by Jo Ann Wendt
Noting her interest, Lord Aubrey broke off conversation with Dove and gallantly pointed out landmarks. A soldier, he did it from a soldier's point of view. Jericho was touched and a little bit amused. If one dared be amused by a duke! Ignoring the beauty of the countryside, he pointed out military sites. An ancient Roman battle had been fought just to the east, he said, gesturing. A medieval battle had been fought not far to the west. Ignoring a pretty gorge with a sparkling rushing stream, he pointed out the dusty road that General Monck had used, riding down from Scotland with his army to force Parliament to restore the throne to King Charles II.
"And that castle in the distance, my lord?" She pointed.
His eyes narrowed. "Blackpool Castle," he said curtly. Finishing his wine in a swallow, he hove to his feet and went back to his work, rejoining his workmen. Jericho was dismayed.
"I said something wrong."
"You certainly did, dunce. You mentioned Blackpool Castle."
"And that's wrong?"
"It is around the de Monts."
She was sorry to lose Lord Aubrey's company. She'd liked him. And his birthmark utterly perplexed her. She sat quietly thinking about him, thinking about Mrs. Phipps's gossip. Lord Aubrey and Lady Angelina, the duchess of Blackpool . . .
When it was time to go down, a workman came to help Jericho down the attic stairs, through the dark attic and down another flight of stairs to the third floor. She waited there in the corridor for Dove.
Dove lingered on the roof. Or, rather, he found himself detained by a curt gesture from his uncle. Tossing hammer aside, Aubrey de Mont wove his way around stacks of lumber and roofing lead. His shirt was sweat streaked. He swiped an elbow over his sweaty forehead. "What in the devil is going on, Dove? Between you and that girl?"
Dove shrugged amiably. "Nothing. I'm just passing the time, Uncle. Until Marguerite arrives."
His uncle's eyes flashed. "Passing the time! Dove, that is despicable." He swiped a shirtsleeve at his forehead again. "If I'm any judge of females—and I believe I am—that girl is the decent sort. She's not a wench. Passing the time? Good lord, Dove!"
Dove shuffled his feet irritably. Normally, criticism rolled off him like water off a duck's back. But not when it came from the uncle he loved, the uncle who'd been a father to him. His hackles rose. "Hell, I'm not sleeping with her, if that's what you're so all-fired interested in knowing!"
"Then what are you doing? Merely breaking her heart? Open your eyes, Dove. That girl loves you. She's wearing her heart on her sleeve."
"I know."
"You know! Is that all you have to say?"
Drawing an irritated breath, Dove draped his hands on hips, and with a few brief verbal swaths painted Jericho's history. He finished by telling him of John's intent to marry her and of his own promise to John to take care of her this summer.
The duke of Nordham listened with growing astonishment.
"And you call that taking care of her? Making her climb three-story ladders? Hovering over her like a fox guarding the hen house?" Aubrey snorted. "Good lord, Dove. Remind me never to ask you to take care of anyone / value."
Dove tapped his toe. He winged an impatient glance out at the horizon. "Are you going to feed us or not? If not, we'll saddle up and go."
Aubrey's hackles went down. The fire in his eyes banked, and he gave Dove's shoulder a fatherly pat. "Of course, you're to dine with me. The girl, too. I'm glad to see you, Dove. I'm always glad for your company. You're always welcome here."
"You've got a damned funny way of showing it, Uncle." Turning on his heel, Dove left the roof and angrily barreled down the attic stairs.
Jericho waited in the third floor corridor, worrying for Dove. Finally, she heard his quick light step on the stairs. He came trotting down. "Did he scold you?" she asked anxiously when he emerged in the corridor. "For bringing me up on the roof?" He glared.
"Scold me? What do you think I am, six years old?"
After the sweet, protective way he'd taken care of her on the roof, she'd hoped to see warmth in his eyes, not irritation. "I only mean the fault is more mine than yours. I'm the one who climbed the ladder. He should scold me, not you."
"The hell with it. Come on. We're going to dine with a duke. And a damned ornery one at that." Grabbing her hand, he led her through the corridor, then down a broad handsome staircase that descended in a series of landings through the center of the house. The rooms Jericho glimpsed in passing were impressive, fitted with dark paneling and dark, massive pieces of furniture. But despite its grandeur, the house felt oddly cheerless. This wasn't a home, it was a house. There was no woman's touch to Nordham Hall.
"Dove, I cannot dine with a duke. I'm a bondservant. I cannot dine in a duke's dining chamber. I would die."
"This duke eats in the kitchen."
And to Jericho's amazement, he did. They took midday meal with Lord Aubrey at an ordinary table set in a corner of his busy, bustling kitchen. They dined with servant noise clattering all around them, and they ate simple hearty fare, the sort a soldier would favor. They drank ale from a communal kitchen tankard. While they ate and drank, Lord Aubrey and Dove conversed with obvious affection. Whatever had angered Dove on the roof had been forgiven and forgotten. While uncle and nephew talked, Jericho ate quietly and listened and watched.
She watched Lord Aubrey. Red hair, blue eyes. A birthmark. She felt a queer prickle. She watched his smile, his every gesture, listened to every word he uttered. He doted on Dove. That was plain. He behaved like a father to him. A nice man, she decided. Dove was lucky. When her thoughts drifted, and she speculated on the duke's odd habit of eating in a noisy kitchen when he had a big grand dining chamber to dine in, her heart suddenly contracted. Why, he was lonely! That's why he did it. She gazed at him with newborn sympathy. How strange, she thought, to feel sorry for a duke.
After midday meal, Lord Aubrey bade them a warm farewell and hurried back to his work. Walking to the stables with Dove, she looked over her shoulder and watched Lord Aubrey scramble up the ladder in his surefooted way. She felt wistful leaving him. Oddly sad.
The stable smelled clean. The pungent scent of horses and fresh droppings filled the air. Dove resaddled their horse, doing so in a quick, slapdash way that told her he was as indifferent to horses as he was to dogs and cats. She wondered, vaguely, if he liked babies.
"Has your uncle never married, Dove?"
"Never." Dove rammed in the bit. The horse could like it or choke.
"Why not?"
"I don't know. According to servant gossip, Uncle Aubrey and the duchess of Blackpool were once in love. The servants say Uncle Aubrey never got over it. But I say it's hogwash."
Jericho thought of Mrs. Phipps and gazed out the stable door. Lord Aubrey's strong figure was visible on the roof. "Maybe it's not hogwash, Dove. Maybe that's why your uncle grew so cool when I asked about Blackpool Castle."
Dove threw her a glance. "He grew cool, dunce, because all de Monts hate Blackpool."
"Why?"
"Because he's slime." Dove slapped the reins over the horse's dark mane. "Blackpool's slippery as a slug. During the war, we de Monts immediately declared for the king and never wavered, even though it meant exile, even though Cromwell seized our home and Mother had to take us and flee to France. Blackpool gave his allegiance to Cromwell. The coward!" Dove glanced at her. "Come here, beauty. Mount up."
"Beauty." Just like that. Her heart fluttered. Dove swung himself up into the creaking saddle, then kicked his foot free of the stirrup. Crossing her wrists the way he'd shown her, she gave him her hands, wedged her foot into the stirrup, and he popped her up onto the postilion.
"Why wasn't he executed when King Charles returned from exile and reclaimed the throne?
"Because the king granted amnesty to everyone except the actual regicides, the traitors who'd beheaded his father. Those, he executed. And good riddance."
Midway in the ride back to Arleigh Castle, they stopped beside a creek that sparkled w
ith bright summer sunshine. Dove tramped into a copse of walnut trees, probably to relieve himself, and Jericho knelt by the creek. Taking off her wristband, she bathed her face and arms. She felt slightly sunburned. The sun had brought out a rash of freckles. She looked at her arms in disgust. Lady Marguerite probably didn't have a single freckle on her whole perfect body.
When she'd shaken her hands dry, she rebuttoned the wristband over her birthmark, then knelt quietly, staring at her wavering reflection in the creek's surface. Red hair. Blue eyes. A birthmark. She thought about Lord Aubrey. Red hair. Blue eyes. A birthmark.
Dove came back, squatted beside her and bathed his face and hands. When he finished, he playfully flicked a squirt of water at her. She flicked him back. How handsome he was, squatting there, springy-legged in his snug leather riding breeches, the leather stretched tight over his thighs. Afraid of where her eyes might wander, she glanced back at her own reflection.
"Dove? Your uncle has a birthmark on his wrist. In the exact same spot as mine."
"What of it?"
Idly, she dipped a finger into her reflection, stirred it, and the red hair, the blue eyes rippled away. Indeed, what of it? It was stupid to fantasize. She'd done enough of that as a child, pretending that somewhere in the world she had a mother, a father. "Nothing."
"John tells me you want your freedom. Your indenture."
"No!" She looked up at him, stricken. It had come out of the blue. "I-I mean yes. I want my freedom. But not until I serve out my indenture. I owe you."
Dove flicked a bit of water at two mating dragonflies. Their pulsing wings were a shimmering iridescent green. "Hell, grubworm, you don't owe me a thing. If you want the truth,
I liked owning you. When you want your indenture, ask. It's yours."
She nodded mutely. It was kind of Dove. But the prospect of freedom, the prospect of not belonging to him anymore, collected in her throat like a choke.
It was time to go, but neither of them moved. The moment lengthened in a quiet stillness. The only sound was the tethered horse, munching grass. Dove wiped his wet hands on his shirt front. The white linen clung, showing every lean masculine plane. She looked and then quickly averted her eyes. When she glanced back at him, his bright hazel eyes were regarding her with speculation.
"Do you want to kiss?"
She looked down at her hands folded primly in her lap and counted her heart beats. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump- thump. In the periphery of her vision a ladybug with black spots on its delicate shell wings climbed a blade of grass, and beyond the ladybug, the lovely breeze-stirred stream lay dotted with sunlight.
"Yes."
"So do I." Lounging on his side on the mossy stream bank, he propped himself on one elbow, beckoned and smiled gently. "Come here, beauty ..." She moved, bunching her skirts, walking awkwardly on her knees until she knelt beside him. But when he didn't sit up to kiss her, she had second thoughts.
"Dove, I don't think we should kiss lying down."
4'Certainly, certainly!" he said. "Real kissing is done lying down. Ask anyone."
"Dove—"
"We are only going to kiss, Jericho. And cuddle a bit. I swear. I give you my word." With hands as gentle as kitten paws, he reached up and drew her down into his arms.
"Dove, I don't think we should—"
"You don't mind if I lie partly on top of you, do you? Like this?'' With a twist of his handsome shoulders he showed her, and she found herself lying under him, her breasts softly crushed to his warm chest. Her heart pounded.
"Do you mind?" he inquired politely.
"N-n-no."
"Good. Are you ready? Or do you first want to get used to lying together?"
She felt dizzy. "Dove, I think we had best k-kiss only once."
His shoulders slumped and prickles of frustration appeared on his handsome brow. "Only once." Then he grew cheerful again. "If it's to be only once, then let's make it a good one, eh?"
"All-all right." She waited nervously for him to kiss her, but he didn't. Instead he frowned, and, with his fingertips, gently jiggled her chin until her lips parted.
"What-what are you doing?"
"You'll see."
"Dove, I don't think we should—"
Deaf, he brought his mouth down and kissed her, and she did see. It was a jolt. For as he kissed, he gently tasted her, as if she were a sweet pudding and he a naughty child stealing a lick. Stealing several licks. She gasped in surprise. She'd never been kissed like this at Maritje's Ten Boom's waffle frolics. Dizzy, she gripped his shoulders.
"What's wrong?"
"Dove, I-I-I don't think you should kiss me like that."
"Why not?" Her heart was pounding so hard she couldn't think of an answer. "Don't you like it?" he asked politely.
"Y-yes, I do, b-but—"
"Then reciprocate, grubworm. Kiss me. Kissing is a reciprocal arrangement. Do it to me."
He brought his mouth down. Trembling, she lifted her mouth and kissed him. When his lips parted, waiting expectantly, she tasted him—shyly at first, and then, when he made soft sounds of pleasure and crushed her closer, more boldly. She found she wanted to give, and she gave. She gave with all her heart, and he returned the compliment with fervor, crushing her in his careful gentle arms.
"Jericho! My God, this is sweet."
"Dove, I'm dizzy . . . like wine."
"Kissing can do that . . . kiss me again."
"Dove, w-we should stop ..." "Do you want to?"
"No!"
"Nor do I."
It was glory, kissing and fondling with Dove on a soft summer's day. Time and the world faded away. The summer breeze stirred their hair as they kissed. Birdsong trilled in the trees overhead. The stream gurgled peacefully. They were lost in sensuality, hearts pounding, their breath moist and musky. Dove began something new.
"Dove—"
"Let me. You'll like it. I swear I won't harm you."
Dizzy with love, she grew dizzier still as he swooped her up and rolled her atop him. With panting breath and urgent hands, he fitted her hips to his. Through layers of gown and leather breeches, his bone-stiff need pressed against her feminine need. Holding her hips, he began to move. She gasped.
"Dove—"
"Let it! Let it happen, Jericho. Put your mouth on mine."
When the shocking, spiraling pleasure peaked and she cried out, he crushed her close and bucked urgently, his body hot as flame. When it was over, when her bones drained away like water, she wilted upon him, breathing as hard as he. After several long and drowsy minutes, Dove rolled her off onto the ground beside him. She lay drowsy in the crook of his arm. His face was flushed. He radiated heat. A sheen of moisture covered his brow. He gave her a sheepish grin.
"I spent in my breeches."
She lifted her heavy head. "What, Dove?"
He propped himself part way up on a lazy elbow and smiled.
"You've never done this before, have you?"
"No, of course not." She flushed. Suddenly, she had a very clear idea of what he'd meant. As he watched her color rise, his smile broadened. He tousled her hair.
"You're sweet."
Then he rocked to his feet and strode off downstream. While he was gone, she tidied herself as best she could. But the grass stains on her skirts were in to stay. What if Mrs. Phipps saw? What would she tell Mrs. Phipps?
Dove came striding back, his hot flushed look gone, his eyes bright and clear and smiling. His passion spent, he gathered her in his arms in a sweet friendly way, as a man might gather in his wife. But when she lifted her mouth to be kissed, he gave her a swat on the buttocks.
"Lesson number one. Hell, Jericho, don't be so willing and eager! When a man wants to kiss you, play coy occasionally. Say no once in a while." But he said this with such warmth and smiling light in his eyes, that she smiled, too.
"I fear I could never say no to you, Dove."
He sighed a great sigh. For a long moment, he rested his smooth warm forehead on hers. They r
ubbed noses in affection.
"In that case, grubworm, you and I are in for a peck of trouble this summer. John had best get his ducks in order."
"John?"
"Never mind. Give me one last kiss and we'll go."
She drew back and smiled playfully. "No."
Amusement brightened his eyes. "Jericho!"
"No, no, no, n—" Throughout the kiss, she continued to murmur no until Dove put a stop to it.
"Jericho," he warned coming up for air, "be silent, or so help me, I'll take you to the nearest bondslave market and swap you for a sheep!"
They rode back to Arleigh Castle talking and chatting about a hundred different things. Jericho felt supremely content. Her contentment lasted all the way to the castle. It lasted until Dove lifted her down from the postillion and she turned to see Janie coming pellmell across the castleyard, feet flying, white apron flying.
"Jericho? Oh, Jericho, come quick! Something awful's happened!"
Jericho froze. She knew. Forgetting Dove as if he'd never existed, forgetting the beautiful day as if it had never happened, she picked up her skirts and flew.
Chapter Twelve
Jericho nursed Black Bartimaeus night and day for two weeks. The doctor came daily from St. John's Basket. Mrs. Phipps came to his bedside a hundred times a day. Dove came. But his exuberant visits so tired Black Bartimaeus that she had to forbid Dove entry. Leonardo d'Orias and Lord Lark locked in. The servants looked in. Pax wandered in and out, thrusting a mournful muzzle into a black hand that was now too weak to pet him. Even Lady de Mont looked in once. But Jericho never left his side.
She anguished. How selfish she'd been in these opening days in England, thinking only of herself, of her own foolish feelings for Dove. Self-absorbed, she'd neglected the dearest, kindest man of all.
As the anxious days passed, the plain, ordinary tasks she did for him lent themselves to plain, ordinary thinking. Sensible thinking. She thought long and hard about Dove. He was a lord, she was a bondslave. Even if she won his love, she could never hope to marry him. The most she could hope to be was his mistress. And what was a mistress? In plain words, a whore. Even the king's famous mistresses—the countess Lady Castlemayne and the actress Nell Gwynne— were called whores, their names well known and bandied about in tap houses as far away as New Amsterdam.