Abbie's Child

He stopped his soul-searching and found himself standing in front of the widow Cooprel’s boardinghouse. Willem wondered why he seemed drawn to this place like iron filings to a magnet.

Perhaps it was the boy.

He shrugged and climbed the stairs to his room for a few hours’ rest, too weary to muddle through any more puzzles or memories.

The sound of Matthew’s husky laughter woke Willem. He lay across the narrow bed with his forearm thrown over his eyes and allowed the sound to sluice over him. It was like standing under a tight dry roof and listening to sweet spring rain fall around him. It invigorated and refreshed his barren soul.

He stood and went to see what brought the child such happiness. Willem’s heart skipped two beats when he peered out the open window.

Abigail and Matthew were playing chase around a row of heavy Chinese rugs strung along a sturdy wire clothesline. Abigail had her hair loose and tied back in an old red kerchief. Willem never had imagined it would be so long. It rippled free down her back in chestnut waves that caught the sun and turned it into a prism of light. She clutched a straw broom in her hands and brandished it like a weapon. Matthew dodged around the protection of the rugs while he laughed at her mock fierceness.

Their antics brought a bittersweet joy to Willem. They were like a couple of otter pups at play. Mrs. Cooprel seemed so young and innocent while she darted and ran across the grass. He recalled her telling him Tuesday was her cleaning day. She must’ve been beating the rugs when the boy taunted her into mischief. He sighed and leaned farther out the window, relishing the innocent sight of the widow and her son. But when she suddenly dropped the broom and picked up her skirts to give chase, Willem sucked in his breath. He no longer saw innocence in Abigail Cooprel, but the flesh-and-blood woman beneath.

Her pale feet and slender ankles were bare. She curled her toes into the clover blossoms and thick grass when she paused between sprints. She hitched her skirt higher and laughed when Matthew rolled in the turf.

A hard knot formed inside Will’s belly.

Abigail Cooprel had long, coltish legs, smooth, supple and creamy as white satin. Willem felt a jolt of heat blaze through him each time her petticoats and skirt inched higher.

His sex awakened by tiny relentless degrees. His pulse quickened and thrummed deep inside his ears. A slow inferno began in his stomach, then snaked around and twined its way lower on a sizzling journey toward his throbbing groin. He felt his member harden and swell with each dull thump of his quaking heart. His long-denied libido sprang to life while he stared openmouthed at the woman below.

Abigail laughed, and the throaty sound sent Will’s long-suppressed passion roaring to life. He groaned and closed his eyes. He’d made a vow to cleave only to Moira. He’d kept that sacred marriage vow without difficulty for nearly seven years. But now he felt an ache so deep and raw and hungry it split him wide open with need for a woman—need for that woman running through the meadow grass like a woodland sprite.

What was it about this place that was turning him inside out? What was it about the widow that was making him want to abandon his beliefs, break vows and sunder promises?

Will clenched his jaw and tore himself away from the open window. He couldn’t deny the widow’s seductive lure—he just couldn’t give in to it.

He swore under his breath. Willem kept reminding himself she wasn’t very pretty…except for her eyes…and that thick mane of hair…and legs smoother than alabaster. Except for those few attributes she was quite plain. If only he could convince the burning between his legs of it.

Willem paced his room while his blood ran hot and thick in his veins. After long hours of torture, the sound of rough miners’ voices finally wafted up the stairs. He felt he could face the widow without making a fool of himself as long as the other miners were around.

Willem splashed cold water on his face and slicked back his hair. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and saw himself anew. A spark of life was in his eyes, an ember that hadn’t burned there for years. It had been missing since he’d walked into his empty house and found a note pinned beside the empty cradle. The inner fire of his soul had been numb since his search for Moira and the baby had begun.

He took a deep breath and ran his palm over his short, wet hair. The widow had awakened the man inside him, while Matthew had begun to thaw the broken heart of a long-denied father. Since viewing Abigail earlier, all the parts of his body were waking in the bargain. The realization sent a tiny shiver of astonishment through him.

The sound of Abigail’s husky laughter arrested him when he entered the bright kitchen. She had her back to him, but turned and met his gaze when he scraped the legs of his chair across the floor. A strange energy arced across the room between them. Will felt as if his skin was shrinking around his bones. A tight tingling sensation prickled along his scalp. He struggled to master the unfamiliar sensations of pure, white-hot lust surging through him.

He wanted her. Could she see it?

“Mr. Tremain.” Abigail swallowed hard. She gripped the bowl in her hands until her fingers turned white. Her blue-green eyes pierced his heart with the look she gave him. “My word, but it’s nice to see a man without all that hair covering his face.” She blushed.

Willem knew she regretted her words the instant they left her lips. It gave him a warm, fluttering feeling to hear her compliment him. She dropped her eyes and moved toward the table. Why this woman was so determined to keep herself locked away, he couldn’t fathom. He found himself pleased that she noticed his appearance and more pleased that she said so. It was an odd thing, this growing need for her to treat him with a little more kindness or interest than she showed the other men in her house. He found himself wondering if each one of them felt the same way he did, and on the heels of the thought came a ripple of envy for those who’d known her longer than himself.

Fantasies of her long legs wrapped around his waist hammered at Will. “I saw you earlier—when you and Matthew were beating rugs.” He didn’t know why he said it, but there was something powerful gnawing at him, making him push her into a corner. He had a desire to make her aware of the effect she had upon him.

Abigail looked up in wide-eyed amazement. Fear, or something like it, flickered through her eyes. He knew she was remembering her unguarded moments at play with Matthew. “I hope we didn’t disturb you,” she finally managed to stammer.

“Not at all.” Willem felt eyes upon his back. He turned and found the miners staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and downright shock in their eyes. Brawley wore a frown so deep Willem thought the light might leave the room in fear of his black countenance. Only Matthew grinned at Will with something akin to friendship shining in his eyes. It made his stomach twist, the way the boy looked at him.

He glanced up and found the widow staring at him and the boy. Confusion and hostility were written on her face.

Abigail frowned and willed her hands to stop shaking. The man had a way of—unsettling her. She glanced at him and Matthew again. There was something different about Willem Tremain. Even Matthew sensed it—she could see it shining in his eyes. She watched her son admire the man and she felt a pang of something suspiciously like jealousy ripple through her. In all the years she’d run the boardinghouse Matthew had never made the slightest effort to get friendly with a boarder. The way he warmed up to Willem Tremain frightened her. And the way her stomach knotted up when Will’s piercing eyes focused on her made the uneasiness worse. This man made her apprehensive in a way she could not understand.

He wasn’t tame—he wasn’t even house-gentle, not this one. He looked up at her again and she felt a tingling sensation bridge the empty space between them. This one could be dangerous to her in some unfathomable way…She saw banked fires smoldering in his probing sapphire eyes and knew he was a threat to her happiness.

She had to keep him away from her and Matthew, she had to ignore the way he made her feel,

Abigail brought a bowl of potatoes to the table and Will inhaled the scent of lemon oil, fresh air and sunshine clinging to the lopsided bun of hair trying to tumble down her back. The memory of her pale legs pumping rhythmically while she ran made him squirm on the hard wooden chair. She accidentally brushed him with her forearm and he felt a hot zing radiate from the point of contact. He heard her sharp intake of breath before she moved away. She was afraid of him. He could see it in the trembling hands and stiff movements of her slender body.

Mrs. Cooprel sat at the far end of the table and glanced up only once. She was quieter than last night, and he saw her brows crinkled into a tight frown. Brawley leaned over and said something to her and she looked up. Her gaze locked with Will’s across the length of the table. She licked her lips, and another wave of heat flowed through his blood. She lowered her lashes and avoided his eyes after that. He wondered if she had any notion of what her tremulous mouth was doing to his insides.

Will brought food to his mouth, chewed and swallowed, but he couldn’t have identified the menu if his soul had depended upon it. By the time Abigail brought a still-bubbling peach cobbler to the table, he was in full rut.

Abigail gripped the pan more tightly and told herself to stop acting like a green girl. She realized her uncharacteristic silence was making her unease more obvious each passing moment. She searched her mind for some safe topic to speak to Willem Tremain about.

“I would’ve cleaned your room today, Mr. Tremain, but when I peeked in you were sleeping,” she said tautly when she served him.

Willem met her shy gaze, and the playful woman he’d witnessed earlier shimmered before him, like a half-remembered dream. The thought of Mrs. Cooprel in his bedroom—alone—with him sent a burning lancet of need through his loins. He wished he’d not been asleep when she entered his room…He quickly chastised himself. After all he was a married man.

“I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you by not letting you know, Mrs. Cooprel. I usually don’t fall asleep so easily.”

“I—I only mentioned it because I told you about my schedule, Mr. Tremain.” A crimson flush climbed her cheeks. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t giving you the service I promised.”

Her stammering words sent his temperature rising. She had stumbled over words that made his blood boil with double meaning. He knew she felt his passion, which had to be why she acted so nervous around him. He didn’t want to frighten her—never wanted to frighten any woman ever again—yet it was obvious she was afraid. Will searched for some way to make her understand she didn’t have to fear him. No matter how desperately he burned for her he would never make a move in her direction. He had promised himself to Moira till death parted them. And even though she had chosen to flee from him, he still believed in those vows.

“Mrs. Cooprel?”

“Yes, Mr. Tremain?” Her voice was soft. She looked at him like a trapped doe before dropping her lashes over eyes gone wide and luminous.

“Would you please call me Will?” He felt the same charged energy surround him and prayed she could not sense it. He fairly rocked from the impact. He watched her bottom lip tremble. When she glanced up at him he caught the alarm in her blue-green eyes.

“If—if you wish.” She swallowed hard.

He hoped she would understand he meant her no harm. He would never violate his promise, no matter what. Willem heard her sharp intake of breath. He saw her knuckles blanch while she held the pan of cobbler between them like a wall of protection from his lust. Watching Abigail confirmed his suspicion—she flitted among the men in her house like a little ruby-throated hummingbird, but got close to none of them.

“And may I call you—Abigail?” He stumbled over her name and it left a taste of sweet forbidden fruit in his mouth. He saw her glance once at Matthew’s expectant face. Something like pain filled her eyes in that moment.

“Certainly, Mr. Tremain—I mean Willem—that would be only fair,” she finally said in a tight voice. She glanced at him one last time, and he was sure he saw resentment and fear controlling every constricted line bracketing her mouth.

He instantly regretted what he’d asked of her. It had not made her fear him less—in fact, it seemed she trembled more—and he could feel the hostility growing between them. Willem sighed in frustration. Instead of worrying about Abigail Cooprel he should be concentrating on finding Moira and his child. He would do well to remember that.

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