The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (163 page)

He looked again at her soft mouth and said, “Perhaps. To be truthful, a man prefers to be in bed with a woman rather than philosophizing about geese needing leaders or studying the eating habits of the leach’s petrel. However, when the man—such as myself—is very intelligent, then he can do many things at once, all of them well. Freedom for a woman, Helen, is being led by a man like me.”

Helen bent down, pulled up a yellow-horned poppy, and threw it at him.

He caught the small flower, shook off the dirt, and brought it to his nose. “Not much smell. Time for more truth—I would rather be breathing in your scent while I’m kissing your white belly.”

She turned away from him, and he imagined quite correctly that she wanted to smash him but good, but she controlled herself, saying as she pointed, “Pay attention, Lord Beecham. The land flattens out south of us. There are salt marshes that are covered with waders at low tide, estuaries that snake in and out of the low-lying land, very bad-smelling stretches where the water is trapped for long periods of time. I doubt you would appreciate that particular scent. But along here we have a more interesting coastline.” She opened her arms wide. “I own a lot of this land.”

It wasn’t worth much, he thought, but he wouldn’t mind owning it either, just for its incredible beauty. He said, “This land is like the biblical lily of the valley, Helen, it provides neither food nor a way to grow it. There is no arable farmland, no place to build homes, not even decent grazing for sheep or cattle, just the vast stretches of marram grass, pink sea bindweed, and dunes covered with yellow evening primroses.”

“I bought it because I know the lamp is here, somewhere.”

He nodded. Perhaps he would have done the same thing. The only thing was, anyone could come on this land and search. There were no fences, even though fences wouldn’t make any difference to a treasure hunter.

“There are even some rich pink marsh orchids sticking up here and there,” Helen said. “You wouldn’t enjoy it if I threw marsh orchids at you. But mainly, as you can see, there is just the harsh green shingle flora covering most everything. Yes, this is my biblical lily of the valley. I do not expect it to return anything to me, except the lamp.”

“A rather large expectation.”

“Just the search makes it worth it,” and he believed her. Actually, it would make it worth it to him as well. He watched her reach down and snap a flower off its stem. “It’s wild chamomile,” she said, straightening. “Just breathe in the smell of it, Lord Beecham. Mrs. Stockley makes a marvelous tea with it.”

“The scent is not bad, but on the other hand, it’s not you.”

Did her hand tremble at his words just a bit? Probably not. She said, “Lord Beecham, you will attend me. Now is one of those unexpected times in your life when you must attune your brilliant mind to matters other than carnal passions.”

“You wish me to forget that soft white flesh behind your knees?”

“You have never known the soft white flesh behind my knees.”

“True, I’ve been too frantic, too crazed with lust, and thus neglected the less dramatic yet still quite delicious treats that you have to offer me. I will try to find more control the next time.” He took her hand and couldn’t help himself. He stared at her mouth. “But the problem, Helen, is that I want to be inside you immediately. I want to be so deep inside you that when you tighten around me, I feel like I will fly apart and there is no more wondrous thing in life to do than fly apart inside of you. And your long legs, Helen, around my flanks, squeezing me. And just before you scream your pleasure, I love to kiss that wild beating pulse in your throat.”

“You are very fluent with words that create very vivid images, but I am not listening to you, Lord Beecham. The words you have just said have flown away on bird wings, thus, to me, they never even existed.

“There will be no next time. I have given this a good deal of thought. You will be my partner, no more, no less. Anything else makes no sense. I am serious about this, Lord Beecham. Now, it is time to get back to Shugborough Hall. It is time for luncheon, then time for work.”

He lightly stroked his fingers over her cheek, tucked a windblown piece of hair behind her ear, and leaned forward to touch his mouth to hers. It nearly undid him, but not quite.

He drew back, smiled at her, patted her cheek, and whistled as he walked away from her.

“You need discipline,” she called after him, her hair whipping into her mouth.

He turned and gave her a long, thoughtful look. “Discipline, if dished out by an expert, is a very fine thing, Miss Mayberry. Perhaps I should reconsider having a competition with you. What do you think? Could you possibly devise anything close to what I eventually will do to you?”

“You will probably be shot before that can happen.”

He laughed and laughed. It was beginning to feel familiar to him now, this laughter thing. He rather liked it. It made his innards feel warm and somehow more connected to something outside himself. It brought that something closer to him, and whatever it was, he liked it.

Helen prepared to leave him at the turnoff to Shugborough Hall. “I must find Walter Jones, the young man who will be marrying Teeny. Also, I must see that all my lads are doing their jobs correctly and that Mrs. Toop is controlling Cook and Gwen. I will be home soon.”

“What if the lads are slackers?”

“They will be sorry for it.” She paused a moment, then gave him a sloe-eyed smile that made him instantly ran dier than a goat looking at the first grass of spring. “They know all about punishments, Lord Beecham. It is rare that they would dare not pull their weight. It is only when there is a rumor about a new punishment that they do their jobs poorly just to see what it is.”

His eyes nearly crossed. She gave him a little wave and rode Eleanor, snorting and flinging her head about, toward the west to Court Hammering. Her laughter floated back to him.

“Wait,” he called after her. “I wish to visit this inn of yours.”

T
HE MARKET TOWN OF Court Hammering was just three miles east of Orford and two miles south of Shugborough Hall. Had there been any high promontories about, he fancied he would be able to see the sea. But the land was gentle rolling hills, thick stands of oak and maple trees, and stone fences older than the Druids.

Court Hammering wasn’t a particularly beautiful old town, but it had an air of satisfaction and stolid durability, a lovely old stone church built from the local pale-gray stone, and a small green with a pond in the middle and at least three dozen birds of all sorts hanging about in the willow trees that hung over the water. Not a bad town, he thought, to nurture the mistress of discipline.

Unfortunately, King Edward’s Lamp, the premier inn of Court Hammering, was currently overrun by a group of boisterous young men from Cambridge, here for a touted mill being held over near Braintree way. They were also here to drink themselves stupid in Helen’s taproom, something that would not have been allowed were Helen present.

Lord Beecham saw the blood in her eyes as she walked into the inn. He was grinning from ear to ear. He couldn’t wait to see what she would do.

The taproom was long and narrow, low-ceilinged, with heavy dark wooden beams, a highly polished oak floor, and a large fireplace with a wide stone hearth. There were four long tables with benches and three smaller tables with chairs and a row of windows across the back of the room. There was an open door on the far side of the taproom that gave onto the kitchen.

It felt cozy and warm as a mother’s womb, safe from the dangers of the world, a man’s haven. The air was thick with the rich, yeasty smells of ale and baking bread.

But what struck Lord Beecham when he stepped into that open doorway was the ear-shattering noise. When he had been at Oxford, had he made this kind of racket? Probably so.

One young man was standing on top of a long table, singing at the top of his lungs, his shirt free of his breeches. Another young man was cursing at the barmaid while his friend was trying to pull her onto his lap and put his hand up her skirt at the same time. One very pale young man was lying on his face close to the table, perhaps unconscious. Dice were being thrown at another table. There would shouts of triumph, moans when the dice came up snake eyes, and the general wild-eyed fever of youth.

In the short moment after Lord Beecham arrived in the doorway of the taproom, he would swear that it got nois ier.

Any other woman in the world, and he would have ordered her to remain in the corridor while he dealt with the drunk young men. But it was Helen, and there wasn’t any other woman like her in the whole world.

He smiled, folded his arms over his chest, and watched her stride into her taproom. By all that was good and right, he thought, she would look magnificent with a sword in her hand. But, truth be told, she didn’t need one.

She went directly to the young man who was pulling the barmaid down onto his lap.

Helen stopped directly in front of him.

The barmaid, Gwendolyn, saw her first and yelled over the din of young male voices, “Miss Helen, help!”

“I am here, Gwen.” She closed her hand over the young man’s shirt color and lifted him straight up. He dropped Gwen and gawked at the goddess who had him by the neck.

“What—?”

“You stupid young codfish,” Helen said calmly, jerked him off the bench and shoved him against the wall. She grabbed his neck in both hands and slammed his head back once, twice, against the wall. She quickly stepped back and watched him slide slowly to the floor, unconscious. She said to Gwen, who was straightening her apron and cap, “Go fetch the lads from the stable. We need to clean all these little giblets out of the taproom.”

“Hey, you big woman, what are you doing?”

It was the young man who had been cursing a blue streak. Helen turned on him, grabbed the oversized lapels on his bright-yellow jacket, and jerked him to his feet. “I think the buttons on your jacket are too big. You need a new tailor.”

“I paid my last quarter’s allowance for this jacket,” the young man yelled in Helen’s face. “I know it is prime style because my father hates it.”

“Hmmm,” Helen said. “I see your point. Very well, then just reduce the size of those silver buttons.”

The young man looked suddenly uncertain and a good ten years younger. “You really believe they are too large?”

“They are wearing you, not the other way around,” she said, saw that his wits were probably too addled from her fine ale to understand, and said, “You are the tail and your clothes the dog.” She turned away then, saying over her shoulder, “Cursing makes you look dull-witted.” She then turned to the rest of the young men, most of whom were just staring at her, bleary-eyed. She was so big and beautiful, not to mention commanding. He could imagine they wondered if they weren’t dreaming they had died and gone to the Vikings’ heaven.

Lord Beecham saw another young man, this one so drunk he was frankly surprised the fellow could even coordinate enough to walk, but he managed it. He also looked furious, his sharp features flushed scarlet. Lord Beecham didn’t like that. He took a step forward, stopped, and said quietly, “Helen, behind you.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling at him as she turned slowly. “You mean this little turnip with a face so red I’ll wager he looks just like his father in a rage?”

“My father’s dead,” the young man said. “It’s my mother. She turns redder than I do just before she flies at me.” Then the young man raised his fists and ran toward her. Helen sighed and said aloud to the room at large, “Why do children have to repeat the horrible behavior of their parents? This fellow is probably too drunk to reason with.” She sighed again. She knew that all the other young men were staring, waiting to see what would happen. When he got close enough, she turned slightly to the side. When he went past her, she smacked her hand on his back. His momentum together with her hit sent him flying, and he slammed into the wall not six inches away from Lord Beecham. Lord Beecham watched as the young man stared up at him, sighed then fell, all boneless, to the floor.

“He’s not red anymore,” he called out to Helen.

She had all the young men’s attention now. They were staring at her, uncertain what to do, since their wits were numbed with too much drink, but they knew enough not to attack her. The young man who had been singing stopped. He began tucking his shirt back into his breeches and making a hash of it.

Helen, hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the taproom. “Listen, all of you. You are a flock of dead-brains. Your innards are awash with my very good ale, and it is a pity because my ale deserves better innards than you young rogues have.”

Lord Beecham wanted to tell her that she had used the wrong word. Every young man wanted to be called a rogue.

“You will all walk out of this taproom and go to the courtyard. Oh, yes, and take these two who are lounging on my very nice oak floor with you.”