The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) (21 page)

Much too stimulated not to at
least
give it one more try, Hawke inched closer to his wife and fit his hips up tight against her bottom. Then, after pulling the bulk of her coppery hair aside, he began to nuzzle the nape of her neck.

"What's that you're doing back there?" asked Lacey, swinging her hand around to swat him away—again.

After a long dark moment, a dazed Hawke backed away from her muttering, "Nothing." Then he punched the hell out of his pillow, carving out a canyon, not a niche, and buried his head in it. As he slept, a long ledger appeared in his dreams, the heading above the usual twin columns reading;
Marriage—For and Against
.

* * *

The next morning, Lacey awoke to a peal of thunder so loud that as it rolled through the room, it rattled the log timbers of the roof above her. A lightning strike went off, flashing brilliant shards of jagged light across the bay window, and then came another, louder clap of thunder. She opened her eyes to find herself nose to nose with her husband, their arms and legs tangled around one another. Her first thought was to bolt when she realized those masculine limbs so entwined with hers were naked, but she convinced herself that she was safe in Hawke's arms, secure and protected from everything, even the world outside. Taking comfort in the thought, Lacey clung to her husband's neck, showering his smooth tanned face with kisses. He groaned in response, then lifted his sleepy lids.

His eyes were warm and languid-looking by the morning light, the same rich soft velvety green of Irish moss. Oh, if only the two of them could stay like this forever! she thought joyously. How wonderful it would be to lie about in each other's arms, kissing with lips fused as one, time and time again. Lacey loved the way her husband kissed her and the tingly way it made her feel inside, and even enjoyed sleeping in the same warm bed with him—an extra special luxury on a cold, dark morning like this, she thought with a little shiver.

As for the rest, for what she thought he'd tried to do last night—join his body with hers—well, he'd stopped trying to do that, hadn't he? And never once had he said a word to her about the begetting of children. Maybe, she dared to hope, Hawke was in silent agreement with her in that regard. Perhaps he was no more eager than she to produce offspring. With another, more exuberant kiss, this one landing directly on Hawke's lips, Lacey rolled to the edge of the mattress, then hopped out of bed.

"Oh," she cried, her teeth chattering. "'T-tis c-cold enough in here to f-freeze the heart of a n-nun."

Hawke, who by now was sitting at the edge of the bed dressing himself, muttered darkly, "I'll stoke the fire for you, then go on downstairs to light the stove and put on some coffee."

"I thank you kindly, husband. I'll be down soon as I'm warmed and dressed to make a nice hot breakfast for you."

Curiously silent, Hawke finished with the fireplace, then started for the door. Thinking of the recipes she brought with her from Three Elk Ranch, she stopped him just before he walked out of the room.

"Do think of what you want for breakfast. My wish is to please you."

She listened for his reply, but all Lacey heard was some incoherent grumbling before her new husband closed the door and left her to her own devices.

Downstairs, Hawke fired up the stove and waited for the coffee to boil. He was in a surly mood and definitely not interested in instructing his bride on the proper way to use the stove during her quest to try out the few recipes Kate sent along. There was only one thing on this morning that he wanted to teach Lacey, but rather than face the rejection she'd surely heap on him during daylight hours, he decided it would be best to wait until nightfall to begin that lesson again.

As for breakfast, there was still a fair amount of food left over from their wedding, remnants which included half of a cherry pie. Figuring if he couldn't sate the more urgent appetite gnawing at his core, he could at least, by God, gratify the hunger in his belly, Hawke devoured every last bit of pastry without ever coming up for air. Then he donned his hat and slicker, and went to care for his animals.

That night and the next proved to increase his surliness, not decrease it. The last filly to throw a foal by Phantom finally went into a difficult, protracted labor, but even after she dropped her colt, the foal's life, if not her own, was still in danger. Weak and underweight when born, the bay colt was listless and not interested in standing, much less nursing. Once Hawke finally got the youngster to its feet and directed its tiny head toward his mother's teats the mare, Cherry, balked, and kicked out at her son whenever he came near.

Hawke spent most of that night milking the big chestnut mare, the rest of it feeding her foal with this most important early milk by the teaspoonful. The following evening, by the time he was satisfied that the newborn could nurse on his own without risking his mother's wrath, a weary Hawke dragged himself upstairs only to find that his wife had fallen into a sleep so deep, not even his voice or touch could disturb her. Giving into his own exhaustion since he was sure he couldn't find the patience to go easy with Lacey should he manage to awaken her, he called it a night, his marriage still unconsummated.

Hawke awakened on the fourth day as frustrated mentally as he was physically. There were many reasons that he'd yet to claim his bride, most of them valid, he supposed, yet by morning's light, all he could dwell on was his own failure. How could it be that he, a man able to tame any wild beast he chose to, be it wolf, renegade stallion, or even someone like Crowfoot, who in many ways was more wild beast than boy when they first met, had been unable to find the key to taming his own wife? Why, with all his talents for gentling the savage beast, could he not bring this blue-eyed, flame-haired woman to heel? No matter what they said behind his back, there wasn't a man in any town he'd ever been in, including Laramie and his own uncle, William Braddock, who didn't back away from Hawke, giving him a wide berth and a healthy respect—at least physically. But this woman; this frustrating, completely adorable and unpredictable woman was driving him to complete and utter distraction.

Frustrated all over again, Hawke flung himself out of bed, dressed, and stoked the fire as he'd done the last few mornings. Then, muttering to himself as he went downstairs, he fired up the stove and put on the coffee. Giving in to a craving for the sausage he'd ground himself using equal parts of pork and venison, he went out to the icebox to get a package. When he returned to the kitchen, Lacey was waiting for him, dressed in her usual navy skirt and white blouse.

"Top o' the morning to you," she said, all smiles. "I did not hear you come in last night. More trouble with the wee one?"

"Just a little. He'll be all right now." Hawke set the package down. "The stove's good and hot. I'd like you to fry up some sausage patties, and then make me a little gravy to pour over some of those good biscuits. Do you think you can do all that and make gravy, too? If not, I'll stay a while to help you."

Her smile grew radiant. "Of course I can manage on my own. Kate explained about mixing a few spoons of flour in with the pan drippings, smoothing it all out with milk, then tossing in a wee bit of salt and pepper." The biscuits were already made, so she just had to warm them, cook the sausage patties, and whip up this simple-sounding batch of gravy. What could be easier? "Shall I come get you when breakfast is done, then?"

Hawke glanced out the window just above the stove and sink. "No, it's still raining. I'll stick my head out of the barn from time to time, and if I see you waving at me from this window, I'll know it's ready."

With that final instruction, he took his slicker off the chair, slipped it on, then reached for his hat. Surprising him before he could turn toward the door, Lacey rushed across the room, threw her arms around Hawke's neck, and planted a big kiss on his mouth.

"There," she said, releasing him and stepping back. "I could not let you start your day without a good morning kiss. 'Tis a lucky sign that all will go well in your work."

Hawke paused, puzzling over this capricious wife of his—affectionate and almost loving one minute, cold and remote the next—then slammed his hat on his head and stalked out the door.

Sensing that she'd done something to irritate her husband, but without any idea what it might be, Lacey vowed to make it up to him by fixing the most memorable breakfast of his life. This morning, and for the first time, she simply would not allow any mistakes in the kitchen. Recalling Kate's instructions and the one glaring error she'd committed the day she'd attempted to create those buttermilk pancakes—neglecting to grease the pan first—Lacey scooped out a nice big slab of lard, popped it into the skillet, and slid the heavy cast iron pan over to the hottest part of the stove. Then she sat down at the table and went about forming a pile of perfectly round patties from the sausage meat.

Outside, Hawke stomped through the rain and mud, thinking that if he'd left his slicker and hat behind, the frigid storm might have done what his wife was apparently unwilling to do—cool off his overheated body. As he worked off some of those frustrations, he began to take a closer look at Lacey's reluctance from her point of view. What if in Ireland, marriage and all it entails was conducted a little differently? Who knows? Maybe there, a period of adjustment was the norm for a couple who barely knew one another. It could be that she just needed a little more time with him before getting to the most intimate part of their marriage. If that were true, at least it would explain her attitude a little better.

As reasonable as this hypothesis sounded, Hawke found himself hoping to God that the amount of time she needed wasn't more than the three nights he'd already waited for her to come around—even controlled as he usually was, he knew he wasn't going to last much longer if he had to go on sleeping beside his irresistible bride without touching her. To be sure of her reasons, he thought with a start, he probably ought to ask Lacey if this period of waiting was customary in Ireland. Of course, before he could do that, he would have to find not only the right words, but the right moment to bring the subject up—a difficulty in its own right considering the fact that he was damn near as embarrassed as Lacey when it came to discussing such matters.

As he mulled over this newest dilemma, Hawke's stomach growled, reminding him of the signal he'd set up with his wife. Strolling over to the barn doors, he glanced across the yard to the kitchen window. At first he thought he saw her springy hair bobbing this way and that in the glass pane. Then with terrifying clarity, Hawke realized that what he was looking at was not Lacey waving back at him, but the wings of a fire. The kitchen curtains were ablaze!

Fear is more fatal than hate.

—Canon P.A. Sheehan

Chapter 11

When he burst into the kitchen through the back door, Hawke expected to find Lacey frantically beating off the flames, splashing water at them, or...
something
! But he found her standing stock-still, her hands firmly clenched into fists and her back against the farthest wall, just staring as if mesmerized by the fire which had already devoured his curtains and were now gorging themselves on the pine log walls of his home. The lid blew off of Hawke's temper as he realized everything he owned, his entire house was in jeopardy of burning down, and his own wife just stood there doing nothing—
nothing
.

"Dammit all, woman," he bellowed, racing toward the window. "Have you gone
mad
? Help me. Run outside and fill the pail with water."

Lacey was already pretty well gone when Hawke barreled his way through the door, slipping deeper and deeper into one of her spells as the terror of what was happening here in the kitchen mingled with blotchy memories of so long ago. If indeed she hadn't tumbled into the chasm of total withdrawal by then, hearing her husband refer to her as a madwoman was the final blow that pushed her over the edge.

Lacey ran from the house through the still-opened back door, bolting past both the bucket and the well, and continued to run, racing out of control as if the devil himself was at her heels.

Assuming that she'd gone after the water, Hawke grabbed up a towel and began beating at the flames which by now were licking the ceiling of his home.

Later, after he'd managed to put out the fire in spite of the fact that his wife had not returned with the water he'd requested, he went in search of her. Although his anger was still simmering on high, concern for Lacey cooled it considerably once he'd searched the grounds high and low calling her name and not found her.