What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  Pen’s color was still high. “You give me too much credit. I hadn’t any choice in the matter.”

  “Yes, you did. You could have married Felix.”

  Pen looked ill. “No, I couldn’t have.”

  “I grant you it would have been unpleasant”—that was putting it mildly!—“but in many ways, it was the path of least resistance. Your father would have been happy, you would have stayed in familiar surroundings with people you’d known from birth, and you would not have had to undertake a perilous and uncertain journey. Not to mention Harriet would have been born legitimate.” With that blackguard Felix in a position of power over her.

  The thought turned his stomach.

  “But I knew Harriet would have the Graham streak,” Pen said. “I thought it would show up when she was two or three. Once people saw it, they’d think she was just one more of Walter’s whelps. I couldn’t bear that.”

  His stomach turned again.

  “They might have guessed she was mine,” he said, “if they’d been paying attention that summer. We weren’t that discreet.” And yet . . .

  He was afraid the people of Darrow would have made the same mistake the villagers here had.

  He liked that idea almost as little as he did the notion of Harriet living in Felix’s house.

  “No one would expect a solitary mouse like me to capture your interest, Harry.” Pen snorted. “Walter was so indiscriminate, he’d climb into any woman’s bed as long as she had a pulse.”

  “Pen, for the last time, you are not a mouse. Give yourself some credit.” He frowned at her. “Or if you won’t do that, give me some credit.” He waggled his brows. “I’ve been told I have excellent taste in women.”

  Oh, blast, that makes me sound like a bloody rake.

  Pen didn’t appear to take offense. She just laughed and started walking down the path again. In a few minutes, she stopped. “Here we are.”

  “Where?” He looked around. All he could see was a welter of green leaves.

  “The hopyard, of course.” Pen disappeared into the greenery.

  He followed her. Once he was in among the plants, he began to see some order to the tangle.

  “They’re vines.” He was reminded of the vineyards he’d seen in France, but these plants were far taller—they grew up poles that must be fifteen feet high.

  Pen was inspecting a leaf. “Bines, not vines. I train the plants to grow up these poles every spring and then we cut them down at harvesttime. Now I have to check them several times a day for bugs and blight. I could lose the entire harvest if I don’t keep a sharp eye out.”

  “I see.” The space between the rows of plants was very weedy. “Aren’t you afraid your skirt will get stained?”

  Pen gaped at him as if he were an escapee from Bedlam—and then she laughed. “No. As I told you on the stream bank, I am not one of your London ladies, Harry. I don’t have time to worry about my clothes.”

  Of course, she wasn’t a London lady. The London ladies—well, Lady Susan—would be discussing fashion not foliage. And to think they’d go looking for bugs in the bushes—

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny? Ah, got you!” Pen picked some insectile invader off a leaf and squashed it between her fingers.

  “I was just imagining those London ladies here.”

  “Lady Susan Palmer?” Pen flushed. “Forget I said that,” she mumbled and moved farther down the line of hop plants.

  Ah, so Pen’s been reading the gossip columns, has she? Interesting.

  He looked around. They were quite alone here. The tall plants hid them from any observers. It was rather . . . intimate.

  He caught up to Pen.

  “These are the hop flowers,” she said, “or cones, if you prefer.”

  The thing she was touching did look very much like a miniature pinecone.

  “In a week or so, when they are ready to harvest, we’ll have everyone in the Home and anyone in the village who’s willing come pick them. We aren’t big enough to have to use itinerant pickers, though if Caro gets her way, we’ll get to that point.”

  “How do you know when they’re ready?” There was something very compelling about Pen now. The hesitancy he’d heard when she’d compared herself to Miss Anderson was gone. She sounded self-assured and . . . powerful.

  “I can tell by the feel of the cone and the scent. Here.” She held her fingers up to his nose. “It smells grassy. When the cones are ready, they smell of . . .” She laughed. “Well, they smell of hops.”

  “Mmm.” He took her fingers in his hand, cupped them, and held them close to his nose . . . and mouth. He drew in a deep breath. Yes, there was a scent of grass—but there was also the sweet, spicy scent of Pen. His fingers stroked the back of her hand—it was so soft. His thumb stroked her palm. It was slightly rough. A working hand. Strong.

  He wanted to feel it on his chest. His stomach. His cock. He used to love how Pen would cradle his ballocks as her clever mouth—

  “H-Harry?” Pen tugged on her hand, but not hard as if she really wished to get free.

  He pressed a kiss to her wrist, to her pulse that fluttered beneath his lips. “I’ve missed you, Pen.”

  “Harry, I . . .”

  He cupped her face. “What?”

  “I—”

  “Papa! Mama! Look, I’ve got a picnic basket.”

  He wanted to curse, but instead he—and Pen—laughed as Harriet came crashing down their weedy aisle.

  Chapter Nine

  Pen finished rummaging through the picnic basket Harriet had brought down from the house. There had been no good place to eat in the hopyard, so they’d brought the basket to the orchard.

  She spread the plates and cups and food out on the blanket she’d found in the basket. Dorcas must think Harry ate like ten men—she’d packed far too much food.

  Then she sat back on her heels and looked over to where Harry was showing their daughter how to bat fallen apples with a stick.

  Thank God Harriet had arrived in the hopyard at precisely the moment she had. A second later . . .

  She closed her eyes. Oh, dear God. A second later and she would have let Harry kiss her. He’d been so close. She’d seen his intention in his face.

  She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut as a wave of agonizing embarrassment rolled through her. Oh, who was she trying to fool? A moment later and she would have kissed Harry. The touch of his lips on her wrist had gone straight to her head—and her feminine parts—and, like a spark to tinder, had ignited a raging need, even more consuming than what she remembered from when they were young. All sense, all restraint, all sanity had turned to ash. She’d been a hair’s breadth from plastering herself to his hard body, pulling his head down, and pushing her tongue—

  She shook her head as if that would dislodge the mortifying image.

  “I did it!”

  Pen’s eyes flew open to see Harriet grinning at her father—and Harry grinning back at her.

  “Well done!” he said.

  Harriet turned to Pen. “Did you see me, Mama? Did you see how I hit the apple and how far it went?”

  For a split second, she considered lying, but she’d promised herself never to lie to Harriet—well, beyond the story she’d spun about the fictitious Mr. Barnes. “I’m afraid I missed it.”

  Harriet’s face fell. “Mama!”

  “I’m sorry.” Pen always hated to disappoint her daughter, but she felt especially bad—well, guilty—this time because her failure was due to the lustful, sinful thoughts she’d been having about the man she was carefully not looking at now.

  “You’ll just have to do it again, Harriet,” Harry said. He laughed at Pen. “Pay attention this time.”

  Oh, God. He’s so bloody handsome when he laughs. “I will.”

  Harriet gave her a hard look. “You promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  Harriet picked up an apple, raised her stick—and then looked at Pen again. “Are you watchin
g now, Mama?”

  “Yes, I’m watching.”

  Harriet tossed her apple up in the air, swung . . . and missed.

  She stomped her foot in frustration and glared at Pen as if it was Pen’s fault. “You should have watched last time, Mama.”

  “Try again, Harriet,” Harry said encouragingly. “You can do it.”

  Harry had batted drops when they’d been children. He’d tried to teach Pen how to do it, but she’d been hopeless and he’d quickly lost patience with her.

  He had far more patience with Harriet.

  Of course, he did. He was no longer a boy—he was a man.

  Mmm, yes, indeed.

  He’d taken off his hat and coat, waistcoat, and cravat to give himself more freedom of movement, leaving them on the blanket next to Pen. She could see the strong column of his neck, the fluid way his broad back and shoulders and hips moved as he tossed another small, misshapen apple into the air and whacked it, sending it flying so far into the distance she lost sight of it.

  If only he’d discard his shirt as well. I’d like to see the muscles in his arms and touch the soft hair that dusts his chest and trails in a narrow path over his flat belly to his . . .

  Dear God. She fanned her face. She couldn’t very well fan under her skirts, though that was where the hottest part of her was. Hot and achy. Empty.

  She suddenly and far too vividly remembered how it had felt to have Harry fill her, again and again until she—

  She had to pay attention to Harriet. If she missed the next time her daughter hit an apple—if there was a next time—Harriet would be extremely displeased. And Harry would wonder what she’d been thinking of—

  Focus!

  She stared at the two of them. Harry was explaining, and Harriet was listening. They were both so intent, their expressions mirroring each other’s. Even without their black hair and silver streak, they were so obviously father and daughter. “It’s all in the timing,” Harry was saying. “You’re swinging after it’s gone past. Swing a little earlier. Just keep your eye on the apple. You can do it.”

  He sounded relaxed, confident, encouraging. He’d been so good with Harriet earlier, too, when he’d got her to overcome her—and Pen’s—fears and sit on his horse while he led it. He would make a wonderful father. Lady Susan Palmer was a very lucky woman.

  I wish—

  No, there was no point in wasting time with silly wishes. Planning was what she needed. She’d thought to marry Godfrey to give Harriet a home, but she saw now that what Harriet really needed was a father, a man who would encourage her to challenge herself.

  But who could Pen choose that would do that? Not Godfrey. And not a man like her own father. That man should never have had children, though perhaps things might have been different if her mother had lived. Maybe then her father would have been happy and wouldn’t have tried to drown himself in whiskey each night.

  Lud, she couldn’t think of a single likely candidate in the village. Perhaps the new vicar—surely the duke would follow Harry’s recommendation and get rid of Godfrey—perhaps he would prove to be a good, kind man who she could marry and who would treat Harriet like his own daughter.

  Harriet tried again, and this time her stick connected. The apple flew several yards.

  “I did it, I did it!” She jumped up and down, and then turned to Harry and threw her arms around him. “I did it, Papa.”

  “You did, indeed. Well done,” Harry said, hugging her back, warm enthusiasm in his voice.

  Then Harriet looked at Pen. “Were you watching that time, Mama? Did you see it?”

  “Yes, I did. I’m very impressed. You did much better than I ever did.”

  Harriet’s eyes grew round. “You used to hit apples, Mama?”

  “I used to try. I was once a girl, you know. And your papa tried to teach me, but without success. You are a much better pupil than I was.”

  Harry laughed. “Or perhaps I’m a much better teacher now than I was then.”

  Harriet looked from Pen to Harry and back again. Then she held out her stick. “Come try now, Mama. Papa will show you how. It’s fun.”

  “Yes, do come try, Pen,” Harry said. “I want to right my past failures.”

  He paused, frowned, and cleared his throat. She’d wager the failure he was thinking of now had nothing to do with trying to teach her to hit apples.

  You didn’t fail me, Harry. You gave me my greatest gift.

  “That is, any good teacher must want all his pupils to master their lessons,” he finally said.

  Pen smiled. “That may be true, but this pupil declines your generous invitation.” She had no desire to flail about with a stick in front of Harry and Harriet. “Now come over and have your luncheon. I hope you’re hungry. There’s enough here for an army.”

  “Dorcas put in extra for Papa,” Harriet said as she flopped down diagonally from Pen—which left the only space open for Harry next to Pen.

  Hmm. Pen looked at her daughter as Harry easily folded his long legs to sit. Surely, a nine-year-old was too young to engage in any sort of matchmaking?

  Harriet grinned back at her, a suspiciously matchmaking gleam in her eye.

  No, it must be my imagination.

  And in any event, the only appetite Harry appeared to have was for food. He was busy examining the luncheon offerings.

  “What do we have? Meat pie. That looks good. May I cut you a piece, Pen?”

  He’d stretched in front of her to reach the pie, which brought him far too close for her comfort. She should lean back.

  No, he would move in just a moment. Best not give any hint he was affecting her.

  He was so close she could see each dark hair in the faint stubble that limned his jaw. She’d used to trace its rough path with the tip of her finger—and then move on to outline his lips.

  Oh. A few strands of his hair had fallen out of place. She would just—

  She clenched her hands to keep from reaching out. She remembered all too well how soft and silky it was, how she used to comb her fingers through it—

  Oh, God, I can smell him.

  One would think—or at least she had hoped—that he would smell sweaty and stale after exerting himself, but he didn’t. He smelled like Harry, spicy and male—

  And just like that she was seventeen again, naked, on her back with Harry over her, resting his weight on his forearms, his hair falling forward to brush against her, face so close she felt his breath on her cheek, panting—they were both panting—as he slid in and out, in and out, faster and harder, each stroke taking her higher, drawing her tighter. She’d breathed him in, filling her lungs with his scent as he filled her with his body and then his seed, and she’d shattered, convulsing around his hard length that pulsed deep, deep in her—

  “Is this too much?”

  Yes. It had been too much. It had always been too much, and yet she’d always wanted more.

  “Pen? Is this too much pie?”

  Oh. She blinked. Harry was looking at her, laughter—and heat—in his gaze. Bugger it! He knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

  “No. It’s fine. Thank you.”

  She took the plate without looking at the serving he’d given her. She’d eat the whole bloody thing, even if she had to choke it down.

  “How old were you when you met Mama, Papa?” Harriet asked before taking a bite of her meat pie.

  “I think I was seven or so, which would have made your mother six when we met.” He poured Harriet a glass of lemonade and then filled Pen’s glass and his own with—what else?—Widow’s Brew. “Isn’t that right, Pen?”

  She nodded as she took a sip. She usually drank tea or lemonade in the middle of the day, but perhaps the ale would relax her. “It was early September, and you and the other boys were playing hide-and-seek.” She smiled at Harriet. “Your father thought he’d discovered the perfect hiding place and was quite taken aback when I showed up.”

  It had been the perfect hiding place. She’d used
it often that summer and for the same reason she had that particular day: her father had been in another of his drunken rages. But this time when she’d crawled into the green cave made from a tangle of tree limbs, leaves, and vines, she’d found Harry.

  She’d seen him before, of course, but always at a distance: in the earl’s pew at church or at the open houses the earl and countess held for the estate at harvesttime, Christmas, and Walter’s birthday. But she’d never approached him, even on the rare occasions when she’d had the opportunity. Her father had warned her, in ominous if cryptic terms, to stay away—far away—from the earl’s son.

  In retrospect, she realized he, like many people, had forgotten about Harry. He’d meant she should stay clear of the earl’s heir, Walter. Even then, Walter had a reputation for stealing kisses. She’d been far too young to be at risk, but she hadn’t understood that.

  So, when she’d found herself alone with Harry in a tight, secluded place, she’d been terrified.

  And then he’d grinned, just as he was grinning now, and had told her not to be a ninny but to come all the way in and be quiet so they wouldn’t be found out.

  And just like that, he’d won her over.

  “And then I convinced you to play, too.”

  “Yes.” She hadn’t wanted to. She was a solitary creature, both at heart and due to her father’s temper, and she was afraid of the noisy, boisterous boys, but Harry gave her courage. He always had.

  “You knew the best hiding places.” Harry’s grin slid into a more lecherous expression. He must be remembering all the spots she’d found for them to, er, frolic in that last summer. He’d forgotten—no, she’d likely never told him—how she knew so many secret places. Avoiding her father, hiding from him at times, had been the only way she’d kept her sanity—and, perhaps, her life. He’d had a strong right arm.

  Harry knew that. He’d seen him hit her once, just a cuff across the face, when she’d been Harriet’s age. Harry had been furious—and Papa had laughed at him.

  She’d got much better at dodging after that, and especially that summer. She didn’t want Harry to find bruises on her body. She wanted that time with him to be magical, separate from her real life.