Abigail Read Online Free PDF Page A

and galloping down the road toward the gates of Nabal’s estate.
    Insects buzzed with the onslaught of darkness as Nabal stared after the man, heat coursing through him. His father would not have been proud. He had died with a curse against his only son still warm on his lips. His father had named him fool —and had done everything possible to make Nabal’s life miserable. He was glad the man was dead. He did not deserve Nabal’s respect. He was a self-righteous hypocrite much like the king’s son-in-law and all of the men who followed him.
    Heart pounding and throat parched, Nabal squeezed the flask and slammed it to the ground. Straightening, he stomped toward the kitchen. Heat from the ovens drifted to him, and he heard Abigail talking to a servant. He swore under his breath. He should have known she would be overseeing tomorrow’s meal preparation. Another self-righteous hypocrite, that one. Always running her mouth off. If not for her beauty . . . He let the thought drop. She would give him a son one day. Women did have their uses. Though after six months of marriage, he wondered what was taking her so long. He flung his shoulders back and put on his most commanding air as he walked under the arch into the spacious kitchens.
    “Woman, bring me more wine.” The servants jumped at his barked order, but Abigail merely turned, walked to a stone trough in the far corner, and retrieved the skin. She took her time coming close to him, as though she were the master and he the servant.
    When she reached him, he snatched the flask from her arms, yanked the leather strings that bound it tight, and poured the contents into his mouth, spilling some onto his beard. He gulped more than he probably should have—he’d already finished one flask earlier in the day—but he was tired of incompetent messengers and arrogant women.
    Abigail backed away from him, retrieved a linen cloth, and handed it to him. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve instead, then gripped her arm, digging his nails into her flesh.
    She winced, but her gaze did not waver. Definitely self-righteous— and disrespectful.
    “My lord, please, you’re hurting me.”
    He stared at her, his vision slightly blurring, seeing the woman whose father had tried to defraud him, whose brother disdained him, who too often tried to change him.
    She twisted her arm, trying to break free. He released his grip, and she rubbed the place where the imprint of his nails still remained. He looked at the goatskin flask in his hand.
    “Don’t you think you should save some for later, my lord?”
    Did the woman know how to be quiet? Must her every word be a reason to condemn his actions? Her disdain was inexcusable.
    “Don’t think your beauty will always save you from my wrath, Abigail.” A headache began at his temples, and he rubbed them, willing it to subside.
    “Did I offend you, my lord? Forgive me, it’s just . . . you look ill, my lord, and I thought—”
    “Silence!” She jumped at his command. Good. It was time she learned some obedience, and it was time he taught it to her. He shoved the flask into her hands. “Tie it.” Her hands shook as she hurried to obey him. When she finished, he took it from her, set it on a table, and grabbed her arm.
    Abigail winced at the bruise he was giving her. Nabal’s firm grip tightened, his foul breath close to her face. His menacing look made her heart race like a thousand galloping horses, her stomach tripping in dread. He dragged her out of the kitchen toward the gardens at the back of the house, a place she had been often but never with him. A secluded place where she’d once sought refuge.
    He turned his face to the side and spat into the bushes lining the cobbled walkway, then shoved her ahead of him toward the seclusion of the trees. She stumbled toward a handful of torches that lined the edges of the garden and cast eerie shadows over the stones. They were the only lights dispelling the blackness that not even the stars