Page 16 of Hunted by the Headless Horseman (Roars and Romances #5)

JACK

Iwould never deny her my touch.

I do my best to control myself, but there is no helping my hardening staff. Belle notices, but she doesn’t comment. It is not a moment for that.

I feel her eyes on me. Hear the sharper intake of her breath with every piece of clothing I shed. She must be taking in my host of tattoos. And my scars.

“Jack…”

my Belle whispers.

“You’re beautiful. Your ink is like flames and filigree and fleur-de-lis.”

Some are my crest filigree and signet, I say, removing the remaining scraps of my clothes. I had hoped this would be under different circumstances, but she needs me on this intimate level. I remove the pumpkin head, setting it carefully on the counter.

Belle winces as I take my place behind her, gently touching her sides, careful to avoid her ribs, which have harvested deep bruises. The blood at her side has stemmed, the cut, blessedly, not deep. The heat of her soft back meets the rigidity of my chest. I give her my strength, my steadfastness.

How is your breathing? I ask, collecting her now-damp curls and reaching for the rose oil soap.

“I can breathe fine, the surface just hurts, mostly when I move.”

Good, you likely have not broken or cracked a rib.

“No, I haven’t. I know what those feel like.”

My hands pause. All my muscles tense, and I welcome her tipping her head back against my shoulder. I imagine rubbing my lips upon the side of her brow. For now, I secure one arm around her upper chest, palm cupping her shoulder, holding her still and steady.

“Mmm, Jack, you’re hard,”

she points out the obvious with my manhood throbbing against her backside.

A natural response to holding a beautiful woman in naught but her skin and with our flesh as one.

She rests here. No words are spoken for a few minutes. At one point, I believe she’s fallen asleep until she inhales deeply, touches her lips to my neck, and utters, “I should tell you?—”

You need not tell me anything you do not wish to, my Belle.

She sighs deeply.

“I want to, Jack. I think…I think I need to. I think it m-might help.”

Her voice cracks at the end.

“Just don’t hold it against me because I haven’t confessed this to anyone other than Mimi, and I’ll probably cry my way through it all.”

I should bring you out of the bath first and tend to your wound. Please allow me to do this, my beloved Belladonna.

“Okay.”

Thankful she does not protest, I take us from the bath and carry her to the bed.

I hold her here, tracing the wound with the same gentleness as when I groom Revenant.

After drying Belle carefully, I bandage the small wound on her side, then apply the salve to her bruises before wrapping her ribs in a tight, larger bandage. She bites her lip, hissing through the pain. I drape my bare knuckles along her cheek, feeling her tears. As a highwayman, healing my wounds was a necessity. Sometimes, I would stitch them up myself. Catherine would mend the ones I could not reach.

My hands move quickly, efficiently, and when I finish, I help her into a thick robe, guiding her back to the bed. When she shivers, I touch my fingertips to her brow, ensuring she does not have a fever. Are you cold, my Belle?

“A little.”

As she eases into the blankets, I slip into some breeches and a white tunic I leave untucked and open, rolling the sleeves to my forearms. Then, I tend to the hearth at the east wall, placing a few logs upon the iron and setting fire to them.

I’ll be back in a few minutes. I move toward the door.

She nods, looking down, her fingers tracing the patterns on the bedspread. Whatever her thoughts, they must be weighing heavily upon her. I will soften the process as much as possible.

Collecting some milk from the refrigeration unit, something I managed to have shipped to an alternate location, which Revy helped carry to the manor, I set about cooking the milk on the cast-iron stove top. It takes little time to set the firewood in place and heat the milk in the pot. Next, I add the grated chocolate and cocoa, melting it into the milk. I add a hint of cinnamon and a splash of cream to thicken it.

I imagine the taste of hot chocolate, struggling to remember, but it’s been too long since I tasted anything.

I return to Belle with the steaming mug of hot chocolate, the rich aroma filling the room.

This has proven to be quite healing as I’ve learned, I tease, offering her the cocoa.

She takes it gratefully, cupping the sides and sipping slowly.

“Oh, Jack…”

Her voice cracks with emotion.

I lower myself onto the bed next to her. What is it? What can I do?

“You’ve already done so much. I-I, oh, God, Jack…”

She whimpers, sets the mug on the end table, then throws her arms around me, breaking down in fits of tears.

Hauling her into my lap, I ease into the bed with her, giving her the full relief to cry in my arms. She has been through quite an ordeal. By the Devil, she was attacked and wounded on my behalf when she came to my aid during the battle. One met their death at my hands. The others would have sustained mortal wounds. If any recover and come for her again, I won’t hesitate to put them six feet in the goddamn ground. And piss on their unmarked graves.

Soon, I will return to deal with the body. If the others know what’s good for them, they will go back to where they came from and stay there.

“Jack, I’m so sorry.”

She tips her brow onto my upper chest, and I savor the warmth of her body against mine, unable to imagine what it would feel like were we both naked.

“You came for me. You protected me. You fought for me. Then you brought me here and made me hot chocolate. You are good and kind, and you don’t deserve to be caught in the middle of all this.”

Easing my hand to the back of her head, I gently stroke her curls, reminding her, You do not deserve to be swept into my madness either, Belle. A task that has seemed impossible for over two centuries. Until I met you.

“He could have killed you. He would have killed you.”

I curve my fingers into her hair. Thunderation, this girl! She is bruised. She bled—while I sustained no wounds. Filling my chest with breath, I grip the back of her head firmly, giving her my support, prepared to strengthen her more.

Belladonna Claire Holloway, I am here. I am here…with you. And I am never letting you go. I care not that it has only been one week. I have waited two hundred years for you. Be assured, my Belle, there is no place in this world where I could exist if you did not. No force or power will take you from me. Your heartbeat echoes in my very chest. You belong to me, Belladonna. Now and always, you are mine.

Her tears are unstoppable. I give her leave to cry for a few moments. I sense it is beyond lament. Longing, within those tears, sheds itself all over her face. A deep gratitude in every kiss she pressed to my neck.

After another tremor or two, she sighs.

“There are some cults that control people through fear, grooming, and conformity. Others do the same, but they also use isolation with high walls, bars on windows, and…the more extreme definitions of corporal punishment.”

I stiffen, knowing I’d grit my teeth with my jaw steeling as she finishes, “Guess which one I was born into?”

I say nothing, permitting her to lean into me more. “Um…”

She trails off, and I can feel the heat rising in her cheeks from where she’s pressed to my collarbone.

“Jack, can I…do this?”

She inches her hands beneath the untucked hem of my shirt. Without another word, I lean back and remove it. More surprised when she parts the robe to give me her naked warmth—as if our flesh has become her touchstone.

“My grandmother was the first to escape. She left only after her husband died, and her children were all grown. Mimi was very respected because she had seven children. And fertility is next to godliness. From a young age, she also developed a skill for herbs and natural medicine, so she trained and worked as the main midwife. She saved many lives, including my mother’s when she…had complications delivering me.”

Belle slides her arms around me and slowly eases her legs between mine. I smile internally at her desire to get as close as possible. Her body trembles now and then. During her pauses, her breaths leave in heavy sighs or quickened gasps.

“Mimi was the first to hold me. We seemed to have this connection from my birth. She also named me. Later in my life, she shared how she chose Belladonna because she manifested that I would become a poison to the cult that controlled girls from birth. She wanted me to be symbolically dangerous to that community. Especially when the plant grows like a weed with thick roots, it can regrow in the spring.”

Another few kisses to my neck. With her soft breasts rubbing along my chest and her sex spreading its heat clear through my drawers, it can’t be helped; I’m fucking hung. Thankfully, Belle says nothing about my state, seeming to understand. I keep one hand anchored against the back of her neck while tracing my other fingers along the curvature of her spine.

Belle sucks in a deep breath and nestles her head along my collarbone.

“Mimi worked as a nurse for a time, and she took out a lease on the shop that she named after me. She would visit me…and bring me a book every time. She taught me to read.”

I hear the undeniable smile in her voice and the comforting warmth in her tone.

“When I was little, it was fairytales. As I grew older, it was either a fantasy about some girl who would become a warrior or a banned book like Fahrenheit 451. I loved the ones during the Holocaust where people stole and hid books. I hid my books in the woods, and I would return them to Mimi. She couldn’t risk me getting caught with more than a couple at a time. Girls didn’t go to school, you see.”

She shrugs, her tone changing to a wistful melancholy.

“School was for the boys. Girls were taught to keep house, cook, and be submissive. I guess some of that stuck.”

I pause in rubbing her back.

Belle, forgive me for my intrusion, but you are the strongest-hearted woman I have ever had the fortune of knowing.

You may have been taught all manner of womanly submissiveness, but it doesn’t rule you.

You have your own rules.

You do not maintain a clean and neat environment out of some sense of conformity.

You do it because you wish to bless others and give yourself a sense of satisfaction and comfort.

I have sensed the care and attention you put into your work.

It is rewarding for you. Such work would not be rewarding if it were born out of their mere laws.

At first, she says nothing, and I fear I have overstepped…until, “Thank you, Jack. That means a lot. Believe it or not, I wasn’t very good at anything growing up. Except for one thing.”

Reading?

“Well, okay, two. The other was being the prettiest girl in the entire cult.”

Her tone conveys nothing. No disgust, nor pride.

“Look, Jack, I am not begrudging that I’m beautiful. I know I am.”

And charming.

“Okay, and charming,”

she adds with a slight huff.

And adorable.

“Are you finished?”

Irresistible, impossible, and utterly incomprehensible at times.

“Right back at you, Mr. Headless Highwayman.”

I’m adorable?

“No, but I do adore you. But anyway…”

her tone darkens again as she prepares to continue.

“I was ten. And Thaddeus was…twenty-three.”

Loathing practically soaks her voice.

“When I hit adolescence—um, do you know what adolescence is?”

Your maturing years? I refrain from saying maidenhood.

“That works. Thaddeus was a higher Brother at the time. He was extremely handsome, charismatic, and the most talented brawler, sharpshooter, and swordsman. All the girls hoped to become one of his wives. Yes, polygamy is a thing.”

I stiffen, growling low in our bond. While the practice of polyamory grows more popular in many circles and provides much love and connection among partners, the act of polygamy is far different in its benefit to a male, particularly more toxic males, as the one she describes. The thought of breaking every bone in this man’s body will become a prominent vision. And death by a million cuts. Or a swift hanging.

“When I was twelve, and these big bumps on my chest appeared, and I had several boys very interested in me, Thaddeus acted early and arranged a betrothal with my father. None of the boys bothered me after that. I belonged to him. Mimi was infuriated when she first learned, and she grew more intent on giving me books that were either examples of positive masculinity like Pride and Prejudice, or the opposite, The Handmaid’s Tale.”

I would bury him alive.

While it was quite common for young women to marry as young as seventeen, men also married young. Such a spread as she described would have been considered, not only rare, but scandalous. Catherine was nineteen when we married. I was twenty-three.

I had my misgivings the first time Belle informed me of her age, but she has made her maturity, goals, and wants in life clear. She is liberated and independent, albeit her gentle spirit requires a man to protect her and care for her, especially in her situation and with her past.

Not just any man. Me. Unequivocally and unconditionally me.

Threading her fingers through mine, Belle cuddles as close as possible. When she begins toying with my chest hair and idly tracing my tattoos, I can’t help but chuckle.

“Jack, Mimi tried her hardest. She truly did. But I was watched like a hawk up until the wedding. I was…seventeen. Almost eighteen.

“I had my reservations, my doubts, my inclinations. I didn’t trust my heart because I was taught not to trust my heart or my feelings. I was only to trust the lessons I was taught and my “destiny”. I hope you won’t think horribly of me. Because I rose to the occasion. I worked so hard to be the perfect daughter. And Thaddeus…he was very good.”

I stiffen, my hold on her neck turning to a firm grip.

“Oh, please, Jack, don’t think of me like that. I was young and stupid, and I didn’t—everyone was so happy for me. I was the belle of the ball. Thaddeus had wooed me, wined and dined me. He took me on romantic walks and gave me gifts, all leading up to the wedding. He acted like a perfect ‘gentleman.’”

The loathing has grown in her last statement, implying just what type of gentleman he was.

“My wedding was the toast of the town. Mimi came for it. She stayed close by. Oh, how I danced that night. I was rosy-cheeked with rose-colored glasses. But on the wedding night…the rose-colored glasses turned black.”

She lowers her head, tipping her brow onto my chest. A tremor shudders through her. I plant my hand against the base of her spine, holding her still, holding her strong. She shakes, and it takes all my resolve not to shake with her. She trembles with the memories and demons of her trauma. I tremble with a caged fury. One I will not hesitate to unleash if this….fucking pedophile comes near my Belle.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened that night. Except for how he told me that the courting period and the wedding were mine. But the wedding night…apparently, it was my duty to undress before him and let him do whatever he wanted to me. Like I was a present and a prize. Mimi told me it was rape. It took years for me to acknowledge and process that. Because I pretended it wasn’t. Because how could it be when he was my husband? But I turned eighteen a week later. And Mimi found me in the woods…cutting myself. Oh, god, Jack…please, you must think?—”

Keep going, Belle. I will share my thoughts with you presently. You deserve to finish your story without worrying about what I think and believe.

She does not move her head, and I curve my fingers against the small of her back, slowly rubbing.

“She helped me escape. She dressed me up like an escort guard. I was eighteen, so the law was on my side, especially when she had my birth certificate. When my mother was still asleep, and my father hadn’t arrived at my birth, she insisted that a copy be given to her. Thaddeus didn’t care back then. He had other wives, and from the little Mimi learned, it didn’t take long for him to choose a younger wife to betroth.”

Now, the worst of the tremors shiver through her. I can’t fathom when it seems her story has ended, and the time of escape must have been a time of ease and reconstruction.

“J-Jack,”

her voice cracks, and she gasps and sniffs, betraying her tears.

“I can’t bear to know what you must think of me when I sh-share the n-next p-part. It wasn’t long after I f-fo-found out. I was…pregnant.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I ball my hand into a fist at her spine, feeling her tense.

Oh, my Belle.

“Jack, it was wrong. So wrong. What he did. What happened because of it. I know you had children. You’ll hate me for this, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. If I kept it, Thaddeus would have learned. The cult might be off the grid, but they still have connections in the county. They have paid off the police and town officials, so they can keep their compound running. And Mimi was a midwife—she helped me. It was so early, and I healed quickly because of her.

“Belladonna’s Bookshop became my baby. It helped me heal. It gave me life. Mimi paid for my education. My major was in Literature, and my minor was Business. She gave me the freedom to manage the bookshop after I earned my degrees. Mimi protected me. My family disowned me. And I was all the better for it. But somehow…I don’t know how, but Thaddeus knows what happened.”

She shudders more, clinging to me hard, crying harder.

“Oh, god, Jack, please…I’m so sorry,”

she rambles, quivering through her entire speech.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of my baby falling into his hands. It was a guarantee. I didn’t want a baby growing up in the cult. Even if I tried to give the child up for adoption, he would have found out. And spirits forgive me, but I didn’t want the reminder. I didn’t want to live with the marks every day. I would have felt them. I never could have healed. I never could have moved on. They became a distant memory instead of a scar. Maybe I could have been strong enough to have the scar. I’m so sor?—”

Stop. Fucking stop, Belladonna.

She shakes. I tighten my grip on her, fingers digging into her back while I fist her curls. She’s near catatonic—and as she’d said, she has never conveyed the truth to anyone, save for her grandmother, until now. Belle has given me a reflection of her inner mirror, however dark it may be.

I feel my pulse thundering, my breaths in the tether of our unified mind. Her tears become a watery companion upon my skin, falling onto my tattoos. She’s opened her scars. She’s fucking bleeding for me! Unraveled.

It’s not my duty to stitch her together. Only she can do that. But it is my duty to hold her heart in my hands, let the blood drip upon myself, and kiss the hurt. It is my responsibility to give her a safe haven and my protection. I am her shield. I “wholeheartedly”—as much as is possible—will hear her, hold her, and defend her.

My Belle…I tuck my hand beneath her chin and lift her face. An empty gesture when I have no eyes she may look into, but nevertheless: There is nothing to forgive. You do not require my forgiveness, nor anyone’s. Yes, I understand the depth and grief of the loss of a child. But you did not choose such a life. It was forced upon you. You were born into it. You did not choose your husband.

“But I?—”

Fuck, Belle. My turn.