“See, nothing to get yourself in a tizzy over. For all Mr. D’s occasional saltiness, he’s quite a softie when it comes to making you happy, I’d say.”
Her grin was probably touching her earlobes when she effused, “Yes he is!” and bolted from the kitchen, flip flops nearly tripping her up on the way.
Exiting the house, she stood on the back porch, hand on hip and her eyes locked to his laughing ones.
“Don’t be mad at me,” he begged.
“I won’t be mad if you tell me that SuperLow that Adam is rubbing—in a very unhealthy manner, by the way—is mine,” she teased, making both men laugh.
“Do you forgive me for being such a jerk last night?”
Sauntering to him, she smiled. “There’s nothing to forgive, but I will accept your more than generous peace offering.”
Her husband rose from the cockpit, lifting his muscular leg over the seat. Those thighs were the ultimate tease for her sex-starved soul and body. His grin was something she hadn’t seen in over a week and that, too, fluttered her physical response.
“I’m sorry I left you this morning, but I did promise you we’d go for a ride today, didn’t I?”
“More than one,” she replied with innuendo, relishing the promise of intimacy he’d made. “Please tell me you were careful in town.”
“I was careful in town.”
“Was he careful in town, Adam?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a grin.
Walking to her, her hot husband smiled then glanced over at Adam squatting beside the bike. The man’s freckled-face smile confirmed that he coveted the Harley as much as she did.
“Close your eyes, Bell, I’m gonna kiss my wife.”
The man barely glanced up from his inspection of the SuperLow’s rear shock.
“I don’t think he cares,” she said as Fitzwilliam swept her up into his arms.
“I brought you something,” he said when their lips parted.
“More than the bike and that kiss?”
He removed a black plastic bag from the motorcycle’s saddlebag then held it out to her. “Well, something to replace what was lost at Pemberley. You can’t ride if you’re not dressed appropriately. The Black Mountains are a whole hell of a lot more treacherous than the hills around Leesburg.”
Glancing into the bag, she spied leather pants and jacket. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I think leather may be too hot today.”
“But it’s safer than those denim shorts you have on.”
“But, darling, riding pants are much more difficult and time consuming to peel from my body.”
“Then we better not waste precious minutes. I’d like to be on the road within the next 15.”
Ignoring his command, made with a raised eyebrow and his need to play warden on their planned escape from prison, she recognized that the mere allowance of this break-out was huge—for both of them. Instead, she focused on the naughty smirk playing on his lips. As his nature, he didn’t need to voice his amorous intentions or what was on his mind. His expression essentially conveyed that nothing, not even leather pants, would get in the way of his hands against her skin on a steamy summer afternoon. For that, she’d overlook his due diligence.
“Fifteen minutes? My, my, you’re excited.”
“Yes, I am,” he teased with a swat to her backside when she turned from him.
“Don’t get too attached to that bike, Adam. I’ll be out in five minutes,” she called out with a laugh and a skip to her step as she entered the house.
Her dark thoughts of earlier were easily replaced with excitement for the day ahead. For one, her husband had significantly dialed down his dark aura, having escaped the confines of the farmhouse and the purchase of a new Harley, which meant he laid down some serious cash. Perhaps, like the purchase of the SuperLow, his attitude was for her benefit, but the man did love fast toys and this newest beast he rode in on looked top of the line. She’d not bring it to his attention, but in the light of a new day, there was a glimmer of her Fitzwilliam before the explosion and not so much the Iceman of this past week. Maybe her own happiness had to do with his eased brow brought on by the baring of his heart and mind the night before and the sound rest that followed for them both. Or maybe she felt giddy because it was just the promise of a certain type of freedom she so enjoyed: that of two fast-spinning wheels under her body, satisfying her need for speed. And, of course, there was always the base reality that her excitement was just horniness at the prospect of finally having wild sex with the bad boy who owned her heart and knew how to masterfully employ his delicious inches.
For all her husband’s protestation and compulsion to keep her safe from danger, he could relate to what she was feeling, but he had his thoroughbreds to ride at breakneck speed through the fields. Not yet a skilled horsewoman, she had nothing but Georgiana’s Sex in the City and Fitzwilliam’s (she assumed) Sons of Anarchy DVDs.
“We’re going out, Dixon!” she excitedly called to where he sat in the kitchen.
“You’ll be fine; you’re in the best hands, Mrs. D. Go and have yourselves a real good time. Your Hibbens are in Mr. D’s office where you left them.”
Plastic bag in hand, she stood at the threshold, “What will you guys do while we’re riding?”
“You know, the usual. The horses need tending, and I’m hopin’ to stoke up that old forge out back and work on those throwers I promised to make ya’.”
“You should definitely take a break now that Hank and Adam are back. I feel bad that you’ve been stuck up here with me day and night. I guess Nick will be back soon, too?”
He shrugged and then took a bite of the microwavable breakfast burrito.
These poor guys were tied to surveilling this lonely place, particularly Dixon—her constant shadow—guilt ridden as he felt. She wondered if they all felt as stir crazy as she did. A master bladesmith like Dixon must miss his solitude when metalworking. And Nick must miss his daughters up north terribly. “Fitzwilliam says it won’t be long until this is all over.”
“Makes no difference to me. You’re stuck with me, ma’am, and that’s my choice. And, one day, when little ‘uns are running around, they’ll be stuck with me, too. And when they get older, I might not be able to keep up with them, but I’ll always have my eyes on them. I won’t let you down again.”
She smiled wistfully. Children. Today, she’d try to think more optimistically about the future. “You’ve never let me down. Ya’ know, I know you have your own family, but I’d like to think you are part of ours too after these few months. Uncle Dixon.”
“Aw, I don’t have much kin, at least not many worth sending Christmas cards to. Like I said, I’m salty but if y’all want to adopt me as a surrogate uncle, I won’t object. I’d be honored.” He smiled back baring his yellowed teeth beneath the beard.
“So would we, and for the record, I don’t think you’re salty. You’ve always been sweet to me.”
“Go on with ya’.” He looked away and brought the coffee mug to his lips telling her that she hit that soft spot he hid so well.
***
Once again, Fitzwilliam had proven his assessment correct—she needed the leather for the ride, but not now. Although cooler in the mountains where the Darcy compound was, as they descended into the valley toward the reservoir, it grew warmer. She was sweating her butt off!
He was also right about the danger. The winding turns down into the valley made her uneasy, having been off a motorcycle for a few weeks. She’d only been riding for a year, whereas it was second nature for her husband. The man was born for the bike, just as he was for horse riding; he mounted things very well. She may have been born to be wild like her sister claimed, but she had to be honest with herself: she lacked the absolute confidence that came only with advanced skill and experience.
No longer so petulant in fighting his biking instructions, she loved following his lead, secretly mimicking his manner of turning, how his body dipped, how he throttl
ed or down shifted—oh, yes, and the dreaded counter steering. Not to mention, she loved looking ahead at his jean-clad backside.
The Black Mountains were breathtaking. Lush and picturesque, she could see why he had chosen to move here after leaving the Navy. Clearly, he had planned to stay, and privately dreamed of his eventual return to horses given that the old barn at the bottom of the hill had been ready for the arrival of their four.
With Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” filling her ears, she followed Fitzwilliam down a winding road bordered by green pastures and forestry. It really was a beautiful ride filled with challenges and a few hair-pin switchbacks to keep her adrenaline happy (even if unnerved) but she prevailed through the danger. Finally, he turned down a nameless tree-lined by-way, slowing the Harley on the red hard-packed dirt and gravel. His deep voice halted the music when he spoke to her through the headset comms. “This access road leads northeast to Big Cove, near the cabin. How are you feeling?”
“Good. I like the new model; it rides a lot smoother and is significantly lighter than my other.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She laughed. “I feel great! Reborn! Tomorrow I can ride all the way back to Longbourn Plantation.”
Of course, he didn’t reply—that would mean he had to say no to her twice in as many days, and he hated that. For all his controlling nature, still a work in progress, he never denied her anything.
“Try to ride in the shallow so that you’re not messed up by the gravel so much. You don’t have off-roading tires. Not that this is off-roading or a mountain path, but you’re maneuvering 800 pounds over dirt, not street.”
“Okay. ’Cause there’s less traction, right?”
“Yeah, but give the bike the reigns to do what it’s gonna do, just keep your head up and focus. Don’t panic when the front wheel jiggles a little. It’s natural.”
“Right.”
“And when in doubt, throttle out if you find yourself losing traction; it’ll help you get control and keep the bike upright.”
“Yes, dear. Can I go back to listening to Vivaldi now?”
He lightly laughed. “Yes. We’ll be on this and a few other small roads for about another thirty minutes. I just wanted to give you a few pearls of experience.”
“Thank you.”
The music came back on and she lowered the volume of “Summer,” suddenly feeling a little insecure about the gravel pathway and his instructions. Like he said, it wasn’t off-roading, but she had only sorta-mastered pavement—and tarmac. “Babe?” she asked with a slight tremor to her voice.
“Are you all right, Lakmé?”
“Yeah. Just a little nervous.”
“Hey, hon, you got this; just loosen your grip and enjoy the experience. I’m not always going to be here to advise you, so listen to the bike and your intuition. Both Al and I taught you well and you proved your skill in Moscow.”
“What do you mean—not going to be here?”
“Nothing … I just meant we’re not going to live forever. Do you want to stop and take a break?”
“No. I can do this. So, you’re assuming you’ll die before me?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of actuarial life tables? Forget what I said and get back to concentrating on the road.”
Her front tire slipped a little and she followed his directions, just letting the bike right itself without her braking. She tapped the music controls on the dash; Vivaldi wasn’t nearly as relaxing as her husband’s warm caramel voice. It didn’t matter what he would say while her nerves frayed, just so long as she could hear him in her head.
“Keep talking to me,” she said. “And not about either of us dying.”
His chuckle sounded like a baritone Aria to her. “What do you want to hear?”
“Anything.”
“How about the story of how I almost didn’t survive SEAL basic training.”
“Um … that sounds death related.”
“But I did survive …”
“I find it hard to believe that you didn’t fly through training.”
He laughed. “Let’s just say, at first I thought I was in over my head, but I was a fighter. Only about 20% of the candidates make it out of BUD/S, and while I didn’t ring out, there was one situation that nearly took me out.”
“Bulldinkey.”
“I’m serious. In the first week, I nearly drowned swimming 50 meters under frigid water.”
“But you’re a great swimmer. You can hold your breath for, like, ever.”
“Not when I have the flu.”
“Oh shit. What happened?”
“My muscles and lungs were giving out, but I thought of Georgiana, Wickham, my parents, and what washing out would do to me after all I’d come through … and then I fought harder, pushing my limitations … Actually, I’m glad it happened. Neither the Navy nor my demons could break my determination, and BUD/S broke my anger in a way that Naval training couldn’t. I was able to become the warrior they needed, and that I needed to become.”
“But what about the flu? Did they give you time to recover?”
“It doesn’t work that way. I continued on and a couple of weeks later I survived Hell Week on only four hours of sleep. Man, Knightley and I had one hell of a good time learning how to blow shit up underwater even though our broken down bodies were barely alive.”
“Wow. You never told me any of this. And then what happened?”
“I learned that I couldn’t do it alone. As much as the Navy tried to mold me, it was the SEALs that created me. Somewhere between my discharge and Operation Virginia Reel, I lost my way.”
“I hate Lucy Steele.”
He just laughed then continued telling her stories from his qualification training and “frogman” days, as he referred to them, something he had seldom ever spoken of, not for her lack of asking but because he resisted the sharing of his military life. She never prodded. It was as if Obsidian had consumed them—and him. It saddened her that Obsidian had directed him on another path (as honorable in a way as it was.) The SEALs had made him more focused, responsible to his unit and brothers, and stripped him of his anger. But desire for revenge ran through his veins, and Obsidian knew it. Obsidian made him Iceman, and she didn’t think she could ever forgive what it did to that noble Special Ops warrior she knew he was.
In his fascinating tales, the road beneath her wheels, the dense tree-line flanking them, and the ninety-degree weather were all but forgotten.
Now that he seemed willing to discuss his experiences, she had hundreds of questions. But she decided to just listen for now; she had a lifetime ahead to ask them.
Fitzwilliam stopped his bike in front of a tin-roofed cabin, just visible about fifty feet in from the “road.” “This is it. We’ll walk the bikes from here.”
After placing the stand down, she stretched her back, thankful for their arrival. They’d been riding for an hour and her bottom was sore, her back stiff, and beads of perspiration were trickling between her breasts as the sun beat down on her. “Please tell me there is air conditioning.”
He just laughed.
“Hey, it looks like you had a recent visitor.”
“Why do you say that?”
“These tire tracks look new.”
“Probably someone with an ATV, cutting through the woods. This trail isn’t even on a map,” he said dismissively, which was stinkin’ odd given how if even a branch was out of place at the farmhouse he could tell.
“No, these are truck tires.”
He finally looked to where she pointed. “Just a Forest Ranger.”
Following behind him, she pushed the SuperLow through the trees until they reached the overgrown bramble surrounding the rustic house. Its once-quaint porch was covered in leaves and debris, and a fallen branch had bent the porch roof eave causing it to list on one side.
They parked under a small portico, promptly removing their helmets, and Fitzwilliam met her gaze with a beaming smile. “You did great back ther
e. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Frogman. I was a little afraid, but you helped to calm me down.”
It had been years since he’d been here, yet his first and foremost concern was her—not the storm damage done to his wilderness sanctuary. He came to her then removed the helmet from her hands, placing it on the bike’s seat.
“Look, babe, you’re a strong rider, so don’t give into the falsehood of fear. In fact, you’re stronger than I am in so many ways. Hell, what you’ve come through without even a complaint or a tear proves it.”
He thought her silence on that issue was strength—good. She fooled him well then. “You promised that we wouldn’t discuss anything upsetting.”
“You’re right.” Glancing around him, he asked, “What would you like to do first—clean the cabin, practice knife throwing, or go for a refreshing skinny dip in the swimming hole out back?” Smiling, he waggled his eyebrows and her reply was an unzip to the jacket he’d bought her, revealing a pink tank top.
“I did not come all this way to clean an abandoned log house.”
“Point taken. Let’s at least do a walkthrough. It’s been over two years since I came down here and the last few winters haven’t been kind.”
Liz was certainly curious about the place, but how could she tell him that she really didn’t want to go from one secluded hideaway to another. Walls were the last thing she wanted, and there was no danger of discovery deep in the mountain range. He led her to believe that they’d be visiting the reservoir, maybe taking out a canoe or something, not hiding in a cobweb-riddled shack.
Taking her hand, he led the way to said shack but abruptly stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
The man was getting adept at raising his eyebrow when questioning her, and he was smart enough to know that when his wife replied, “nothing” it was definitely “something.” True to form, he furrowed his brow, silently assessing her. He understood her message, and his response was not to reply with words but action. He turned on his heel and led her into the woods, their heavy boots crunching the leaves and fallen branches as they drew closer to the sound of rushing water. Her heart leapt at the thought of a secluded waterfall, something the mountains surrounding Asheville were touted for. She’d yet to see one since their arrival but did see the small pond at the bottom of the hill leading up to her prison.
In Good Conscience Page 6