The Barefoot Bride

by Paisley, Rebecca

  "Why do you want to know?"

  For one short moment she was silent, but her grin was tremendous. "Well, I'm gwine find them women when we git to Boston so's I can ask 'em what all they did in the bed with you. I'm purty new at all this Saxon, and I was a-figgerin' maybe them other ladies could tell me—"

  Saxon laughed uproariously. "If you ever approached one of those prim, pristine... uh, virgins with what you've got in mind—" He laughed again. "Good God, Keely! You wouldn't really do that, would you?"

  Her lips moved slowly across his. "Naw. I got more sense'n that. But thur really are thangs I wonder about."

  "Such as?" he asked, amused by her boldness.

  "I could show 'em to you better."

  "Why don't you just tell me what they are, and I'll tell you what I know about them?"

  She shook her head and wiggled under the bearskin. "Some thangs are better larnt by yoresef."

  He felt her lips nipping at his belly. "Learn, Keely," he said softly, his fingers tangled in her hair. "Learn."

  "A-aimin' to." She found his navel and thrust her tongue into it. Saxon's body jerked spasmodically at her actions, and her lips spread into a smile upon his skin. "You smell so good. That bay rum stuff's powerful fancy, ain't it, Saxon?"

  "Bay rum," he mumbled absently, feeling her kisses meandering closer and closer to the base of his manhood. Even now, her cheek was brushing against it.

  Like fast-disappearing smoke, his many past lovers floated through his mind. Those icy maidens had probably never even heard of what Chickadee was doing right now. And if they had, they'd certainly never entertain the notion of doing it.

  That was his last thought as Chickadee did exactly what he'd hoped she would. Her lips, like a tight circle of warm velvet, sought, found, and loved him. She now repaid with gentle, sensual homage that which had given her such joy so many times. He groaned. He'd never felt such exquisite bliss. "Keely, oh sweet Keely," he gasped as her soft, heated mouth continued its tender torment.

  She was glad she'd decided to try making love to him in this way. He'd often done this same thing to her, and the way she saw it, she owed him the same pleasure. She wasn't sure if she was doing it right, but with Saxon carrying on so loudly, she suspected she wasn't doing too badly.

  Though the air around him was cold, Saxon's body burned as if with fever, his every nerve aroused. Moan after moan escaped him as her tongue and her kisses caressed him in a way no one else ever had.

  She shivered with delight at his joy. Pleasing Saxon gave her a satisfaction that had no equal. After a few more long moments, she got to her knees and straddled him, careful to keep the bearskin over them both.

  Saxon opened his eyes, and with the help of the bright moonlight, saw mischief in her sparkling gaze. "Now what are you going to teach yourself?"

  "I done good, huh?" She leaned over him and kissed the tip of his nose. "I'm a fast larner, Saxon."

  His arms went around her, and he started to roll her back to the ground, afire with his need for her. But she forced him still. "I ain't done a-larnin' yet, outlander."

  "But—"

  She pinched his lips closed and inched her torso downward until he slid into her. Saxon's eyes widened, and with every ounce of willpower he possessed, he tried to be silent. But when Chickadee sat up and began to rotate her hips, a quivering yell escaped him.

  "Go on and holler outen yer jollies, Saxon. Ain't nobody around to hear you."

  He reached for her waist, lifting and lowering her. But Chickadee would have none of it and took his hands away. "Y'know," she said, still circling slowly, "yore allus on top. And that ain't fair a'tall, the way I see it."

  "Not fair," he murmured shakily.

  "Yore allus in control o' our lovemakin', and I thought this a-bein' our weddin' night and all, it was time to try new thangs." She tightened her knees around him, all the while continuing to keep him in the silken, ever-moving hold of her femininity. "I had me a hankerin' to know what it was like a-bein' on top. Hope you don't mind none."

  "Don't mind," Saxon muttered, his teeth clenched.

  She leaned back against his bent knees, her hips still rotating, ascending, descending. "Y'know, I could git used to a-bein' on top like this. I got control o' ever' feelin' I'm a-feelin'. I got control over yores too, huh?"

  "Con-control.'

  "Yep, I can go fast like this," she chimed, circling rapidly, "or I can do it real slow-like." The cadence of her lovemaking dwindled down until Saxon grabbed her waist once more, again trying to move her.

  "Fast," he grunted. "Fast, Keely."

  She removed his hands and laughed, the silvery tinkle of her laughter dancing through the thick, cool woods. "Reckon the time fer talkin' is over now, outlander," she told him merrily as she lowered herself down onto his chest. "I'm gwine make serious love to you now."

  She rested her face in the crook of his shoulder and concentrated on the feelings building within her. Her movements were slow, but as her desire heightened, her rhythm increased, and she was soon gyrating her hips to the beat of her and Saxon's mounting pleasure.

  Saxon knew his end was near, but he struggled to contain it—an almost impossible task since Chickadee was in command. His past lovers having been more passive, he'd had no idea what it was like with the woman on top. But he did now.

  It was hell. Sheer, wonderful hell.

  With strength that bordered on desperation, he held back, every fiber of his body burning and melting with the need for release. And when he felt Chickadee tense, he prayed she was every bit as ready for the sensual explosion as he was. He reached around her and cupped her bottom firmly, guiding, coercing her into that sweet paradise he could barely wait to reach.

  "Oh, Saxon." She moaned softly and shuddered.

  He shouted his own bliss but never heard himself yelling. Throbbing wildly within her, he spilled his seed, his muscles quivering with the pent-up need, finally assuaged.

  "It's over," he heaved. "Thank God."

  *

  Wilmington buzzed with all the usual activities of a seaport. Chickadee's nose wrinkled at the scent of the salty, fishy air, but she was enthralled by all the sailors loading and unloading ships' cargoes. She stared at the clippers, schooners, and steamboats, wondering how such large, heavy vessels could possibly stay afloat.

  "Which one's yore granny's?" she asked Saxon.

  He scanned the water, soon spying the Sea Siren, Araminta's most opulent steamboat. She usually reserved it for her own travels or for the magnificent parties she gave aboard it. Sending the Sea Siren was probably her way of reminding him of the Blackwell fortune, Saxon mused.

  As if he could ever forget anything concerning his grandmother. Quickly, he squelched the little-boy fears, the bitter torment he could not seem to lay to rest.

  "Keely, you're in for a real treat. She sent the Sea Siren, and you're going to sail to Boston in style."

  But in Chickadee's eyes, stylish in no way described the baroque elegance of the steamboat. Standing in the great central compartment, she stared up at the molded ceiling, her gaze riveted to the crystal chandelier. Rich, thick carpet lay beneath her feet, and all around her were paintings in gilded frames hanging on rosewood-paneled walls. Mirrored pillars, their tops and bottoms decorated with golden sea creatures, supported two balconies of staterooms. The very air she breathed had the odor of what she decided must be the fragrance of wealth.

  "Do you have a preference of rooms, Mr. Blackwell?" The steward stood stiffly eyeing the white beast who was sniffing his pant leg.

  "Grandmother's."

  The steward's eyes bulged as Khan's snout inched up into his crotch. He tried unobtrusively to push Khan away with his knee. "Uh, will the dog be staying with you, or shall I take him—"

  "He goes whar I go." Chickadee snapped her fingers and Khan ceased his intimate investigation of the red-faced steward. "And Khan ain't no dog. He's a wolf."

  The steward swallowed audibly. "Please excuse my ignorance
, Mrs. Blackwell." He bowed and turned to Saxon. "I will escort you to your stateroom now, sir."

  When they reached Araminta's personal quarters, Chickadee gasped. She stood on the threshold, her lower jaw hanging open. Saxon walked around her, removed his coat and hat, and hung them both on a brass hatstand. "Keely, I'm going to go check on Hagen, but I'll be back shortly." When she didn't answer, he turned and looked at her. "Aren't you going to come in?"

  "What?"

  He smiled and pulled her into the room. Khan followed and jumped to put his paws on Saxon's chest. Ever since the fire the wolf had shown him respect, obedience, loyalty, and most of all, affection. "Yes, Khan," Saxon said as Khan drenched him with wet wolf kisses, "I like you too." He gave the wolf a brief ear rub, ruffled Chickadee's hair, and left, the steward following him.

  She never even heard him shut the door, so great was her amazement at her surroundings. The entire room, decorated in varying shades of blue and pink, was sumptuous. All the furnishings were elaborate, but the monstrous bed held her attention the longest. The coverlet was of shiny rose satin. From each of the bottom corners, fine lace flowed to the floor like frothy bubbles. The bedposts, carved with painstaking detail, nearly reached the ceiling. Why one old woman needed a bed of that size was beyond Chickadee. She couldn't for the life of her understand how Araminta could use so many pillows. There were at least ten, in all sizes and shapes.

  "Lord o' mercy, Khan. Either the woman's the bigness of a house or she don't sleep alone."

  Khan wagged his tail, loped to the bed, and leaped gracefully onto it. He walked in small circles before he settled down in the lush satin, crossing his front paws in satisfaction as he closed his eyes.

  Chickadee shrugged her shoulders and proceeded to make a fire in the marble fireplace. When the blaze was dancing merrily, she sat on the floor and untied the knotted ends of a bulging piece of cloth, dumping its contents onto the immaculate blue carpet.

  Saxon walked in to find her up to her knees in pine straw. "What are you doing with that mess?"

  She didn't look up but continued to twist, bend, and braid the pine needles. "You ain't got much of a mem'ry, Saxon. Afore we left the hills, you said you was gwine stop somewhar and git yore sister a present."

  "What does that have to do with all this pine straw?"

  "Well, you never got Desdemona nothin', so when we got here to Wilmin'ton, I gathered up these twankles whilst you was a-talkin' to the captain o' this here ship-boat."

  "Twinkles?"

  "Well, outlanders call it pine straw."

  "You're going to give Desdemona a pile of pine straw? Oh, Keely, she'll love it. I can just imagine the fun she'll have with it," he said sarcastically.

  "Y'know Saxon, a idee would bust yore head wide open. I ain't gwine give her no pile o' twankles. What do you thank I am? Mizzled?"

  He smiled and kissed the top of her head.

  "A-makin' her a basket's what I'm a-doin'. You said yore granny's got big, fancy gardens, and I figgered come greenup time Desdemona might like to have a basket fer when she goes out to pick all them posies."

  Saxon's smile faded. Desdemona had never picked flowers in her life. She didn't care about things like that. She didn't care about anything.

  But his smile returned in a flash when he remembered that Desdemona had yet to meet Chickadee. "Could the basket wait for a while? I thought you might like to go topside and watch as we leave."

  Chickadee stood, brushed off her breeches, and snapped for Khan. The wolf paid her no mind. "Khan, you ornery—"

  "Let him sleep, Keely. He's been traveling on foot for weeks."

  "Yore granny ain't gwine mind him a-sleepin' on that fancified bed?"

  Saxon smirked devilishly. "I'm sure Grandmother wouldn't mind a bit sharing her bed with the new Blackwell pet."

  *

  The Sea Siren glided safely through the waters of the moody Cape Fear River, her competent captain steering clear of the treacherous shoals that were the cause of many shipwrecks. And when the luxurious steamboat slipped out of the mouth of the river, Chickadee shivered with awe at her first sight of the ocean-sea. As if to impress her, the white-capped waves battered the sides of the boat, spraying her so thoroughly that she was soon drenched from red head to bare feet.

  Saxon tried to take her back to the room, insisting she needed to get out of her wet clothes, but she refused. Though the sea enchanted her and the boat amazed her, her heart was pounding so furiously, she thought it would surely fly out of her chest and sink into the water at any moment.

  The coastline of her home state was slowly disappearing.

  Saxon saw the sadness in her eyes. "Back," he said, that strange sense of dread returning. "You'll be back, Keely."

  She buried her face in his coat. "Saxon, will you do somethin' fer me?"

  The melancholy glimmer in her eyes made him ache for her. "Anything."

  "Well, when you and me are a-lovin' up on each other, I fergit about all other thangs. It's like nothin' matters but what we're a-doin'."

  "Enough said, Mrs. Blackwell." He swept her into his arms and carried her to their stateroom. There they both stared at the plush bed and smiled at the thought of the passion that would soon be given free rein in it.

  Of course, they had to get Khan off first.

  *

  "Lordy," Chickadee whispered, her breath visible in the cold air of the harbor. She pulled Saxon's coat tightly about her and watched the Sea Siren pass the other ships that bobbed like corks in the New England waters.

  The journey, most of which she had spent in Saxon's arms, was over now. The familiar, soothing beauty of the Appalachia was far behind her, and just ahead, noisy and crowded, was Boston.

  As the Sea Siren approached the wharf, she gripped the railing and stared at the dockside, a commercial district of striking brick and granite warehouses, and wide streets. Everywhere she looked, she saw people hurrying. Many were running, but even those who were walking were quick about it. She scanned the area thoroughly for signs of anything that would make the people rush about so, but she saw no fire or any other sort of danger.

  "Welcome to Boston." Saxon put his arm around her and gently caressed her cold cheek. "What do you think of it?"

  "Well, it ain't the Blue Ridge." She stroked the raccoon tails at the waistband of her breeches. "Law, Saxon, look at that woman. She's got a umbreller over her head, and it ain't even a-rainin'."

  Saxon saw the woman in question and smiled. "That's a parasol. It's used to keep the sun off her face."

  "Y'mean she don't want no sunlight to lit on her?"

  "Not a ray."

  "But—I ain't never heared o' nothin' so silly. Why don't she jist stay in the house?"

  His answer was cut off by the Sea Siren's whistle. At the sudden noise, Khan began to howl. Even after the whistling ceased, he continued, eliciting stares from the people gathered around the landing.

  The ship's sailors quickly made the preparations for departure, and Chickadee soon found herself in front of Saxon's personal coach. Drawn by four gray thoroughbreds, the black barouche was gilt-trimmed; the Blackwell crest was emblazoned in gold on the door. Two footmen, dressed in elaborate livery, were positioned at the back. The postilions wore the finest buckskin breeches Chickadee had ever seen. Their high-top boots gleamed, as did their black silk coats and the gold braid that adorned their caps.

  While one of the footmen tied Hagen to the back of the carriage, Saxon assisted Chickadee inside. The interior was as luxurious as the outside, the walls and cushioned seats covered with gold satin damask.

  "Wolf!"

  The sudden shout interrupted her examination of the coach. "Saxon, whar's Khan?" She jumped to the ground and noticed a crowd of people not too far away. Between the spaces of their legs and skirts, she saw a flash of white. When she saw a dock-worker cock his pistol and butt his way through the throng, she turned back to the carriage and pulled out her rifle.

  Saxon grabbed it. "Just wha
t do you think you're—"

  "Khan's over thar, and I swear iffen one hair on him is hurt, I'm gwine blow somebody's fool head offen!" She snatched her gun from his grasp and ran toward the horde of people, Saxon at her heels.

  When she arrived at the scene, she saw Khan cornered between two buildings. "Dang it! Move!" she screamed, jostling people out of her way. Not one person paid her a bit of attention, everyone anxiously waiting to see what would happen between the armed dockman and the snarling wolf. Chickadee, with practiced ease, shot three consecutive shots into the air.

  "Dammit, Keely!" Saxon yanked the gun away from her.

  The crowd broke apart immediately, all eyes switching from the feral beast to the redheaded rustic. Chickadee ignored them all and ran to Khan, but just before she reached him, a deep voice stopped her.

  "Step away from him, miss," the dockhand said, his pistol leveled at Khan.

  "Step away?" Her hand flew to her thigh, and from a long leather sheath she withdrew a sharp hunting knife. Saxon read her mind, but the knife was slicing through the air before he could take it away from her.

  Precisely as she intended, the tip of the blade sank into the toe of one of the dockman's boots, the hilt quivering. When the man looked down, Chickadee ran to Khan and threw her arms around him.

  "Look... look what she did!" the worker exclaimed. "These are the only boots I own!"

  "And this here's the onliest pet I own, mister!" Chickadee glared at the man and the shocked audience. "Khan warn't a-hurtin' nobody. He was jist a-sniffin' around, and all you-uns crowded 'round him so's he couldn't go nowhars! Dang shameful's what it is!"

  "All right, Keely," Saxon said. "No harm was done."

  "No harm?" the dockhand bellowed, gesturing toward his boot. "I expect to be paid for this damage."

  Saxon sighed. "Tell me how much they cost, and I'll—"

  "You ain't a-gittin' nothin' fer them boots, you God-burn varmint!" Chickadee grabbed her rifle from Saxon and aimed it at the workman. "Khan you ain't had yore supper yet, have you?"

  The wolf's tongue slipped out of the side of his mouth, his saliva dripping to the pavement, his glacial blue gaze centered on his would-be killer.