Page 12 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

“Did the Headless Horseman just make a “head” joke?”

JACK

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”

Belle’s voice echoes from the bathroom above the sound of the shower.

Annoyance rises in me, and I tug at the ends of my gloves, flexing my fingers.

Quite.

As established, when the time comes, with your consent and in the right environment, I have every intention of fucking you until you cannot walk, my Belle.

My member throbs at the image.

I know where I wish to claim her, a place she will find more than satisfactory with its ambiance.

Ever since our conversation, I have spent my days preparing the manor before reconvening with Belle in the evenings.

I’ve familiarized her room as much as her bookshop.

I chuckle because she is quite tidy.

Her environment reflects her kind and generous heart.

Despite all her belongings, she organizes them with care.

Her jewelry is tucked into an antique box with multiple drawers segmented with necklaces in one and rings in the next etc.

Nothing like Catherine.

She was chaotic, cluttered, and disorganized, relying endlessly on our staff to clean our rooms.

She focused most of her time on maintaining the gardens.

A waft of steamy air blows at my back, and by thunder!—the scent of Belle freshly out of the shower is so potent, I’d swear I have nostrils right now.

I used rose oil soap.

She smells warm and invigorating like rosemary and cinnamon, a natural autumnal scent.

Damnation! Her warmth prowls too much across my form, stirring my manhood to long for her again.

All of me turns still as she clutches my arms, rises on her tiptoes, and kisses the side of my neck.

So close to the area I used for her clit.

I have no intention of wiping off her juices/ She lingers, her lips touching my skin, and my sinew flexes.

Would that I could kiss her.

“It will happen, Jack.”

She presses her head to my chest, her wet hair brushing the side of my neck.

I care not how she’s dampening my clothes.

Belladonna Holloway…I urge her off me and cup her chin, hearing her sharp inhale.

I’ve come to learn how she loves this form of touch.

I would never press you.

You must understand.

Nor would I want you to do this out of urgency, on account of my curse.

Regardless of whether we find my heart, I have waited for two centuries to have the opportunity to speak with another being.

I’m certain I could wait a year or longer for you.

Indeed, quite certain.

“Jack…”

Her voice softens, and I rub my thumb along her lower lip.

“That’s not why…”

She sighs, and I feel the sudden pressing of her lips.

“You listen and you listen well, Jackson Elias Moore. Yes, it’s been about a week since I met you. Yes, there is this urgency. But there are two very important things you must know about me.”

I stiffen as her breath grows quicker.

Continue, my Belle.

“The first is never to mistake me for some swooning, fawning girl, who is so desperate for love and validation, she will give herself to anyone. I have high standards, and it’s one reason I’ve had only four dates in the past ten years. And second…”

She trails off, but I sense she’s gathering herself for something more important. I brush my knuckles along her cheek, soothing and encouraging her in my own way.

Sucking in a deep breath, she lowers one hand to thread her fingers through my gloved ones.

“For most of my life, I had no choices. Where I could go, what friends I could have, what I had to eat, how I dressed…it was all stripped from me. Now, I am a strong, independent woman, and if I want something, I want something.

“I may be young, but I’m twenty-seven years old. If something comes along that is good, real, unique, dark, raw, beautiful…I don’t give a damn, I will hold onto that with all my being. I’m holding onto you, my Headless Horseman. And I am never letting you go.”

By the Devil, I don’t deserve her. I memorize her words, treasure them in my heart. Her voice was firm and intentional. They did not simply come from her heart. They were born from the strength of her will. I’ve underestimated my precious Belle. Damn me for it.

“One more thing, if you don’t mind.”

Fuck, Belle, speak.

I touch my thumb to the corner of her mouth, finding her lips tugging into a smile.

“You’ve asked me to understand how you are flawed. Please do the same for me. You can say I have a heart of gold, but it’s taken its share of beatings. Ones caused by others, ones caused by me. And you putting me on a pedestal won’t help either of us.”

I grip a handful of wet curls. Belle, I regret to inform you that you are far higher than a pedestal. You’re already an angel in my eyes.

She giggles.

“Well, since you don’t have eyes, can we agree that I’m a fallen angel? Or at least…a broken one? And we can both be broken together?”

For you, anything.

“Good. Because I have something to give you.”

Of course, and I vow not to get a big head over it.

“Did you—did the Headless Horseman just make a “head” joke?”

I chuckle warmly. I’m waiting, Belladonna.

She dances away, and I faintly hear the sound of the towel dropping. I ball my hands into fists, keeping my back to her as she changes behind me. I touch the sparse items on her dresser and do not resist the temptation to open her top drawers, where I find a number of lingerie items. And…something…quite…intriguing.

“Jack!”

she practically squeals and tries to take the item away.

I lift it high above her head, amusement rippling into me as she jumps, hoping to snatch it away.

We are quite naughty, aren’t we, my Belle?

“Give it back, bloody fucking pumpkins, Jackson Moore!”

I laugh inside our sacred bond while wagging the phallus-shaped rubber object. Mine is quite larger than this one. And harder. Are you certain you are prepared?

My thumb catches on a button, and I jerk from the sudden vibration, dropping the scandalous, possessed object. What the devil?—?

“Ugh, we need to have another conversation about boundaries.”

She turns off the vibrating sound and shoves the bedeviled phallus inside her drawer.

Before she can say another word, I seize her neck, gripping her throat taut with enough pressure to thin her breath, but I’ll not leave bruises. Naughty, little Belladonna. You listen and listen well. From now until the time comes for our coupling, you will not use such an object. And you will give your release only to me, and when I choose. Is that understood? Her pulse flutters beneath my thumb.

“You want to regulate my sexuality?”

Yes. Not for means of control, I add after she stiffens. But because you deserve it. Because you deserve more. And it will be all the sweeter and more fulfilling when I bring you to rapture while you are impaled on my manhood. Do we have an accord?

“God, you’re so sexy when you get all possessive-y. Yes, I can live with that.”

Good. I release her.

“If you’re finished rummaging through my drawers, I have something for you.”

She tugs me toward the bed, sits me on it as I envision shaking my head with an airy laugh. The vision disintegrates the second she places something round and soft, knitted within my hands. She squeezes the backs of my hands as if offering me a soft reassurance.

“It’s…well, it’s a pumpkin,”

she says, her voice a mix of nervousness and pride.

“A knitted Jack O’lantern. I thought it might help, you know, if we go out during the day. So people don’t freak out. I added straps so we can attach it to your suit—with safety pins, see?”

I feel the wool between my fingers, running my thumbs over the ridges and dips of the knitted pumpkin. It’s soft and surprisingly light. The loops of the knitting are tight and even. Round and bumpy, the shape feels like the real thing, with a slight stem on top. I can feel where she’s stitched in some details—lines to mimic the grooves of a real pumpkin, a bit of stuffing to make it full.

I feel something sturdier beneath, a thin wire skeleton hidden beneath the softness. I press gently, feeling the way the structure holds firm, like she built a little cage to keep it from sagging. She made this with care and purpose. Practical, but I sense the emotion in her fingers.

I imagine it’s a burnt orange like the autumns I remember. The idea of me—a headless thing—walking around with a knitted pumpkin for a head makes me want to laugh. But something deeper than humor is like a knot in my chest unraveling, like the warmth of her voice melts into the hollow where my heart once lay.

She steps closer, scooping up the pumpkin before she adjusts the straps.

“Just…hold still. I’ll pin it on so it doesn’t fall off,”

she murmurs.

I remain there, feeling the gentle tug as she fastens the pins, securing the head to rest snugly against my neck while she attaches it to my suit. Her fingers are nimble, but I can feel their slight tremor. She’s nervous or unsure of how I will respond.

I wish I could see her face, her expression. I wish I could see the pumpkin she’s made for me. But all I can do is feel—feel the warmth of the wool against the emptiness where my head should be. Feel the way her breath catches just slightly as she leans in close to my neck.

I want to say something, but no words could hold my emotions. I let my hand find hers again. I want to kiss her—God, how I want to kiss her. But instead, I stand, coil one hand around the side of her neck, and tug her close to me. She will never comprehend the depths of what she means to me.

Belle Holloway…I lean closer and nuzzle the side of the knit texture along her cheek. She shivers at the touch.

“I know, I know,”

she teases sweetly, playfully.

“You’d kiss me if you could.”

No. If I could, I would kiss you and lick you until you were head over heels for me.

“I think we’re already in danger of that, Jack Moore.”

Tell me, did something else aside from your desire for my daily welfare prompt this act of generosity?

“Well, um…”

she trails off.

I grip her chin, lowering my makeshift head. Belladonna…I give her Sir’s tone.

“I was wondering…you don’t have to if it’s too much. No pressure or anything. But the shop is closed tomorrow because it’s the Harvest Festival. Other than Halloween, it’s the biggest day of the season. Most come with their significant other.”

When I do not respond to the term, she seems to grow more flustered.

“Significant other is a word for a companion. Um…romantic partner.”

I shake my “head”

with a chuckle for the first time and ask, Are you asking me to accompany you as a suitor, my Belle? And you, as my sweetheart?

Her cheeks are so flushed, I feel their warmth beneath my very glove.

“I-I guess if you want to.”

You listen, and you listen well, Belladonna Holloway, I turn her words back on her, pressing upon her chin. If you believe I will allow my sweet summoner to attend an extravaganza alone, bereft of a beau, when any may consider it an invitation to the contrary, you are sorely mistaken.

Her lips part, a retort forming, but I press on, my tone steady and firm. In my era, no woman would have been without an escort at such a celebration. Do you not know the power you wield, or how many might seek to take advantage of a moment’s solitude? Over the past week, I may not have seen the eager glances cast in your direction, but I have felt them. Like arrows loosed toward a target, one I have touched too many times to know what a high prize she is.

She squeezes my hand and stands on her tiptoes.

“Jack, are you implying I cannot handle a few admirers?”

A challenge lingers in her teasing—one I will not meet with levity.

I am implying that nothing would be enough to warrant me loosening my hold on you tonight. Or tomorrow. You will go nowhere without me, not while shadows linger and secrets hide among these festivities.

She stands on her tiptoes and kisses my wool cheek. Thanks to the straps, I feel an echo of it.

“I think I can live with that.”

SUNDAY’S HARVEST FESTIVAL

Belle’s excitement radiates through the grip of her hand as she leads me through her small town’s harvest festival.

Though darkness shrouds my world, the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the rustling of autumn leaves paint a vivid picture, along with Belle’s subtle descriptions. One or two-line notes she whispers to me.

Hay crunches beneath our feet. The October air is crisp and blustery, but the golden sunlight is plentiful. Hints of pumpkin spice perfume the air, followed by roasting chestnuts and bonfires. If I had eyes, I imagine the small town in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains must be quaint and lovely, a picturesque and pastoral portrait of autumn.

I remember those Mountains and their untamed beauty—a wildness that still speaks to me—something eternal, steadfast, and transcendent. Their ridges and valleys carve deeply into my memory. They still rise like ancient giants, their slopes painted in shades of crimson, amber, and gold in the fall. Even now, I envision the ever-present fog rolling across the dark forested peaks. Or the way the sun would splinter in prisms to illuminate the endless sea of trees that stretched far beyond the city where I once lived.

From what Belle has shared, my region was ironically larger in population than her town.

Since the curse, the Appalachians have been a constant companion. I’ve listened to their language in the changing of the seasons. I’ve drifted as the shadow, disturbing predators and prey alike to run. I have played the phantom roaming the campgrounds, hearing the voices and stories of tourists on Hallow’s Eve and no other time.

But no stories have compelled me more than my sweet summoner.

The soft pressure of Belle’s hand guides me, while I lightly tap my cane against the ground, feeling for roots or cobblestones. She tugs me forward, almost skipping with joy, and I can’t help but feel a smile inside me. Nor can I deny the tension locking my spine and hardening my muscles. Belle may not be unaware of her beauty or the attention she garners from it. But something in her character, her background, or both, has prompted her to dismiss it. She counts it as trite.

At some point, I will urge her to tell me why.

For now, I cling to her hand with the sound of children scampering with laughter nearby. The faint strains of a fiddle play a jaunty tune. Off to our left, a grand wagon carts visitors on a hayride.

“Jack…”

She leans her head on my shoulder, strengthening her grip on my arm.

“Even without a head, you’re the most dashing one here.”

She touches the side of my coat, a striking black leather, rich and supple, yet rugged. The dramatic cutaway front flares subtly, allowing for the swift movement of a man of my former profession. The collar is high and sharp, concealing the back of her pumpkin head. Beneath the leather coat, my double-breasted waistcoat, a soft, matte leather, fits closely to my body, emphasizing my muscular frame. One I fully intend to use if anyone so much as makes my Belle uncomfortable.

It took her three tries before she settled on the perfect dress. A vintage, red plaid number with black stockings and nothing more than a Victorian cameo pendant around her lovely throat.

“Why, Belle!”

the familiar voice of Mrs. Kravitson intrudes upon us.

Belle’s fingers dig into my arm, conveying her anxiety, but she is the portrait of respectability.

“Mrs. Kravitson,”

she cheerfully greets the town busybody.

I tighten my grip on my cane, steadying myself. I can hear the rustle of fabric as Mrs. Kravitson approaches, her voice carrying that familiar Southern twang.

“Bless my soul, Belladonna Holloway! Who might this be?”

she asks, her voice warm but too curious.

“Have you finally found a man? Congratulations, dear!”

Belle laughs lightly in her melodic tone that can charm any man, woman, or beast.

“Jack here is just a good friend.”

She pats my arm.

“My dear Belle, no man who dresses like him and holds your arm that way could ever possibly be ‘just a good friend’. You must bring him by the homestead. I will make my famous sweet tea and biscuits.”

“Thank you for the offer. I’ll be sure to talk to him, but he won’t be visiting too long,”

she smoothly covers.

“He’s with a theater troupe, playing the Headless Horseman tonight.”

“Is that so?”

I incline my head slightly, aware of the weight of curious eyes on me. I sense more approaching. Something in her voice chills me. Not in a frightening way, but something that stirs a sixth sense and a déjà vu, but I can’t quite place.

“He’s very dedicated to his role,”

adds Belle.

“He doesn’t speak to stay in character. But he will say just a few phrases.”

She squeezes my arm, and I click the button on the small, cunning speaker inside my coat.

“Hello,”

the speaker intones, my voice deep and slightly eerie. Not quite as rich as my natural tone, but Belle did her best with the compilation of royalty-free voices. I offer a slight bow of my head.

“Good evening to you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh! How clever!”

Mrs. Kravitson claps her hands, clearly delighted.

“Well, good to meet you, Mr. Horseman.”

She chuckles, thoroughly charmed.

Belle squeezes my hand again, a silent signal. I tap my cane and offer a small, polite nod.

“Thank you, but Belle is eager to show me the sights,”

the speaker echoes, the mechanical undertone giving it an almost ghostly quality.

After a few more pleasantries from our nearby audience, Belle manages to tear us away from the pressing of bodies. It’s clear Belle herself, not only her bookshop, is a prominent fixture in the town. A local haunt, as it were. Fitting, as she has haunted me from the moment I heard her words.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Belle pulls me along gently, and I follow her to the bustling farmer’s market. Her excitement is palpable, her voice bubbling with exclamations of various finds.

“Oh, Jack, these mums will be perfect for the display windows. And I simply cannot leave without the Simmons sorghum syrup. It’s the best with biscuits and pancakes during the fall.”

Proud heat spreads through me as she bustles about the market while loading my arms with bags of her local fare purchases and greeting everyone with her contagious, sparkly disposition.

She helps herself to a variety of fresh produce, artisanal goat cheese, beeswax candles, herbal soaps, and homemade apple cider donuts. After we stop at the car to drop off the first assortment of packages, Belle pauses at another vendor for a snack. Through her senses, I can faintly smell the cinnamon-roasted chestnuts. Sweet and spicy, but it can’t vie with the natural rosemary and cinnamon scent that becomes my beautiful girl.

“You know I can’t resist your homemade apple butter, Miss. Evelyn,”

she chimes in a few minutes later.

“Saved a jar just for you, Belle,”

the other woman responds, her tone far younger than Kravitson.

“More clove in this one, honey. Oooh, but who is Mr. tall, dark, and handsome stranger?”

I chuckle to myself because Belle’s grip has tightened on my arm, and I sense her prickle of annoyance. Not on account of repetition. No, she’s taken a slight step in front of me, a protective response to the other woman advancing toward me.

“This is Jack, and he’s in character as the Headless Horseman. He won’t speak, but he’s my suitor in his era’s terminology.”

“So dark and mysterious! Maybe I’ll get to steal him away for a dance at the hoedown.”

Evelyn goes so far as to tiptoe her fingers along my other arm.

Belle blows a windstorm through her nostrils.

“I don’t know if we’ll make it to the hoedown, but thanks, Evelyn. Oh, I’ll take an extra jar and include it in my next raffle book box.”

“Anything for you, Belle. I’ll see you around, handsome,”

Evelyn chirps.

After her purchase, my sweetheart hauls me away as quickly as possible.

Is someone a little jealous? I nudge the side of her head with my pumpkin.

“Evelyn is a ridiculous, little flirt,”

she mutters.

“She’s gorgeous, and she flaunts it, especially with me since she sees me as some rival. As if I care if she steals all the guys. But I’m not about to let anyone steal my man.”

I wrap an arm around her waist, stopping her in her tracks. Her breath catches in her chest as I capture one side of her face, leaning closer.

Your man, hmm…I purr darkly, approvingly.

“You know what I mean.”

She shifts her weight, her fingers fumbling with her dress.

Indeed. But have no fear, my Belle. I comb my fingers through her curls cascading down her chest. I have no intention of allowing anyone to steal me from my summoner. I’ve already found the apple of my eye.

“You made another joke,”

she teases and slides her hands inside my jacket to touch my waistcoat.

I would make more, but they would be quite uncouth in our present environment. Best if you lead on, Miss. Holloway.

The spring in her step returns.

Through the next couple of hours, Belle takes me on a sensory journey. She mentions the children engaged in rousing games of bobbing for apples, gunny sack slides, or pony riding. We sat for a short time for a caricature illustration—one I long to see soon. A petting zoo with a few goats, rabbits, ducks, and a llama or two proved to be stimulating for the touch when Belle urged me to remove one glove, guiding my hand to each animal.

I focus on the rhythm of her footsteps, the sounds around us, the shifting textures beneath my cane. I catch snippets of conversation. Due to our strengthening bond, I swear I can smell warm cider and fresh-baked bread as I faintly hear the hiss of caramel apples being dipped in a hot, sugary glaze and the sound of children jumping into the massive pit of shelled corn.

Belle describes each scene with vivid detail. I smile internally at the scarecrow-building contests and welcome her head leaning on my chest as we linger for a live music performance.

As evening settles, and bonfires cast smoke into the air, Belle pulls me along, her voice breathless.

“Jack, this is it—the corn maze!”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I sense there is more to this maze than she is letting on.

After giving my hand a reassuring squeeze, she leads me onward, her grip firm and steady, as if daring the maze to challenge us.

I tap my cane against the ground and accompany her inside. With nightfall unfolding around us, the chill in the air, and the proximity of the stalks affording potential threats, I fully intend to remain close to her side.

The more Belle’s body brushes against mine, the deeper the thrill runs through my spine. Belle’s charm rivets me, arouses me as she practically dances her way through the twisting paths and towering corn walls.

Strange, I remark at the dwindling presences.

“Most are getting ready for the haunted forest walk. We’ll go soon, but I want to do something first,”

she gasps out, her disposition more flustered than ever, and I picked up on the mischief in her tone.

Oh?

“Yes. It’s my turn.”

Turn?

Before I can inquire further, Belle pushes me right off the path into the towering and tightly nestled embrace of corn stalks. I catch myself in time with my cane but don’t get the chance to recover before she tugs me harder, deeper into the thick stalks.

I growl my frustration?—

—until she stops, kneels before me, and starts undoing my belt.

By thunder!