by Tessa Bowen
“Not the nicest lady, I take it.”
“She was a bloody nightmare and I had no siblings to distract her. Until Trevor anyway, he helped to take the pressure off. She was so impressed by him you see. Oh…” she trailed off, picking at her sweater nervously. “I wasn’t supposed to mention him, was I? I just meant we were much like brother and sister before we became…”
He wrinkled his nose, but decided not to erupt into asshole mode for once. “Sounds raaaaaather disgusting.”
She threw him a purse-lipped smile. “It wasn’t. He looked after me. He had an unsatisfying home life as well, so we stuck together. I wouldn’t have survived my childhood without him. Let’s change the subject. I know how you get riled at the mention of his name.”
He snorted softly. “Riled, huh? Trust me, if I get riled you’ll know it.”
She picked up on the suggestiveness of his comment right away. He was a little taken aback when she dished it right back.
Her green eyes went all smoky, turning a compelling khaki shade. “Were you riled that night in the barn, Jack?”
His toes curled into the picnic blanket. When she tossed out the demure act and really went for it, this woman was something else.
“Riled enough to get the job done,” he shot back.
He smirked with male satisfaction when her dark lashes lowered, blinking at the sleeping infant between them. “Indeed.”
Jack cleared his throat. One more thing needed saying before he left. “About our little arrangement, I guess the deal is off.”
She feigned innocence, batting those eyelashes at him. “Deal—what deal?”
“You know what deal—you’re not pregnant anymore, so I guess you can do whatever you want. I just don’t want him acting like a father to my kid, but I can’t stop the rest from happening…”
He gritted his teeth against the wash of rage. The idea of the Baroness entertaining the Duke with his daughter just next door in the nursery made him want to crack the tea tray over his knee. The worst part was his fury had little to do with his daughter’s presence in proximity to their sexcapades. She wouldn’t know the difference, but he would. He might travel halfway across the world to get away from this woman, but the image of her shuddering in ecstasy atop or beneath another man would follow him wherever he went.
“I’ve told you that it’s over between us,” she flared. “Do you really think I am such a snake as that? Isabel held my hand when I gave birth. I value her friendship very much—am lucky to have it. I would never jeopardize that. And Trevor is finally happy.”
“I know how you people act when you get bored.”
He cringed, knowing his words sounded childish.
“I think I’ll have quite enough to do,” she went on tightly. “It will be difficult without you here. I hardly think I will have time to break up marriages.”
He’d offended her deeply. This was not how he’d wanted to leave things. His ego had gotten the better of him and that driving masculine force to possess. When in actual fact, he had no rights of ownership over her.
“Ok, so maybe it’s over with him, but a woman like you is sure to have many admirers. You told me you would find a lover after the baby was born.” His voice cracked over the next words because his throat had constricted to the size of a straw. “You should do whatever you need to do. I’ll be ok with it.”
He glanced at her. She had gone very rigid and was tugging her hair back into a tight bun once again. No doubt in an attempt to gain control of the awkward situation.
“My attentions will be focused on our daughter. I plan on spending all my time with her, not prowling around in my negligee leaving a stream of sated young bucks in my wake.”
The image of her in a negligee distracted him for a moment. He could just see her doing that—prowling in something lacy and filmy while men lay in heaps on the floor of her bedroom.
One thing was for sure, this young buck was hardly sated.
“I’ve seen how you get when the mood strikes you. I’m telling you to go for it, it might help you relax.”
“I know how to relax, Mr. Johnson. And being married to you has made me quite practiced in the art of self-pleasure. I should have no problem seeing to myself in between feedings.”
His mouth went dry as it dropped open and then he belted out a shout of laughter. She’d amused him and turned him on all in the same breath—she really was quite a woman.
“You better get that hair back before the beast reverts.”
She put the finishing touches on the chignon, slamming the final pin into place. “Don’t be cruel to me.”
Jack’s face fell. Sometimes their banter went south real fast—her skin was so thin. “You haven’t been teased much in your life, have you?” he asked in a gentler tone.
She gave him a blank stare and shook her head.
“I’m just playing with you half the time, Baroness.”
Her bosom rose and fell as she heaved a huffy sigh.
Jack went back to chewing on his blade of grass, thinking of all the ways he would like to “tease” and “play” with her. He wouldn’t use his words—he’d use his fingers and his tongue. He snapped the blade of grass in two. It was time to get out of here quick like a bunny. This sweet scene was pulling him in. The longer he sat here in the sunshine with his perfect baby and this beautiful and hilarious woman, the longer he wanted to stay. And he couldn’t stay or he’d shred those pins in her hair and rip her tidy little outfit off as well. He’d lay her flat on this blanket and have at her in the light of day, baby’s close proximity be damned. He had the feeling Ducky would give him the thumbs up anyway. It was a crying shame that a woman this desirable had been relegated to self-pleasure. Should he re-think this arrangement? No, damn it—but he’d throw one last taunting jab at her—if for nothing else, to see her spine stiffen. Her tits looked great in that blouse when she shoved her chest forward in outrage.
“I’d like to see you with your hair down someday and really tangled. Like tangled so bad, it’s all tied up in knots. I’d like to see you tied up in knots too.”
She didn’t prickle. Instead she met his gaze and arched one dark well-shaped brow.
“The only place my hair gets tangled is in the boudoir and you’ve made it very plain you have no interest in engaging in bed sport with me.”
It wasn’t lack of interest that was for sure. It was his damned common sense. He’d let her have the last word. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. Jack helped her up, trying not to admire her figure as she brushed grass from her slender backside. He picked up the sleeping duckling and bundled her close. They headed back to the house in silence.
She turned to him at the entrance, taking the baby from him. The loss of her warm little body against his arm cut like a knife.
“When will you leave?”
“This afternoon.”
“I guess I won’t ask when you’ll be back, that wasn’t part of the deal.”
He shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know…”
“Well, safe journey.”
She began to climb the steps to the house. What else was there to say? He’d think of something quick so he could linger a moment longer.
“Hey, Slim.”
The Baroness turned. “Yes?”
“You’re going to ride again soon, right?”
Her cheeks colored a bit. “Just as soon as I can, once the…soreness dissipates.”
“Stick with the new chestnut, ok? He’s a good horse. He’ll keep you safe.”
He hadn’t expected her scrunch to appear. He didn’t know what he’d expected—maybe just a nod of agreement or perhaps a smile for his obvious gesture of concern, but not the royal frown.
“You’re very controlling for a non-husband husband.”
He was exactly just that, a non-husband husband. He had to remember that. He had no right to order her around and yet the idea of her riding a horse he hadn’t vetted sent him into a tailspin of anxiety.
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“Abigail, I’m just concerned for your safety.”
That stopped her in her tracks. He knew it would. He’d never used her name before. He didn’t much care for the sound of it on his tongue. It’s what the Duke called her.
“All right. I’ll only ride the chestnut.”
She didn’t hesitate, but swept into the house carrying his child away from him. There was still time to say goodbye to his daughter when she woke from her nap, but he doubted he’d see the Baroness again before he left.
And it was just as well.
Chapter Nine
Jack Johnson was gone before dinner. The Baroness sat in silence, staring at the carrot soup Gracie served her.
“Did you see him before he left?” she asked Gracie.
“Yes, My Lady—I found him upstairs closing the door to the nursery around four o’clock.”
She sighed, dragging her spoon through the orange liquid. “A final farewell to Ducky no doubt.”
“He looked very sad to leave her, My Lady. I am sure he will be back just as soon as he can. He loves that little girl.”
“Yes, he does love her,” the Baroness agreed weakly. She choked down two spoonfuls of soup before pushing it away. “And she loves him. I fear she will be lost without him.”
We will both be lost without him.
And lost they were.
Ducky awoke at six for her feeding and started to squawk in fury when her father wasn’t there. The squawks eventually turned to long heart rending sobs and then baleful moans. The infant’s cries of misery reverberated throughout the large home. The Baroness cried too as she struggled to feed her. Ducky latched on for a few minutes then turned her face away and began sobbing again. This went on until the next day. The only rest Abigail got was when the baby cried herself into such a state of fatigue that she passed out for a short while, only to rise again with whimpers of despair.
She did her best to comfort the child, to no avail. “I know, my darling. I am sorry he is gone. I didn’t want him to go either.”
No one in the household had slept a wink all night. Gracie and Archibald looked like a pair of zombies. Abigail was pale and drawn too. Poor Ducky’s little face was so blotchy it looked like a strawberry. She called the doctor at noon. He just shook his head and told her to stay close and feed her when she could. Abigail did just that, but Ducky wasn’t complying. Not even the hair trick worked. Daphne didn’t care about her scent—she didn’t care about anything but her father who was very far away by now.
“He’s in bloody Montana while his daughter is here in England dying of a broken heart,” the Baroness muttered in agitation.
By the afternoon of day two, Abigail was truly desperate. She yearned to call Isabel and Trevor, but refused to bother them. Why should she interrupt their marital bliss? This was her problem and hers alone. She paced the halls while the baby hiccupped and coughed between howls.
“This blasted arrangement won’t work at all,” she ranted to herself.
When he’d announced he was going, she’d wanted to ask him to take them along. She’d wanted to beg him actually. “Please, take us with you,” her inner voice had pleaded, but she hadn’t said the words. She had to respect his need for freedom, but not if it meant his daughter couldn’t live without him.
She found poor old Archie in the study, pouring himself a drink. The old gentleman never turned to alcohol for comfort, but they were in dire straits. Abigail only wished she could drown herself in drink right now. She’d guzzle a vat of whisky if it meant the baby would stop crying.
She turned tormented eyes on the secretary. “She won’t stop until he returns, Archie. What will we do? We can’t go on like this? She is only eating half of what she’s supposed to— she’ll wither away to nothing.”
“And so will you, My Lady.”
Abigail dismissed his concern with a breezy gesture. She knew she looked an absolute fright. For once she didn’t care. She only cared about the little girl upstairs and how to make her stop crying.
“I’ll have to send word to him, beg him to come back. He must have left you a phone number. Get him on the bloody line, Archie, or we’ll all go mad.”
“That brings me to the matter of your husband, My Lady…”
“Yes, what about him?” she snapped.
“His Grace asked me to check into his background.”
“I didn’t want Trevor involved. I need to sort this out myself.”
“He insisted, I’m afraid.”
“He likes to stick his nose in, doesn’t he? Well, what did you find out?”
“It appears Jack Johnson is not quite who he says he is.”
A thousand nightmarish possibilities rushed through her mind. “Whatever do you mean?”
“His name isn’t Jack Johnson, My Lady.”
“Well, who the bloody hell is he?” she demanded. “I mean what’s his bloody name?”
“John Jackson, My Lady.”
“No, no Archie—that’s the other horse trainer. The one even the Queen can’t get an audience with. The father of my child is Jack Johnson not John bloody Jackson. Although I’ll take any man with the name John or Jack at this moment, so long as he can make my baby stop crying. I don’t care if his name is John bloody Jackson or Jack blasted Johnson.”
The Baroness felt a little like an insane parrot as she clipped out the names in quick succession. It was quite probable she was cracking under the stress.
“I know just who John Jackson is, My Lady. We all do—and your husband is this man. There is no such man as Jack Johnson. He made him up you see, switched the names.”
“Whatever the bloody hell for!” she exclaimed.
“I suppose he wanted to keep his anonymity.”
“You mean he deceived us?”
“I’m afraid so, My Lady.”
Abigail sunk into a seat. Jack Johnson was John Jackson. He’d been having her on the whole time—having them all on. What a bunch of fools they had been.
“He’s John Jackson…” she whispered. “Of course he is.”
Somehow it all made sense to her now. It explained so much and yet she needed so much more explained. There was only one man who could tell her the whole truth—the very same man she needed right now.
The Baroness sprang up from her seat. “You must book us plane tickets right away, Archie.”
“Plane tickets, My Lady?”
“Yes, Ducky and I are going to Montana.”
The secretary recoiled in horror. “Oh dear, My Lady.”
“I deserve an explanation, and more importantly, I need him to make his daughter stop wailing. We’ll leave tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll be upstairs pulling my hair out. When you’re done booking the tickets, scour the internet. Print me out everything you can find on this John bloody Jackson.”
JOHN BLOODY JACKSON (IT TURNED OUT) WAS A TRUE MAN OF MYSTERY. He was also one of the wealthiest land barons in the western part of the United States. In fact, his holdings made her pitiful puddle-riddled acreage resemble a postage stamp (and a soggy over-licked one at that). Technically, he was the son of a land baron, but he was also the eldest of two sons and stood to inherit the family’s vast land wealth as well as a thriving horse business.
The Baroness’s head still reeled from all she’d learned about her elusive husband. He’d concealed his true identity from her without really lying. She’d always sensed he was more than just a simple cowboy from America. The cut of his unpretentious-but-elegant clothing told a different story, as did his air of supreme confidence. His ability as a dance partner should have given his true identity away. Only someone cultured could have learned to dance that way.
He’d despised her moneyed world, but he had been at ease in it too. This was no country yokel. Her high-society peer group had pinned that label on him just for fun. It tickled them to think of a western ranch hand training their thoroughbreds. It was quaint and more than a little sexy when the ranch hand in question possessed the looks of a ma
le model. He was highly gifted with horses, but John Hale Jackson was much more than a mere ranch hand. He’d managed to play a prank on the British aristocracy because no one had bothered to look into who the real John Jackson was. The nobility had been too preoccupied with trying to book his services. After all, he was the elusive and deliciously sought-after trainer who’d refused to kowtow to even the Queen herself. He must have known they’d figure it out eventually. It was just like him to toy with people in such a way. No doubt he’d have the last laugh, but why had he accepted the job to come train for her in the first place? And why did he work at all? One thing was for sure, he certainly didn’t need to work. Only six Mustangs were sold from the Jackson Ranch each year, each prized animal selling for over fifteen million dollars. Her husband was sitting on a gold mine.
The history of his family’s connection to Montana stretched back into the 1800’s. His forebearers had been settlers from the east. They’d bought up land on the boarder of Montana and Wyoming, a stretch of property so vast that studying it on a map made Abigail’s eyes bulge. Just the Jackson holding alone seemed larger than the entire country of England (and it may have been). On one side was the sprawling Crow Indian Reservation and on the other was the Pryor Mountain Wild Horse Range, a reserve for feral animals. This original American breed (brought over by the Spanish) now had an alpine wonderland in which to romp and graze, instead of running truly wild and free. The Baroness supposed it was as sad as it was wonderful.
John Jackson’s father had made a fortune when he’d had the foresight to snatch up two hundred of these wild horses before they were herded into the sanctuary. The Jackson Ranch of Montana now boasted three times that amount of horseflesh. The romance and myth of the Jackson Mustang had only grown with time, perpetuated by the temperamental and colorful Jacksons themselves. It was said that the animals of the Pryor Mountains had grown fat and lazy from too much grazing, but that the Jackson Mustangs were the true wild horses of the west. They had the openness of the plains to gallop fast and hard, as they were meant to do.