The Scoundrel's Bride (21 page)

A baby
?
Oh, dear Lord
. Morality shut her eyes.
A baby
!

Zach showed her no mercy. “We might have made a child last night, Morality Brown. I won’t have another man be father to my child.”

Tears stung her eyes as he pushed away from the bed. “Are you telling me the truth, Zach Burkett? Is it possible a child’s life might be at risk here?”

He sighed. “Morality, my character may well have its rough spots, but there’s not a way in hell I’d risk the happiness and safety of a child. Now, I’m going outside for a bit. If you want to dress in private, here’s your chance. Think about it, Morality. You think about what you are willing to risk.”

With that, he tugged on his boots and coat and quit the cabin. Pulling the door closed behind him, he muttered, “I could play Hamlet on the London stage.”

As soon as the shock wore off, Morality would accept her fate. He’d have survived the night and accomplished his goal in a way that soothed his bothersome conscience. Morality probably wouldn’t appreciate the nuances of his methods, but Zach himself felt good about it.
I get what I want, and she doesn’t get hurt.

Of course, she wouldn’t be aware of that, but hell, it was a compromise, not a surrender.

As he turned, bitter cold air hit his face and his feet nearly slid out from under him. Catching his balance, Zach turned and took his first good look at his surroundings.

The light near to blinded him. Sparkling like a field of master-cut diamonds, sunlight reflected off the thick layer of white ice glazing everything in sight.

Well, hell. This was going to be a bigger challenge than he’d figured on. They weren’t going anywhere today.

Zach’s breath fogged on the air as he sighed and said, “I reckon I can always fill my britches with ice.”

MORALITY’S STOMACH rumbled with hunger, disturbing the mama dog who lifted her head and looked toward the bed. “Excuse me,” Morality said grumpily. No supper last night and now apparently no breakfast this morning. Zach Burkett was a fine one to talk about Texan hospitality.

Texan opportunism was more the case.

She shivered as she climbed from his bed, and her reaction was not due entirely to the nip in the air or the chilly puncheon floor beneath her bare feet. She’d only thought she’d had problems yesterday. Compared to what she faced today, they were little more than minor difficulties.

All kinds of questions flashed through her mind. How would this incident affect her reputation? What would Reverend Uncle say and do? What was Zach Burkett up to?

Morality shook her head. She didn’t want to face questions like that on an empty stomach.

Spotting her dress and underpinnings lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, she hurriedly pulled them on. That man. He could have at least folded them or hung them up.

Really, Morality, don’t be such a ninny. He had you naked in his bed and he was going to stop and fold your shimmy
?

She set her teeth to prevent them from chattering and moved to tend the coals. Soon a respectable fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth spreading like a gentle sigh across the small room. Morality sat in the rocking chair to don her stockings and shoes, but only held them in her lap as she stared blindly at the dancing flame.

A baby. Zach’s baby. She’d dreamed about it.

She shook her head.
No, it simply couldn’t be. The man was lying again. But why
?

Morality slipped one foot into a stocking and slowly rolled it up her leg. Why would Burkett lie about what had happened—or had not happened—between them? Was it pride? Did situations such as this involve some sort of manhood test of which she wasn’t aware? Somehow, she didn’t think so. Zach wasn’t the type to need to prove anything to anyone.

The cedar log she’d added to the fire made a loud pop. Like a gunshot, she thought. Gunshots. Zach had an old scar on his shoulder. And a newer one, on his thigh. Near his …

Morality tugged sharply on her stocking. She refused to indulge in such thoughts. They were unseemly. She had no business remembering the hardness of Zach Burkett s body, the heat of his bare skin against hers. The weight of—

She clenched her teeth and despaired of her impure thoughts. But it was no wonder she encountered such difficulties. Nothing about this entire matter was proper.

Nor was it as sordid as he claimed.

Zach Burkett was lying. She was certain of it. Why he had bothered to lie, she couldn’t guess. It was something she’d want to ponder, but not right at this moment. He wasn’t her most immediate problem. Reverend J. P. Harrison was. Reverend Uncle would kill her.

Morality pulled on her other stocking and sighed. Oh, he wouldn’t really kill her. He’d just make her life so difficult she’d wish she were dead. She’d spent the night unchaperoned with a man—a bachelor man. A slow-drawled fast talker with a wicked smile and devilish blue eyes that could steal a woman’s heart. And her chastity.

Oh, dear. Maybe Zach
was
telling the truth. Maybe he stole her memory, too.

She jerked on one shoe, and then the other. If only she had a better understanding of the procreation process. No one had ever explained the details; Aunt Harrison had died before she’d had the opportunity. Was it possible for a woman to sleep through the marriage act?

A small part of her, the portion less concerned with self-preservation, hoped so. It would serve Zach Burkett and his vanity right. The man needed to be brought down a peg or two, and from the look on his face this morning, she’d taken him all the way down to bare wood.

Her lips twitched with a tiny smile of satisfaction until a scratching sound at the door caused her to look around. The collie waited at the door.

“You need out, little mama?” she said, rising and walking toward the door. “Let me get my cloak and I’ll go with you.” She’d best take care of personal business before the trip into town. She had the feeling that once she got back to the Marstons’, she’d not be allowed so much as a visit to the backhouse by herself.

Morality opened the door to a harsh landscape and an even harsher reality. Ice coated everything in sight, and a bank of green clouds promising even more moisture hung off to the north. She wanted to scream her frustration.

Making the trip to the Marston mansion today would require a pair of wings, and she was certainly no angel. Despite what Burkett liked to say.

“Angel,” she muttered. Why
did
he persist in calling her that? It was totally inappropriate.

She looked up into clouds. If a real angel hovered anywhere nearby, she hoped he’d be of the guardian variety. The events of the last twenty-four hours had proved her to be in desperate need of a guardian angel. And now she faced at least one more day and another night alone with Zach Burkett.

With that thought uppermost in her mind, Morality closed the door, dropped to her knees, and began to pray.

THE DOOR groaned a protest as Zach pushed it open and stepped inside. After the brightness of the ice, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, he nearly dropped the pail of milk in his hand. “Morality, what do you think you’re doing?”

Her hands white with flour, she looked up from the worktable. “I glanced outside. It’s obvious we won’t be leaving anytime soon, so I thought I’d fix breakfast. I’m making biscuits.”

Oh Lord, anything but that
. Zach set down the bucket, then shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook beside the door. Stomping the ice from his boots, he rubbed his hands together briskly, then lifted the pail and carried it over to the table. “Why don’t you let me help you?”

“I can do it,” she said with a shrug.

That’s what he was afraid of. He forced a pleasant smile. “I know that. There’s not a doubt in my mind that you can create a biscuit the likes of which I’ve never imagined. The thing is, I have a hankering for flapjacks this morning. How about if I whip up a batch to go along with your biscuits— maybe fry some bacon and crack a few eggs?”

With a little luck, he could slip his biscuits to the pooch.

Morality lifted her hands from the dough. Her mouth twisted as she slowly stripped the gooey mess from her fingers. “You don’t like my cooking,” she accused.

Zach held up a hand, palm out. “Now, Morality.”

“Don’t lie to me, Zach Burkett.”

Snippy little thing this morning. Unpredictable, too. Of course, this argument she appeared determined to pick had nothing to do with her cooking, and both of them knew it.

What the woman needed was an hour or two of tension relief between the sheets.

The chances of that happening were colder than the well water.

Drawing a deep breath, Zach exhaled it with a sigh. “All right. If you’re bound and determined to bicker, let’s do it with the honest problem. I sure as hell don’t want to war over biscuits.”

Morality slapped the table. “Your language, sir!”

“English and Spanish,” he shot back, feeling a bit snippy himself. “Little bit of Chinese I picked up in California.”

She snapped her mouth shut, glaring at him.

She looked good enough to eat. Despite being out in the cold so long, he’d heated up like a cookstove as soon as her eyes went to flashing. Feeling frustrated and a little bit ornery, Zach couldn’t help but stir the fire. “On second thought, I think I’ll skip the bacon and eggs. All that grease along with your acid tongue would give me indigestion.”

She froze. “Acid tongue?”

He’d a sudden mental vision of her tongue licking his skin. It could certainly make a man burn.

It was making him damn uncomfortable. “I’ll be out after that ice yet,” he grumbled beneath his breath.

Shaking off his lustful thoughts, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, this is stupid. Neither one of us will enjoy our breakfast if we don’t get last night out of the way first. Let’s discuss it, all right?”

“There is nothing to discuss. Nothing happened.” She tossed her head and her long braid whipped across her shoulders like a fiery rope. “Don’t try to change the subject, Zach Burkett. I want an answer to my question.”

The woman was like a dog with a bone. “I asked the question, not you,” he muttered, his gaze drifting over her curves as she washed and dried her hands on the flour sack tied around her waist. Watching her, a sense of awe stole through him. Where
had
he found the strength to leave her alone last night?

She stared at him expectantly.

“What?” Then he remembered. Her cooking. He repeated his sigh. Maybe it was time to address the subject. They were getting married, and heaven knows his stomach couldn’t take months of abuse. “Look, Morality. Some folks are just naturally better at some things than others. You certainly have more than your share of talent—look at the way you stand up before a congregation and pull everybody to the edge of their seats with your story. That’s something not just anyone is able to do.”

“You can do it.”

Lord, she was cute when she wrinkled her nose. “Yes, but I can do most anything.”

She cocked her head and amazement lit her expression. “Humility is not something you struggle with, is it, Burkett?”

“Not usually, no.” He lifted an iron skillet from its hook on the fireplace and set it over the fire to heat. Crossing the room, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew five eggs. Then, returning to the table, he set aside the bowl of biscuit dough and proceeded to mix a pancake batter.

Zach dipped a ladle into the water crock and tossed a few drops into the skillet, watching the liquid bounce in a test of readiness. He wondered how to say what needed saying in a kindly manner. He didn’t have a lot of practice at being kind. Hell, maybe he should just come on out with it. Besides, wasn’t she always clamoring for the truth?

He poured batter for four palm-sized flapjacks, then turned to look at her. “All right, Morality. I
don’t
like your cooking. I reckon you could manage to scorch water while trying to boil it.”

Observing the stiffening of her spine, Zach returned the bowl of batter to the table and hurried up his tongue. “Listen. Nobody is born knowing how to cook. I picked up what little I know from my mama. I didn’t have a sister around to help, so we worked together to do what needed doing. That included both the fishing and the frying.”

He checked the bottom of his pancakes, pleased at the even, honey-gold color. “It’s part of a mother’s job to teach her daughter how to fry and bake.”

She gave an unladylike snort and he shrugged. “Of course, you women don’t need instruction on how to stew and steam—that comes natural. You’re good at it, too. Look at how your foot’s a-tapping.” He flipped the flapjacks, and when they were done, started a second batch.

“I didn’t have a mother to teach me to cook,” Morality said a few moments later.

“Exactly my point.” He waved his spatula at her. “You learned to cook because you were hungry, and you do the very best you can with the skills you’ve picked up. There’s no shame in that, Morality Brown.”

She remained pensively silent as he dished up their breakfast and poured them each a cup of milk. When she looked down at her plate, then back up at him, Zach got the feeling that were she not so hungry, she’d fling her breakfast in his face. He bent his attention to his plate and hoped she’d do the same. Morality would be much easier to deal with once she put something in her stomach.

While he ate, Zach considered his goals and developed a strategy. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. God, he loved being a schemer. This plan was perfect; a true work of art. He’d figured a way to take care of two problems at once.

Choosing his next words carefully, he said, “Morality, aren’t most of your meals provided by your uncle’s flock?”

She nodded. “Other than the bread I make for the meetings, the only time I cook is when we’re traveling. Even then Reverend Uncle usually manages to find us food and lodging, so the times I must provide for us are few.”

“There you go. You’ve proved my point.”

“What point?”