AFRICAN AMERICAN URBAN FICTION: BWWM ROMANCE: Billionaire Baby Daddy (Billionaire Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance) (Multicultural & Interracial Romance Short Stories) (86 page)

              Not knowing what else to do, Abigail cleaned up the kitchen, and then the entire house. When she went to bed, she said her prayers for the first time since she left home. Funny how she could find time for her prayers when things looked bleak, but when they were about the same as home, she didn't see much reason to take time out of her day to pray.

              "Get off your knees and into bed, woman," George said, coming in during Abigail's prayers. She paid him no heed and kept praying, determined not to let him come between her and God, of all things. He didn't appreciate that as much as a more pious person would have. Instead he roughly grabbed her by her hair.

              "You've got some nerve ignoring your husband, woman. Maybe if you'd pay attention to the Bible that you think is so great, you would've seen that it says a woman is subservient to her husband," George said in a threatening tone.

              "But he does not come before the Lord," Abigail replied stubbornly. Though perhaps some would find this the wrong time to fight the good fight, Abigail wasn't going to idly sit by as George acted this way and treated her like chattel. He did make sure she regretted her flippant mouth with the back of his hand, though.

Chapter Five

              The days went by, and George's abuses did not lessen. Rather, they got more onerous to bear by the day, until finally Abigail couldn't stand being hit anymore. So, she fled to a local church. She was able to find it only by the grace of some passersby who gave her directions.

              It was a Friday when she escaped from her husband, and she was too scared to leave the church and find another safe haven, so she hid out there. Luckily, the church was stocked with foodstuffs, and though Abigail felt wretched having to steal, her situation was a dire one.

              When Sunday rolled around, the pastor's wife was the first one in the church. She had golden hair fixed in a braid, with a lovely but simple patterned cotton dress. To Abigail, she looked like an angel.

              "Miss--" Abigail began, rather desperately.

              "Oh, my God," the woman began, taking a few steps back. She wasn't expecting to see someone in the church before her--much less a rather ragged-looking woman with unkempt hair and a wrinkled and days-old dress on.

              "Please, please don't be scared," Abigail said softly. The tone of her voice and sincerity in her eyes made the woman calm down. Abigail broke into tears. "I ran away--my husband. He . . . He hit me, a lot. I had to get away from him. He would have really hurt me if I didn't. And I didn't know where else to go," Abigail explained, crying even harder.

              The woman went over to Abigail after setting down her bags and just pulled her into her arms. "There, there. Ain't no man who hits his wife getting into this church, Sugar. Just let it out. We'll get you up to the police and file charges against him sooner than he can say Jack Robinson," she cooed, and that's just what she did.

              When the pair got to the police station, Abigail tearfully told the story, and she was inspected for bruises. She had multiple, of varying degree of severity. Her case was open and shut, but more interestingly, the police found they had a missing person's report out for her from several counties over. This led Abigail to recite the whole thing for the police. How she put out an order, why she married George, the whole nine yards, so that they understood her situation totally. Then, once everything had been said, she asked them if she could possibly ask for them to take her home, so she could have a fresh start. The police were happy to oblige.

Chapter Six

              Abigail expected a lot of things when she arrived back home. She expected Lucy to be the first to tell her parents that she was home. She expected her parents to be disgusted with her, and not to take her in. She expected to be lectured on how she was a bad person, and a terrible daughter. She expected to have to find someone else who would take her in.             

              What Abigail did not expect was her mother to tearfully embrace her when she got back home. These were among the very few tears that Abigail had ever witnessed her mother shed, but they did indeed fall when Abigail was welcomed back into the fold.

              The first week or so, Abigail didn't have any chores or responsibilities assigned to her around the house. To occupy her time, she mainly whiled away the hours by sewing or embroidering, later working her way up to helping anyone who needed it around the house.

              A select few times, her family members asked her what happened while she was gone. They had been told a little by the cop, but they wanted more information from Abigail. She declined to give it, as it was a rather painful experience, and one she did not particularly want to relive.

              After the first week, Abigail went back to her usual chores. While going out to milk the cows, she ran into Jebediah, just as she often would in the past. This time, however, he didn't say anything right away--probably because she did something Amish people weren't supposed to do. She got divorced. At least, that's what she thought at first.

              "I heard something bad happened to you when you left," Jebediah said softly, in a much more serious and solemn tone than she was used to him using.

              "Yes, something did," Abigail replied quietly.

              "I hate to hear that, Abbey. I do," he said. A silence passed between them, but it was a comfortable little silence in Abigail's mind.

              "Thank you."

              "You know, I was wondering if you would want to come over to dinner tonight to my house?" Jebediah asked.

              Abigail shook her head no at first, but Jebediah wasn't done there.

              "Please, Abbey. I want you to be over for a little bit," he implored, and when Abigail saw that he wasn't going to relent until he got his way, she had to agree.

              "Yes, okay. I'll be over," she replied.

              When it came to be dinner time, Abigail did indeed go over to Jebediah's house. She found that since she had left, Jebediah's mother had passed away, and so Jebediah and his younger sisters did a lot of the cooking and cleaning. Despite the one who typically filled those roles being gone, the work was done very well, especially the food.

              Jebediah brought her a plate and encouraged her to come eat with him in a spare nook in the house, which she did. Once they were there, she ate up her food quickly, wanting to be done with the food, then back home before Jebediah brought up anything awkward.

              No matter how fast she could have eaten, though, it wasn't fast enough.

              "You know, Abbey, I was thinking. Since we don't really have a woman of the house anymore, and your family has your sisters and your mom, it would be nice if you could move in here and help us out." Jebediah said. He seemed nervous bringing up the proposal, but Abigail could see how much it meant to him.

              "I . . ." Abigail began, but found herself having a hard time saying no. She didn't know why she couldn't say no, but the word didn't come out.

              Jebediah sensed this difficulty. It wasn't hard to do. In fact, he would have had to have been oblivious if he didn't notice. "Abbey, please," he said, really lobbying to get her to agree.

              Abigail hesitated for a minute, but then sighed and nodded her head. "Very well. But, you have to tell my mom, and make sure it is okay with her," Abigail said, because she didn't want to seem ungrateful to her mother, after everything her mother had done.

              Jebediah jumped to his feet in triumph and gave Abigail a big hug. "Oh, thank you Abbey, you won't regret it!" he said, and then raced over next door, without even finishing his food.

              That very night, Abigail got moved into the house, taking the spare bed that they had and setting up her room. She was surprised when Jebediah came in when it was getting to be bedtime.

              "Abbey, I just want to thank you again," he said.

              "Well, I couldn't just leave your family high and dry, Jeb," Abigail said, though it surprised the both of them when she shortened his name to a nickname. She'd never done that before.

              "I just want you to know, I appreciate it a lot. Have a good rest!" he said, then left. Abigail took his advice and went straight to sleep.

              When the next morning rolled around, she got to work right away. It wasn't till midday, when she was doing the dishes from lunch, that she got to have a conversation with Jebediah. He actually joined her, helping her dry and put away.

              "You're doing really great getting this house back in fighting shape, Abbey! I appreciate it, and everyone here does, too," Jebediah said, and Abigail just chuckled.

              "Jeb, this is nothing. I'm just doing my fair share," she replied.

              "Even if that's so, you still deserve a thank you," Jebediah said.

              Though the sentiment was a simple one, it really made Abigail smile. Finally, someone actually appreciated the hard work she did! She couldn't believe it!

              "Well, thank you, too. You're no slouch, either," Abigail replied with a smile, and once they finished the dishes, she followed him out to help him in the field a bit before she came back into the house and got everything ready for dinner with the kids, and so the cycle continued. This time, though, the cycle was a happy one, and ended with Jebediah getting down on one knee to propose, which Abigail couldn't help but accept.

              When the village got together to make the wedding possible, she honestly couldn't have been happier, because this was what a real wedding should be.

THE END

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“Izzy! Izzy, lass!”

Isobel Darrow glanced up from her lap where she was trying not to prick herself as she patched up her brother’s leather spaulder. Between the four of her brothers, she’d patched up twelve knife cuts and six sword slashes in the last month. It was a wonder they didn’t leak like sieves at this point. She’d patched two for herself, but that hardly mattered.

Her brother Lundy was bounding up the steps toward her.

“I told you yesterday,” she began before he could speak. “I’ll have it finished by tonight. The sun is yet high, Lundy.”

“Not the leather, Iz,” he said, taking the spaulder from her hand and tossing it aside. “Fraser wants to see you. Now.”

Isobel shot to her feet, hands moving instinctively to pat her wild, fiercely red hair, making sure none of it had escaped its bonds. If the commander wanted to see her right away, it couldn’t be good. She tried to think back over her actions of the past few days, searching her memory for anything that might have caused trouble enough to warrant Fraser’s attention. She could find nothing.

Outside Fraser’s tent, she paused, calming herself for only a moment before pushing the flap aside and  poking her head in. Fraser was sat at his desk, bent over maps and letters, frowning between them. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

He looked up, momentarily confused. “Ah,” he said after a moment. “Aye, lass. Come in.”

She stepped into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind her.

Fraser moved a stack of letters, covering something on the map. “I’ve a mission for you, Izzy girl.”

There were not many women under Fraser’s command, but those there were had come to expect the utmost respect from Fraser. He never judged a soldier by anything more or less than what they did under his command, and he never treated his women any different from his men.

Izzy’s only exception came that when they were alone together, Fraser allowed himself to set formality aside and act like the man she’d known her whole life, who’d watched out for her mother and the boys after her father was killed.

“What’s the mission?” Izzy asked, eyes bright with anticipation.

“I need a message brought to Alistair Finley in Carlisle. I need it there fast, and I need someone who can go through Carlisle without suspicion.”

“You need a woman,” Isobel surmised.

“I need a woman who knows how important this is and won’t slide a dagger through the first Englishman with something nasty to say about the Bruce.”

Isobel straightened, her eyes flashing.

“Now, Izzy,” Fraser said, pulling himself to his feet. He was an impressive figure of a man, still fit and broad as a boulder. Isobel sometimes forgot he was old enough to be her father. “I mean you no disrespect. But your temper does get the better of you.”

“Not so as I’d betray Scotland,” she protested.

Fraser smiled. “Good. That’s what I needed to hear. You’ll leave immediately.”

He pulled a sealed letter from the pile on his desk and held it out for her. She strode to the desk and took it, sliding it into the folds of her skirt. “No one but Finley sees that, lass.”

“Aye,” she answered. “I know.”

Fraser came out from behind the desk and reached an arm toward her. At first Isobel thought he meant to embrace her, but his hand dropped to her belt and pulled her dagger from it. “You’re traveling as a young farmgirl, visiting family, not an armed assassin.”

“You can’t expect me to go unarmed,” Isobel sputtered.

“No, but I can expect you to conceal your weapons better. No one can question you, Izzy. Not if you’re to make it there and back in time.”

She frowned as she took the dagger back from him. It was clear Fraser didn’t truly trust her. She wondered idly if he were granting a favor to one of her brothers. It hardly mattered. She’d prove herself on her own feet. “I’ll not disappoint you, sir,” she promised, and when he dismissed her, she marched from his tent, a determined glint in her eye and a fierce grin on her face.

#

The horse she took from camp was not quite their fastest, but he carried himself lightly enough with only Isobel on his back, and he was sturdy enough she’d not need to rest as much.

The first time she dismounted, she was already saddle sore, though she’d been sitting horses since she could hold herself upright. She led the horse some distance from the road and watered him in a stream before securing him and letting herself drink as well. She took a moment to wash her face, the cool water refreshing her better than anything else would. As she bent to take another handful, she heard a twig snap behind her.

In a moment, she had her dirk unsheathed and had spun toward the sound. What she saw astonished her so that she froze in shock. There was a man by her horse, a hand on the beast’s neck, rubbing and murmuring soothing nonsense into his ear. This was strange enough. What was worse was the crest he wore on his livery: Blackwell. He was English.

“Damn,” he said quietly as he looked over at her, his eyes flicking from her face to her knife and back again. “I was really hoping to be mounted before you noticed me.”

“Step away from my horse,” she said, inching closer, watching him carefully, lest he managed to get the creature untied before she reached him.

“Now, you see...I’d like to do that. I really would. But I need this horse.”

“Step away from my horse,” she repeated, slowly enunciating each word. “Or you’ll feel the bite of a Scottish blade in your soft, English belly.”

“I really wish you hadn’t complicated things so,” he said, and she was taken aback by the genuine regret in his tone just before he leapt toward her. She held the blade in front of her, bringing it down in a sharp arc, meaning to warn him off. She might have been armed, but he far outmatched her in size, and she’d not hold up long against him in a proper fight.

Though he’d moved shoulders first, breaching the distance between them in a flash, it was his foot that shot out to strike at Isobel’s knee. She saw the feint just in time, but he still caught her hard on the shin, and she dropped too quickly to catch her balance again, finding her face full of golden leaves.

By the time she dragged herself to her feet, he’d reached the horse, slicing its reins with a dagger rather than waste time untying them. Izzy charged, knife outstretched, and the horse reared hard. Without reins to help his balance, the man was thrown, and he hit the ground with a sickening thud.

#

William Davenport woke with a pounding head to find himself staring into flashing green eyes set in a face so fierce and beautiful it could have belonged to one of the Fair Folk in the tales his mother told him as a child. The effect was spoiled by the tangle of violently red hair that surrounded her face, falling out of its braid in places and decorated with stray leaves, likely from when he’d knocked her to the ground.

He hadn’t wanted to. It was against William’s nature and his upbringing to hurt a woman, but he had a mission to complete, and he’d heard tales of Scottish women so wild they fought alongside their men. His own captain had lost an eye to one in their last battle.

For a moment after he woke, they both simply stared at each other, wariness in their gazes, feeling out the enemy.

The girl spoke first. “The penalty for horse thieving’s the same here as in England,” she pointed out.

“Are you going to string me up, then?” he asked, attempting to push himself upright before he realized she’d secured his hands behind him.

“Do you think I couldn’t manage it?” She nudged his leg with her foot. “You’re hardly more than a slip of a thing. ‘Twould be no trouble at all.”

“But you haven’t,” William pointed out. “You don’t want to kill me.”

“If it would keep the English off our lands, I’d slit the throat of every one of you.” Something in the fierceness of those green eyes made him believe her.

And yet.

“But you don’t want to. You’re not a murderer, and the job doesn’t come easily to you.”

“Keep talking and see how easily it comes,” she said, stepping closer with her dagger drawn.

William shrugged as best as he could manage. He thought he had her worked out, but there was no reason to prod until she snapped. He still had a mission to complete, and he couldn’t do that if he were dead.

She nodded at his lack of response as if satisfied he’d behave for the moment, then she settled herself down on a rock to watch him.

It was a long moment of tense silence, and William took the opportunity to get a sense for his surroundings. Behind the girl, he could see her horse, tethered to a tree with a bit of rope woven through its bridle. He was glad the beast hadn’t run off without its reins. He’d need it still if he were going to escape.

He thought they must be near enough to a road if she were watering her horse here. That was good as well; he’d come this far over open country, but he didn’t know the area this far north well enough to keep on that way. He’d have to take to the roads eventually, which meant he’d have to hide his livery. Blackwell’s man would be an easy mark for anyone with a distaste for the English, which seemed to be most Scots he’d encountered, and since he’d been tasked with stirring up whatever dissent he could find among the ranks, making them doubt and distrust one another and especially Robert, he would have to disguise himself anyway he could manage.

His eyes came back to the girl. She was still watching him, determination in her gaze, like he was a riddle to be solved. Perhaps if he could manage to overpower her, he could steal the tartan she wore across her shoulder and fashion something suitable out of it, something that would hide his identity.

As his gaze followed the length of fabric, trying to determine where it began, where he could unwind it, his mind followed a much more pleasant path, pondering what he would find as he unfurled the fabric from her form.

Despite her earlier words, she was quite smaller than him. He was no mountain of man like many of the Scots he’d seen fighting, but he was sturdy for his youth, muscled as necessary for a message runner. He was tall as well, tall enough to be mocked for it from time to time. The girl came maybe to his shoulders, and her form was slim and willowy. Even the rough-spun dress she wore didn’t hide the narrow hips and pert breasts beneath it. She was almost more boy than girl, but William had enough experience to know that revealing her pale skin under his touch would be no less pleasant for it.

It was only when she stood suddenly, indignation in her gaze, that he realized he must have been staring.

“Forgive me,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t spur her to anger again. “We don’t have many women in our camps. I was simply enjoying the change of scenery.”

Her expression remained fierce, but her cheeks flushed, turning creamy skin to pink, and William’s eyes followed the spread of it to where it disappeared beneath her dress before flicking quickly back up to her face.

“There’s not a man in Scotland who wouldn’t strike your head from your shoulders for looking at me so,” she said, but there was a wavering in her voice that spoke to something other than anger.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” William said, as contrite as he could manage.

She scoffed. “I’m no fine lady for you to speak to me so.”

“But you’ve given me no other name to call you,” he pointed out. Perhaps if he could get her talking, she’d let her guard down, and he’d find a means of escape.

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Miss Darrow is acceptable.”

“Very well, Miss Darrow,” he said. “My name is Davenport.”

He could see from her expression that she didn’t believe him, but that hardly mattered just now.

“Where is it you come from, Miss Darrow?” he asked, finally managing to shift himself onto his knees.