by Jo Ann Wendt
Her heart pounded. Whenever he looked at her like that— his hazel eyes bright with admiration—she was in danger of melting. Like a failed pudding. She looked down and fidgeted with her skirt. What if Dove asked her to go to bed with him? Men did that to their bondslaves. Did she have the right to refuse?
But he leaped in a harmless direction.
"All right, grubworm. Earn your keep. Tell me about the day New Amsterdam became New York. I understand not a shot was fired. The colony was only too willing to shuck off Stuyvesant and the Dutch West India Company, eh? I want every detail. Leave out a single detail, and there's gruel in your bowl tonight."
With a smile, she did. She was in the midst of telling how, on a fine spring day in 1664, three English warships bearing the standard of the duke of York had come sailing into the harbor, when—suddenly—the limb they were sitting on creaked ominously.
"Dove—"
It dipped with a lurch. They grabbed for each other.
"Grubworm, we'd best—"
With a loud crack, the limb gave way.
When John strolled down the hill from the castle, wondering where in blazes Dove and Jericho had disappeared to, he was first relieved, then vexed to see the bedraggled, high- spirited pair coming across the meadow, striding like young colts through the late lingering swaths of sunlight, their voices ringing. They were soaking wet, but as merry as if they'd come from a party.
John didn't like it a bit. He didn't like the tight way Dove held her hand, nor the way Dove cocked his head at her in that goddamned charming manner. Most of all, he didn't like the way they looked together. They made a dashing couple, Dove's hair golden bright in the setting sun, Jericho's, a flaming red. Worse, there was an unnerving harmony between them. Even their strides matched. Hell, they were suited! Even a biind man could see it.
He didn't like it a bit. Striding angrily toward the absorbed couple, he considered his options. In a few days he would be sending a shipment of gentlemen's hats to France. Suppose he also sent a letter to Marguerite in Paris? He would hint that Dove was growing restless waiting for her. Marguerite was a canny female. If John knew pepper from salt, she would read between the lines. If Marguerite was as canny as he remembered, she would sail for England at once. He permitted himself a grim smile. All's fair in love and war, Dove!
When he reached the two cheerful chatterboxes, he gave Dove a look that said plain-out what he thought of the shenanigans. But to Jericho, he gave an indulgent smile.
"Let me guess," he said affably. "Dove went and took you to our fishing tree, now, didn't he. When we was children, he used to dunk Lady Marguerite there about once a season."
He was almost sorry he'd said it. The bounce went out of her. Her happy smile softened into unhappy surprise.
"Yes," she admitted, eyes soft with bewilderment. "That's where he took me." Instantly, she withdrew her hand from Dove's. Her hand hadn't belonged there and she knew it.
Dove was irked. "Hell, John, don't make such a big to- do over it. She'll dry out."
"I know," John said pointedly. "Marguerite always did." Then, claiming the slender hand Dove had been holding, he walked along with them, deliberately turning the twosome into a threesome.
Jericho was badly shaken by the afternoon. Sitting at table in the kitchen that evening, eating supper with the young talkative turnspit boys and scullery girls, Jericho brooded, lost in sober thought. She'd almost lost her heart to Dove all over again. She mustn't let that happen. She would end up in bed with Dove. Just like Mrs. Verplanck. And when his stupid Marguerite came, Jericho knew she would be discarded like—like a used handkerchief!
Janie, a ten-year-old scullery girl with big blue eyes and corkscrew curls, leaned over her stew bowl. "Jericho? We was wondering. Are you Lor' Dove's new nightgown lady?"
New nightgown lady? Out of the mouths of babes. Her cheeks heated, and she felt her skin flush pink. Around the table, six pairs of innocent young eyes waited for her answer. Had the children been adults, she would've snapped their heads off.
"No," she said firmly. "Of course not. I would never consider being anyone's nightgown lady. Nor should you when you grow up, Janie. It isn't decent."
"But you like Lor' Dove, don't you, Jericho? We all like Lor' Dove. Ever'body do." Harry. Stick thin, Harry was ten years old, too. He tended the turnspit dogs.
Jericho softened, looking around the table at the worried, waiting faces. The children were as taken with Dove as she had been at eleven.
"I like him," she admitted. "Of course, I like him."
Relieved, the children went diving back to their stew bowls.
But Jericho got up, appetite gone. She took her bowl and scraped it into Pax's. Cheeks still flushed, she strengthened her resolve. From this minute on, she would steer clear of Dove. She would go nowhere near him. She would stay away from him. For she was determined. She was not going to be just another Mrs. Verplanck.
Chapter Eleven
John left the next morning. Plague or no plague in London, he had his shops to tend, and he left despite Mrs. Phipps's objections, left with his pockets stuffed full of charms, posset powders, magical incantations—all manner of things friends pressed upon him for good luck, to keep him safe. Worried, remembering the children's rhyme, Jericho gathered a bouquet of "posies" for his pocket. His quiet eyes brightened, and he kissed her cheek.
"I'm obliged, Jericho."
"Stay well, John."
"That's a promise. And here's another." He stuffed the posies into his pocket and swung one booted foot up on the mounting rung of his coach. "I'll be back for Mid-Summer's Eve. 'Tis a country party. 'Tis held in Arleigh Castle meadow every year. The whole parish turns out. Everyone from St. John's Basket. There'll be bonfires and dancing until dawn. I'll escort you."
She felt a prick of dismay. Mid-Summer's Eve? A night traditional to courting couples? "John, I don't think—"
"There's something special I'll be wanting to ask you on Mid-Summer's Eve. With luck, I'll have something special to tell Dove, too. Maybe I'll even be. able to bring him someone special."
His expression changed. With a glance up at a specific window in the second story of the castle, he suddenly leaned down and kissed her full on her startled mouth. Then he got into the coach, waved, and rode away.
Up in the second floor of the castle, Dove was dressing in his apartment and watching John's departure as he dressed. When John planted his mouth on Jericho's, Dove gave the shirt ribbons he was tying such a ferocious yank that ribbon parted company from cloth. He glanced, vexed, at the silken scraps, then wrenched the ruined shirt off. Did John have to kiss her? Couldn't he make do with a Dutch handshake? Hell's bells, whose bondslave was she, anyhow?
"Uncle Aubrey, hallooo up there!"
"Dove, hallooo! I'll be down shortly."
Jericho squinted into the bright May sunshine and made a tent of her hands, letting her gaze climb three stories to the roof of Nordham Hall, trying to match the pleasant, booming voice to any of several men who were scrambling about the rooftop of the enormous old Tudor countryhouse, repairing it. Ropes, pulleys, scaffolding, ladders—all of it spider- webbed the facing of the house, and workmen scampered up and down from ground to roof to ground as surefootedly as sailors in a ship's rigging.
Against her better judgment, Jericho found herself in Dove's company again. Not five minutes after John's coach had rumbled off, Dove had come bounding into the scullery with his beguiling smile, sweet-talking her, trying to coax her into going with him on an errand to his uncle's house. Smarting from the previous afternoon, she'd been prepared to shun him. But when he'd cocked his head at her, looked at her with those bright hazel eyes and called her "beauty," she'd melted, spineless as a wet pudding. So here she was. Vexed with Dove. More vexed with herself. Worse, she'd abandoned duty. Mrs. Phipps's linens needed laundering. Black Bartimaeus' needed a fresh supply of heart tonic mixed. Not least, Pax needed a bath.
"Hallooo, Uncle! Don't bother. We're coming up
."
Taking her elbow, he led her to the largest ladder, a solid contraption of oak, braced bottom and top with ropes. He called to two passing workmen to come brace it further. Surely he didn't mean her to climb it? She squinted, looking * up three stories to the distant roof.
"Dove, don't be ridiculous. I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I'll fall."
"Nonsense. How can you fall? I'll be right behind you."
"Dove, women don't climb ladders. My petticoats,"
"You're wearing drawers aren't you?"
"Talk decent," she scolded, and the two workmen he'd summoned stood there chuckling. Dove draped his hands on his slim hips and smiled.
"You used to have nerve, grubworm. What happened?"
She had no intention of climbing any ladder. He was teasing her and enjoying it, blast him. She stood there stubbornly resolved until his next comment made anger flash in her like gunpowder in a musket pan.
"Hell, Marguerite used to climb with me all the time— trees, ladders, whatever. The higher the climb, the better Marguerite liked it. Marguerite's fearless."
Marguerite! She had heard that name once too often. Before she could examine the sanity of it, she whirled, grabbed hold of the ladder and began to climb. She turned a deaf ear to Dove's plea, "Jericho, stop! I didn't mean it—I was teasing—hell! You there—you men—hold the ladder!" She climbed as fast as she could climb. Marguerite, she thought, as she slammed the arch of her foot into each ladder rung, Marguerite, Marguerite. The ladder shook and vibrated as Dove came leaping after her.
"Jericho!"
"You told me to climb, Dove. I'm climbing."
"You stubborn witch!"
She was doing fine. She passed the windows of the first story. She passed the windows of the second. Then, midway up the third, she made the mistake of looking down. The men below, holding the ladder, were foreshortened into gnomes. She looked out. The green countryside swooped and rocked. She threw her arms around the ladder and clung.
"Oh, hell," Dove snapped. "I knew this would happen." The ladder shuddered violently as he angrily butted his head into her buttocks. "Move, grubworm. Go."
"I can't."
"Jericho! This is not funny. Move."
The world continued to spin. The blood pounded in her ears. Above, up in a place she dared not peek at, a man called down gently to her. "We're holding the top of the ladder, child. A few more steps, child. Come now. Courage."
"Jericho!" Dove climbed to stand on the rung below hers, straddling her with his hot angry body and arms. "Damn it, this is one hell of a time to turn gutless. Move."
She had no breath. "I'm dizzy."
"Jericho!"
"I'm going to fall."
"Fall and I'll wring your neck! Fall and you take me with you. Now close your eyes. What you can't see, you can't fear. Feel your way up with your hands and your feet. Move.''
"I can't."
"Jericho. If you don't move, I'm going to rip off those clumsy petticoats and personally place your foot on each rung."
He wasn't bluffing. He was furious. Drawing a shaky breath, she shut her eyes and blindly hazarded her way up another rung, clutching the ladder so tightly her knuckles ached. "Good girl," Dove said in a kinder but nervous voice. "You're nearly there. One more step." And when she'd hazarded to step up again, successfully boosting herself to the next rung, he smoothly coaxed her up another, then another and another. Finally, strong arms grabbed her from above. She was hoisted up. Blind with fear, she buried her face in a man's warm sweaty chest, clutching handfuls of shirt. She clung, sobbing. Holding her very gently, the man ranted at Dove. "Dove, of all the harebrained stunts!"
"I was only testing her nerve, Uncle."
"Testing her nerve? Someone should test your skull. To find out if there's a brain in it."
Jericho tried to open her eyes. But the roof was swaying like a ship, and the countryside rolled like an ocean. She felt seasick. She shut her eyes and clung.
"Hell, Uncle, where's your sense of humor? I was only teasing her. I didn't intend for her to climb the ladder. I intended to bring her up through the house, by way of the attic stairs. Who could know she'd take my dare?"
"This is reprehensible, Dove! I cannot forgive it."
"Grubworm? You're all right, aren't you? Grubworm?" Genuine worry rang in Dove's voice. She didn't want him to worry and didn't want to cause trouble between Dove and his uncle. Eyes shut, she nodded mutely. She groped toward the sound of his voice with one shaking hand, needing his touch.
"Take her, Dove. For reasons beyond my comprehension, she is willing to have more of you. I'll get her a cup of wine. To soothe her nerves."
"Get one for me too, Uncle."
"For you," his uncle snapped, "I'll get hemlock."
Jericho was transferred into Dove's arms. She clung, clutching his shirt, his hair, and for once he bypassed crude remarks. He didn't remark about her breasts heaving against him. Instead, he stroked her hair.
"Are you all right, grubworm?"
She nodded, swallowing chunks of air.
"I-I-I think I'm afraid of heights."
"I think so, too." There was a smile in his voice.
Still half-blind with terror, she let him lead her over the sloping roof to a tall brick chimney-pot. They sat. He planted her safely between his knees, her back against his warm chest.
"All right, grubworm?"
She nodded. Gradually, her panicky breathing slowed. A vague awareness seeped in. The roof beneath her was solid, the slope of it mild. She opened her eyes. A dozen brick chimney pots marched across the roof like sentries. Slabs of roofing-lead and stacks of lumber were piled everywhere. Workmen hammered and banged and whistled and strolled about as if the roof were on the ground and not halfway to the top of the sky. She felt she might, after all, live. She drew her first normal breath, and Dove nudged her hair away with his face and rested his cheek against hers.
"Tell me. Do you take every dare that comes down the pike?"
How wonderful it felt, cheek to cheek. "No."
"Then why did you?"
"I ... I don't know."
"You don't know," he murmured. "Then I'd best take care what I dare you to do, hadn't I. For you're likely to do it, aren't you, Pansy Eyes."
She turned her head and looked at him. His bright hazel eyes were shining with admiration. His mouth was only inches from hers. She had difficulty breathing.
"Dove, you should be drawn and quartered!" His uncle came striding back. "The girl is obviously frightened to death of heights. Here, take the wine cup. Help her sip it. My servant will bring you a cup, too. Not that you deserve it."
"Your hospitality overwhelms me, Uncle." Jericho took a grateful sip as Dove held the cup then set it aside. "Grubworm? Say hello to my uncle, His Grace the Duke of Nord- ham. Uncle Aubrey? This is my bondslave from New Amsterdam."
Shirt sleeves rolled, wearing garb as common as that of his laborers, the duke of Nordham squatted, and Jericho found herself looking into the most vivid blue eyes she'd ever seen. The duke was a lithe, sinewy man like Dove, but older. His shoulders were broader, his chest was thicker, his limbs meatier. He had the look of a soldier. His hair was curly, and except at the temple where it was going gray, his hair was as obnoxiously red as her own. Jericho liked him at once.
"You must call me Lord Aubrey. Pay no attention to that "His Grace' business. I've not yet broken in my new title." He smiled wryly. "Thus far, it fits about as comfortably as a new pair of shoes. I trust you have a name, child? Aside from the abominable one my uncouth nephew sees fit to use?''
She was late finding her breath. Her panic on the ladder had drained her more than she'd known. "My lord, it's Jericho. Jericho Jones."
"A pretty name for a pretty girl."
"I am obliged, my lord." She flushed with happiness. She'd been prepared to like Dove's uncle, and she did. She'd heard about him all of her life.
"Not at all. I am the one obliged—obliged
to make an apology. I apologize for having an idiot for a nephew." He gave Dove an impatient look. "You must bear in mind that not all de Monts are demented. Only a few of us."
She stole a glance at Dove. Drinking the wine the servant had brought, he was smiling and unperturbed. Plainly, the love bond between nephew and uncle was a given. Jericho felt a twinge of envy. To have family, to belong to a family who loved you no matter what you did . . . Then, with a start, she remembered her manners. Dear life, a duke. She should curtsy. She started to rise.
"Oh, for God's sake." Dove shoved her down. "Can you feature that, Uncle? Grubworm was going to curtsy. On a rooftop."
Lord Aubrey smiled. "You're from Dutch New Amsterdam, are you? Then a Dutch handshake will do. Welcome to my house, child. And the next time?" He wryly lifted one eyebrow. "Pray use the door?"
She had to smile, the reprimand was so gently given.
"My lord, I will. I promise."
"Good." He extended his hand for the handshake. Jericho took it and received the jolt of her life. Lord Aubrey had a birthmark on his right wrist. In the exact same spot as hers! But his was larger and never could have been hidden under a crocheted wristband. It flowed like a red blight up his forearm. She glanced into his eyes, startled. But he'd already risen.
Taking the wine cup his servant brought him, he again squatted to chat with Dove. Jericho gazed at him with wide- eyed wonder. Red hair. Blue eyes. A birthmark. Lord Aubrey and Dove embarked on a lively conversation. They tried to include her, but she was still too startled, too shy of conversing with a duke. To his polite questions, she responded with a soft, "Yes, my lord. No, my lord." In awe of the duke, she was also content to sit in Dove's arms. She was very nearly in heaven. Now and then, when he leaned forward to make a point, his golden hair brushed her cheek and she felt she could willingly stay on the roof forever.
And the day was wondrously fair. A breeze blew. Sunshine poured down. Fleecy clouds raced overhead. Workmen whistled tunes and hammered and banged and called to each other as they worked. As her fear of heights diminished, she looked out boldly, unafraid. How pretty England was. How tame compared to the wilds of America. The countryside rolled for miles.