as she spoke. “You’re a much… bigger man. All over…”
She must have known that comment would please him. He smirked with pride. “I hit the mark, didn’t I? Implanted a Duck on the first try—guess size does matter.”
“Don’t be crude,” she scolded.
“Come on,” he goaded. “Let me see them.”
“No!”
“I’ve watched you nurse for fuck’s sake. Now you’re hiding them from me?”
“That’s just it—they don’t look the same now. Pregnancy is hard on a woman’s body.”
“Apparently not,” he threw back playfully.
She backed away from him until she had nowhere to go. Her back met with a boulder. She was trapped between him and it.
“I don’t understand you. One minute you’re a bully, telling me you don’t want me here. In the next, you’re teasing me…flirting even.”
“That’s the way it is with boys and girls.”
“We’re a woman and a man,” she informed him primly.
He took her by her wrists and applied pressure with his thumbs, pulling gently. “Don’t remind me—I’m trying to forget.”
She resisted. “And seeing my breasts will help you forget?” she threw back.
They were in a tug-of-war now, he began to chuckle while she giggled and fussed.
“Ok, it won’t help me forget,” he told her. “But it will help me remember why I gave it up to you in the first place, you old bag.”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief as she released her arms and pushed hard at his chest. “Of all the terrible things to say! There they are, you wretched man, drink your fill.”
She straightened her torso and put herself on display for him. She even heaved a noisy huff and rested one hand on her well-turned hip.
His mouth didn’t go dry, it filled with moisture. That had never happened to him before. Her nipples were all tightened from the crisp air and resembled candied buttons, the kind he used to gnaw off the paper by the yard as a kid. Her candied buttons would be the rose petal flavor—(if there was such a flavor). One thing was for certain, he’d like to devour those breasts of hers, candied buttons and all.
Her shoulders dipped a bit as she sighed. “They’re not what they used to be, I’m afraid.”
Her rack was still superb, unchanged like the rest of her. She truly was an incredible woman.
His eyes bore holes into the perfect mounds. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Baroness—they are still an exceptional set.”
“Not bad for a pensioner,” she quipped.
He started to laugh at her clever jest, but a thought began to chew through his thick male skull. How could they be just as they were before? Weren’t they supposed to be distended with milk? He hadn’t gotten a clear view the day she’d breastfed in front of him, but he’d seen enough to tell they were plumper. Not anymore—her breasts looked just like they had in the barn and yet she’d given birth less than a month ago.
“Aren’t they supposed to be bigger?” he asked. “I mean…they don’t look swollen enough to feed…” He trailed off when her face fell. She quickly covered her bosom.
Her eyes lowered guiltily. “My milk dried up. I’ve been feeding Ducky from a bottle.”
“Oh…”
“It’s quite unusual for a woman to stop producing milk so early,” she went on quietly. “Margaret took me to Billings to the family doctor.”
“Why wasn’t I told about this?”
“We didn’t want to bother you with women’s troubles.”
“Well, what did he say was wrong?”
Her words came quickly, in a breath of anxiety. “Nothing is wrong. He said it might be stress or…my diet. We have the very best formula for her—I did plenty of research, not to worry. She seems to like it very much.”
John’s eyes darkened a shade and his mouth fixed in a stiff line. “Did you say your diet? I think he meant your lack of diet.”
She was actually backing away from him. “He did suggest I up my calories,” she answered in a very small voice.
“Goddamn you,” he ground out. “Don’t you see what you’ve done?”
THE BARONESS CRINGED IN RESPONSE TO HIS WORDS. “I’m not sure what you mean…”
“You’ve fucking starved yourself and now there is no milk for our baby.”
“I told you she’s on formula.”
“My daughter isn’t supposed to be on formula, she’s supposed to be on mother’s milk, but her mother is too goddamn vain and selfish to care. You’d rather be thin than feed Ducky.”
“That’s not true.”
“If you don’t take care of yourself, you can’t take care of her. It’s not natural for a woman to be so thin after giving birth. You’re thinner than you were before for Christ’s sake.”
He loomed over her, half-naked and powerful. The mood had changed so rapidly. Abigail could feel her heart breaking in her chest. She’d been brazen again and it hadn’t paid off. It had only exposed the truth and the truth stung, so did his bitter resentment. She much preferred his teasing to this. If she could only turn the clock back and start again.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he bit out.
Abigail lowered her face into her hands. There was no point in denying the facts. “I am,” she whispered miserably. “I’m sorry…I’ll try to do better. I’ve just been doing this most of my life—the dieting, I mean. I’ll have to learn a different way now. My food control issues get worse with stress, and I’ve been under a good deal of stress lately.”
“Jesus Christ,” he cursed in disgust. “Maybe you should see another sort of doctor, like a head doctor.”
She lifted her face, trying to use humor to be brave. “Perhaps a food whisperer?”
“This isn’t funny!” he erupted. “You’re a goddamn mother now! You have one fucking job to do—get your shit together!”
She leapt in fright at the thunderous clap of his low male voice, then cringed again when he splashed past her, stomping up to the bank to where his clothes were. She didn’t watch him dress, just crouched there in the water shivering as she choked back sobs. When she was sure he was gone, she broke down, her body wracked with despair.
Even through the haze of heartache and tears, she knew what she must do. She must bend her will to accommodate him—in all ways. She must behave herself and become a woman he could bear. This was no longer about her pride, or indeed her figure. It was about Ducky. If she wasn’t careful, she’d lose any chance of her daughter having a father. If she didn’t do better, it was possible he’d send them both away. He couldn’t have one without the other and if he grew to truly detest her, she supposed it would be better just to go back to England as a failure. The trouble was she would have failed Ducky and that was something she couldn’t live with.
She’d thought
by coming here she could bring them closer together, but it had only driven them farther apart. She had one more chance to make things right—she had to be a very good girl, there was no other way. First things first, she had to stop making him so angry, but what would make him happy? What did good little wives do to make their husbands happy? She couldn’t use sex to please him.
She thought a moment, sniffing away her tears. “Bloody hell,” she muttered. “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to bake.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Baroness supposed two sticks of butter would buy her way into any man’s heart—especially when it was combined with two cups of brown sugar. She blew a wayward tendril out of her eyes and wiped her hands on the front of her gingham apron.
“I did it,” she proclaimed with a proud smile.
Margaret gave her a rewarding pat on the back. “You did do it, honey. And pear crisp is a good place to start. It’s simple, but delicious, and its Johnny’s favorite. He especially likes that little bite of ginger.”
Abigail’s smile faded as she studied her golden brown crumb crust. “I hope I didn’t add too little or too much. One more infraction and I’ll be fired as Ducky’s mother.”
“Don’t you know anything about men and women, honey? For a woman so beautiful you seem to be lacking in experience. He’s not angry at you. He’s angry that he has you under his skin.”
“I’m under his skin all right, and in all the wrong ways. You didn’t see how he looked at me when he found out you took me to the doctor, Margaret. It was awful.”
“He’s just worried about you, honey. You’ve got to learn how to read him.”
“He’s a very complex sort, isn’t he?” Abigail pouted. “And so bloody moody it makes my head spin.”
“The boy is just bent out of shape. He’ll come around. Just hang on—don’t let him push you away. He’s afraid to let another woman close to him after what happened. Especially since you two have a daughter—I’m sure it all seems too familiar…”
The whinny of a horse sounded outside. Abigail hurried to the kitchen window, wiping a spot clear in the condensation. She saw John dismount in the distance.
“That’s him,” she whispered.
“He’ll be extra hungry—he missed dinner. He’ll eat half of that crisp himself.”
Abigail chewed her lower lip. “Let’s hope so.”
She watched with longing as he walked the horse into the stables. Her body itched to ride, she craved it deep in her soul, but Project Good Girl meant staying inside like an abiding little wife and mother—tending to her baby and fluffing the couch cushions, the baking of bloody pear crisps etc. The next thing he’d have her doing is frying buttermilk biscuits on a griddle. It was imperative that she obey him in all ways, for now at least. She’d even eaten a sandwich for lunch. Well, half a sandwich.
Abigail flew from the kitchen window as John materialized once more, heading their way. His breath was a plume of steam in the cold evening air.
“He’s coming.” Her fingers trembled as she fussed with the ties of her apron. “What the bloody hell is wrong with me?”
Margaret helped her whisk off the apron. “You’re just nervous, honey.”
“He can be so imposing at times,” she fretted as she smoothed her cashmere turtleneck.
“He can also be as loving as a lamb—”
Margaret’s words were cut off by the crashing of the front door. The sound of heavy footsteps moving down the hall followed. The Baroness cowered behind her crisp, her heart racing wildly. In the next moment, he filled the kitchen with his tall frame, pausing only briefly in the doorway to inspect the scene. He ripped off his hat and jacket and hung them on the hook behind the door. He brushed past the women and headed straight to the sink.
“What’s this?” he muttered under his breath. “An anorexic bake off?”
“Johnny!” Margaret gasped.
Abigail only faltered for a second. Her posture fell as though he’d shot an arrow between her shoulder blades, but she recovered quickly.
“The Baroness made dessert,” Margaret tried, when she too had recovered.
John scrubbed his hands in the sink. “She’s supposed to be eating dessert, not making dessert.”
Margaret shook her head in disapproval, her eyes darting to Abigail to assess the damage. “If you weren’t so big, boy—I’d take you across my knee.”
John snorted and turned to them, drying his hands on a hand towel. “Who let her into the kitchen anyway? Bad idea—I guess she won’t be the only one starving tonight.”
“Won’t you try some?” The Baroness attempted a breezy tone, but her voice cracked with emotion. “I’ll join you of course. Margaret made fresh vanilla ice cream.”
“There’s that at least. Too cold for ice cream though—it’s going to hail tonight. Jay said it might even snow.”
“This early?” Margaret asked.
Abigail brightened. “I haven’t seen snow since—”
“Since when?” John cut her off. “Since darling Trevor whisked you off to that Swiss ski chalet for Christmas.”
She looked at him in confusion. “No, we usually went to Paris for Christmas. The lights are rather lovely that time of year—”
He cut her off again with a hiss. “Jesus Christ—spare us, will you?”
Margaret held up her hands in surrender. “Wow, kids—this is worse than I thought.”
The Baroness stared at her failed crisp through a veil of hot tears while John tugged at his hand towel in sullen silence.
“I’ll go check on the baby,” Margaret told them, backing out of the room.
John chucked his chin rudely at the Baroness. “Yeah—that’s right, go do her job.”
Abigail moved around the table, planning on making her escape too, but he snatched her by the arm. She pulled away from him, even as she searched his face. “Why do you have to be so cruel to me?” she asked.
“You’re trying your hand at baking now, huh?”
“You told me to help Margaret in the kitchen. I’m only doing what you asked.”
“I asked you to eat.”
“I ate a bloody sandwich for lunch!” she flared defensively. “Is nothing good enough for you?”
“And what’s all this?” he chucked his chin once more—this time at the crisp. “Playing the rancher’s wife again?”
“Perhaps my first attempt at baking was a flop, but at least I tried.”
“Haven’t you realized you’re not good at anything,” he scoffed. “I have.”
She wrenched herself free of his grip. “I’m talented at many things, not that you’ll ever give me a chance to prove it to you.”
“We don’t have any use for your sort of talent here, Baroness.”
“That’s not true—you know I’m a fine horsewoman.”
“Fine at falling off, you mean.”
“I wasn’t in a good frame of mind then—”
“Yeah, yeah—we all know you were wrecked over that flaming-haired moron. Don’t mention him again or I’ll throw your shitty crisp at the wall.”
The Baroness let out an incredulous intake of breath. “You’re the one who mentioned him—both times!”
His nostrils flared and he crossed his arms over his broad chest, offering no response. He just stood there frothing.
She blinked a few times. “I think you must be jealous, though you do your best to deny it. And I think I know why. Part of you wants to be with me—or at least to try it and see what it’s like.”
Abigail waited a moment for a reaction. He still did not answer, but a light flickered in his eyes. She knew she was taking her life into her hands by continuing, but that flame of recognition in his gaze spurred her on.
“I think you want to make me and Ducky your own—be a proper family. You told me yourself you are a very possessive man. She’s your blood after all, and I’m the woman who gave her life. It’s only natural that you would want to accept us into your heart, but you a
re at war with yourself because you’re afraid if you do bring us together, you’ll only lose us. You’re just pushing us away by being hateful. I know about Sophie and the pregnancy.”
She stopped speaking when the light went out of his eyes and something cold and dark replaced it. His eyes froze over like a lake in winter.
“I see Margaret’s been flapping her gums again,” he rumbled dangerously.
“She only wants me to understand you.” The Baroness laid her shaky hands on his shirtfront. “Don’t you know you won’t lose us? We’re right here.”
“You two and your female psychobabble bullshit—you think you’ve got me all figured out because you baked together.”
Abigail knew she was skating on thin ice, but there was no turning back now. “I don’t have you figured out, not even close. But I do recognize where some of your behavior comes from. Its fear of another loss—you’ll never lose us.” She repeated her earlier words, emphasizing them with a press of her fingers against his chest.
He shrugged her off with a sneer. “I only wish I could lose you, lady. Lose you for good.”
“You really wouldn’t care if your daughter lost her mother?”
“We’d be better off without you.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“First chance I get, I’m finding Ducky a better mother.”
Her brain told her she’d put him in a corner and he’d attacked like a trapped animal—viscous and swift and to the throat. He’d delivered the lowest blow he could muster. And it had hit its mark. She had to close her hand around her throat to make sure it wasn’t gushing blood. Her viscera reacted at a purely primal level. Her belly knotted tight in instinctive protection. That he would threaten to replace her made her see red. She’d stab him right in the heart with the silver serving spoon if he wanted to go that route. Or at the very least she’d take his suggestion and throw her shitty crisp at the wall, which is exactly what she did.
Her hands clamped down on the crockery dish in a death grip. With all her might, she hurled the entire dessert in his direction, letting loose a blood-curdling war cry.