Chapter Four

The door slammed behind Michael’s exodus. Sleet hitting the windows outside, the wood crackling in the fireplace and her own quiet sobbing inside filled Arrabella’s ears as she lay bent over and motionless on the table.

“Oh, God.” Embarrassed heat rushed into her face and neck, down to her naked breasts, over every inch of her exposed flesh. Flesh left still throbbing for his touch.

She gulped in air—breath after breath—fighting her rising panic.

How could she have wanted to be taken like that? Like a wanton craving a man’s cock buried in her in such a fashion? Used like an animal in heat?

And she’d begged for it, even enjoyed it. Why?

Because it was Michael. Because she’d known that despite his words and the force of his passion, he wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t take without giving back.

Slowly, she managed to wiggle the straps of her camisole and the sleeves of her bodice off her arm, freeing them to help her rise from the table. Holding the tattered material to her front, she pushed her skirts back down to cover her once more and stumbled to the chair he’d shoved out of the way.

Why had he stopped?

He’d wanted her. The hardness of his manhood buried deep inside her and the power with which he'd taken her proved how much he’d needed her. She’d been willing, even panting with her own needs. What had stopped him?

With the back of her hand she swiped at the tears still on her cheeks. The memory of his fingers brushing the same spot flooded her. He’d done that, just before he’d stopped—just before he’d apologized and abandoned her so close to her climax.

“No, it’s not what I want.”

He’d thought she was begging him to stop, denying wanting him to take her so roughly, when she’d actually been trying to convince herself she wasn’t really enjoying it. That she couldn’t be craving it as much as she had.

But she had. Still did.

She bounced one foot on the floor as she stared out the window into the dreary gray day.

Michael thought himself less of a man without his eyesight and was intent on proving it to them both. She knew better. Deep inside, the man she loved still existed, even if he didn’t believe it. Even if he denied it with his entire soul.

He also thought the loss of his eyesight had killed his artistic ability and his artist’s soul.

What to do?

To convince him he was still the man she’d fallen in love with, albeit with a few rough spots, she’d have to prove to him that despite his blindness he was still an artist. How did she show a painter that he could still create even if he couldn’t see his canvas or his muse?

Art was more than just looking at pretty paintings. It went much deeper than that. Maybe that’s what drew her to sculpture more than painting? The three-dimensional aspect of each statue invited you to touch and feel the stone or clay or bronze, as well as visually take it in.

Maybe by teaching Michael that his other senses were just as important to his art as his eyes, she could reach that part he’d locked deep inside?

She looked around the cabin, slowly coming to rest on the headboard where she’d hung her stockings yesterday to dry.

Her heart did a little flutter and a smile spread over her.

Perhaps the thing to do was convince him he would be a better artist without his sight.

Still clutching her bodice to her breasts, she wandered to the box of supplies Higgins had dropped off and dragged it over to stand near the pantry. Digging around with one hand, she found some beef wrapped in brown paper. First she’d start with smell and taste.

She set the meat on the dry sink then headed to the bedroom. Next thing she needed to do was get cleaned up. Then she planned to teach Michael a lesson.

A man should never leave a woman wanting, no matter how noble his intentions.

*****

Fat snowflakes fell quickly on his head, face and body as Michael stepped carefully across the frozen ice coating the path from the barn to the house. The dim light, the only part of his sight that still remained, had faded to darkness. It had to be night. The temperature had dropped since he’d taken refuge in the barn hours earlier.

He’d tried getting drunk to block his body’s awareness that Bella was in his cabin. But weeks of drinking heavily prevented him from truly getting drunk on only one bottle of whiskey.

After making love to her last night and the terrible thing he did to her today, it would take a great deal more than one bottle to blot out her orange-blossom scent on his skin or the memories of her pleading.

No, he’d hidden in the barn like the coward he was. Even tending the animals hadn’t relieved him of the feel of her beneath him as he took her over the table.

Suddenly his foot slipped.

“Shit.”

He waved his arms to try to gain his balance and thankfully came in contact with a porch post. Wrapping his arms around it, he caught his breath and inched his way to the steps.

Leaning against another post, he heaved a deep breath and wiped the sudden sweat from his brow with one coat sleeve.

Okay, so drinking on an icy day wasn’t his smartest move.

Damn. The last thing he needed was to fall and break something. It was difficult enough to care for the farm and Bella blind without a broken arm or leg getting in the way.

That’s what scared him most. He couldn’t protect Bella. A man should be strong and capable of safeguarding his woman. Instead, he was as helpless as a child. God forbid anyone tried to attack them out here in the woods.

Bella had to go.

For her own safety. From him and anyone else. She may not like it, but as soon as the weather cleared and Higgins made another run out here, he was putting her on that wagon to head back east.

His mind made up, he stomped across the porch to the door, counting the steps as he went.

Eight. Eight steps from the door to the edge of the porch. Now he’d know when to worry about the ice and snow beneath his feet.

At the door, he took a deep, steadying breath and squared his shoulders, shaking off the snow and stomping his boots. Habit. His mama had yelled at him more than once for tracking snow or mud into her house.

The aroma hit him the minute he stepped inside.

Beef. Roasted beef. Onions. Potatoes.

His gut rumbled and his mouth watered.

He hadn’t expected this. Tears, yes. Anger, yes. But a meal? How could she forgive him enough to spend the day preparing a delicious-smelling meal for him after what he’d done?

“Done hiding?” Bella’s sharp sarcasm brought him up short.

Now that’s more like what he expected. Bella never suffered foolish people lightly. Oh, she’d always been compassionate with those less fortunate, but idiots and fools, she had little patience for them and today he’d been both.

“Chores are done for the night.” Ignoring her comment, he took off his coat and hung it on the peg just right of the door. “Bella, I’m sorry about…”

“Dinner’s going to be cold if we wait,” she said, cutting him off.

So, she intended to act like nothing had happened?

As much as she’d like to pretend that was the case, they had to deal with it sooner or later. Apparently she chose later. Fine. He’d rather deal with her anger or pain on a full stomach than one griping because of the liquor he’d poured in it earlier.

Giving a nod in the direction her voice had come from he carefully made his way to the table, his hands coming in contact with a chair after a few steps. He could hear the heels of her shoes on the floorboards and the swish of her skirts as she moved around the small space.  Every time she moved in to set something on the table, the soft scent of orange blossoms wafted past the air around him.

Orange blossoms. The conservatory in her home. Bella naked. Alabaster flesh rivaling fine china. Pink nipples, long blonde curls teasing the tips. Curved hips that led to long, shapely legs.

Damn. His cock strained against the placard opening of his britches again.

He sensed her heat when she stopped next to his seat. This time he picked up the undercurrents of pepper, probably from seasoning the food, and a distinct musk he’d only ever noticed when she was aroused. Then she leaned across him, her breasts grazing his arm.

Something thudded next to his left hand.

“Your fork,” she said, her low husky voice almost a whisper, the air from her words caressing his cheeks.

Another thud by his right hand.

“Your knife.”

As she straightened, she ran one hand along his arm to his shoulder, pausing as if she were steadying herself, her fingers gripping and releasing his shoulder muscles. Then she trailed that hand across his shoulders, stopping at the spot where his hair covered his shirt collar. Briefly, she combed her fingers through his hair. Finally, sliding her hand down the other shoulder as she moved to his left.

A light sensual touch.

Sweet torture.

He clenched his hands into fists on the table to fight the lust surging through his blood, the need to pull her into his lap and ravish her once more.

Something landed lightly on the plate in front of him.

“Potatoes are at three o’clock.”

Another soft plop on the plate.

“Green beans at twelve.”

Something scraped against the plate. A fork.

“Roast beef at nine.”

The loss of her heat by his side and the rustling of her skirts told him she’d moved away. Then a scrape of the chair to his left and more rustling of her skirts as she sat.

After a moment of silence, when all he could hear was the drumming of his pulse in his ear and the soft sound of air being inhaled and exhaled as she breathed, a clinking occurred beside him. She was cutting her meat.

“I think the beef is tender enough to just pull with your fork.” She left the obvious unsaid. If not, she could cut it for him.

He’d be damned if he’d have her treat him like a child.

With great control on his temper, he slowly moved his hands until the utensils lay beneath his palms. He curled his hands around them and tried to remember what it was like to eat like a civilized man.

The first few efforts garnered him little more than a scoop of potatoes and one bean. Frustration grew inside him, but the rumbling of his stomach far outweighed the urge to hurl the plate of food against the wall.

He would master this.

It took a few more attempts, but eventually he found a rhythm. Touch carefully at the clock positions Bella had told him. Use knife and fork to scoop or pull food onto the fork. Carefully balance the food to his mouth.

Every so often he felt Bella’s eyes on him. Odd that he sensed when she was watching him, something he’d never really noticed before, but even when the fork came to his mouth with little on it she didn’t offer to help him.

Finally, he scraped his utensils across the plate and didn’t encounter any more food. Satisfied, he set the fork and knife aside and sat back in his chair. He stared to his left, quietly listening to Bella finish her meal, imagining her lips parting to take in every morsel, wrapping around the fork to pull the food slowly into her mouth.

He swore he could even hear her swallow when she drank.

That brought the memory of the last time they’d made love before the war clearly into his mind. They’d desperately loved each other throughout the night. Exhaustion finally took its toll and they’d slept. But just after dawn he’d felt Bella scoot down to his feet, her naked body wedging its way between his legs.

He kept his eyes closed enjoying the feeling of her silky smooth flesh sliding along his calves and thighs. Her blonde curls were a tumbled mess that teased his skin as she moved forward.

When her hand wrapped around his rapidly growing erection, he grabbed both pillows and shoved them under his head so he could look down to watch her. Leaning on her elbows, she slowly licked her way from the base to the tip, her blue eyes filled with mischief but never leaving his gaze.

It never failed to amaze him how she could look so seductive and so innocent at the same time. She opened her mouth wide and drew the head in, slowly working her way down until the entire length of him was buried deep inside her, still watching him with a mixture of pleasure and need in her eyes.

He allowed her to pleasure him orally for a few minutes, but wanted the last time he came in her to be inside her pussy, joined as one. When he couldn’t take any more, he reached down and ran his hand through her hair, slowly bringing her mouth off his cock.

“I want to be inside you, Bella. Ride me.”

She climbed up to straddle him. Her hands on his chest, she lifted her hips so that the tip of his cock just teased the opening of her pussy lips.

“Is this where you want me, Michael?”

“Yes, love. Take me inside you.”

With that she leaned up and slid her pussy over the entire length of him until she sheathed his shaft. She sat up straight, her breasts firm and full, the pink nipples pointing slightly up as she lifted her hands behind her head to hold the thick blonde curls away from her neck and back. Then slowly she began to rock back and forth, letting him slide in and out, deeper each time.

She was magnificent.

No matter how he tried, he’d never be able to capture the beauty of her soul and her passion on canvas.

The memory burst like a giant soap bubble.

He slammed his hand on the table and took evil pleasure in hearing her gasp of surprise. “Where’d you hide the whiskey, Bella?”

“They’re in the box by the door.”

“Get me one.”

“If you’re planning on getting drunk, you’ll have to get it yourself.”  Her voice trembled a bit and the sass in it told him she barely had her anger under control.

Good. He didn’t need a damn nursemaid. He’d rather have one pissed off hellion on his hands than the patient martyr who’d served him dinner.

He shoved the chair back and turned on his heel, counting the few steps to the door, stopping when his foot came in contact with the crate. Reaching out he lifted the wooden slat into place on the door, bolting it from the inside. Then he scooped up two bottles and cradled them carefully against his body. Turning, he made his way to the bedroom, counting the steps as he went and one arm out in front to keep him from slamming into the table, a chair or Bella.

He stopped at the door, turning his head in the general direction of the table and hopefully where she still sat.  “There’s a chamber pot in the bedroom. Don’t try to go out to the outhouse tonight. It’s too dangerous.”

Without waiting for an answer, he made his way into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Seated on the bed, he set one bottle on the small table beside it and kicked off his boots. Uncorking the other bottle as he scooted back on the bed, he took a long slow drink.

If he were lucky, he’d get completely pissed and passed out before Bella tried to get in the bed. For his own sanity, he hoped it worked.