Duncan's Bride (11 page)

He caught her wrists and held her arms to her sides while he stood up, an action that brought their bodies together. He heard her moan softly again, and she let her head fall forward against his chest, where she rubbed her cheek back and forth in a subtle caress that made him curse his shirt for covering his bare skin.

If he didn't get out of here now, he wouldn't go at all.

“I have work to do.” His voice was hoarse with strain. She didn't move. She was melting against him, her slim hips starting a drumbeat roll that rocked into his loins and made him feel as if his pants would split under the pressure.

“Madelyn, stop it. I have to go.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rising on tiptoe to brush her lips against his throat.

His hands closed tightly on her hips, for one convulsive second pulling her into his pelvis as if he would
grind himself into her; then he pushed her away. He picked up his hat and strode from the bathroom before she could recover and reach for him again, because he damn sure wouldn't have the strength to stop this time.

Madelyn stared after him, confused by his sudden departure and aching from the loss of contact. She swayed; then realization burst within her, and she gave a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, putting her hand out to catch the basin so she wouldn't fall to her knees.

Damn him, damn him, damn him! He'd brought her to fever pitch, then left her empty and aching. She knew he'd wanted her; she had felt his hardness, felt the tension in his corded muscles. He could have carried her to the bed or even had her right there in the bathroom, and she would have gloried in it, but instead he'd pushed her away.

He'd been too close to losing control. Like a flash she knew what had happened, knew that at the last minute he'd had to prove to himself that he could still walk away from her, that he didn't want her so much that he couldn't master it. The sexuality of his nature was so strong that it kept burning through those walls he'd built around himself, but he was still fighting it, and so far he'd won.

Slowly she went downstairs, holding the banister because her knees felt like overcooked noodles. If she were to have any chance with him at all, she would have to find some way to shatter that iron control, but she didn't know if her nerves or self-esteem would hold out.

He was already gone, the truck nowhere in sight. She looked around blankly, unable to think what she should do, and her eyes lit on the dead chicken lying on the floor.

“I'll get back at you for this,” she said with grim promise in her voice, and began the loathsome task of getting that blasted hen ready to cook.

W
HEN
R
EESE CAME
in that evening, Madelyn didn't look up from the bowl of potatoes she was mashing. The force with which she wielded the potato masher went far beyond what was required and carried a hint of savagery. One look at her averted face told Reese she was probably imagining using that potato masher on him. He looked thoughtful. He'd expected her to be cool, maybe even a little hurt, but he hadn't expected her temper to still be at boiling point; it took a lot of energy to sustain a rage that many hours. Evidently it took her as long to cool off as it did to lose her temper to begin with.

He said, “It'll take me about fifteen minutes to get cleaned up.”

She still didn't look up. “Dinner will be ready in ten.”

From that he deduced that she wasn't going to wait for him. The thoughtful look deepened as he went upstairs.

He took one of the fastest showers of his life and thought about not shaving, but he didn't like the idea of scraping her soft skin with his beard, so he ran the risk of cutting his own throat due to the speed with which he dragged the razor across his skin. He was barefoot and still buttoning his shirt when he went back down the stairs.

She was just placing the glasses of iced tea on the table, and they sat down together. The platter of fried chicken was sitting right in front of his plate. He'd either have to eat the damn bird or wear it, he decided.

He piled his plate with chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, all the while eying the platter curiously. He continued to examine the contents while he took his first bite and controlled a grunt of pleasure. The chicken was tender, the crust crisp and spicy. Madelyn made a better cook than he'd expected. But the remaining pieces of chicken looked…strange.

“What piece is that?” he asked, pointing at a strangely configured section of chicken.

“I have no idea,” she replied without looking at him. “I've never cleaned and butchered my food before.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. If he made the mistake of laughing she would probably dump the bowl of gravy over his head.

The meal was strained and mostly silent. If he made a comment, she replied, but other than that she made no effort to hold a conversation. She ate a small portion of each item, though minuscule was perhaps a better word. As soon as she was finished she carried her plate to the sink and brought back a clean saucer, as well as a cherry cobbler that was still bubbling.

Very little in life had ever interfered with Reese's appetite, and tonight was no exception. He worked too hard to pick at his food. By the time Madelyn had finished dabbling with a small helping of cobbler he had demolished most of the chicken, all the potatoes and gravy, and only two biscuits were left. He was feeling almost contented as Madelyn placed an enormous portion of cobbler onto a clean plate for him. A quick
look at her icy face, however, told him that food hadn't worked the same miracle on her.

“How did you learn to cook like this?”

“There are cookbooks in the cabinet. I can read.”

So much for that conversational gambit.

She went upstairs immediately after the kitchen was clean. Reese went into his office and took a stab at the paperwork that never ended, but his mind wasn't on it, and by eight o'clock he was glancing at his watch, wondering if Madelyn was ready to go to bed. He'd already heard the shower running, and the image of her standing nude under the steaming water had had him shifting restlessly in his chair. There were times when a man's sexual organs could make him damned uncomfortable, and this was one of them. He'd been hard most of the day, cursing himself for not having made love to her that morning, even though it would have been a huge mistake.

He tossed the pen onto his desk and closed the books, getting to his feet with restrained violence. Damn it, he needed her, and he couldn't wait any longer.

He turned out the lights as he went upstairs, his tread heavy and deliberate. His mind was on that searing, gut-wrenching moment when he first entered her, feeling the small resistance of her tight flesh, the giving, the enveloping, then the wet, clasping heat and his senses exploding. It was all he could do not to keep after her time and again, to try to remember that she was very new to lovemaking and still tender, to stay in control.

The bedroom door was open. He walked in and found her sitting on the bed painting her toenails, her long legs bare and curled in one of those positions that only females seemed able to achieve and males went crazy looking at. His whole body tightened, and he
became fully, painfully erect. She was wearing a dark pink satin chemise that ended at the tops of her thighs and revealed matching petal pants. The satin molded to her breasts, revealing their round shape and soft nipples. Her blond hair was pulled to one side, tumbling over her shoulder, and her skin was still delicately flushed from her shower. Her expression was solemn and intent as she concentrated on the strokes of the tiny brush that turned her toenails the same deep pink as the chemise.

“Let's go to bed.” His voice was guttural. He was already peeling off his shirt.

She hadn't even glanced at him. “I can't. My toenails are wet.”

He didn't much care. He'd keep her legs raised long enough that the polish would be dry when he'd finished.

She capped the polish bottle and set it aside, then bent bonelessly over to blow on her toes. Reese unsnapped and unzipped his jeans. “Come to bed anyway.”

She gave him an impatient look and got to her feet. “You go on. I'll go downstairs and read awhile.”

He stretched his arm out in front of her when she would have passed, barring her way. His hand closed on her upper arm. “Forget reading,” he muttered, pulling her toward him.

Madelyn wrenched away, staring at him in incredulous anger. “I don't believe this! You actually think I could want to make love
now
?”

His eyebrows lowered, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Why not?” he asked very softly.

“For one very good reason. I'm angry! What you did stinks, and I'm not even close to forgiving you for it.” Just the way he was standing there with his thumbs in his belt loops, his jeans open and his attitude one of
incredible male arrogance, made her so angry she almost couldn't talk.

“The best way to make up is in bed.”

“That's what men think,” she said scornfully. “Let me tell you, no woman wants to make love with a man while she's still thinking how funny it would have been if he'd choked on a chicken bone!” She whirled and stalked barefoot from the bedroom.

Reese began swearing. Frustration boiled up in him, and for a moment he started after her. He reached the door and stopped, then slammed his fist into the door frame. Damn it all to hell!

T
HE ATMOSPHERE WAS
decidedly chilly between them the next morning when he drove her to the small town of Crook to buy groceries. Though she was no longer so furious, she was no less determined. He couldn't reject her one time and the next expect her to accommodate him without question. If that was his idea of what a marriage should be, they were both in for some rocky times.

To call Crook a town was to flatter it. There were a few residences sprawled out in a haphazard manner, a service station, a feed store, the general store, and a small café with the expected assortment of pickup trucks parked in front of it. Madelyn wondered just what sort of dangerous behavior Reese had expected her to get up to in Crook. Maybe he thought she'd run wild and drive on the sidewalks, which looked as if someone had already done so. They were actually wood, and were the only sidewalks she'd ever seen with skidmarks on them.

“Let's get a cup of coffee,” Reese suggested as they got out of the station wagon, and Madelyn agreed. It
would be nice to have a cup of coffee she didn't have to water down before she could drink it.

The café had five swivel stools, covered in split black imitation leather, in front of the counter. Three round tables were each surrounded by four chairs, and along the left side were three booths. Four of the stools were occupied, evidently by the owners of the four trucks outside. The men had different features but were identical in weathered skin, battered hats, and worn jeans and boots. Reese nodded to all of them, and they nodded back, then returned their attention to their coffee and pie.

He guided her to a booth, and they slid onto the plastic seats. The waitress behind the counter gave them a sour look. “You want something to eat, or just coffee?”

“Coffee,” Reese said.

She came out from behind the counter and plunked two coffee cups down in front of them. Then she went back for the coffeepot and returned to pour the coffee, all without changing her expression, which bordered on a glare. “Coffee's fifty cents a cup,” she said as if it were their fault, then marched back to her post behind the counter.

Madelyn sighed as she saw how black the coffee was. A tentative sip told her that this, too, was strong enough to strip paint.

One of the men eased down from the stool and went over to the corner jukebox. The waitress looked up. “I'll unplug that thing if you play one of them caterwauling love songs,” she said, her voice just as sour as her looks.

“You'll owe me a quarter if you do.”

“And don't play none of them god-awful rock songs, neither. I don't like music where the singers sound like they're being gelded.”

Madelyn's eyes rounded, and she choked a little on the coffee. Fascinated, she stared at the waitress.

The cowboy was grumbling, “I don't know of nothing you
do
like, Floris, so just shut your ears and don't listen.”

“I'll tell you what I like,” she snapped. “I like peace and quiet.”

“Then find some library to work in.” He jammed his quarter into the slot and defiantly punched buttons.

A rollicking country song filled the café. Floris began clattering cups and saucers and silverware. Madelyn wondered what the breakage bill was every month if Floris began abusing the crockery every time someone played the jukebox. The cowboy glared, and Floris banged louder. He stomped back to the jukebox and fed it another quarter, but in the manner of vending machines everywhere, it took the coin but refused his selection. He scowled and beat it with his fist. The arm scratched across the record with a hair-raising screech, then, having reached the end of the groove, lifted automatically as the record was returned to its slot, and silence reigned.

With a triumphant look Floris sailed through the swinging door into the kitchen.

“The waitress from hell,” Madelyn breathed in awe, watching the door swing gently back and forth.

Reese choked and had to spit his coffee back into the cup. She didn't want to look at him, but the urge was irresistible. Without turning her head she glanced toward him and found him watching her, his face unnaturally stiff. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and they began snickering. He tried to control it and quickly gulped his coffee, but Madelyn was still giggling as he grabbed for his wallet. He threw a dollar
and change on the table, grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the entrance. The door had barely closed behind them when he released her and bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees as a great roar of laughter burst from him. Madelyn collapsed over his back, seeing again the helpless, stunned look on the cowboy's face and the gleeful look on Floris's, and went off into helpless gales.

After her bad temper the laughter felt great. It was even more wonderful to hear Reese laughing, and a pang struck her as she realized that this was the first time she had heard him laugh. He rarely even smiled, but now he was hugging his ribs and wiping tears from his eyes, and still the deep sounds were booming up from his chest. She had an overwhelming urge to cry, but conquered it.

A lot of the tension between them dissolved as they bought groceries. Reese had been right; the general store did carry mostly basics, but Madelyn had carefully studied the cookbooks and knew what she could do with what was available. Thank God Reese wasn't a fussy eater.

A cheerful woman with a truly awesome bosom checked them out while carrying on a casual conversation with Reese. She eyed Madelyn questioningly, then looked down at the ring on her left hand. Reese saw the look and braced himself for the curiosity he knew would come. “Glenna, this is my wife, Madelyn.”

Glenna looked startled, and her glance flew down to his own left hand. The gold ring on his tanned finger clearly astounded her. Reese carried on with the introduction, hoping to bridge her reaction. “Maddie, this is Glenna Kinnaird. We went to school together.”

Recovering herself, Glenna beamed and held out
her hand. “I can't believe it! Congratulations! You got married, after all this time. Why, just wait until I tell Boomer. We didn't really go to school together,” she said chattily to Madelyn. “I'm ten years older than he is, so I graduated when he was in third grade, but I've known him all his life. How on earth did you catch him? I'd have sworn he'd never marry again— Uh, that is…” Her voice trailed off uneasily as she glanced at Reese.

Madelyn smiled. “It's okay. I know about April. As for how I caught him…well, I didn't. He caught me.”

Glenna's face regained its cheerful expression. “Took one look and forgot about being a bachelor, huh?”

“Something like that,” Reese said. He'd taken one look and gotten hard, but the end result had been the same: the leggy blonde with the lazy, seductive stroll was now his wife.

As they left the store with Glenna waving at them, he realized something that had him frowning thoughtfully as they loaded the groceries into the station wagon: Glenna had disliked April on sight, but had been perfectly comfortable and friendly with Madelyn. Even though, in an indescribable way, Madelyn dressed more fashionably than April, she had an easy, friendly manner to which Glenna had responded. Madelyn didn't dress as expensively as April, but what she wore had a certain style to it, as if she had practiced for hours to get her collar to stand up just so, or her sleeves to roll up that precise amount. She would always draw eyes, but she didn't inspire the sort of hostility from her own sex that April had.