Stephen’s Bride (7 page)

One more reason why he would prefer a horse farm. Sure, there were problems with those as well, but on a regular farm a good hailstorm could wipe out months of work in just a few minutes. The work on his farm—ha! he had to remember this was not
his
farm, he was an employee—was labor intensive. He and John did as much as they could with hiring a few of the older boys from town when the needed additional help. Stephen had so many ideas to make the farm better, more productive and more financially stable, but Calliope had apparently taken up her father’s habit of not listening to anyone else’s ideas except her own.

Frustrating woman.

More than her being so very afraid to release the least amount of control was his frustration in the bedroom. They’d shared a few kisses, and even a few intimate touches, but she always drew back and reminded him theirs was not ‘that sort of a marriage.’ And he would promptly remind her she agreed to allow him his martial rights once she was comfortable. Hell, she might say she was uncomfortable for the next ten years.

He dried his face on the towel hanging on the hook by the back door and entered the kitchen. Wonderful smells greeted him, but what got his attention more was Calliope standing over the stove, her face flushed, curls from her bun drooping around her face. Steam from the pot she stirred had saturated the bodice of her dress which clung to every lovely curve of her breasts.

Blowing out a breath of air from his tightened lungs, he continued across the room to stand behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he leaned his chin on her shoulder. “Where’s Bertha?” Whatever she was cooking in no way compared to the scent of lilacs that always surrounded her. He leaned in a bit and kissed the side of her neck.

“Stop.” She tried to pull away, but he held firm, sucking lightly on the soft skin under her ear. He was pleased to see her drop the cooking spoon and lean into him. “Don’t. Do. That.” There was absolutely no strength in her words.

“Are you sure,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ll bet it feels good.” He nuzzled her neck, then brought his hands up to cup her breasts. So soft, so warm. She gave a little whimper and pushed forward into his hands. His thumbs grazed her nipples, bringing a hitch to her breathing.

“Let’s forget about supper and go upstairs.” He nipped her earlobe and moved one hand down to cup her sex through her skirt. She reached out and braced herself on the stove. “No. Don’t do that.”

The woman was driving him crazy. He’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her. And she was his wife. They should right now be upstairs enjoying each other’s bodies, sharing the desire he knew smoldered beneath her cool exterior. She might have said she wanted a marriage in name only, but there was far too much passion in her waiting to be set free.

And he intended to be the one to do it.

Suddenly she wrenched herself free, and turned to him leaning back over the stove. He yanked her forward.

“Stop.” She panted, and leaned further back.

“Foolish woman. You’re about to set yourself on fire.” He pulled her into his arms.

“Oh.”

He moved her a few steps from the stove, released her, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is supper ready?”

“Yes. You can sit down.” She patted her hair and turned back to the stove, picking up the cooking spoon.

He pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “Where’s Bertha?” Not that he cared where the cook was, he just wanted to have some inane conversation to calm his body down. If such a thing were possible after touching her the way he had.

“She had to visit her mother for a few days. She’s sick with the flu.”

So they had the house to themselves. Instead of calming down, he now had visions of stripping Calliope right there in the kitchen and taking her on the table. Or laying her down on the carpet near the fireplace and making slow, tender love to her in front of the roaring flames. Perhaps he would grab hold of her on their way upstairs later and brace her against the wall, taking her fast and hard.

Good Lord. What the devil was wrong with him? She was his wife, not some whore from the local saloon. He stared at her as her bottom moved back and forth as she stirred whatever it was in the pot. No longer hungry for food, he popped up from his chair. “I think I’ll skip supper. I have a few more chores to finish.”

With that idiotic statement he fled the kitchen and the house, running like some pimply youth who was confronted with his first prostitute.

***

Calliope stood with her hands fisted on her hips, gravy dripping from the cooking spoon onto the floor. Well, what was that all about? Two minutes ago he was starving and now he decided he didn’t want supper.

She turned back to the stove and moved the pot over. Since she’d grown up with a housekeeper and cook she wasn’t much of a cook herself. But since Bertha had to leave she’d made the effort. The least he could have done was eat the blasted thing. Whatever the thing was that she’d made. It started out as stew, but looked more like soup.

Sighing, she sat at the table and thought about her husband. The very reason she wanted to have a marriage in name only was because she didn’t want to fall hopelessly in love with the man and then turn into her mother who allowed her father to run every part of her life. Intimacy with a man did that. Made you fall in love. She didn’t want love. She wanted a nice, normal life with a partner more than a husband.

Although, truth be known, she was having some problems with the partner idea. Not that Stephen didn’t have good plans, but if she allowed him too much freedom the farm would no longer be hers and she would be right where her mother had been all her life.

Feeling weary all of a sudden, she ladled out a bowl of stew-soup and grabbed a piece of bread. Not really tasting her food, she finished her meal and washed out the bowl and spoon. After leaving a full bowl on the stove to stay warm, she put the rest of the stew-soup in the cooler and left the kitchen.

Two hours later she dimmed the oil lamp in the parlor and headed to bed. Stephen had stayed away all evening. Doing what, she had no idea. There certainly hadn’t been that much in the way of chores to finish up. She brushed her hair, fixed a long braid for sleep and slipped into a nightgown. White and virginal. Just like her.

Did she really intend to remain untouched her whole life? Would Stephen even stay if she insisted on it? Once again her face heated up when she thought about what they’d shared in the kitchen before he fled. She would be lying to herself to pretend she hadn’t been affected by his touch. Much too affected, in fact. It had taken all of her resolve to push him away when she was more than ready for him to strip off her clothes right there and introduce her to the mysteries of married love.

Love? No. She didn’t love him, didn’t want to love him, and did not want his love in return.

Admit it. I’m afraid.

She doused the lamp and climbed into bed. Alone. The way she’d gone to bed all her life. Having a husband hadn’t changed that. She slept here, he slept on the sofa in her bedroom.

Where is he?

After a good hour of tossing and turning, she fell into a troubled sleep, her body aching in places she’d never been aware of before.

Calliope sat up abruptly in bed, her head cocked at whatever the noise was that had awakened her. For a minute she was muddle-headed as she tried to clear her brain. Then she heard it again. A wolf’s cry. The damned wolf was back to attack her chickens.

She scurried out of bed, raced down the stairs and grabbed the shotgun from the wall over the fireplace. She burst outside, slipping a bit on the wet mud. It had started to rain, but she didn’t have time to go back for a slicker and shoes. The annoying animal had killed two of her chickens last week. She couldn’t afford to lose any more.

In the darkness, all she could see was a stealth animal slowly circling the chickens who squawked enough to wake the dead. She moved closer, using the sleeve of her nightgown to wipe the water from her eyes. The rain had turned heavier, but it hadn’t deterred the wolf, so it wouldn’t deter her, either.

She cocked the shotgun and raised it to her shoulder. The blast rang out, but instead of dropping on the spot, the wolf raced away.

“Damn.” She set the butt of the shotgun into the mud.

“Calliope!” Stephen’s voice rang through the night. She wiped her eyes once more and stared in the direction of the voice. He came through the wall of water and grabbed her to his soaked body. He wore only his trousers, no socks or shoes or shirt. “What the hell are you doing, woman?”

“The chickens. The wolf was going to get more chickens.” She shouted over the downpour and shoved back the hair plastered on her forehead.

He shook his head and leaned back to look her in the eyes. “I heard it. I was coming out. But you need to get back into the house.”

She turned to take a step and slipped in the mud. Before she had barely righted herself, strong arms scooped her up. “Hold onto the shotgun.”

Stephen strode to the house with her huddled against him, the end of the shotgun stock fisted in her hand. She was soaked to the skin and had begun to shiver by the time he reached the front door. He reached under her and opened the door, pushing it closed with his foot.

Once they reached the parlor, he paced her on her feet and grabbed the gun from her. He placed it back onto the rack and turned. His eyes grew wide and his lips parted.

***

All the blood in Stephen’s body raced to his groin and within a matter of seconds he was hard as a rock. The rain had plastered Calliope’s nightgown to her body, revealing every inch, curve and dip. He swallowed and whispered, “My God, you’re beautiful.”

Seeing where his eyes led, she looked down at herself and squeaked. She pulled the gown out, but the weight of the water drew it back so it was plastered to her once more. She crossed her arms over her breasts, then re-considering, placed her hand at the juncture of her thighs.

“No. No, don’t cover yourself.” He moved toward her, almost as if drawn by an invisible cord.

She shivered, whether from desire or the cold he didn’t know. “You need to get out of that gown. I’ll make a fire to warm you.”

“I don’t have anything else to put on.” She attempted to step around him, but he was having none of that. Holding onto her arm to keep her from running, he plucked the wool knitted blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around her.

“Sit on the floor by the fireplace and I’ll make a fire. It’s colder upstairs than it is down here.” Before she could argue, he moved her and practically pushed her to the floor. He never made a fire so fast in his life. Within minutes he had a fire going and sat alongside her, knees bent, his arms resting on his knees as he stared into the flames.

Not where he wanted to be staring, of course.

“Feel better now?”

“A little bit. But this g-gown is still c-cold.”

“Take the gown off and dry yourself with the blanket.”

Her rapid breathing and flushed face told him she was feeling the tension in the air. He used his finger to push the blanket off her shoulder. Despite clinging to it, the weight of the cover dragged the rest of it down to pool in her lap, leaving her exposed once more in the wet gown. He groaned at the sight of her erect nipples, poking through the thin material. “Take the gown off sweetheart.”

She turned to him and with a slight smile he knew she had made a decision. She rose to her knees and gripped the edges of the gown, pulling up and over her head, tossing it behind her.

He forgot to breathe.

Calliope was magnificent. The flames from the fireplace gave her skin a golden glow, highlighting her flat stomach, womanly hips, and generous breasts. The thatch of red hair covering her womanhood drew his eyes and tightened his stomach muscles. If he’d been chilled before, still wearing his wet pants, he was about to self-combust now.

Slowly, so as not to break the spell, he moved to his knees and reached out to draw her to his body. His eyes drifted closed at the skin-to-skin contact. Her stiff nipples pressed into his chest, and she raised her arms to encircle his neck with her hands. Resting his forehead against hers, he said, “I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you. If you don’t want me to make love to you right now, right here, say so. The sight of your perfect body leaves me with very little self-control.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you don’t want me to make love to you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Stop talking.” She leaned forward and kissed him, gently, her lack of experience making it so much sweeter. He would be the one to teach her about passion, about how a man and woman could pleasure each other in so many ways. He really wanted to take her upstairs to bed for her first time, but was afraid whatever magic held her captive would vanish and break the spell if they left this room. So on the carpet in front of the fire it would be.

Thank God Bertha was gone.

His hands slid to her rounded bottom and squeezed, pushing her against his erection.

“Ouch. You’re pants are still wet and they’re cold.”

Taking a chance on scaring the hell out of her at the sight of his pulsating manhood, he unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down, along with his drawers. Before she could glance down he raised her chin with his index finger and took her in a slow, drugging kiss. He moved his hands over her smooth, satin skin, sliding his palms over to cup her breasts. She moaned when he flicked a nipple with his fingernail.

They could not remain in this position for long, his hip was already beginning to ache. He eased her down and managed to free himself from the rest of his pants, kicking them aside as he and Calliope stretched out before the fire.

She was beautiful, and smelled of lilacs. He quickly undid what was left of her braid and spread the wet locks over the carpet. Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her first with his eyes, then with his lips. She tasted of honey and spice, and something only Calliope. He pulled away and nuzzled her neck, biting softly on the warm skin there. He moved his head down and licked her collarbone, then took her breast in his mouth, suckling hard.