(Sequel to Abigail)
As always, I don’t own the characters or any rights beyond the pleasure of sharing this story with other Lancer fans.
My thanks to Margaret P. for being a patient and terrific beta.
The smile on your face lets me know that you need me
There's a truth in your eyes sayin' you'll never leave me
The touch of your hand says you'll catch me if ever I fall
You say it best when you say nothing at all
When You Say Nothing at All – Keith Whitley
Abigail halted before the closed door. Balancing the tray she carried on one hip, she opened the door, slipped through, and closed it quietly behind her.
A smile lit her face at the sight of him, just as it had the moment they met. She had been sipping a glass of punch and chatting with two other ladies. A soft, drawling voice had asked, “May I have the next dance?”
She turned to find herself gazing up into the darkest sapphire blue eyes she had ever seen. His face was tanned, his hair silky black, and – oh angels and saints – he was handsome. And that smile . . . She didn’t remember offering the hand he kissed with a gallant bow or her sister-in-law taking her glass. He led her into the waltz without a word but his smile was mesmerizing. Abigail was accustomed to the attentions of young men but this one . . . She was aware of his body moving in time with hers; the hand at her waist burned through the layers of material; his scent – horse and leather and man. She knew she was blushing. She had fixed her eyes on the embroidery adorning the front of his white shirt and had ventured a quick glance. She had seen the gentle amusement sparkling in those blue eyes . . .
“That sure smells good.”
Abby laughed, meeting those same dark blue eyes. “Am I ever going to be able to sneak up on you?”
“Nope.” Johnny was stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. He was covered only to the waist, and Abby looked down quickly, startled by the familiar heat that surged through her at the sight of his naked torso. Everything about him called to her; the muscled body she knew so well, sleep-tousled hair, and impudent grin.
“Well, I know better than to ask if you’re hungry.” She quickly averted her eyes, suppressing the urge kindled by the picture before her. While Abby set the tray on the table, Johnny pushed himself up against the headboard. She leaned close to rearrange the pillows behind him and found her wrists in a hard grasp.
Startled, she pulled back. “Johnny?”
Their eyes met and Abby gasped at the intent in those devilish eyes. She could feel her face flushing, but tried for a firm tone. “Stop your nonsense. Your lunch will get cold.”
A wicked smile reinforced the salacious gleam.
“Roast beef ain’t what I’m hungry for right now, woman.”
Abby tugged gently in an effort to free herself. Rather than releasing her, Johnny pulled her roughly against his chest and kissed her soundly. His hand tangled in her hair and pins scattered allowing it to fall around her shoulders. Her mouth opened to his demand and there was no doubt of her quivering response.
When his grip eased, she drew back panting. “Johnny, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”
His eyes roved slowly over her body and that deceptively lazy smile . . . He drew her down again.
“You were gored.” Somewhere between panic and passion, Abby pulled half-heartedly against his iron grip. “Your fever just broke a few days ago. Dr. Sam warned you that any pressure on that leg could tear the stitches!”
Their faces were inches apart. Maleness radiated from him. His eyes were bright with a heat that owed nothing to fever. His low, hard tone might have been anger . . . but it wasn’t. “Not plannin’ to put any pressure on my leg.”
He pulled her hand lower. “Leaving an injured man in this condition would be downright un-Christian; could set me right back into a fever.” He kissed her again: seeking, pleading, demanding.”
Abby melted against him, feeling the beat of his heart and the heat of his desire as her own body took fire. Thought was not possible when she couldn’t even breathe.
Johnny released her lips, drawing back only far enough to murmur into her hair, “You’re my wife.” She knew he was smiling; the special smile that was only for her. “You took a vow to comfort me in sickness and in health, Mrs. Lancer.”
Abby went still, battling her own lust. She could not allow him to reinjure that leg. “You’ll hurt yourself. Someone will come in.”
His hands were busy with the buttons on her dress. “I will shoot anyone who walks through that door.”
“But . . .” Her protest was cut short by his mouth. There was nothing gentle in that kiss: commanding, craving . . . His lips trailed along her throat; lower . . . following agile fingers down the line of buttons. Abby drew her legs onto the bed, pressing herself against him, and they said nothing more . . . nothing at all.
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