by Sharon Ihle
"What's wrong?" he asked, wondering at her pained expression.
Lifting just one eyelid a crack, Lacey peered at him. "Nothing, I hope, but I cannot watch."
Lacey could hear Hawke's laughter, a kind of warm, low chuckle as he came to her and stretched his big body across hers. Then he began to smother her with kisses, most of them deeply passionate, others playful pecks not so unlike the gentle nips Phantom had given Dolly. In between kisses, he muttered short, endearing little phrases about how cute and shy she was, even as his hands busied themselves with her blouse, tugged at her skirt, and most enjoyably, caressed her skin as if he were putting a shine to a most delicate piece of china. It wasn't until those hands reached forbidden territory—her breasts—that Lacey realized he'd stripped her from the waist up.
"Stop," she cried, remembering his promise. She threw her arms across her breasts, then her eyes popped open to meet those of her husband. His chiseled face was less than an inch away from hers, and his eyes had turned an impossibly dark color, almost black, not green. His breathing was shallow, but labored at the same time. And when he finally spoke, his voice sounded husky, as if coming from a very tight throat.
"What's wrong, Irish?"
She glanced down at her chest. "I don't seem to have... you have... I'm naked, sir."
Hawke's lips were set in a grim line, but Lacey could see that he was having trouble keeping that expression. The corners of his mouth wobbled and twitched a few moments before he finally said, "From what I understand, what we're doing here is much easier to accomplish without clothing. Besides, you may not want to watch, but I can't wait to have a good look at you. Do you mind so very much?"
Lacey bit her bottom lip. He wanted to look at her—naked? "I think... yes. I think that I do mind. That is, of course, if you don't mind."
Hawke minded one hell of a lot, but he gave in to her modesty. For now. Reaching across her to where he'd tossed her camisole in the straw, he collected the garment, then draped it across her breasts.
"Better now?" he asked. When Lacey nodded and gave him a shy smile, he slipped his hand beneath the blouse and slowly inched his fingers back toward her nipples. She opened her mouth—perhaps to protest—but Hawke quickly covered her lips with his own, kissing her hard, deep, and long; long enough that he had time to caress the crowns of her soft little breasts and coax their peaks to hard, tight nubs.
Lacey was moaning by then, moving beneath him and encouraging Hawke to take the next step. Keeping her modesty in mind, he didn't remove her skirt or petticoats, but tugged them up to her waist. Then, still kissing her eager lips and caressing one breast, Hawke caught the waistband of her drawers with his fingers and started rolling them down over her hips. When he got them as far as her knees, he left her mouth in order to pull the undergarments over her boots. A mistake.
"Stop," she cried and sat up, pushing her skirt down to cover her private self.
Hawke sighed heavily, but froze in place. "What's the problem now, Lacey?"
"'Tisn't a problem as much as I'm wonderin'. What are you doing?"
He cocked his head and smiled at her. "Removing your drawers and boots to make you more comfortable, is all. May I go on?"
"Er, ah—no. I would like to take care of, of my clothing myself. As for the boots..." She pushed her heels deeper into the straw, making sure he couldn't see the spurs. "I would like to keep them on, if you don't mind."
Hawke stared at her incredulously. He'd heard of cowboys and gunmen who insisted on dying with their boots on, but this was a first. He shrugged. "If that's what you want, Irish, that's what you'll have."
"Aye, and I thank you kindly." She sat there waiting a moment, but when he didn't move, Lacey waved her fingers at him. "If you would be so kind as to look away, I'll be getting to it."
She thought she saw the corners of Hawke's mouth wobbling again as he turned his back, but she didn't care. This was embarrassing enough as it was without him looking at every little private detail of her life. And besides, if he watched, she'd never get her drawers over her boots without him spotting the spurs. Lacey quickly removed her underpinnings, buried them in the straw at her feet, then lay back down.
"You can turn around now. I am ready."
"Are you?" he asked, moving alongside her until his lips were a warm breath away from hers. "Are you sure this time, Lacey?"
She gazed into his eyes, not quite as dark with passion as they'd been, but mesmerizing just the same, then glanced down to his mouth. His lips were parted, moist and ready to claim hers again. Suddenly, Lacey wasn't just ready, but eager.
"Aye," she whispered throatily. "I'm ready for you, my husband."
Hawke's lips met hers before she could even take a breath, soothing a little of the need building up inside her, but increasing it in other ways as well. His hands were on her again, caressing, touching, learning each curve and valley of her breasts, her back, and even her legs. When he grew bolder, reaching around to caress and massage the gentle curves of her bottom, instead of being shocked or offended, Lacey found herself wishing, hoping he'd reach around and touch her in other, more private places.
Scandalized by the thought, but stubbornly clinging to it anyway, Lacey almost fainted with sheer excitement when Hawke finally parted her thighs and began to caress the soft skin there. So great was her need for him after that, she'd just about decided to brazenly beg Hawke to move his hands a little higher, when he did just that. The moment his fingers slipped beneath the auburn curls of her most private self and touched her, a lance of intensely surprising pleasure shot through Lacey. For a minute, she thought perhaps she had fainted; and maybe she did. She couldn't be sure. She was only sure that she couldn't stand it if Hawke stopped touching her now.
The need for something built up inside of her, an agonizing conflict of both pleasure and torture for which she couldn't imagine a cure. Her hips were moving of their own volition, writhing one moment, twitching the next, and then her husband left her, interrupting the moment to slip out of his trousers. In the next second, he came back to her, this time squeezing the lower half of his body between her legs. Lacey closed her eyes tightly in preparation for the coming assault, so tightly she thought she could feel the hair of her eyebrows brushing her cheeks.
But Hawke didn't force his way inside her the way the stallion had approached the mare. Instead, he slowly worked at filling her, pausing here and there to whisper encouragement against her burning cheeks. And then his progress came to a sudden, painful halt. He pushed against her again, only to come to the same crashing halt. It didn't take Lacey but a minute to realize that something inside of her was stopping him. She'd been right all along. There was no way Hawke could fit what she'd seen into her tiny body.
"Stop," she cried, yet again.
"Oh... hell," he muttered thickly, stopping as she'd requested. "Does it hurt you so much?"
The pain didn't worry Lacey in the slightest. "No, 'tisn't that, but I was right. You cannot possibly fit in that wee small space. I am not made right for you."
"Oh, Lacey, sweetheart." Hawke ran his hands through her springy curls, removing the few pins which hadn't already fallen out during their lovemaking. "Believe me, you've got plenty of room for me. I just have to get past nature's little barrier first." She drew her eyebrows together, telling him that she had no idea what he meant. "Hold on to me, Irish, and kiss me. I promise to get it out of the way as quickly as possible."
Although she still didn't know what was going to happen, Lacey obeyed her husband. She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought his mouth down on hers. Then with a shocking suddenness and a blinding flash of pain, he drove into her. If Hawke's lips hadn't been firmly clamped to hers, Lacey thought she probably would have cried out, but even his kiss couldn't stop the muffled sob that erupted in her throat.
When he heard that sound, Hawke abruptly ended the kiss and leaned his head back. Now that he'd filled Lacey completely, he didn't move at all, but stared down at her inste
ad, hoping he hadn't hurt her too badly. She looked surprised, or something like it, but he could detect no hint of fear or discomfort in her expression. In fact, he could feel her newly-expanded muscles relaxing little by little. Then their eyes met, locking for a long moment in silent communication, and Hawke knew that she was quite all right. And ready for her next lesson.
He favored her with a crooked grin and asked, "How are you doing now that we've made things fit? You don't feel ghastly or anything like that, do you?"
Lacey giggled softly. "No, and I'm feeling just fine, thank you kindly."
"Fine? That's it?" She smiled shyly and shrugged. "Well, we'll just have to do something about that now, won't we?"
Another rhetorical question for Hawke began to move then, thrusting slowly, carefully at first, aware that she would probably be very tender. It wasn't long before, tender or not, Lacey began to respond with gusto, meeting his thrusts and encouraging a faster, deeper rhythm. Hawke was more than happy to accommodate her. Pleased beyond measure that his previously timid bride now felt secure and bold enough to move freely beneath him, he dug through the tangle of petticoats beneath them and lifted her thighs, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him. Moaning softly against his chest, Lacey immediately took the hint. She brought her knees up, then hooked her feet, boots and all, around his lower thighs. Something sharp bit into his skin, once, twice, and then, too caught up in the moment to care anymore, the sensation stopped or he failed to notice it again. His entire mind, body, and focus was on Lacey and the rapture building in her expression, the acute pleasure he could hear each time she moaned or called his name.
When a climax claimed a surprised Lacey, stunning her with its intensity and the enormous sense of relief it brought her, she cried out, then threw herself into the finale with abandon. Releasing her hold on Hawke's legs, she dug her heels into the straw beneath her and ground her hips against his in order to savor every pounding spasm of sensation. It wasn't a moment later that he withdrew from her, collapsing into the straw with a final groan, and, she thought, a good bit of cursing. He lay still, not touching or looking at her for what seemed a very long time. Then finally, his breathing more normal, he lifted his head, pushed his damp hair away from his face and smiled at her.
"Pretty ghastly, huh?"
Lacey burst out laughing. "Aye, I cannot remember doing anything so ghastly in my entire life."
Hawke crawled up beside his radiant bride, slipped one arm beneath her, and pulled her into his embrace. As he kissed her, nuzzling her throat and the soft rise of her breasts, the only part not decently covered by the camisole, Lacey became aware of the distant clucking of chickens and the rustling of straw as Hazel and the horses moved around in their enclosures. Had the animals been so quiet before, she wondered, or had she just been unable to hear anything else above the pounding of her own heart? She breathed deeply, picking up the usual warm animal odors and the crisp smell of fresh bedding straw, but also something new, a certain muskiness in the scent of her man that hadn't been there before they'd joined together as one. It was an earthy scent, not unpleasant, and one that sent a renewed shiver of excitement throughout her.
"Are you cold?" Hawke asked, raising his head from her breasts.
"Oh, no, not a'tall. I—I'm fine."
"Just fine again?"
She blushed deeply. "Better than fine. I'm wonderful."
"That you are." Hawke tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. "All in all, I'd say this turned out to be one of those 'fine soft days,' 'tis it not, Mrs. Winterhawke?"
Laughing over the way he'd imitated her, she gently corrected him. "When I say 'tis a fine soft morning, that means the weather is just a little misty, but not raining. I don't think we've had much mist or rain on this day, sir. What we've had, I would say, is a grand time of it."
"I would say that too." Reaching beneath her skirt, Hawke gave her backside a little squeeze. "I suppose if I were to call this a, 'fine soft bottom, Mrs. Winterhawke,' it wouldn't be right either, then?"
"Not a'tall, Mr. Winterhawke." Lacey gave his chest a playful slap, then indulged herself by leaving her hand there. Caressing his smooth dark skin, loving the way it felt beneath her palm, she said, "I didn't know men could have such nice skin. The only man I ever saw without a shirt was my dear father a long time ago. It seems to me he was a very hairy fellow, indeed."
"That distinct lack of body hair comes from the Indian side of me."
"Ummm. I like it."
Disturbed by the memory that she didn't like it well enough to bear children who might have that same skin, Hawke rolled over onto his back. He already regretted the promise he'd made about preventing babies; oh, not because he suddenly felt a deep need for progeny, but because of Lacey's reasons for wanting to remain childless. He'd felt robbed as he'd spilled his life's fluids into the straw, inferior to his bride, somehow, and that thought disturbed him as much as withdrawing had.
Aware suddenly of the straw beneath his body, and the fact that it scratched at him, stinging his thighs and calves in an odd way, Hawke sat up to investigate. He slid his hands up and down the backs of his legs, feeling several small welts over the area, and even a large one on his left buttock.
"What the hell have I gotten into?" he asked Lacey as he rolled to his side, exposing the area to her.
Blushing furiously at the sight of her husband's naked backside, but loathe to look away, Lacey peered at the little red streaks on his legs. She touched one of the welts, wondering what could possibly have happened to him, then stated the obvious. "You've been scratched up by something."
"I remember now." Hawke suddenly righted himself and sat up. "It's those damn boots you insisted on wearing."
Before she could even think of getting out of his way, Hawke grabbed one of her legs and lifted it, exposing not just the boot she wore, but the silver spur attached to it. He stared at it as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes.
"What the... hell?"
"'Tis spurs, sir."
"I know they're spurs. Where did you get them, and why are you wearing them?"
"I—you see..." Lacey gulped, wondering how to explain this to Hawke without getting him angrier than he already was. "I thought they would bring me luck, being made like shamrocks and all. I only meant to borrow them. I know they belong to you, and that I didn't have the right to—"
"You're my wife now, Lacey. You have the right to just about anything you want around here. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know first the next time you see something you like." He paused, remembering the curious metallic noises he heard now and then when she was around. "Just how long have you had those spurs, by the way?"
Again, she gulped. "Ah, since the morning I made pancakes for you, sir. Crowfoot gave them to me."
The boy again.
Crowfoot and Lacey, two of a kind for reasons he hadn't quite figured out yet. Another of those irrational talons of jealousy slashed through Hawke's gut, vividly pointing out that no matter what had transpired here in the straw between himself and his wife, he really didn't know the first thing about her. Oh, he knew plenty about her body now, but nothing of her soul. She'd allowed the wild boy who lived in the barn a glimpse of that soul, Hawke just knew she had. Why wouldn't she show a little more of it to her husband?
No man is rich enough to buy back his own past.
—Oscar Wilde
Chapter 14
"Relax, Lacey, let your hips move naturally and bend your knees slightly. Don't try to force the rhythm, fall in time with it. You're too stiff. Lean back a little."
Exasperated by the barrage of instructions, most of which she didn't quite understand, Lacey impulsively raised her hands to the skies as if begging for help from up above. Both reins slipped from her fingers in the process. The moment the leather straps hit the dirt floor of the training ring, Dolly stepped on one of them, causing her to stumble and pitch forward. Lacey flew out of the saddle like she'd been shot from a cannon.
Hawke r
ushed to her side, and Dolly, who'd retreated to the other side of the ring, stood there eyeing her as if to say, "What are you doing down there?"
Lacey, still sitting in the exaggerated sprawl in which she'd landed, cursed as she wiped the gritty Wyoming dust from her eyes. "Damn the bit and these miserable riding lessons, too."
"Hey, Irish," Hawke said, dropping to his heels beside her. "Are you all right? Anything broken?"
She rubbed the ache out of her right wrist, then shook it. "I think I've a few bumps for my trouble, is all."
"Why'd you let go of the reins? You were doing just fine until then."
"I wasn't, and you cannot say that I was." Tears sprang into her eyes. "I cannot do anything right around here. Anything!"
"Oh, now that's not true and you know it."
But instead of calming her, Hawke's words increased her tears. Because he couldn't think what else to do, he gathered Lacey in his embrace and held her, giving her outburst time to run its course. He'd learned to do that and more in his quest to understand the woman beneath the unruly mop of coppery curls; most of all, he'd learned not to rush her, but to give the both of them a little more time in which to become better acquainted.
After their first intimate interlude in the barn and the doubts which had assailed him immediately following, Hawke quickly made a decision to ignore the things that could never be, and to go to work instead on concentrating on what was. After all, he'd never expected to have a wife in the first place, much less a perfect match. And who was he to brood or complain about Lacey's tendency toward secrecy, when he was at least as guilty in that department?
Because of this silent vow Hawke had made to himself, as far as he could tell, he and Lacey had come to know each other a lot better over the past few weeks; if in no other way, most definitely physically. He hadn't had a minute's trouble convincing Lacey to bed him after the first time, that was for sure. Since both of them had a fondness for the out of doors, more often than not, that bed was a secluded patch of meadow grass or a mat of pine needles deep in the forest behind the ranch. They'd even learned to laugh together over the fact that Hawke always took the added precaution of checking his wife's footgear before they made love, and removing any objects which might cause him bodily damage. Not that she'd quit wearing her lucky spurs altogether.