by A. W. Exley
And maybe him.
*
She kept casting glances at the henchman, watching the bunch and play of muscles in his back as he worked. One thought ran through her mind on repeat and she finally took a deep breath and found the courage to ask.
"Did Cara really shoot you?"
He gave a chuckle, a raw noise like wind through the trees during a storm. "Yip." He held up one hand, the palm marred by a circular raised scar. "Right through the middle. She's not a bad shot."
Amy frowned. "But weren't you carrying a gun? Why did you let her shoot you?"
He put his paintbrush back in the bucket. "Gov said to grab her father's notebook and that she weren't to be hurt."
"So you always do exactly as instructed?"
He gave that one-sided grin. "No. But I would never hurt a woman. Even if she puts a bullet in me."
She ran her gaze over his powerful arms and corded neck. A man who used his body as a weapon, built for physical superiority. His bulk scared her at first. Like a whipped dog, she expected a blow every time he raised his arm.
He caught her gaze. "He hit you."
Her eyes widened. How did he know? Cara must have said something. She raised a hand to her cheek and traced the memory of the bruise. A man educating his wife-to-be. That's what he called it, a behaviour correction.
He stepped closer to her. "It ain't right, you don't hit women."
She didn't want to have this discussion. Couldn't. Society looked the other way. A woman was simply a chattel passed from the ownership of one man to another. They all knew it happened behind closed doors but no one did a thing about it. Cara suffered far worse and no one ever rescued her, she had to save herself.
"A master beats his dog and no one says a word." A world of sadness hung in those few words, not just for her, but for all the women trapped with such men.
"Don't you dare." He poked a finger at her, his tone angry, and the hairs stood on the back of her neck. "Don't you dare defend that bastard. Ain't right. Don't matter if you drive the cart that collects the night shit or you're a duke. You don't hit a woman." His eyes blazed, the hazel swirled with specks of grey storm clouds.
Each poke of his finger sent her back a step. She couldn't look away from the bunched muscle running along his back. So powerful. If he struck a person they wouldn't get up in a hurry. What would it take for his anger to erupt into physical violence?
"You're a pugilist," she whispered.
"Yeah, that's how I earned my money, facing an opponent who was just like me, in a fair fight. Both of us knowing the rules." He took a deep breath and calmed his voice. "If you think that means I would ever raise my hand to a woman or child? You don't know nothing."
He let Cara put a hole in him, what more proof did she need? What did it take to stand there with a gun pointed at you and not shoot back?
"You need the blinkers removed from your eyes." He spun and pounded his fist into the wall. "You're just like them. Judging people. You look at me and see a thug. I thought you were different."
That cut through the turmoil in her mind and struck deep. "I am nothing like them." A sob built in her chest. "I did everything expected of me and they cast me out." She tore off the work gloves and flung them to the ground. Discarded just like her carefully planned life. She ticked off all the events a well-bred girl should do and it counted for nothing.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest as though trying to hold in his anger. "You look down on the likes of me. You sit in that ivory tower to hide who you are."
She shook her head, hearing the words but not understanding them. "What ivory tower? I'm not hiding who I am."
He gave a huff. "You have walls around you higher than those guarding the bloody crown jewels. You won't show anyone who you really are."
Tears welled in her eyes. He didn't understand. Everybody had an opinion of her, but how many really knew her? "I don't know who I am," she whispered. "I was never allowed to find out. I always had to be the photograph that society expected."
She turned away from him and chewed her knuckles, trying to reconcile the thoughts flying through her head. Was anybody what they appeared to be at first glance? "I don't see a thug," she said as she turned back to face him. "I see the man who cut bracts of witch hazel to brighten my room."
He stared at her for a long moment as though trying to decide something. "Oh princess. You really do need rescuing from that tower."
She wiped at the tears on her face. "Why do you call me that? I'm no princess."
"You are to me." He opened his arms.
She accepted his unspoken offer and stepped into his embrace. He caught one tear on the tip of his finger and then he folded her close. With an expanse of chest under her cheek and the faint beat of his heart she gave a sigh and knew a moment of peace. She expected him to be cold and prickly, like his demeanour, but he was a warm flesh fortress that could hold the world at bay. Or a brave knight who could help her escape. "I want to find out who I am, I've just never had the chance. What if I really am just a silly and flighty girl like everyone says?"
"No you're not. You're far more than that." His big hand stroked her hair. "And you've got all the time you need to find out. I've got your back."
They stood that way for a minute or two then he gently released her.
They packed away the paint and washed the brushes before heading back to the big house. As they stepped onto the forest path Amy cast around, looking for the dropped carrot.
She found the green tinged end and a few hoof prints.
"Just a stray horse," Jackson said, looking at the marks in the snow.
"Perhaps," she muttered, running a hand over scratch marks in the tree bark. Or it was a unicorn watching the cottage.
Watching me.
Chapter Seven
Saturday, 9th January
She spent all day roaming the house on her own, missing the chatter and laughter that disappeared when the others left. She worked on plans for Nate's study and thought of the little cottage by the river. Her mind fixated on the word family, and she thought what a wonderful nursery one of the top rooms would make. But what would a former pugilist and enforcer need of a nursery? Why would a man who saw his family slaughtered want to risk that again?
Tired of picking fabric swatches and paint colours, she retired to the library. In the dusty old room she found a variety of volumes and, much to her relief, a complete absence of penny romances. Her brain rejoiced as she fed the long-neglected cells a steady diet of text books and treaties. She soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Her father had allowed her to learn several languages although he raised bushy eyebrows over her insistence on Latin and Greek. Anything more intellectual was forbidden, least she become less lady-like by espousing opinions of her own.
Jackson knocked on the door. "Thought you might like some company for the evenin'."
She laid down her book on anatomy. The naked male form on the page manifested itself and tried to superimpose itself over the clothed form in front of her. She snapped the book shut as a way of telling it to be quiet.
"Oh. That would be nice." Her gaze flitted about the room and rested on the set in front of the fire. "Perhaps a game of chess?"
A scowl darkened his face and she kicked herself. How thoughtless, of course he wouldn't be able to play.
"Sorry, um, cards?" She grasped for some other game to offer up without further insulting the lower-class man.
"Why not chess?" He walked to the sofa and the low table.
"I—" Her brain opted out, not sure how to extract her from this pickle. "I thought you might prefer something else."
The black brows knitted. "Think I can't play, don't you." He sat down and reset the half-finished game.
"Not at all," her lips said while her brain whispered, Yes actually. Perhaps he thinks it's checkers? They both have a black and white board. If he moves his pieces like checkers I shall keep quiet and play through. Satisfied she had a plan, she sat down opp
osite him.
He held out two fists, each containing a piece. "You pick."
She tapped one large hand, keeping down the blush as she remembered the warmth of his embrace. Everything had changed on Thursday; the world tilted on its axis and now she viewed things from a different angle. His broad and brawny became as appealing as Lachlan's lean and lithe.
He turned his palm over to reveal a white pawn. "You start."
She took the carved ivory and placed it on the empty square. She advanced her man two squares and waited, telling herself to go easy and let him take several pieces. Perhaps she should let him win to make up for her blunder?
She needn't have worried, and all thoughts of throwing the game were quickly forgotten. She was in deep trouble by the third move. He played a quick and decisive game. His gaze swept the board and calculated options far quicker than her. After half an hour she was standing, hands flat on the table either side of the board. Her mind worked overtime and a trickle of sweat ran down the back of her dress.
She picked up her rook and moved it along three spaces.
He gave a short laugh, pounced on his knight and made a fast move. "Check…mate."
"No!" She re-ran the options, wanting to shove her piece back a couple of paces and have a do over. How did she miss the horse waiting to gallop down her king?
"You sound surprised."
"I just—" Her gaze roamed the board then flicked up to his grinning face and back to the slaughter on the two-tone field.
"Didn't think I could play, did ya?" Deep creases surrounded his eyes as he held back his laughter.
She screwed up her lips, trying to keep the words inside.
"You can say it. Ask the question burning through that sharp mind of yours."
She shook her head. "To do so would be impolite."
He crooked a finger and drew her closer. He looked over his shoulder, around the room, then met her gaze again. "Just you and me here. And I promise you can't offend me."
The question bounced around her head so hard she either had to let it out or she would explode. "Who in the blazes taught you to play like that?"
That throaty laugh washed over her again. "Lyons. Lot of time on airships with little to do. That and one of us was often laid up with a hole in 'im. Chess keeps the mind occupied." He tapped the side of his head.
*
The wee bird was in a complete flap, trying to reconcile the ex-boxer with the person who just wiped the chess board with her. He rather enjoyed seeing her flummoxed and trying to reconcile what society told her to expect from people of his station. He might have escaped the Rookeries because of his size and reach, but he could use more than just his hands.
"I can read and write too, before you ask."
Those full pink lips snapped closed and her chocolate gaze glinted at him with just the beginnings of a temper. "Really, after yesterday do you still assume I think so little of you?"
She rearranged the pieces on her side, slamming them down on their spaces. Oh she was in a right snit over losing and it did all sorts of things to his insides to watch.
"Not sure what you think." What did go on in that little head? She played a mean game, and only his long use of strategic thinking got him out of a couple of close calls. "Maybe we both need to re-think how we see each other."
Every now and then she dropped her guard, and he found himself fascinated by the glimpses he saw beneath. The kitten had claws, she just didn't know how to use them.
"To be honest, Mr Jackson, at first you did scare me just a little," she said in the smallest voice.
He looked up. The anger vanished from her eyes and she looked adrift in an unknown ocean. He pushed her yesterday to put a crack in that exterior. Like a baby bird, she was breaking out of her shell. He wanted to pull away the pieces to free her. He picked up her hand and held it in his, marvelling at the size difference.
"Thought we resolved that?" He stroked a thumb over the back of her hand.
"Yes, in part. But you're just so—" she waved her other hand, struggling for the right word. "Big."
He gave a snort of laughter. She probably didn't mean that the way he took it, though a certain part of his anatomy appreciated the compliment. "Hasn't dollface told you I'm all bark?"
She didn't pull back; rather her attention remained fixed on her small hand in his much larger one. "She did mention something like that." She raised her eyes, a tiny smile dancing over her face. "But you are rather intimidating when you loom over a person, Mr Jackson."
"Stop calling me Mr Jackson, it's Jackson to all around here."
She mulled it over. The tiniest hint of mischief crept in to the smile. "Would you mind terribly if I called you Jack?"
He gave a shrug and turned her hand to trace the vein in her wrist. "Why Jack?"
"We used to have this fiendish brute of a dog called Jack. You remind me of him."
He narrowed his gaze and met hers. A smile broke over her face. Minx had another reason, he'd lay money on it. Let's see where this goes.
"Oh yeah? Let me guess, always won in the dog fights?"
A giggle burst from her before she swallowed it down. "Not quite. He used to chase the chickens and make a terrible ruckus."
"You think I'm a chicken chaser?" He growled. "I'll show you." He let her hand drop and lunged at her.
She gave a squeal and ran. She ducked for cover behind the sofa. "I meant it as a compliment, Jack." She said between bursts of laughter. "No one harassed bantams quite like that Jack Russell, even though he only had three legs."
"A bleedin' peg-leg Jack Russell?" He reached for her and she darted out of his way, running to the large divan.
Her laughter came freely now and he loved the sound of it. Then she frowned. "I think he was quite blind too. My point is, for all the noise he was entirely harmless."
"I'll show you who's harmless." He growled again and feinted left. She rushed the other way and ran straight into his arms. He spun so she had her back to the wall and caged her with his body and arms. Her chest rose and fell in heavy gasps as she laughed.
Joy transformed her from the plain mouse to a captivating rose, her eyes full of life and humour and a faint blush to her skin. She was sunshine and honey and he ached to taste her. It felt so natural to have her in his arms he never wanted to let her go.
He bent his head to the crook of her neck and inhaled. She stilled against him and when he looked up, her eyes were round and serious. He searched for any hint of alarm in her warm gaze. He never wanted to see fear in her face. He would chew off his own arm before he ever hurt her.
"What are you doing?" she whispered. Her hands rested on his chest, but didn't push him away. Rather, her fingers curled around the lapel of his jacket, anchoring herself to him.
"I'm a blind three-legged yappy dog, remember?" He dropped one hand to her waist. She wasn't very tall, but her clothes hid a lush form that curved in all the right places, and she was soft in a way that made a man hard. "Woof."
She tilted her chin upward, partly because of the height difference, and partly because the kitten issued a challenge to the tiger. "No you're not. I was wrong, you're something quite different."
"Oh yeah? What then?" He focused on those lips as they formed each word. If she tipped her head any higher he would claim that rosebud and have his taste. And win the bet and get to turn flyboy into a chicken. Then the blasted pirate would leave her alone and he would have her all to himself. A win-win-win situation as far as he was concerned.
"I haven't decided yet." She raised one hand and cupped the side of his face, questions zooming through those so-expressive eyes. One finger traced the scar that ran down by his ear. "Things are not always what they seem."
"No, they're not, princess," he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips.
She inhaled sharply. Her bosom rounded with each breath and he leaned a little closer so it pressed against him. He dropped her hand and stroked her cheek.
"Have you ever
been kissed by a man?"
She gave a snort. "Of course I have, don't be so impudent."
"I don't mean some wet toff pressing fish lips to yours. I mean a real kiss, by a man hungry to know the taste of you." He growled the words, his tone rough.
They scraped over her flesh and raised goose bumps along her arms. A faint blush travelled up from under her collar. "Really, Jack, a kiss is a kiss."
Heat radiated through his torso as he caged her against the wall, his face so close to hers. She shook her head.
He gave a chuckle. "So the answer is no, then."
Her breath came in shallow gasps. "You must let me go," she whispered, but she made no attempt to wriggle free.
"I don't have to do anything, princess." He chuckled again, as he held her close.
His hips held her in place. His arms blocked any exit. Flames licked along his body from where he touched her and if he didn't get his kiss soon he would combust.
"How do you do it?" The fingers still clung to him and questions swirled in her gaze.
"Do what?" He couldn't wait much longer, he dropped his head and placed a gentle kiss on the side of her neck.
She sucked in a breath at his touch and she shivered against him. "This. You scare me and exhilarate me at the same time. I want to run but stay. How is that possible?"
Smart kitten really, 'cause his game plan had changed. He didn't plan to just kiss her.
He planned to possess her.
She closed her eyes and sighed. "Once, when I was twelve and egged on by Cara, we drank too much of her father's brandy. That's what runs through my veins now, when you touch me."
Drunk on him and he hadn't even started.
She opened her eyes and another layer peeled away. The woman staring back at him was a little more confident than the day before.
"Perhaps I could pay a toll to be set free from this predicament?" Her tongue sneaked out and wet the pink lips.
He bit back a groan; the sight of her tongue spiked straight to his groin.
"A kiss then, to set you free." He lowered his head, his breath feathered over her lips.