by Tessa Bowen
John’s athletic reflexes responded and he ducked the flying trough of boiling fruit. It crashed into the wall behind him, breaking into pieces and falling into a heap on the floor.
“Jesus Christ, you aimed that at my head!”
“And next time I won’t miss, you wretched, despicable man! In fact, I’ll bake your cracked skull into my next crisp if you even think about finding another mother for Ducky. And I’ll use the bitch’s hide for the crumb crust—do you hear me!”
They were both a little astonished at the graphic violence of her words. A feverish rage rushed through Abigail. She could barely breathe through the choking fury. It seemed she had a possessive streak as well.
“You’re cleaning that up,” he snapped.
“Like bloody hell I am.”
“You’re probably no good at cleaning either, are you? Well, you better have Margaret give you a little mop and bucket lesson, because we don’t allow tantrums here.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “Get out of my way,” she hissed under her breath. “I’ll show you what I’m good at.”
JOHN DIDN’T GET IN HER WAY AS SHE SWEPT PAST HIM. She was even more pissed off than he was (and his level of pissed offedness was sky high). If he didn’t let her cool off, things would get physical. As it was she’d nearly decapitated him with a pear crisp. He had no desire to get into a violent tussle with a blistering hot baroness (or a blistering hot pear crisp for that matter).
He pinched the bridge of his nose when he heard Margaret approach.
“What’s with all the racket? Are you two still alive?”
“Barely—Jesus, Margie why did you have to fill her head with bullshit from the past?”
“It’s not bullshit— it’s something terrible that happened to you. She needs to know. And she doesn’t deserve your wrath for knowing it.”
“My wrath,” he defended. “She almost brained me with a fucking pear crisp!”
“You know I don’t like that language. By the way, you’ve acted in a totally inexcusable manner since she came here. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“She shouldn’t be here!” he roared, his rage renewed by the scolding
“Why?” Margaret shot back. “Because you want her?”
“What do you mean want her?”
Margaret pursed her lips. “It’s high time the stallion covers the mare, if you catch my drift.”
John groaned and reverted to boyhood, squishing up his features in revulsion. “Don’t be gross. She’s too old for me anyway.”
“Too old, my ass—that woman is a knockout and will be at any age.”
“Yeah, I know,” he ground out.
“It’s ok to give into your desires, son—she’s your wife. You’re wound as tight as a spring. You need this—we all need this.”
He elbowed by her, blushing furiously. “I’m not having this conversation with you—where did she go anyway?”
“Saw her head outside, no jacket either.”
“She won’t go far—it’s frigid out there. Her creaking bones will start to rattle.”
John stalked back outside, slamming the front door as hard as he could. He was glad his father wasn’t there to yell at him for that maneuver. He did things like that now, slammed doors as hard as he could, just like a real asshole (just like his father used to do, in fact).
Great, now I’ve turned into my dad—loud and angry.
He scanned the walkway and then moved around to the side of the house, slamming into Jeb as he rounded the corner.
“Whoa there, brother,” Jeb said, steadying him.
“Where the hell did she go?”
“In the direction of the stables—she said something about showing you she could stay on.”
In the next instant the sound of thundering hooves filled the air. John looked up just in time to see a streak of horse and woman spring out of the paddock and head across the open landscape. She was a bolt of lightning with her pale hair flying.
His heart seized in his chest. “What the…”
“Shit, she’s headed for the mountains. She better turn quick, it’s going to snow. Woowee—look at her go! I didn’t know she could ride like that.”
“She’s not supposed to be riding at all, goddamn it—she’s never even sat in a Western saddle before. She’ll kill herself.”
Every cell in his body wanted to scream out her name—tell her to stop, but it was no use. She was already too far gone. She’d taken the pale colt—that horse didn’t hold back, was too young to know its power. It would carry her straight off a cliff without a thought in its stupid head.
“Maybe that’s the idea, brother—what did you say to her this time. She looked real upset and angry.”
“Stay out of this,” John growled, running toward the stables at full speed, Jeb right behind him.
“You’re going after her?”
“What the fuck do you think?” With the help of his brother, John was seated on a horse in ten seconds flat. “Although maybe I should send you instead,” he snapped, gripping the reins. “You seem to have a way with my women.”
Jeb looked the long way up at John. “You just called her your woman.”
“Get out of my way—or I’ll run you down.”
Jeb laughed and slapped the horse on its ass. “Go get her, Johnny!”
Chapter Fourteen
Blinded by the bitter wind in her face, Abigail’s teeth hurt with the clenching, but she’d never been so free in all her life. The Western saddle was really working for her. She felt as though the horse beneath her had wings. She was one with this wild Pegasus, her body moving in perfect rhythm with the beast. Scenery whizzed by in a green and yellow blur. She only knew the mountains lay ahead and the sky above. The rest was like floating in a dream—or more like riding a rocket through a dream. Her blood pumped hot in her veins, boiling her system so that the icy shards of hail pelting her cheeks felt refreshing.
She bent low over the horse and lifted her seat, quite like a crazed jockey. A part of her wanted to fly this animal to the ends of the earth, but she knew she’d eventually have to turn back for Ducky—and to gloat of course. She’d done well her first time out. Perhaps she’d get in line to purchase a Jackson Mustang of her own, this one in fact. She wondered if her odious husband would give her the family rate.
Just as soon as she’d allowed him into her thoughts, he was there, coming up alongside her on a winged steed of his own.
“Pull him up!” he shouted.
She turned her head to shout back, all the while clutching the reins as if her life depended on her grip—and it did. “Bugger off!”
She dug her heels in and shot forward, pulling ahead. Now they were in a race—their horses’ hooves beat the earth in a fierce competition for supremacy.
“Goddamn it, pull him up—stop spurring him on!”
His furious voice sounded from just behind her and then he was there again, a perfect shadow running alongside her. Their shadows were one for a few brief seconds and she wondered if she’d ever been this united with a man. Or this provoked by one. Surely, she’d never been this excited by a horse. The speed and strength of its movements were like a drug, urging her on.
Her adrenaline high came to a crashing finish when John slid in his saddle and snatched her horse’s reins, ripping them from her. The pale colt reared back. With nothing to grab onto Abigail started to tumble. He caught her as she started to fall, slowing his mount enough so that he could snatch her around the waist. He hauled her across his saddle like a sack of potatoes. Abigail let out a grunt of protest. The stunt was dangerous but cleverly executed. She didn’t commend him for his skill—instead, she fought on.
Her heaving body spooked his horse and John hissed a low warning. “Stop struggling. He’ll throw us both.”
Abigail disobeyed orders and the animal whinnied and sidestepped. John jerked on the reins, still holding Abigail flat to the horse. The horse came to an abrupt halt and sent them both flying.
John wrapped his arm protectively around her as they plummeted to the ground. He easily overpowered her, rolling her beneath him and pressing her into the damp earth. She went slack, knowing the fight was over.
They had ridden deep into the mountains, blue cliffs capped with pure white powder rose high around them and the air was so crisp it stung—stung in a way that made her feel alive. She was sure they’d entered some mythical otherworld. Tears stung her eyes, not only from the cold, but from the awe-inspiring natural beauty as well.
“I…I…”
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, easing his hold on her.
“I think…I just…”
He rolled his weight off her, inspecting her body. “Talk to me—what is it?”
“I think I just fell in love with Montana.”
The creases around his mouth deepened with renewed anger. “You’re cracked, lady—you’ve sent our horses hauling ass out of here and now it’s fucking snowing, do you realize that?”
She stuck her tongue out like an innocent child, tasting snowflakes as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Yes, isn’t it beautiful?”
“We’re ten miles out, you dipshit!” he railed. “And it’s getting dark.”
“Oh, my—we covered that much ground? How extraordinary.”
He snarled in disgust and took her by the wrists again, pulling her out of the open space and into the trees. The high branches blocked out what was left of the light.
“Where are we going?”
“To the cabin—we’re not walking back in this weather.”
She tugged against him. “I want to ride back.”
“On what, your broomstick?”
“Can’t you just whistle for the horses like they do in the movies,” she pouted.
Up ahead, in a clearing, she made out a small hut. It looked very old and was crudely built. Perhaps it wasn’t so crude. It had a charming little porch and windows all along the front and a chimney, which unfortunately was not smoking.
“A quaint cottage in the woods,” she quipped. “How useful at a time like this.”
He hauled her up the steps and pushed her inside. He immediately pounded over to the fireplace and dropped to one knee, jamming newspaper, kindling and logs into it. He doused the entire arrangement with lighter fluid and lit a match. The flames cast ominous shadows over his features.
“Don’t ever do that again—do you hear me? Not ever. I don’t care how angry you are at me.”
“You’d rather I toss dessert platters at your head?” she asked with a lift of her brow.
“Do you know what a fall from a horse at that speed would do to you?”
“Straighten my hair?”
“This isn’t a joke, goddamn it.”
She denied the panic she saw in his face, mixed with the anger. He couldn’t have been worried about her—he loathed her with every fiber of his being.
“That would make things easier for you, wouldn’t it?” she sniffed. “With me out of the way, you could ask Nubia to be Ducky’s mother.”
“You’re going to bring her up now?”
“And why not? You said that horrible thing about finding someone to replace me. Besides, you bring up Trevor every chance you get.”
“While we’re on the subject of Trevor, is he still the reason you’re acting crazy? Are you still wrecked over that English posy?”
“Bloody hell, no!” she exploded. “Don’t you know anything!”
“Why are you doing all this then!” he hurled back.
“Doing what!”
“Baking crisps…stealing horses!”
“I baked you a blasted crisp because I thought you would like it! I didn’t steal your horse— I merely rode it to show you I could stay on. I was trying to impress you, you stupid man!”
They stared at each other a moment, realizing they were making the dishes rattle in the cupboard with their yelling.
“Why do you want to impress me?” he asked.
“I rather... fancy you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Fancy me?”
“I’ve developed feelings for you. Can’t you see that? Although, I don’t know why, because you are truly detestable.”
This time he crossed his arms. “Feelings?”
“Well…stirrings,” she huffed. “My behavior has nothing to do with Trevor and everything to do with you. Trevor is ancient history, you’re my entire world now—you and Ducky. It’s you I’m wrecked over and you’re no posy, are you? You’re a real man through and through. A man I want to know better, but you won’t let me, so it’s hopeless.” The Baroness heaved a sigh, plucking at her sodden clothing. “Please don’t stand there looking at me like that,” she continued. “I know I look like something the cat dragged in. It’s bad enough I have to compete with Nubia, but that high-cheeked Native American goddess too—I’ll never live up to that hair.”
“She wasn’t a goddess. She ran off with my brother when my back was turned. And her hair wasn’t so great—it just sort of hung there.”
Abigail blinked fetchingly, looking up at him with fresh hope. “Oh, did it? Well, I’m no goddess either, I suppose.” She went back to pulling at the fabric of her blouse, waiting for him to disagree.
“No, you sure as hell aren’t—you know what you are?”
“A baroness?”
“An epic pain in my ass.”
Her brows folded in. “I’m much more than that. I’m the mother of your child and your wife. And you’re my husband.”
“We sure fight like husband and wife,” he muttered under his breath.
“Yes, but we don’t enjoy any of the perks of marriage. Ours is a union of tumult without any of the pleasure. I…I can’t believe you would insult me after I professed my feelings for you.” She made one last attempt at straightening her appearance. This time she tried to comb the tangles out of her snarled hair with her fingers, to no avail.
“You’re a mess,” he told her snidely. “Just go with it.”
She spread her hands wide in a gesture of surrender. “You told me once that you’d like to see me all tied up in knots. Am I knotted up enough for you?”
“Getting there,” he drawled.
“You horrid, hateful man!” she erupted, surprising herself with her emotional encore. “I’d rather sleep out in the snow than in here with you!”
She made for the door, but he beat her to it, slamming his body against it to block her exit. “Fine,” he ground out. “You really want to do this?”
“This?”
“This,” he said, just as he gathered her up by the waistband and slammed her against his rock-hard erection.
JOHN KNEW ONLY ONE THING: he couldn’t fight this anymore. Not when her wet clothes clung to her body, outlining every graceful curve and slope. Not when she’d told him he was her entire world now—not when he’d seen her ride with the skill and strength of an expert, nearly outrunning him on the unmanageable colt. Not when she was the mother of his child—and the woman he most desired.
Something inside him had snapped. Their impassioned fight had set his body afire. The slow burn in his loins had been there since he’d met her, grown with time and now bubbled away like lava in his pants. They weren’t going anywhere in this weather, and he couldn’t stay here with her tonight without being inside her. So inside her he would be—and soon.
“This? What’s…this?” she asked again in a high-pitched voice.
“You know what this is. We’re going to have sex,” he stated huskily. “Isn’t that what you want?”
She nodded, staring at him like a cornered doe. “I mean…if it’s what you want…”
He ground against her. “You can feel my want—I’ve had the same want for a while now. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow and most of it involves being on horseback. Have you ever sat in a saddle for hours on end with a hard-on?”
“No…I can’t say that I have.”
He released her with a shove. “Well, let me tell you—it doesn’t
work so well and it really puts a guy in a bad mood.”
She stumbled backward, continuing her clumsy retreat until her backside met with the rickety table. “You have been in a very bad mood lately…”
He stalked her every inch of the way, removing his belt with menacing slowness. “And we’re doing this my way.”
“Your way?”
With a thud, the length of leather dropped to the floor, then he kicked off his boots, his penetrating gaze never leaving her as he undid the buttons of his shirt. “Yeah, my way—my hot hands will be all over you. I plan on scorching the shit out of you. I’m going to kiss the shit out of you too.”
“That sounds quite…hot.”
“I’m going to fuck you the way I want to this time.”
“All right…” she agreed tremulously.
“You seem nervous.”
“Perhaps I just have performance anxiety—I never thought this would happen—feared it would never happen, I mean. You turned me down enough times…”
His hands went to her clothes next. He undressed her in the same way he had undressed himself, belt slung on the floor, boots to follow. He wouldn’t leave her pants on another second—he wanted the feel of her naked legs wrapped around his waist. John lifted her so that she sat on the table and then peeled the sodden trousers off her legs. His pants were still on, but unbuttoned down the front revealing the straining flesh in his boxer briefs.
She prattled on. “I mean, I’m not really your type, after all. It seems your taste leans in a more…exotic direction.”
“That’s not true—Miss Bettencourt, remember?”
She sat there shivering in her panties and wet blouse, needing more from him.
“I think your goddam hair is pretty, ok?” he placated her.
She didn’t resist when his fingers went to the silk placket running down the front of her blouse. He uncovered more porcelain skin with every button he unhooked. And what a sumptuous unveiling it was. He spread the two edges of her shirt wide, inspecting the bounty beneath. Her fine skin was covered in goose flesh, her nipples budded tight behind the scrim of her delicate lace bra.
