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Authors: Lizbeth Dusseau

Rebellious Bride

BOOK: Rebellious Bride
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Rebellious Bride

 

 

Lizbeth
Dusseau

(c)2010
Lizbeth
Dusseau
Blushing
Books

 

 

Copyright (c) 2010
by Blushing Books(r) and
Lizbeth
Dusseau

 

All rights
reserved. No part of the book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

 

Published by
Blushing Books(r),

a
subsidiary of

ABCD Graphics
and Design

977 Seminole
Trail #233

Charlottesville,
VA 22901

 

The trademark
Blushing Books(r) is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

 

Dusseau
.
Lizbeth

Rebellious Bride

eBook
ISBN:
978-1-60968-456-3

 

 

Cover Design by Blushing
Books

 

Blushing Publications thanks you whole-heartedly for your purchase
with us!

 

There are plenty more stories such as the one you’ve
purchased from Blushing Books! Visit our
online store to view our might selection!

 

http://www.blushingbooks.com

 

This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities
represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as
advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

 

Chapter
One

 

 

“Miss
Abigail, you look downright pretty,” Miss Hattie exclaimed after tying a
sash about Abigail’s waist. The rosy pink matched the blush on her fair cheeks,
and young woman’s blonde curls were combed so they fell softly to her
shoulders. Rarely did they look anything but wild, and Hattie was taking the
moment to admire the way she’d tamed the savage locks into place. The only
thing that was savage about her now
were
her eyes, and
they would never be tamed. Looking like some fierce
bird’s
,
a darker light always beamed out from under the blue color to make them whisper
things no child of her age should know about. Hattie always thought her young
charge’s eyes were too wise for her, but then maybe in time she’d catch up.

“It
should be a fine party tonight,” Hattie added for good measure, her hands
toying with the gray blue
skirt, that
had the look of
the sky on a stormy day. Abigail looked a bit like a storm cloud floating by in
her long full skirt. It was good the lace had softened the
appearance,
Miss Hattie thought was much too severe when she first saw the dress.

“Oh, I
don’t care about the party, Hattie,” Abigail answered saucily.

“For
heaven’s sakes, why not?
It’s your wedding
banquet,
there’ll be a hundred people there. What finer
occasion could there be to celebrate? You’ll be the center of attention, you
always like that.” Hattie continued to fuss with her hair.

“If
getting married appealed to me, then perhaps I’d be happy.” She gently
slapped the woman’s hand away.

“What!
That strapping young gentle-man, Miss Abigail, I’m surprised.”

“He’s
fine enough, but a little too stiff, I think. I’m having a terrible time
imagining myself any man’s wife, let alone his. I’d much rather be off with
Darcy.”

“Darcy’s
a hellion you’d best stay away from,” Hattie scolded.

“I’m
meeting
her
tonight, after the party,” Abigail
informed her with a devilish “You’re what!” The maid looked at her
wide-eyed in horror.

“Shush.
Father wouldn’t hear of inviting her to my party, so we’re having our own
later, just the two of us.”

The old woman
shook her head. It certainly wasn’t the first wild escapade she’d been privy
to, though it might be her last, with the young mistress leaving her family
home the following day as Aaron Barrow’s bride. That was good, Hattie thought
to herself, Abigail was getting much
to
old for Darcy’s spirited shenanigans, and the rude aftermath that often
follows.

“You’ve
tried my patience for the last time,” Hattie said shaking her head.
“Just don’t dare get caught, Little Miss,” - Hattie always called her
“Little Miss” when she was lecturing. “You don’t want to go down
the aisle with a bruised bottom from your daddy’s cane, now, do you?”

“Believe
me,
the satisfaction would be worth the trouble. But even
father wouldn’t be that cruel. Not on the day before my wedding.” Her
perky smiled tried to con-
vince
a wiser Hattie. So
sure of herself, the old maid noted. How like the breezes of summer and spring
thunderstorms this one is. For all her relief she would miss her.

The banquet
was a terrific success, so everyone thought. Never had Neville
McPhearson’s
house gleamed so brightly. All the oil lamps
had been polished until they sparkled. The silver shone and the finest china
and linens graced the tables and sideboard. And of course, the bride-to-be
looked ravishing in her shimmering dress, like some angelic vision, coming down
the stairs to take the hand of her intended and accompany him to the
festivities. She didn’t look at all like herself, but some civilized lady;
though no one who looked on was deceived into believing that Abigail had been
duly tamed by the prospects of marriage. It was generally accepted that Miss
McPhearson
was marrying the right man for her. The no
nonsense Aaron wouldn’t put up with her antics any more than her father did;
and just maybe, the love of good husband, along with his strong hand, might at
last subdue the wild girl. At least that’s what everyone hoped, especially
Margaret and Neville
McPhearson
.

On that night,
Abigail danced in Aaron’s arms, and watched him looking long-
ingly
into her eyes. She was well aware of the odd
fascination that her body had with this activity; it was what had always
brought women and men together, so said her mother. It was something that
bonded them in ways that only a married woman would understand. Abigail always
smirked at such “private conversations” - it was an age old reality,
that Mrs.
McPhearson’s
daughter knew a lot more about
the facts of marriage they she believed she did. Abigail had learned most of
her information from Darcy, who seemed to know everything about life; though
how Darcy got her
knowl
-edge was something of a
mystery to her friend. Even so, when Margaret
McPhearson
thought it was the proper time, Abigail listened to her mother’s gentle lecture
to the very end, giving her a thank-you and a smile when it was over.

And still,
with all her knowledge of life’s secrets, dancing in Aaron’s arms on the night
before that fateful wedding night, it was difficult for Abigail to connect the
reality of marriage with what she was feeling from her broad shouldered,
broadly smiling
fiance
. A fluttering in her stomach
perhaps, but that could be that she was tipsy from the glass of wine at dinner.
She did like his powerful arms around her. And she did enjoy the curious
sensations that were coming from his loins to hers. Like Miss Hattie pointed
out to her over and over again, Aaron was devastatingly handsome, by most
woman’s standards, tall and
muscu-lar
, with an
unblemished face that made a strong statement with high cheek bones, a well
defined nose, and an angular jaw line. His dark hair was always slightly
mussed, but not in an unattractive way, it attested to a certain earthiness. He
was a powerful man, having worked by his father’s side in their milling
business. And Abigail was told he was as apt a businessman as he was a
lumberman, having had ample experience as both.

He was the
perfect man, all right, but though he was pleasant enough, and obviously very
fond of her, there was a reserve that didn’t suit Abigail’s exuberant spirit.
She liked running wild in her child-hood dreams, and the prospects of having to
remain a housebound matron with a host of boring responsibilities didn’t suit
her. Still, at seventeen, she was destined to marry, and marry she would unless
she staged some outright rebellion. As often as she dreamed of such a flagrant
revolt however, it was just a pipe dream. She knew that her youthful days of
naughty escapades with Darcy were to end, and another chapter in her life was
about to be written. It was strange to be so sad on such a festive occasion,
Abigail had thought all through the evening. Though there was a moment while
they were dancing, when Aaron leaned down and kissed her on the lips that
Abigail forgot about the sadness, the unwanted changes, and even the impending
rendezvous with Darcy. She lost herself in the fragrant moment as Aaron’s scent
lingered with hers, and the sweep of his potent masculinity took her breath
away. Her heart had never beat so rapidly, and the fluttering in her stomach
became rude jolts that seemed to dive right to the center of herself, just as
she would dive headfirst into the swimming-hole, China Cove, when she and Darcy
swam in the cool waters on a summer afternoon.

“I’m
looking forward to tomorrow,” Abigail whispered to him, as their lips
parted.

“And so
am I,” he said. “We’ll have a long life together, little brat” -
for some reason Aaron had adopted that name for her, she swore it was because
he’d heard too many stories of her naughty antics.

“Yes,
perhaps,” she replied. “I’m beginning to think this is going to be
more of an adventure than I thought.”

She gazed into
his eyes, something she often found difficult to do, and saw them twinkling
with a light Abigail would swear was sheer cunning, as if he had something
really devious up his sleeve. Maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready to move
away from her childhood and become the woman that was expected of her. It was a
thought that made her much less apprehensive about the wedding the next day.

Moments later,
with Aaron on horse-back riding away, Abigail excused
herself
from the remaining guests and made her way to the bedroom.

The hour was
already late and she was terribly tired, but there was no way she’d neglect her
friend on this night. Darcy would be waiting for her in China Cove - so named
for the exotic country that they’d only read about in books - a magical,
mysterious country that they would pretend and day-dream about in their private
habitat under the enormous oak tree, whose stoic silent limbs kept all the
secrets they whispered about under its graceful nurturing.

Not bothering
to change her clothes, Abigail was on her way. Just another last hour of
conversation with Darcy was all she wanted. She slipped quietly out of the
house, down the back steps, and into the warm night, while there were still
glasses clinking in the parlor and the sounds of grown-up laughter.

It was still
the eve of Abigail
McPhearson’s
wedding. The clock
was
strik-ing
two a.m. and Abigail, her mother and
her angered father stood in the library casting cross looks from eye to eye to
eye:

When Neville
sat, his wife sat too, but his daughter in her bedraggled and drenched dress
remained on her feet.

“What
could you possibly have to say for yourself?” her father queried her.

“It’s
really your fault I’m looking like this,” Abigail was quick to reply.

“Oh?”
He looked interested in her explanation, but no less furious with her. He
certainly didn’t appreciate her tone of voice.

BOOK: Rebellious Bride
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