Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's ListSaved by the Viking WarriorThe Pirate Hunter

by Annie Burrows

  ‘For now,’ he said firmly, shutting the door behind them. ‘But I give you fair warning that once the Brownlows get here, I shall have them make up every bed, in every room, so that we can try out whichever takes ours fancy, whenever,’ he said, thrusting the warming pan under the quilt, ‘it takes our fancy.’

  Whenever? Oh, yes. She liked the sound of that. Funny, but she’d never thought of herself as a spontaneous sort of person. But then she’d never had the chance to find out who she really was, or what she really liked. She’d been too busy just surviving.

  But from the moment she’d married Lord Havelock—or at least, the moment he first started to get undressed, she’d decided she liked being able to make love whenever the fancy took them.

  ‘But for tonight,’ he said, taking her in his arms, ‘I shall make up for the fact we have to stay in here, by showing you...something new.’

  ‘Something new?’

  What more could there be? He’d started by teaching her that people could make love in broad daylight. And gone on to demonstrate that they didn’t even need to lie down.

  Her stomach flipped over in anticipation as he took her hand and led her to the bed. The look in his eyes made her legs tremble.

  ‘What,’ she whispered, ‘do you intend to do to me?’

  ‘Drive you wild,’ he whispered back.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the morning of the twenty-eighth, while they were still eating breakfast in the kitchen, the back door flew open and a middle-aged couple burst in, bringing with them the inevitable gust of rain-laden wind.

  ‘My lord, I’m that sorry,’ the woman began to apologise. ‘Had we any idea you was coming, we’d not have gone away. To think of you having to make do, at Christmas of all times.’

  ‘My Lady Havelock,’ drawled Lord Havelock icily, ‘allow me to present, finally, Mr and Mrs Brownlow. The caretakers of Mayfield.’

  She managed, but only just, to follow her husband’s lead and not get to her feet and welcome the couple into the home as though they were guests. But she felt most uncomfortable when the one bowed while the other curtsied to her.

  ‘You look as though you’ve done very well, considering,’ said Mrs Brownlow, her eyes darting about the kitchen before coming to rest on Mary, who suddenly became very aware of the shabbiness of her gown and the fact that she’d not bothered taking off her apron when she’d sat down to breakfast. It felt as though Mrs Brownlow was sizing her up for the position of cook, rather than lady of the house. And that, given the choice, Mrs Brownlow wouldn’t have granted her either position.

  ‘But now we’re back, you won’t need to bother yourselves with all this sort of thing any longer,’ she added with a sniff, before going to the stove, opening the doors, rattling the poker about inside, then shutting them with more noise than was anywhere near necessary.

  ‘I notice you’ve decided to make use of the green-silk room,’ said the woman, taking the tea caddy from the shelf where Mary had left it and restoring it to the higher one where she’d first found it, but which was so awkward to reach. ‘Saw the smoke from the chimneys as we was coming up the drive,’ she added, which explained how she’d worked out where they’d slept, without anyone telling her.

  But then Mrs Brownlow stilled, catching the full force of Lord Havelock’s scowl.

  ‘We was that relieved,’ she said, veering from her display of competence to ingratiating sweetness, ‘you hadn’t tried to take over the rooms what used to be his late lordship’s and his wife’s. None of the rooms in that wing have been touched since I don’t know when. Need a real good spring clean before they will be fit for use.’

  Mary could have told her, had she paused to draw breath, that she could tell exactly how competent she was, from the state of the larder, the kitchen and the wing that had been let out to raise revenue. And that she didn’t have anything to worry about. Lord Havelock might have a ferocious scowl, but he wasn’t the kind of man who’d turn someone off for not somehow sensing he was about to marry and descend on his ancestral home.

  ‘And we’ll need to get the chimneys swept before anyone attempts to light a fire in any of the rooms. Probably got several years’ worth of birds’ nests in them by now.’

  At her side, Lord Havelock froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. From the way his face paled, and the muscles in his jaw twitched, she guessed he’d just had a vision of setting the chimney on fire and burning his house down around his ears on the very first night he took up residence.

  ‘Now, you don’t need to sit in the kitchen any longer, not now we’re back,’ said Mrs Brownlow, laying her hand on the teapot, then whisking it off the table with a rueful shake of her head. ‘Mr Brownlow will light the fire in the drawing room.’ She shot a speaking look at her husband, who scurried off in the direction of the coal store. ‘It will be warm as toast in next to no time. And I’ll bring you a fresh pot of tea in there.’

  Lord Havelock set his cup down and got slowly to his feet.

  ‘See that you do,’ he drawled. His attempt at nonchalance was good enough to deceive the Brownlows, but not Mary. She could tell he was still reeling from that casual reference to highly inflammable nests, which often did get lodged in chimneys.

  ‘Lady Havelock,’ he snapped. ‘Remove your apron and leave it behind. I sincerely hope never to have to see you in it again.’

  Well, he had to give vent to his feelings somehow, she supposed. Lowering her head, in token meekness, she untied her apron strings. But she had to press her lips together to stop a smile forming. She kept her mouth firmly shut all the while Lord Havelock led her to the drawing room.

  But once they were standing in the middle of the cold, inhospitable room, it struck her that they were behaving more like two naughty children caught out by their governess, than the lord and lady of the house.

  And the giggles that had been building finally began to bubble over.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’

  Lord Havelock turned to her, his brows drawn down repressively.

  ‘N-nothing,’ she managed in between giggles. ‘E-everything,’ she admitted, dropping on to the nearest sofa and pressing her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to stop.

  ‘There’s nothing funny about nearly burning the house down.’

  ‘Y-you didn’t, though. There must not have been,’ she said in a vain struggle to both reassure him and bring herself under control, ‘any n-nests up the ch-chimney, after all.’

  ‘Don’t say that word!’ He planted his fists on his hips and glared down at her.

  ‘Which one? Ch-chimneys? Or n-nests?’

  She was laughing so hard by now that she had to wipe away the tears that had begun to run down her face.

  ‘Neither,’ he snarled, though his eyes had lost that dead, hollow look. ‘Both.’ As though coming back to life, he began to stalk towards her. ‘Do you hear me, woman? You are never, ever, to mention birds’ nests, or chimneys, to me again.’

  His words were firm, but his lips were starting to twitch, too.

  ‘Or...’ she said, gratitude that he was a man who didn’t take himself too seriously surging up within her on a tidal wave of joy. ‘Or what?’

  He was almost upon her now and his eyes were smouldering with such heat it made her want to lean back into the sofa cushions and open her arms to him.

  ‘Or,’ he growled, ‘face the consequences.’

  With a little shriek, she leapt up off the sofa just before he lunged for her. For the next few minutes, he chased her round and round the sofa, uttering dire threats of what he would do if he caught her, which he could have done any time he chose since she was laughing too hard to properly control her movements.

  And then the door opened and Mr Brownlow appeared with a full coal scuttle. And came to a dead halt at the sight of his master
and mistress playing chase.

  ‘Dashed cold in here,’ panted her husband as Mary froze in place. ‘Just keeping warm, with a little exercise.’

  The look on Mr Brownlow’s face, the knowledge that had he come in a few seconds later he would have caught them rolling about on the sofa rather than running round and round it, was too much for Mary. With a shocked little cry she darted past the scandalised caretaker and out into the corridor, where she made for the stairs.

  She heard her husband’s footsteps pursuing her, but this time she wasn’t playing. She really did just want to run away and hide. Without thinking, she made for the only room in the house where she would feel safe. The bedroom in which they’d slept the night before. The embers still glowed in the grate, making the room less chilly than any other, except the kitchen.

  Lord Havelock reached it only a few seconds behind her. Before she could even turn round, he’d grabbed her by the waist.

  ‘Got you,’ he cried, propelling her across the room and flinging her down on to the bed.

  ‘Now, my girl, we’ll see how long you can keep on laughing at me,’ he growled. Not that she felt like laughing any more. All the humour had gone out of the situation.

  ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  She hadn’t realised she’d communicated her chagrin to him. But she’d definitely tensed up and he’d noticed.

  ‘I...I’m sorry,’ she said, tears starting to her eyes as he reared up and looked down at her in confusion. ‘It was just...’ She gulped. ‘I can’t believe I forgot Mr Brownlow was on his way to make up the fire in there. A few more moments, and he would have found us... He would have found us...’ She couldn’t go on. Her face flamed though, at the knowledge she’d been about to let her husband catch her and tumble her to the sofa he’d been chasing her round. And let him commence the perfectly thrilling punishments he’d been threatening.

  He started to chuckle.

  ‘It isn’t funny.’

  ‘But it is, though. Far funnier than almost burning the house down around my ears. And you, madam...’ he gave her a squeeze ‘...couldn’t stop laughing about that.’

  He kissed her brow in a comforting sort of way. And then her mouth, as his fingers sought the ties of her bodice.

  ‘Surely you cannot still be thinking about...about...’ Oh, but he most definitely was. And the minute he slipped his hand inside her gown, she was thinking about it again, too. Not just thinking about it either, but wanting it.

  ‘Since we’ve been married,’ he groaned, pushing aside an inconvenient swathe of material so that he could get at bare skin, ‘it seems to be damn near all I can think about.’

  ‘B-but we can’t.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Mr Brownlow already knows what we’ve come up here for.’

  ‘Oh, surely not!’

  ‘Of course he does. He almost caught us at it in the drawing room, don’t forget.’

  ‘As if I ever could,’ she cried in mortification.

  ‘Mary,’ he said more gently, stroking the hair from her forehead. ‘You don’t really want me to stop, do you? Not...now?’

  He ran his hand up the outside of her leg, pushing her skirt out of the way. A thrill shot through her, making her heart beat faster, her insides melt and her hips squirm.

  ‘It would be a positive crime to disappoint Mr Brownlow.’

  ‘Oh, don’t speak to me of him,’ she whimpered, torn between giving way to the delicious sensations he was rousing and the notion that she oughtn’t, she really oughtn’t, behave like this any more, not now they had indoor servants.

  ‘Not another word,’ he agreed affably. ‘In fact, I’m sure I can put my mouth to much better use.’

  He did. He set about making love to her with such skill that before long her world shrank to the size of one bed, and the only two people left were the two people on it. What had started out downstairs as playful rose swiftly again to a crescendo of desperate need. The urge to scream when her release came was so overwhelming she didn’t know how to deal with it. In the end, she pressed her mouth into his shoulder to muffle the cry.

  Afterwards, they lay together panting and just looking into each other’s eyes in a kind of mirrored awe. She was shocked at herself for responding to him with such ardour, in spite of her awareness that the servants must know what they were doing.

  And he must be wondering what kind of a woman he’d married. One minute she’d been saying she felt self-conscious. That she really couldn’t...do that. The next she’d been tearing at his clothes in a kind of frenzy, wrapping her arms and legs round him, and coming to such a cataclysmic release she’d...she’d bitten him. She could see the teeth marks on his shoulder!

  ‘Oh, what have I done?’ She raised trembling fingers to his shoulder. Then pressed penitent lips to the reddening crescent.

  * * *

  She’d made him feel like a god, that’s what she’d done. He’d never been with a woman who responded to him the way she did.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He shrugged with feigned nonchalance, whilst desperately trying to stifle the unfamiliar, and slightly disturbing, emotions welling up inside him.

  ‘It isn’t nothing. I’ve left a bruise....’

  ‘A mark of passion. Such things happen between lovers all the time.’

  He winced at the look on her face. He’d been trying to make light of a moment he was damn sure was going to live in his memory for a lifetime. Instead he’d made her think of her wondrous passion as something...tawdry.

  Sitting up, he turned his back on her and thrust his fingers through his hair in annoyance. He should have just admitted he liked it. He could have done so in a teasing kind of way, so that she wouldn’t guess how deeply she’d moved him, couldn’t he? And then she would have smiled and...

  God, but it was damn complicated, being married. The good moments got all snagged up with darker feelings until he couldn’t unravel the tangle.

  ‘Look, Mary...’ He sighed with exasperation. ‘If ever you do anything I don’t like, I will be sure to tell you. No need to get worked up over such a little thing.’

  ‘I...I’m sorry.’

  The tremor in her voice made him turn to look at her sharply. Her little face was all woebegone.

  Damn. Why wasn’t he more adept with words? His explanation of how his mind worked had come out sounding more like a reprimand. And he’d hurt her. Which was the very last thing he ever wanted to do.

  ‘Look, I warned you before we got married that I’m a blunt man.’ In lieu of smooth words, he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So this is the truth. I like being married to you.’ Far more than he’d thought possible.

  ‘Oh. Well, I like being married to you, too,’ she said shyly, returning the pressure of his hand.

  He lifted her hand and kissed it.

  ‘There. That’s all right and tight, then.’ He got up and reached for his clothes. ‘Think I’ll go for a ride.’ Clear his mind. And let her recover.

  Because if he stayed he was bound to end up saying something that would make this awkwardness between them ten times worse.

  * * *

  All of a sudden, it seemed to Mary, the place was teeming with servants. When she’d eventually plucked up courage to go downstairs and face Mrs Brownlow, the woman had told her exactly how many she would need to run a house of this size efficiently, then brought them all in. She didn’t even go through the motions of letting Mary interview them. She just hired the people she always hired on whenever Mayfield had tenants.

  Not that she could fault any of them. Each of them knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing—and each other, too.

  She was the only one who seemed to feel like a stranger here. Who wasn’t totally comfortable with their role. She was used to doing housework, not ordering o
thers to do it, that was half the trouble.

  So, as the spring cleaning commenced, even though the new year had not yet come round, Mary took to walking about the rooms with a rag in her hand, and a scarf tied over her head, desperate to find some dirt, or a cobweb, Mrs Brownlow’s team might have overlooked.

  While her husband rode out early to avoid, she suspected, all the bustle, even though he muttered vague excuses about tenants. And only making love to her at night, behind the closed doors of their bedroom.

  ‘There’s a carriage coming up the drive, my lady.’

  Mary looked up from the skirting board behind the sofa—where she’d found a satisfyingly thick layer of dust—to see that Mrs Brownlow herself had come with the news, instead of sending her husband.

  ‘You’ve got visitors. So I’ll take that,’ she said, snatching the duster from Mary’s hand. ‘You shouldn’t be doing it, anyway,’ she grumbled.

  Though what was she supposed to do all day, now that her husband didn’t seem inclined to chase her round the furniture any longer? Sit on a sofa and twiddle her thumbs?

  ‘I’ll have Mr Brownlow...’ who’d taken on the mantle of butler ‘...show them to the drawing room while you go and change into something more suitable.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mary, fumbling the strings of her apron undone and making for the door.

  Change? Into what? She supposed she would look slightly better in a clean gown, rather than one she’d been crawling around on the floor in, but not much. Neither of the other gowns she owned were in all that much better condition, after serving as bedding, then withstanding her time as cook and housemaid.

  There was her wedding gown, of course. Only was it suitable for receiving callers?

  What did the wife of a viscount wear for receiving callers, anyway?

  Oh, what did it matter? Surely the most important thing was to make them feel welcome?

  And it was no use, she decided—snatching the scarf from her head and stuffing it into her pocket—trying to pretend she was something she wasn’t.