The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (63 page)

“For what it’s worth, I’ve also discovered that a wife is very precious. A wife is beyond anything I had ever imagined in my life.”

“Alex is a good sort. I’m relieved you worked things out.”

“Oh, we did and therein lies a tale. Some long night this winter I’ll tell you about it. It certainly would be more enlivening than writing about that damned ghost, the Virgin Bride.” The earl rose. “I would say, old man, that you have quite a task ahead of you. On the other hand, nothing of true importance should come easily.”

“I already appreciate her, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s odd but I truly do. She’s important to me, more important than you can begin to imagine. You told me once that I thrived on challenges, the higher the stakes, the better I did. I won’t lose this one, Douglas. I can’t.”

“You love her, then.”

“You spout nonsense, Douglas. Love—a notion that makes me want to puke. No, pray don’t go on and on about how much you adore and worship Alex—I see quite clearly that you’re besotted with her. But love? Don’t get me wrong. I like Sophie, certainly. I want her and she makes me feel things I’ve never felt before. I want her to be happy. I want her to realize that for whatever reason, she is important to me. There’s nothing more to it than that and, indeed, that’s quite enough. She’s got me for life.”

Douglas simply looked at his brother, a very black eyebrow arched upward a good inch.

“You haven’t seen her as I did on Jamaica. You think her unhappy, a quiet mouse, no doubt. She’s a hellion, Douglas. I wanted to tame her, wanted to make her submit to me.” He shook his head and began pacing again. “I wish the hellion would come back.” He grinned. “She was a handful and a more mouthy chit you’d never meet.”

Douglas still just looked at his brother.

 

Sophie was smiling like an idiot, she couldn’t help it. Her own mare, Opal, was here at Northcliffe, brought back from Jamaica by Ryder. She leaned over and patted her mare’s long neck.

“Ah, I have missed you,” she said, and threw back her head, letting her mare gallop ahead. She’d thanked Ryder, too shocked at what he’d done to really show him how much she appreciated it. He wasn’t acting like himself again. It was disturbing, this kindness of his, this seemingly endless understanding and gentleness.

Ryder had shrugged and said only, “She would have eaten her head off if I’d left her at Camille Hall. She was fat and lazy and gave me these woeful looks every time I saw her. She neighed all the time I was around and soon it sounded remarkably like your name. What was I to do?”

And she’d said only, once again, “Thank you.”

Ryder rode beside her, pleased at her pleasure, knowing that he’d surprised her but good. She owed him. He wondered how she would proceed to repay him, for repay him she would. He knew her well enough to know that she’d see this as a debt.

When she sent her mare into a gallop, he let her go ahead of him down the narrow country lane that bordered the northern boundaries of Northcliffe land. He slowed his own stallion, Genesis, a raw-boned barb who was black as sin and had the endurance of twenty Portuguese mules.

He began whistling. He was home, the day was glorious, warm, the sun bright overhead, and he’d pleased his wife. Things were looking up. He knew what he was going to do about his women and the solution was sound. As for his children, it was simply a matter of telling Sophie about them at the right time. He missed them. He would go see them all tomorrow. He’d brought back gifts for all of them.

Sophie rounded a narrow bend in the road and pulled over under the shade of an immense oak tree, old as the chalk cliffs just some miles to the south. She drew in a deep breath and realized she felt good. Ryder was behaving in a very civilized manner. Except for the previous night. That was reminiscent of the arrogant, utterly ruthless man she’d known on Jamaica. Perhaps today he’d realize that she didn’t want him to touch her again, perhaps he’d simply be nice to her and remain civilized. She frowned.

She waited for him for some ten minutes, then turned to see if he were coming around the curve. There was no sign of him.

She fidgeted a moment longer, then wheeled Opal around and urged her back down the road. She felt a spurt of alarm. Could he have been hurt?

She saw Ryder. He wasn’t at all hurt. There was a woman on a bay mare pulled to a halt next to him. They were in the middle of the road and they looked to be in intimate conversation. She saw the woman stretch out her hand and lightly touch Ryder’s sleeve. She saw Ryder smile, even from here, she saw his white teeth in that utterly devastating smile of his. He then leaned closer to the woman.

Something in her moved and twisted. Something in her rebelled and boiled. Her jaw clenched. Her gloved hands fisted on Opal’s reins.

Without thought, she jabbed her boots into Opal’s fat sides and sent her straight toward her husband and the hussy who looked ready to leap onto his horse’s back and onto his lap.

Ryder looked up and saw Sophie galloping
ventre a
terre straight at him. The look on her face was grim and pale. Jesus, she looked fit to kill. He grinned like a fool. He’d at first been uneasy when Sara had flagged him down. Now, seeing his wife ride toward him angry as a wasp, he was glad Sara had come. Anger bespoke feelings other than indifference.

Sara was speaking to him. She hadn’t yet seen the madwoman bearing down on them. She was asking in that soft, gentle way of hers if he wouldn’t like to kiss her. She leaned toward him and he felt her sweet mouth on his cheek, her gloved hand on his chin, trying to turn him toward her. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop, then shut it again. No, let Sophie see another lady kissing him. Her mouth was smooth and fresh but he felt nothing but anticipation to see what Sophie would do. His wife was on them then, and he had to jerk his stallion back so she wouldn’t slam into them. As for Sara, she looked at the woman and actually paled.

“Just who the devil are you?”

It was Sophie’s voice and Ryder hadn’t heard that tone for more than two months. It was cold and angry and arrogant and he loved it. There was fire in her eyes.

“Damn you, keep away from my husband!”

“Your what?” Poor Sara was trying to make her mare back up but the beast was eyeing Opal with fascination and refused to move.

“You heard me! What are you saying to him? Why did you touch him? How dare you kiss him! Keep your blasted fingers and hands to yourself—and your miserable hussy mouth!”

Sara blinked. She turned from the woman to Ryder, who was lazily sitting his stallion, his eyes on the woman’s face. He was smiling. His eyes were gleaming. He looked arrogant, naturally, Ryder was the most arrogant beast she’d ever known, but there was no cynical glimmer in his blue eyes, no, just pleasure and she didn’t understand it. Goodness, if his eyes had been dark, they would have looked wicked. “She is your wife, Ryder?”

He turned to Sara then and nodded. “I was about to tell you but she rode down on us like one of the damned Greek Furies. Sophie, draw in your claws. This is Sara Clockwell and she is a friend of mine. Sara, my wife, Sophie.”

It was at that instant that Sophie realized what she’d done. She’d acted like a shrew, a jealous, possessive termagant. She’d yelled and cursed and insulted this woman. And Ryder loved it. He looked very smug and satisfied and she’d just given him more fodder than a five-acre wheatfield needed. She felt humiliated; she felt exposed and very uncertain of herself and what she was and why she’d behaved as she had.

She nodded to the woman, silent as the grave now, a very lovely young woman with large breasts and an uncertain smile on a wide mouth. She said to her husband, her voice stiff as a fence post, “I am sorry to disturb your conversation with your
friend.
Since you haven’t seen each other for quite a few months, I will leave you alone to renew yourselves.” She wheeled Opal around and rode away fast as the wind.

Ryder merely smiled after her, the wickedness alive and thriving in his eyes. Douglas had been right about Sophie surprising him. It was beyond wonderful. Sweet heavens, he felt a surge of hope.

“Your wife, Ryder?”

He didn’t hear hurt in her voice, just utter disbelief. He turned to look at Sara’s bewildered face. “Yes, she is. I met her on Jamaica and wed her there. We have been separated until just yesterday. She’s a hellion, isn’t she? She speaks her mind openly. Forgive her but she is possessive of me. I like that, you know.” He rubbed his hands together in pleasure.

“You ... you like that?” Sara managed, still trying to grasp this beyond-odd situation. “You have never wanted a woman to be possessive. Why, Beatrice told me that—” Her voice broke off and she blushed.

Ryder’s left eyebrow shot up. “You and Bea? Come, tell me the truth, Sara.”

“Bea told me that you hated any sort of clinging or orders or demands from a woman. She said you hated for a woman to be serious, to bedevil you, to ... well, she did also say that you were honorable and a woman could trust you. She said you were lighthearted and fun, that you only enjoyed women in your bed. She said you were always generous with pleasure and I told her I knew that for a fact.”

Ryder was silent for a long moment. So his mistresses discussed him, did they? It made him feel rather strange. Of course men discussed their mistresses, but that was the way of things. But women discussing him? He said finally, his voice very quiet, “Bea was wrong. Sophie is strong-willed and I fancy my days of freedom with other ladies are well over.”

“You don’t mind, truly?”

He grinned at her.

“But I wanted to see you, to tell you that—”

“That what, Sara?”

She said on a rush, “That I am going to marry David Dabbs. He’s a farmer near Swinley.”

“Congratulations. Then, I take it, you have no more use for me?”

She shook her head uncertainly, and decided it was her best course to essay a laugh. Sara had never been able to laugh when she was supposed to. But it hadn’t seemed to bother Ryder. He’d always adored her breasts and her ears, he’d tell her in the next breath, even as he pumped into her, soft little ears that tasted like plums and peaches. She hadn’t understood him, but she’d had more pleasure with him than she expected to share with the dour David. But a husband was a husband, and they lasted until they died, they had no choice in the matter, and now even Ryder was one. It was amazing; it was unbelievable, but he looked quite pleased about it. And this wife of his was possessive.

Only now he was frowning.

“You must go after her, Ryder. She is angry that she saw us together. She is angry that I was kissing you and that you were, well—there it is.”

Ryder turned to grin at her. She sounded pleased that his wife was jealous of her. He enjoyed her show of vanity. Perhaps one day, Sophie would be just a bit transparent so that he wouldn’t have to flay his mind to constantly outguess her. He leaned over and kissed Sara’s cheek. “I wish you luck with your David, Sara. Good-bye.”

Ryder didn’t ride after his wife. He turned Genesis back toward Northcliffe. A wife should have to stew in her jealous juices once in a while. He certainly had no intention of apologizing to her for Sara or any of the others. Ah, what was she doing now?

He was whistling as he dug his heels into his stallion’s sides.

SOPH
_I
E RETURNED TO the hall an hour later. She felt like a fool. She wanted to kick herself. She didn’t, quite simply, understand why she’d done it. She left Opal with a huge bucket of oats in the stable, spoke with the head stable lad, McCallum, a man who was crusty and likable and looked at her just like he would a horse, then walked toward the mansion. She stopped suddenly, disbelieving, shading her eyes from the bright sun. No, it couldn’t be true. Not again. There, standing on the deep-set front steps, was a young woman, a very pretty young woman with very black hair. Ryder was standing on the step above her. She was leaning into him and her hand was on his right arm. He was speaking quietly to her and she was nodding. Sophie’s stomach churned and her jaw locked for the second time that afternoon. All rational thought fled her brain.

She shrieked, waving her fist at her husband, “You damnable rotter!” She picked up her skirts and ran toward them, unable to stop either her feet or the words that flew out of her mouth. “How dare you! Get away from my husband. If you try to kiss him, I’ll break your arm!”

Tess Stockley froze. Then, because she wasn’t stupid, she took a quick step back. “My God, who is she, Ryder? She looks like a madwoman. I don’t understand ... is she another one of your women? This is very strange, Ryder. Why is she so angry? Surely she knows she’s just one of your women.”

Ryder didn’t reply. He was watching Sophie dash toward them, her hands holding up her skirts so that she could run without fear of tripping. He was enjoying the view of her ankles and the look of utter outrage on her face. Her hair was coming loose from its thick bun and thick tendrils were straggling down about her face. Her charming borrowed riding hat fell to the dirt.

A madwoman indeed—his madwoman. What marvelous timing. His Sherbrooke luck had returned. He crossed his arms over his chest, his heart speeding up in anticipation. Normally his women didn’t come to Northcliffe Hall, but Tess had worried because he’d been so long in coming home. Bea had told her to stop her fretting because Ryder was like a cat, he always landed on his feet. But she’d come anyway, and she’d been near to tears when she’d seen him safe, and she was so happy to see him ... then this strange girl was screaming at them.

Ryder’s jaws ached from smiling so widely. He yelled out, “Hello, Sophie. Did you stable Opal? Did you feed her? You wish to say something to Tess? She’s a friend of mine, you know. Do come and meet her. We were just talking of Jamaica and sea travel and—”

“You miserable bounder! Another one? How many women do you have? Are they all young and beautiful ? By all that’s sinful, you should be hung and shot and disemboweled! Why, I should—” Her voice swallowed itself. She paled. She shook her head and the bun fell to thick strands of hair, tangling down her back. “Oh no,” she said, unable to believe herself. “I didn’t just say that, did I?” She picked up her skirts again and ran away from the mansion toward the Greek statue—infested gardens. She just might enjoy those nude statues, Ryder thought, staring after her. Had she already seen them? He must remember to ask her. He thought of making love to her beneath a woefully bad marble rendition of Zeus seducing some swan or other.