What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

“Eep!” She jumped back, caught her heel on her skirt’s hem, and started to fall. At least I’ll land on my rump rather than my—oh!

  Harry was quick. He lunged forward, grabbed her by her upper arms, and pulled her against his hard chest.

  His hard, naked chest. This time there was no linen between her cheek and his skin. She listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

  Lord! Her own heart stuttered and then started again in slow, expectant thuds. Her breasts felt swollen and her womb heavy. The channel between her legs ached for Harry to fill it.

  “Hallo, Pen,” he said softly.

  The words whispered past her cheek. If she tilted her head just a little, his lips would—

  Stop! You are not seventeen any longer. You are a mature woman—a mother!—of twenty-seven. You came here to discuss the possibility of marriage—to the new vicar.

  She pushed and Harry let her go.

  She would ignore the fact that he was half naked—

  He was only half naked, wasn’t he?

  She looked down over his lovely muscled chest—it was even lovelier than she remembered—and was disappointed—no, happy—to see that he was, indeed, wearing breeches, though only a few of the buttons were fastened as if he’d scrambled into them.

  And could scramble out again . . .

  “Want to help me finish dressing?” His voice was teasing, but she heard an undercurrent of heat. He must be thinking what she was—that it would be far more fun to help him undress.

  If she were still seventeen, she’d tease him back—or just run her hands down the narrow path of soft hair over his flat belly to his fall, work the few buttoned buttons free, and release his lovely, long—

  Her eyes had followed her thoughts. Now she watched as a bulge grew, straining against the cloth, begging her to—

  “You’re blushing.”

  And he must know why. She kept her unruly fingers busy untying and removing her bonnet. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

  The words came out a bit sharply, but that was better than the alternative—breathlessly.

  She thought he looked disappointed that she hadn’t played along with him, but he didn’t pursue the matter. He shrugged—and she studied how his muscles shifted.

  Was she panting?

  Of course not.

  “I was feeling in need of a bath after exploring the barn and fields. Besides the kittens, I made the acquaintance of several hopefully-not-flea-bitten dogs, a cow named Bessie and another named Veronica, and a pair of inquisitive goats. I’d barely got back from the pool by the waterfall when I heard you at the door.” His grin returned. “Too bad you didn’t arrive just a few minutes earlier. You’d have got quite an eyeful.”

  She was already getting quite an eyeful and could imagine—in far too much detail—exactly what else she would have seen.

  I’m here to discuss the new vicar, not to lust after Harry’s body.

  At the moment she had zero interest in the new vicar.

  Harry moved to pick his shirt off the back of a chair—Good!—but stopped. Bad!

  “Do you mind if I leave it off for now? I’m still a bit damp.”

  Damp. Exactly. That’s what she was.

  No, that’s what he’d said he was.

  She should insist he put on his shirt. It was the only proper thing to do. Their days of lounging in the sun together, half—or completely—naked were long over.

  Unfortunately.

  He’s only here for a few days. When he leaves, I may never see him again. I might as well see as, er, much of him as I can now.

  She spoke before her better sense could prevail. “It makes no difference to me.”

  Idiot! You’re playing with fire.

  Nonsense. She was old enough to look without touching.

  You don’t need to touch the man to go up in flames.

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer you a cup of tea.” He smiled. “I’ve neither tea nor a cup. But I do have some brandy. Only one glass, though, so we will have to share. Would you like some?”

  She should say no and get right down to business. The sooner she did, the sooner she could leave—and the less chance she’d have to do something really, really stupid.

  On the other hand, brandy might make Harry more mellow and willing to consider her requirements for a vicar.

  She ignored her better sense again.

  “Yes, thank you.” She sat in one of the less-than-comfortable wooden chairs and watched Harry get the brandy bottle. He had a lovely, broad back.

  Focus on business. “Have you had an opportunity to write that letter to the duke?”

  “I have. I did that before I bathed.”

  She did wish he’d stop talking about that blasted bath. It made her imagine him completely naked, wet and slick, water running down his body, hands—

  Business. The Home. The letter.

  Harry poured some brandy and then handed the glass to her. “I’ll get it. And let me light a candle. It’s getting dark in here.”

  She took a sip and watched him pad over to the hearth—his feet were bare!—and bend over to light a spill in the fire. Mmm. His arse was covered by his breeches now, but she remembered how tight and muscled it had been, especially when he was thrusting—

  She took another sip of brandy.

  He lit a candle and brought it over with his letter. “Here you go. You can see I’ve left room at the bottom if you think I need to add a postscript.” He leaned over to point that out and to pick up the brandy glass.

  Oh, Lord. She was enveloped in his scent again.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I see. Thank you.” She swallowed. She needed more space. “You can take the glass.” She was never going to be able to concentrate unless he moved away.

  He sat in the chair across from her, the width of the table safely between them—until he put his muscled forearms on it and leaned forward.

  She forced her eyes to focus on the letter. She hadn’t seen Harry’s handwriting before—of course, she hadn’t. She couldn’t read when she’d been seventeen. His hand was bolder and, well, messier than the neat, precise script Jo and Caro favored. She leaned closer.

  “Careful you don’t set your hair on fire,” he said, moving the candle back.

  “Thank you.” She had to read the first paragraph over several times before she began to decipher it. It wasn’t just that his writing was difficult to read—Harry’s presence was a constant distraction.

  “Having trouble with my infernal scrawl, are you? It was the bane of my tutor’s existence, I assure you.” He leaned closer to look at the letter, putting his face within inches of hers. “Can I help you puzzle it out? And here, have some more brandy.” He handed her the glass.

  She took another sip. The brandy slid down her throat, warming her and easing some of her tension.

  “I believe I have the gist of it, though I’m certain Caro would say you should have covered our brewing operation in far more detail and with more enthusiasm.” She turned her head to smile at him—and almost brushed his cheek with her mouth.

  She sat back quickly. Talk about the vicar. Harry doesn’t mention the need for a new vicar. That is something he should add.

  Yes, but first she must be certain he made the strongest possible case for the Home.

  “And Caro would have a point. We are working to become self-sufficient. We aren’t there yet, but we are much closer than we were. Not that we could ever buy Puddledon Manor—there’s little hope of that. But I do think the duke’s monetary support can eventually be decreased. We might even be able to pay him rent at some point, and so add to his income.”

  She leaned forward again, but remembered in time to stop before she got too close to Harry.

  It was vital he understood the seriousness of the situation. “I don’t know what we’ll do if he doesn’t let us stay. We have nowhere else to g-go.”

  Panic she hadn’t felt since Aunt Margaret died blinded her. If the duke ordered t
hem out of the Home, where would they go?

  She felt a comforting warmth and realized Harry had covered her ice-cold hands with his own large, warm ones.

  “Don’t worry, Pen. Everything will be all right.”

  She took a deep breath. She wanted to believe him.

  “Grainger is a good man. He’s a widower with a young son of his own. He’ll wish to protect women and children.”

  She frowned at him. “Then why did he hold up our funds and send you here?”

  “He wanted to find out exactly what it was he was supporting. The estate books didn’t say.” He shrugged. “The only possibility that occurred to us was that the old duke or perhaps his son had hidden away a bastard here.”

  “Oh.” She felt herself flush. She pulled her hands back from his. “And instead you discovered you were the one with the b-bastard.”

  He frowned. “Yes. Pen, you know—”

  She cut him off. “Harriet and I are fine, Harry. We’ll be fine as long as you can persuade the duke to keep supporting the Home.”

  He looked as if he was going to argue, but then changed his mind and took a sip of brandy. He offered the glass to her.

  Oh, why the hell not? “You’re going to have to pour more if we keep this up.”

  He shrugged. “There’s plenty.”

  And he would have to carry her up to the house. But not yet. She wasn’t even tipsy yet.

  She noticed his eyes follow her tongue as she licked a drop of brandy off her upper lip, and her temperature shot up.

  Now is the time to mention the new vicar before I do something I shouldn’t.

  But Harry spoke first. “You’ve done a wonderful job raising Harriet, Pen. I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon with her”—he grinned—“even given all the animals I had to meet. She’s a delightful girl—bright and charming.”

  Oh. The anonymous vicar vanished from her thoughts like a puff of smoke as she felt herself . . . glow with pleasure. That was the only way she could describe it. No one else had ever appreciated Harriet the way she did.

  She smiled back at Harry. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” He took another sip of brandy and then reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when she was born, Pen, and that I’ve missed so many years of her life, but I’m very happy to have discovered her now.” His thumb stroked slowly over the back of her hand. “And to have found you again.”

  “Mmm.” Oh, God. She’d let down her guard when Harry had mentioned Harriet, and now the need she’d felt in the hopyard and the orchard came roaring back a thousandfold—a gale-force wind compared to a summer breeze. Her self-control shattered into a million pieces.

  The weight of Harry’s hand on hers, the slight friction of his thumb moving over her skin, brought back so many memories.

  It’s been over nine years since I’ve felt a man’s touch. Nine long years.

  Had she groaned?

  No, that had been Harry.

  “Lord, Pen.”

  He was staring at her, but there wasn’t much for him to see, just a high-necked serviceable gown and her hair pinned primly up on her head. What she could see, however . . .

  She wanted to run her hands over the muscles in his shoulders, his arms, his chest.

  “I’ve missed you.” His voice was low and husky and tight. His thumb moved to stroke her palm.

  She closed her eyes briefly, biting her lip.

  “You were always so responsive. So focused. So . . . so alive.” His hand moved to her cheek.

  I want to be alive again. To be more than Harriet’s mother.

  She turned her face, pressed her lips to his palm, and then let the tip of her tongue touch his skin.

  She heard his sharp inhalation and her body—her breasts, her womb—trembled in anticipation.

  * * *

  Zeus! The rasp of Pen’s tongue shot straight to his cock, which had already been pleasantly interested in the proceedings. Now it was desperate, demanding to be freed to find the dark, warm home it knew was under Pen’s skirt.

  Think with your head, man—the thing your hat sits on. You haven’t seen Pen for close to ten years. She was almost raped yesterday. She does not want to be mauled again.

  Pen’s tongue stroked lightly over his skin and the few thoughts he’d dragged into his brain spun away. Not surprising. Every drop of blood in his body had suddenly rushed to his cock.

  It had always been this way with Pen. With other women, sexual congress was a delightful, satisfying diversion. With Pen, it was as vital as breathing. He literally felt he’d die if he didn’t sheath himself in her soon.

  He took his hand back, gripping his knee instead. “Make love with me, will you, Pen?”

  So much for his vaunted skills of seduction, but then Pen had never been one to play games. And he didn’t want to seduce her, if that meant somehow tricking her or overpowering her better sense. He wanted her to choose this freely because she wanted it. “Please?”

  He wanted it, too, of course, more than he could remember wanting anything in a long, long time. He held his breath. If she said “no” . . .

  And she might well do that. He could see the indecision in her eyes.

  His stomach knotted. If she said “no,” he’d tell her he was sorry, but they’d talk another day about . . . whatever it was she had come here to discuss. He wouldn’t mention the house at Darrow. He’d thought—hoped—he could offer it to her with only the purest of intentions—to save her from having to worry about the future and to keep Harriet near him so he could be a part of her life—but he’d been fooling himself. He had an ulterior motive that was as far from pure as one could get.

  He wanted Harriet close, yes, but he wanted Pen closer.

  She bit her lip.

  It would be so easy to—

  No. This has to be her free choice.

  The water in the pool had been cold when he’d had his bath. If Pen said “no,” he’d see her to the door, say good-bye, and go back there in the hopes it was cold enough to extinguish this fire she’d kindled.

  Or you could visit Bess at the inn.

  No. The notion was revolting. And it wouldn’t work. In fact, he might embarrass himself and disappoint Bess if he tried. His need wasn’t only physical. It was . . . something more.

  It would be better to pleasure himself than—

  “Yes.”

  His thoughts stilled, and he focused again on Pen. She was smiling just the way she used to that summer, the corners of her lips barely turned up, her eyes wide and dark with desire and need.

  Thank God!

  “I—” His throat was so thick with lust he had to clear it. “I think we’d better go upstairs.” His randy cock was about to explode. “Where the”—he swallowed—“bed is.”

  They’d hardly ever made love in a bed, he realized with a bit of shock, or even indoors. They hadn’t wanted to be discovered—though from the benefit of hindsight, it was a minor miracle no one had stumbled on them by the pond or in the woods and fields.

  Or perhaps someone did see us and thought it not worth mentioning that one of the earl’s sons was swiving a tenant farmer’s daughter.

  He pushed that unpleasant thought aside. He had more important—more immediate—things to focus on.

  “All right.” Pen made a nervous little noise, part giggle, part gulp as she started for the loft. “I suppose we’re too old to, er, frolic on the table or against the wall.”

  That’s right. Many of their couplings had been shockingly quick.

  “No, not too old, but I’d rather be comfortable and not have to worry about falling down.”

  And he did not intend to be quick. He was going to take his time and savor the experience—assuming his swollen cock would allow him to. At the moment, he wasn’t entirely certain it would let him climb the stairs.

  He wanted to make love to Pen slowly on a bed like a twenty-eight-year-old man with some skill—not like a fumbling, lust-crazed eighteen-year-old boy
.

  That summer at Darrow had been a time apart, his last days of childhood—though at eighteen, he wasn’t a child obviously. But he’d been unencumbered by duty or responsibility, a freedom he’d never know again.

  Of course, he hadn’t appreciated it. He’d been too anxious to get on with his life, to shake Darrow’s dirt from his boots and have adventures. But he’d appreciated Pen. And whenever he looked back at that time, she was there, the brightest, warmest, happiest part of his memory.

  Except she hadn’t been there. She’d been exiled, on her own, raising their daughter.

  Right. He should have been a bit more encumbered by responsibility that summer.

  He would be responsible now. He’d move Pen and Harriet to Darrow. They’d have no more worries—and they’d be close to him. He could watch Harriet grow up, and he could frolic with Pen as often as he wanted.

  Unless his cock exploded. Climbing these infernal steps was painful.

  “Watch your head,” Pen said, ducking to get through the bedroom’s doorway. “The ceiling is very low.” She laughed. “Though I suppose you know that.”

  “Yes,” he said, ducking as well. “I have the knot on my head to prove it.” The room was so small and the roof so steeply pitched, he had to crowd close to Pen to stand up straight.

  He breathed in her scent, a light mix of lemon and . . . and something uniquely Pen. Ah.

  In the last ten years, he’d been here—in the charged moments before the first amorous move was made—any number of times with any number of beautiful, eager women, but he had never before felt such intense anticipation. This was Pen.

  Memories of young love and, before that, friendship, mixed in with his desire.

  You are expecting too much.

  Perhaps he was, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Oh?” Pen had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. She looked concerned—and then grinned. “I’ll kiss it and make it better, shall I?”

  His cock twitched. It wanted so badly for her lips to touch it now, but if they went that route, the encounter would be over before it began. He was very afraid it was going to be over too quickly no matter how much he tried to control himself.

  I shouldn’t be this randy. I’m not a lad any longer.

  “Do you remember when you said that before?” He pulled the first pin from her hair. Ah! It was as silky as he remembered.