The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) by Sharon Ihle Page B
Book: The Bride Wore Spurs (The Inconvenient Bride Series, Book 1) by Sharon Ihle
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Authors: Sharon Ihle
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like the winter hawk both his father and he were named after, looking for faults, he supposed, but finding riddles instead.
Something in Lacey's manner had definitely changed since the last time she'd visited; she carried herself more confidently, as if she suddenly had all the answers, and the faint tinkle of bells or something like them, accompanied her every movement. Jewelry of some kind, he supposed, although he'd yet to glimpse an adornment anywhere on her person.
"More coffee?" Lacey asked, her voice harmonizing with that metallic melody.
"No, thanks." Hawke patted his belly. "I'm about to bust as it is. That was, without exception, the best pie I ever bit into."
Lacey blushed a little, then turned back to the stove. "Thank you kindly, sir. 'Twas nothing."
"I'm glad you feel that way about it. I was hoping you'd see your way to baking me another."
"Oh... of course. I'll see to it first thing tomorrow."
He noticed the hesitation in her voice, but didn't press her. Tomorrow would be soon enough for Crowfoot to taste perfection, he supposed. Today he had to get some work done, and it was about time both he and the boy tended to the horses. Before he left, Hawke took a moment to lift the ledger from his pocket, flipped it open to the Lacey O'Carroll page, and perused his notes. So far, the only notation on the Advantage side read:
1. Good with horses.
Feeling generous now that he was full of pastry, he jotted another entry below the first:
2. Makes great pies!
Lacey swept over to the table and whisked the empty pie tin away, catching Hawke's eye again in the process. Never before had he even allowed himself to dream of finding anything like her in his kitchen, but here she was fussing over him like she'd been doing it all her life. Next thing he knew, Hawke was imagining Lacey as his wife and wondering what would it be like to find her at the stove each and every morning when he awoke. It might be nice, he thought, to hear that softly lilting voice murmur, 'Top o' the morning to you,' and to watch her lithe body swish across the room as she served his meals each day. And he sure wouldn't mind inhaling the sweet scent of cherry blossoms every time she brushed a few errant curlicues from her unmanageable coif across his cheeks. No, sir, he wouldn't mind that a bit.
Something warm stirred in Hawke at those thoughts, and his mind just naturally drifted toward the more pleasant side of marriage—to the fact that should he wed Lacey, he would be entitled to bed her, half-breed or not. Just thinking about this woman in his bed every night to do with as he pleased, drove him to add:
3. Bed partner , to the advantage side of the list. But it wasn't a moment later that Hawke began to think of the disadvantages to such an arrangement as well.
As much as the idea of bedding the copper-haired beauty tempted him, Hawke had a few reservations on that count—not that he was anything close to an expert in such matters. He could narrow the sum total of his experience with females down to one encounter on a long, memorable night around a dozen years ago when he was on the cusp of manhood. Caleb and a few of the Crow Indians they traded with at the time had unceremoniously tossed him into the tepee of a widowed squaw for an instant lesson on sex. There by the light of a dim fire, he learned several startling things about women and their bodies, even a few things about himself, but absolutely nothing of love. Wouldn't a woman like Miss Lacey O'Carroll expect that of him—love or declarations of love—if she gave herself over as his wife?
He sure didn't feel that for her now, and Hawke had a pretty good idea that he never would. Still just thinking of lying with Lacey spread hot fingers of desire throughout him, tickling his nerve endings with a deep, hot lust he hadn't felt in years. When those fingers clenched into a fiery pulsing fist as they reached the base of his groin he forced himself to think of another disadvantage
Something in Lacey's manner had definitely changed since the last time she'd visited; she carried herself more confidently, as if she suddenly had all the answers, and the faint tinkle of bells or something like them, accompanied her every movement. Jewelry of some kind, he supposed, although he'd yet to glimpse an adornment anywhere on her person.
"More coffee?" Lacey asked, her voice harmonizing with that metallic melody.
"No, thanks." Hawke patted his belly. "I'm about to bust as it is. That was, without exception, the best pie I ever bit into."
Lacey blushed a little, then turned back to the stove. "Thank you kindly, sir. 'Twas nothing."
"I'm glad you feel that way about it. I was hoping you'd see your way to baking me another."
"Oh... of course. I'll see to it first thing tomorrow."
He noticed the hesitation in her voice, but didn't press her. Tomorrow would be soon enough for Crowfoot to taste perfection, he supposed. Today he had to get some work done, and it was about time both he and the boy tended to the horses. Before he left, Hawke took a moment to lift the ledger from his pocket, flipped it open to the Lacey O'Carroll page, and perused his notes. So far, the only notation on the Advantage side read:
1. Good with horses.
Feeling generous now that he was full of pastry, he jotted another entry below the first:
2. Makes great pies!
Lacey swept over to the table and whisked the empty pie tin away, catching Hawke's eye again in the process. Never before had he even allowed himself to dream of finding anything like her in his kitchen, but here she was fussing over him like she'd been doing it all her life. Next thing he knew, Hawke was imagining Lacey as his wife and wondering what would it be like to find her at the stove each and every morning when he awoke. It might be nice, he thought, to hear that softly lilting voice murmur, 'Top o' the morning to you,' and to watch her lithe body swish across the room as she served his meals each day. And he sure wouldn't mind inhaling the sweet scent of cherry blossoms every time she brushed a few errant curlicues from her unmanageable coif across his cheeks. No, sir, he wouldn't mind that a bit.
Something warm stirred in Hawke at those thoughts, and his mind just naturally drifted toward the more pleasant side of marriage—to the fact that should he wed Lacey, he would be entitled to bed her, half-breed or not. Just thinking about this woman in his bed every night to do with as he pleased, drove him to add:
3. Bed partner , to the advantage side of the list. But it wasn't a moment later that Hawke began to think of the disadvantages to such an arrangement as well.
As much as the idea of bedding the copper-haired beauty tempted him, Hawke had a few reservations on that count—not that he was anything close to an expert in such matters. He could narrow the sum total of his experience with females down to one encounter on a long, memorable night around a dozen years ago when he was on the cusp of manhood. Caleb and a few of the Crow Indians they traded with at the time had unceremoniously tossed him into the tepee of a widowed squaw for an instant lesson on sex. There by the light of a dim fire, he learned several startling things about women and their bodies, even a few things about himself, but absolutely nothing of love. Wouldn't a woman like Miss Lacey O'Carroll expect that of him—love or declarations of love—if she gave herself over as his wife?
He sure didn't feel that for her now, and Hawke had a pretty good idea that he never would. Still just thinking of lying with Lacey spread hot fingers of desire throughout him, tickling his nerve endings with a deep, hot lust he hadn't felt in years. When those fingers clenched into a fiery pulsing fist as they reached the base of his groin he forced himself to think of another disadvantage
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