The Lark and the Bull

  The Lark and the Bull

  Carolyn Faulkner

  Published by Blushing Books

  An Imprint of

  ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.

  A Virginia Corporation

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  ©2020

  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. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Carolyn Faulkner

  The Lark and the Bull

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-204-7

  v1

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Carolyn Faulkner

  Blushing Books

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Chapter 1

  She was hunched over in the middle of the road trying to make herself as tiny as possible, completely unaware of the fact that she was soaked entirely through by the cold, steady rain as she hugged her knees. Anyone who cared to could see how she was trembling, shaking fit to come apart, yet no one approached her—they all stood around, looking at her as if she was some kind of alien. As if getting close to her might make them vulnerable, and they all knew how.

  When he pulled up, finally—after having been called away from saying an awkward goodbye to his latest and most unsatisfying one night stand to date, which caused him to go so far as to delete Tinder from his phone— she was the first thing he saw.

  Not his friends and fellow cops who surrounded her.

  Not the EMTs and the ambulance.

  Not even the murder scene, which was supposedly why he was there, after all, although it looked as if it had already been mostly processed.

  The sight of her in such distress was like a kick to his solar plexus—all of the air went out of his lungs at once, and all he could think of was protecting her.

  He knew he had a reputation for being a bit of a softie in one situation, and one situation alone—hurt children.

  It had even gotten to the point where he kept a bag of cheap stuffed animals on the passenger's seat of his car, and seeing a crying child's face when he presented them with one was one of the few things that made his life worth living.

  That, and catching the bad guys.

  Lots of the others had adopted his idea—from regular cops to the chief of police. The toy store in town went so far as to donate the stuffies. It was one of the few things he'd ever done of which he was particularly proud.

  Gregory "Bull" Keenan slammed his car into park, exiting his vehicle almost before it had come to a full stop, ignoring calls from his coworkers and even the chief as he expediently and efficiently ducked all those who sought to step in front of him, like the running back he'd been in high school, until he was standing, alone, about five feet from the miserably shivering, huddled mass.

  "Has any one of you useless cretins tried to talk to her?"

  It was the chief who answered. Besides him, he was the closest person to her physically, as if he'd wanted to attempt to help her, but couldn't quite do it.

  "Donna did—she screamed bloody murder as soon as she got within ten feet of her. Same thing for Hobbs, even though they've gotten kinda chummy."

  All of those usually competent officers and detectives who had been uselessly hanging around just gaping at her were now watching him with much more interest as he approached her slowly, hunching down himself, so as not to tower over her—not that he had much of a choice. She was so tiny—barely cracking five feet and probably less than a hundred pounds—that no matter how he contorted or folded himself, he was always going to be an ungraceful, hulking lump in comparison to her.

  Unconsciously using the same tone as he did when he was approaching a traumatized child, he spoke softly as he moved slowly towards her. "Lark? It's me. Bull." He sighed impatiently, then took a deep breath, his eyes glued to her form. "Greg." Then adding, as an afterthought, "Keenan."

  She hadn't acknowledged his presence in the least, and he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. But at least she wasn't screaming. Yet, anyway.

  If she was going to haul off and caterwaul at anyone, it would—it should, he acknowledged baldly—be him.

  He knew O'Leary had called him about the murder, not her, but the compulsion to help her was more powerful and overwhelming than anything he'd ever felt before, and he could not ignore it.

  Still, he advanced carefully, talking to her in a low, hopefully comforting tone, until he was close enough to touch her. "Lark, can you hear me? You don't have to answer me verbally—just nod your head."

  How he was going to distinguish that movement from the way that she was shuddering, he wasn't sure until she did it—hesitantly, but distinctly.

  "Are you hurt physically? Do you need a doctor?" he asked, knowing there were EMTs standing by.

  A small shake.

  "That's a good girl." The words slipped out of his mouth automatically, and they seemed to affect a change in her. Unfortunately, not a good one, as far as he was concerned.

  She began to sob—mournfully, inconsolably—and Bull found himself at just as much of a loss as most men did when a female was crying.

  But he wasn't about to give up, regardless of the fact that the sound she was emitting was making it hard for him to breath; his chest was so tight.

  Keeping his voice calm and low, he sidled further up to her, inches at a time, in case she panicked. "You don't have to do a thing, honey, but I'm going to put my arm around you because I-I just have to," he rambled, saying whatever came into his head. "I can't bear to hear you so sad and see you so all alone like this. I know I can't be your favorite person, but—"

  That was as far as he got in his confessional, because as soon as his arm curled around her, she practically flung herself at him, glomming onto him as if he was the only safe, solid thing in her world.

  He held her to him, wrapping his strong arms around her as she literally clawed her way closer to him, as if she was trying to get under his clothes, to get that much closer to him.

  It was one of the few times he cursed himself for not wearing a coat. He was a big guy and rain and snow and cold didn't bother him much—heat, yes. Cold, no. But she was tiny, and should, by all rights, have been wearing a nice warm raincoat, galoshes and a hat, preferably.

  The errant thought flitted though his mind that whoever her significant other was, he or she wasn't doing a very good job of taking care of her, and if she was his, she'd be in big trouble if he caught her without them on a night like this, but he let that disturbing idea fly by him without much consideration.

  For several minutes, he simply held her to him, surrounding her with his big body as much as he could, since that seemed to be what she wanted and it was definitely what was best for her, trying to keep her out of the rain as much as possible and transferring his considerable body heat. All of his women—those who actually stayed the night, anyway— always complained that he was a veritable furnace. This was the first time he was going to put it to the test.

  In the vein of wanting her to know what he might do,
so as not to give her anything more to be frightened about, he was going to say, "How about I pick you up and take you to someplace warm?" but then he realized that he didn't want to give her that choice.

  It was less than forty degrees out, and she was soaked to the skin, and he didn't want her to get pneumonia.

  So, he told her what he was going to do, instead. "Lark, I'm going to pick you up now and carry you to my car. You still don't have to say anything or do anything unless you want to. I'll keep everyone away. When I get you in the car, I'll do the seatbelt routine for you—you just relax—then I'll get in and crank up the heat to help you get warm, and I'll take you away from here. The chief will want to talk to you as soon as you've recovered, but I'll put him off until you do." Hell, he wanted to talk to her himself, forget the chief, but he wasn't about to say that to her. "I'll take you—"

  Where? To her place? He had no idea where she was staying and didn't really want to know that information anyway. Did he?

  "I'll take you to my place." Bull was amazed to hear himself say those words, but there they were. And somehow, to his amazement, they felt right—as did the slight weight of her as he gathered her to him and straightened with her in his arms, as if he wasn't carrying a thing.

  Everyone surrounded them then, of course, and he felt Lark frantically trying to hide her face against his chest.

  "All right, everyone, back the fuck off. I'm going to get her warm and take her to my place where she'll be safe. I'll phone the chief as soon as I know anything more."

  With that stunning bit of news, they parted around him like the Red Sea for Moses; even the chief stood aside as he carried her to his car, his partner holding the door open for him as he nudged the bag of stuffies aside and tucked her into the passenger's seat, clicking the seatbelt into place as he'd said he would, then closing the door.

  "You're really going to take her to your house?" Randall O'Leary, who had been his partner and was his best—his only—real friend for more than fifteen years, asked incredulously.

  "Yes. I'm going to take her home, dry her off, warm her up, and hopefully, get her to sleep."

  Bull didn't much appreciate Randall's sly chuckle. "And here we all were thinking you didn't like her."

  Opening the driver's door, Bull glared at his friend, stating flatly, "I don't. You know I think all of that stuff is horseshit. But she didn't scream at me. She let me help her. Seems only right to continue to help her any way I can." It was as much of an explanation of his behavior as he was going to give anyone, and the only reason he voiced it at all was because it was Randall.

  But the other man was not going to be put off, punching the bigger man playfully in the arm as he got into the car. "You dog, you!"

  Bull scoffed loudly. "Please. Am I going to take advantage of a crazy woman who's gone even further off her rocker than she usually is? I don't think so."

  With that, he peeled out of there in reverse, and everyone in the department knew him well enough to get the hell out of his way.

  When he'd pulled into the driveway of the only house he'd ever lived in—the one he'd grown up in and inherited from his parents when they died—he came around to unlatch the seatbelt and pick her up again, noting that one of the stuffies had fallen out of the bag when he'd moved it to put her in, and she had a yellow stuffed rabbit in a death grip, refusing to let go of it when he tried to take it away from her.

  So, he stopped trying to. What the fuck did he care if she carried a stuffed toy around or not? It was no skin off his nose, one way or the other. Just another flavor of her particular crazy.

  He also noted, with no small sense of satisfaction, that she wasn't shaking any more. The fact that he was sweating like a pig because he'd kept the heat blasting all the way here was a small price to pay to get her to stop trembling in abject fear, he guessed.

  Getting into the house was tricky with her in his arms, but he did it. He didn't put her down until they were standing in his surprisingly spacious master bathroom. It had been his mother's walk in closet at one point, but, since he really just owned uniforms, jeans, t-shirts and the occasional sport coat, he hardly needed one. It had been money very well spent.

  There was a big tub with jets that he loved to get into occasionally—and not always alone—to soak away the aches and pains that came with being a somewhat more than middle aged cop who'd fucked up his knee on more than one occasion and had a shoulder tear he'd never found the time to address.

  The large shower stall was what he used the most, though, with its multiple jets and almost scalding hot water—it was sometimes hard for him to leave it in the morning, it felt so good.

  It wasn't easy for him to extricate himself from her; she was like a little barnacle that wasn't much willing to be scraped off. But once he did, he turned the shower on to relatively hot, got out some thick, fluffy towels, and made a mental note to grab a clean t-shirt and one of his bathrobes to give her to wear, leaving the towels on the counter in the middle of the dual sink commode.

  "Here you go. You should strip down and hand your clothes out to me, then feel free to lock the door behind you. I'll wash and dry them, and you'll feel much better after a hot shower."

  Now that he wasn't letting her cling to him anymore, she just stood there, still clutching the rabbit, instead, head down, not meeting his eyes, not saying anything, and not moving.

  It was both heartbreaking and a little bit eerie.

  Bull made his way to the door, hesitating a bit, but there was no way he was going to stay in here with her while she showered. So, he slipped through the door, saying, "You'll probably want to get under the hot water. It'll feel really good and it'll warm you up quickly. There's a switch here that turns on warming lights for when you come out, so you won't get chilled again."

  Nothing. No response whatsoever.

  "You just undress and throw your clothes out. I'll wash them for you. You'll feel so much better in a few minutes, I promise."

  He was repeating himself, but there was only just so much he could say.

  Closing the door behind him felt uncomfortable, for reasons he didn't want to consider any too closely, and although he did retrieve a shirt and robe for her, he felt he had to immediately come back and stand by the door like an idiot.

  As soon as he did, he noticed that there were no wet clothes in the hallway.

  "Lark?"

  Nothing.

  "Lark, are you okay? You have to answer me, honey."

  He could hear that the shower was still running, but couldn't tell if she was in it with her clothes on, or what. He felt like a damned idiot standing outside the bathroom for so long, trying to get her to say or do something, but eventually, he tried the doorknob.

  It was open.

  Taking a deep breath, and knowing intellectually that this couldn't be a good idea, he told her, "I'm going to come in, Lark, in a minute, just to make sure that you're okay. If you're not decent, cover yourself with a towel, please. I'm going to count down from twenty, then I'm going to come in."

  Seconds later, the count was at, "Five…four…three…two…one. I'm coming in."

  Great clouds of steam rushed past him as he saw her. She was hunched down again, right where he'd left her, crumpled in on herself pitifully, two long yellow ears peeping over her shoulder at him.

  After taking a deep breath and closing the door behind him, he crouched next to her. "Can't do it yourself?"

  She shook her head slowly.

  "I wasn't blowing sunshine up your ass—sorry." He recalibrated. "I meant it when I said that a shower'll really help you get warm and feel better. I've spent a lot of time standing out in the rain myself for one reason or another. I'll absolutely understand—no hard feelings whatsoever if you say no. But would you like me to help you? I promise I'll be the gentleman my momma always hoped I'd be."

  It took her a few long seconds, but then she nodded her head.

  "Well, then, let me help you stand up, Miss Jeffries." He offered his h
and, putting it down where she could see it, feeling her much smaller one fitting itself into his palm like a tiny, frightened bird.

  She unfolded herself slowly, and he was struck, in that moment, at just how small and delicate she was, especially standing there, dirty and soaked to the bone, her clothes clinging to her slender frame. The riot of blonde curls he'd noticed—against his will—when he'd first met her were hanging in dark, lank ropes. Her skin was the kind of translucent pale that is usually only present in babies, and as far as he could see, it was damned near flawless, the lack of color making those stark, black fringed blue eyes pop even more in her heart shaped face.

  But it was her mouth that his eyes settled on greedily, full but pale red from the cold.

  He'd never wanted to kiss a woman as much as he wanted to kiss her at this moment, and he knew he couldn't and shouldn't, but it was damned hard to resist the urge, anyway.

  So, he kept himself occupied, hoping and praying that she wouldn't notice the erection he couldn't seem to talk down, although he thought he was probably pretty safe there. She wasn't really aware of much at the moment.

  Although he kept up a running patter of what he was doing, adding "okay?" after every statement, and if she'd balked in any way at anything he did, he would have stopped immediately—he began to undress her as matter of factly as he could, keeping his eyes on her face except when necessity dictated something else, like the buttons of her shirt.

  Gently guiding her fingers to them, he asked, "Are you okay to undo these for me, honey?"

  She got the first one, but she couldn't seem to manage the others. He wasn't surprised—her hands were still like ice.

  Something in him shifted gears at that moment, and he decided that, since she seemed to have trusted him more than anyone else, so far, and hadn't fussed at anything he'd done except when he'd tried to take the stuffie away from her, he was just going to do for her what he knew needed to be done, at least as applied to small stuff, like getting her out of her clothes—well, most of them, anyway—and into the shower.