Shotgun Bridegroom

by Day Leclaire

  Soundlessly, he crept upstairs, doing his level best not to disturb Annie and Myrtle. His old bedroom was at the end of the hall, the windows facing the woods. His former bride-to-be wasn’t the only one who made a habit of escaping from bedrooms via a conveniently placed tree. In his misbegotten youth, he’d sneaked out of this one on a regular basis. Of course, he’d managed to climb down the tree, rather than tumble from it. Easing open his bedroom door, he slipped inside, not bothering with the light.

  Yanking off his shirt, he tossed it aside. His jeans soon followed and he left them where they dropped. The bed beckoned and he stretched, exhaustion hounding his every step. Moonlight guided him and he sank onto the mattress. Heaven help him, it felt good to be home. Because despite everything, Delacorte Island had always been his home. It had a uniqueness he hadn’t found anywhere else. Even the air was unique, scented with ocean and marsh and tropical humidity.

  Falling back onto the pillow, he folded his arms behind his head, facing a disconcerting truth that had dogged him unceasingly for the past year. He was tired of Wall Street. Tired of the frantic pace, clipped accents and endless workdays. He hadn’t realized how much he longed to hear the slow drawls that flavored the South, to simply set a spell and watch the local kids play a game of baseball. To stroll on the beach at sunset and catch a wave or two. To gather a soft, willing woman in his arms and thoroughly ruin her. And then, maybe, to do it all over again.

  He’d missed Delacorte Island. Missed it more than he thought possible. And in that moment, a bone-deep certainty took hold. He wasn’t going to leave. Nor would he be thrown off. This was his home and he intended to stay put. In the morning, he’d contact his partner, Diana Starr, and confirm his intention to sell his share of the business. She wasn’t going to be happy, but that couldn’t be helped. Diana was a savvy New Yorker. She’d find someone to replace him soon enough. No doubt they’d be beating down her door, since she was every bit as good at making money as was he.

  His decision made, Sam rolled over, only then realizing he was a breath away from accomplishing the last item on his list—to ruin a willing woman. Curled up in a ball at his side, indulging in the deep sleep of the innocent, was Annie.

  For a full sixty seconds, he considered taking the noble path and finding which room Myrtle had prepared for him. But he swiftly gave it up. Hell, he’d been born the son of a bastard and had worked hard to earn a reputation to match his birthright. Why should he change now? Besides...he’d promised Annie, promised he’d do his level best to compromise her. And after all, he was a man of his word.

  With infinite care, he drew her into his arms. And while hers would surely be the sleep of the innocent, he didn’t doubt his would be the sleep of the damned.

  Not that he cared. Spooning a lushly curved backside tight against his belly and thighs, he decided it was one hell of a way to go. Yes sirree. One hell of a sweet way.

  Annie was slow to wake, which was unusual enough. But something else felt odd, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. For one thing, it was later than it should have been, the sun filling the room with a brightness that warned she’d slept well past seven. Maybe that was it. It was also warm. Almost hot. And yet the windows were wide open and a light breeze stirred the curtains. Or perhaps it was how the covers had tangled around her, binding her waist and legs. With a growl of annoyance, she kicked out at them.

  “Hey, watch it, will you?” Sam muttered. “You could hurt someone doing that.” Instantly, she began flailing. Not that it got her anywhere. He rolled over, wrapping his arms around her. “Let me guess. You’re not a morning person, are you?”

  It took her thirty full seconds to find her voice and couple it with a brain that seemed to be badly misfiring. “You’re in my bed! What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my bed.”

  “It used to be your bed. Now it’s mine, and I want you out of it!”

  “You know...you have a real annoying habit of taking what belongs to me.” He rubbed the shadow of dark whiskers clinging to his jaw. “We’re definitely gonna have to talk about that.”

  “Get out of my bed!” she shrieked.

  “Keep yelling like that and you’ll have the whole town in here. Then your reputation will be in shreds.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Or is that what you want?”

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, she glared, momentarily stymied.

  “What’s that you said?” he teased. “I couldn’t quite catch it.”

  “I said you’re a pain in the neck, Sam Beaumont,” she complained around her fingers. “Everything was fine around here until you decided to come back.”

  “First, I don’t think you said ‘neck’. I do believe you were swearing again, Annie Delacorte.” Before she could deny it, he continued, “And second, things aren’t fine around here.”

  She regarded him warily. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you really think Myrtle wouldn’t tell me?”

  Uh-oh. “Tell you what?”

  “About how oddly you’ve been acting.”

  Annie couldn’t contain her shock. “She actually got in touch with you about me?”

  “I believe her exact words were, ‘-Annie’s got more tribulations than Horse Swallow Swamp has skeeters.”’

  “I guarantee there are more mosquitoes in Horse Swallow Swamp. Heck, there are more swallowed-up horses in that swamp than problems in my life.”

  “Now why don’t I believe you?”

  She fiddled with the edge of the sheet. “You were never a particularly trusting soul, Sam. Now that I think about it, it’s probably one of your greatest failings.”

  “I’m devastated.” He brushed a tangle of curls from her face. “Come on, Annie. Myrtle wouldn’t have asked me to come back without cause. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You...” She moistened her lips, looking everywhere but into Sam’s black eyes. If she did, she’d be lost. “You came back because of me?”

  “Yup.”

  “Because you thought something was wrong?”

  “Among other things.”

  That intrigued her. “What other things?”

  He shook his head. “Not so fast, sweetheart. You answer my questions first. What’s wrong? Why have you been acting so strangely? You realize you have Myrtle worried sick, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean to. Really, Sam. There’s nothing wrong.” At least nothing she could discuss with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  “So it’s all Myrtle’s imagination?”

  She couldn’t agree with that. It wouldn’t be fair to the woman she’d come to love more than any other person on the island. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  “Nor would I. Not when I come back to find you speeding around town like a reckless teenager and coloring your hair every shade in the rainbow and piercing your belly button. What’s up?”

  “Nothing!”

  She had to escape. Right now, before he found a way to coax the truth from her. Shoving at his arms, she attempted to wiggle free of his embrace. And that’s when she realized something quite deliciously shocking.

  Sam was as naked as the day he was born.

  Annie couldn’t remember when she’d moved so fast. One minute she was snuggled cozily in Sam’s arms. The next she was halfway across the room, as jittery as a scalded car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “CLOTHES. Clothes. Clothes.” Annie waved frantically at the pertinent parts of his anatomy. When that didn’t achieve much in the way of action, she clapped her hands over her eyes. “For the sake of my sanity, you need to put on some clothes, Sam.” Actually, he didn’t. But she didn’t dare confess as much, considering where such an admission would undoubtedly lead. Like. back to bed.

  “Sure. As soon as you answer my question.”

  Question? What question? Right now, she didn’t remember her own name, let alone anything he might have asked. “Fine. Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Whatever you aske
d. The answer’s yes.”

  He sighed, and she heard the squeak of the bedsprings as he left the bed. “You haven’t a clue what I asked, do you?”

  “No. Now will you put on your clothes?”

  “They’re on.” The minute she’d peeled her hands away from her eyes, he added, “Sort of.”

  “Sort of” meant he’d yanked on his jeans, but they still gaped in a most provocative manner. “That’s not fair,” she informed him, struggling to pull her attention from the line of hair running riot down the flat planes of his stomach.

  “Life’s tough. Get used to it.” He waited until she’d dragged her gaze into more appropriate territory before continuing. “Just to refresh your memory, I believe I asked you what’s wrong.”

  “You mean aside from waking up and finding a naked man in my bed?”

  He grinned. “Not a daily occurrence?”

  “No, as you darned well know.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Right. The sign professing your vir—”

  “—tue!”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “Virtue,” she repeated. “And nothing’s wrong. I’m perfectly happy with my life.” For some reason, she found it hard to be nonchalant when a half-naked man filled her bedroom with his presence. Or maybe it was her skimpy nightie. Realizing she was providing Sam with as interesting a view as he was providing her, she snatched up a robe and shoved her arms into the sleeves. “I share a home with the sweetest woman in the world. I have a job I adore. I live on one of the prettiest islands in the country. What could possibly be wrong?”

  “What about marriage and children?”

  She couldn’t believe he had the nerve to ask. But then, Sam Beaumont had nerve to spare. He always had. She’d never known anyone or anything that could intimidate him. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t plan to marry? To have children?”

  “No.” She sounded so cold and final, but that couldn’t be helped. It was how she felt.

  His concern was unmistakable. “Now I know something’s wrong. You adore children. You used to say you’d like a dozen.”

  She made a passing stab at levity. “I was eighteen years old and clearly insane. Anyone who hopes for a dozen children would have to be.” She shrugged. “Instead, I teach several dozen. That’s quite sufficient, thanks.”

  He approached. “You don’t want to marry? To ripen with your husband’s child?”

  To ripen... It was such a provocative description. “No.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “No, I don’t want that.”

  “You don’t want to feel your baby move within you, either?” He stopped mere inches away, the heat of his body stealing over her, dissipating the inner chill. “To feel each kick, to nurture it close inside you, tucked beneath your heart?”

  Why did he keep asking? She’d answered already. Didn’t he know how his questions were ripping her apart? How much they hurt? He stood too close to escape, his scrutiny too intense to avoid. “Stop it, Sam,” she ordered in a low tone.

  “Don’t you want to bear a son and daughter someday and cradle them in your arms? To take them to your breast and nurse them?”

  “No, no, no! Children aren’t necessary to make one’s life complete.” How many times had she told herself that? And how many times had she secretly railed against that fate?

  “Then why are you crying?” He reached out and captured a tear from the tip of her lashes, a tear she hadn’t even realized she’d shed. “Are you infertile? Is that why you changed your mind, why you sent me away?”

  She stumbled back a step, bumping into an oak dresser. “How can you ask a question like that?”

  “Is that what happened?” His voice had sharpened, demanding an answer.

  “As far as I know, I’m perfectly capable of having children.” She fought for composure. “I keep telling you. Everything’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. And I suspect it hasn’t been for a very long time.” His arms slipped around her, corralling her within a circle of warmth and security. “Something happened seven years ago and whatever it was caused you to send me away.”

  “You’re right. Something did happen.” She forced out the lie. “I changed my mind.”

  “Don’t, Annie,” he said quietly, forcefully. “Whatever it is...it’s still there. And it’s keeping you from me.”

  She saw it then. Saw the pain lurking in the darkness of his eyes, the rawness behind the devil-may-care grin. She’d done that to him. She’d hurt him with her actions seven years ago. Any other man would have hated her as a result, or written her off as trouble to be avoided. Instead, Sam had kept a wary distance. Yet the minute Myrtle had called, he’d climbed on his bike and ridden hell-bent for leather for Delacorte Island. Back to her. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt.

  “Let it go, Sam. Tell Myrtle I’m just being as wild as a Dela...” Her voice cracked, her words caught in an unexpected storm of emotion.

  He held her close, cradling her against his shoulder. “Sweetheart, don’t,” he murmured. “It’s okay. We’ll work it out together.”

  She pushed his hands away. “You listen to me, Sam Beaumont.” She fought for the last shreds of control, the words escaping in a torrent. “I’m being as wild as a Delacorte can be. That might not be much by Beaumont standards, but I assure you, I’m not the saint most people think.”

  His smile was so tender it wounded. “You’re a wild one all right.”

  Her laughter had a desperate edge. “But that’s not saying a lot, is it?” Why, oh why, couldn’t she succeed at something as simple as being outrageous? “I might ride a motorcycle, but I can’t even do it without a helmet or without making sure my dress won’t blow up over my head.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” he admitted, fighting off a smile, “but that minor detail pleases me no end.”

  “And my hair!”

  “What about your hair?”

  “Did I dye all of it? I thought about it. I wanted to. But did I?” She grabbed a hank and waved it at him. “No! In the end I only had the nerve for this silly little stripe.”

  “But it’s a cute silly little stripe.”

  “Stop it! You don’t understand. I put up a sign, then I let everyone paint over it. I got a belly ring. Or tried to.” Her breath came in a deep, shuddering gasp. “I couldn’t even manage that.”

  “So you have a belly scar. That’s pretty daring.”

  “Not for a Beaumont. A Beaumont would have gotten the whole dang—damn ring. I just can’t get it right, can I? I can’t even swear right.” Ducking beneath the circle of his arms, she raced for the door.

  “Annie, wait!”

  But she didn’t wait. She didn’t dare. She’d said far too much as it was. Heaven help her, what was she going to do? How was she going to handle Sam’s nonstop probing? To her relief, he didn’t immediately follow. She could only hope he was fastening his pants and throwing on a shirt. She’d never realized how disconcerting naked skin could be—at least Sam’s naked skin.

  Gaining the kitchen, she made a beeline for the coffeemaker on the counter. Just what she needed. Myrtle must have brewed some before going off to the community center for her morning of volunteer work, bless her heart. With shaking hands, Annie poured a mug and added several heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Normally, she’d have taken it with milk. But right now, strong, sweet and black seemed the better choice. It hit her stomach like battery acid.

  “Mind if I join you?” Sam asked from the doorway, regarding her the way one might a hissing kitten. Cautious, but not terribly intimidated.

  “Of course not.” So polite, so courteous. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn her manners had been bred in her genes. She poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to Sam. To her relief, her hands hardly trembled at all. “I assume you still drink it unvarnished?”

  He leaned a hip against the counter in a casual manner, but Annie noticed he looked far from relaxed. “Now there’s an expression I
haven’t heard in a while. Makes me downright homesick.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Living here?” At her nod, he inclined his head. “Yeah, I do. I was thinking about that last night.”

  “When you invaded my bed?” Oops. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought that up.

  “My bed.”

  Her temper flared again. It did that a lot lately. “Oh, please. Don’t hand me any of that nonsense about wandering into the wrong bedroom.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “That old trick ranks right up there with running out of gas and getting a flat tire.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t wander into your bed by mistake. I did it on purpose. That room was mine, if you recall.”

  “‘Was’ being the operative word.”

  He eyed her over the rim of his gently steaming mug, his gaze uncomfortably intent. “Interesting that neither you nor Myrtle bothered to tell me about the change.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Or was this another one of your attempts to prove how wild you are? Did you hope to get that sign changed?”

  “Trust me, Sam Beaumont. You won’t have anything to do with the removal of my sign!”

  “You’re kidding yourself on that score, Miss Delacorte. I intend to take care of your precious sign personally.”

  “Not a chance. You’re the last man I’m likely to invite into my bed.”

  “Too late, remember? You should thank your lucky stars that no one knows we shared pajamas last night. Otherwise your reputation would be history.” He slid his mug across the counter toward her. “And in case there’s any doubt in your mind, you’d have loved every minute .”

  “Oh!” She dumped more coffee into his mug, splashing as much onto the counter as into his cup. “We did not share pajamas as you so eloquently put it.”