At that moment, the gentlemen looked up at the sound of running feet, raised voices.
Corrie threw open the dining room door and yelled, “Quickly! James, oh dear, come quickly!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WHEN THEY BURST into the stable it was to see that the three villains were gone, Remie was unconscious beside the door, and three stable lads were bound and gagged in the tack room.
The horses were distressed—neighing, tails swishing, shuffling about in their stalls.
James dropped to his knees to feel for Remie’s pulse. It wasn’t strong, but at least it was steady, and he was coming around.
Judith said, her voice high—too high—shaking a bit, “Corrie wanted to come out and question them the moment we left you. She knew you, my lord, would go all stiff and proper on us and deny us our chance. She didn’t want to put it off until tomorrow, and so we told your mother that we needed to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room, but instead we came out here and they’re gone, escaped, and that means someone helped them.”
Jason said, “Yes, that young man who was standing across the square. He must have circled back, seen his men taken into the stables, observed the routine, then made his move.”
“He succeeded,” Douglas said, rising and dusting off his hands on his breeches. “Damn him. I will call for a doctor for Remie and send off a note to Lord Gray.”
As it turned out, neither Remie nor the stable lads had seen who had assaulted them. Remie said he’d heard something, but then he’d been struck on his head and that left him on his nose in the straw.
Lord Gray, when he was drinking a brandy in the Sherbrooke drawing room late that evening, allowed he’d heard about the attempts on Douglas’s life, told him he was now involved and would find the men responsible. “Since you have determined who the man is, why then, I will myself search him out,” he said comfortably, tossed back his brandy, kissed Alexandra’s lovely white hand, and took his leave.
No one believed him, even though they wanted to.
THREE WEEKS LATER
All seventy guests—forty more than originally intended—cheered wildly when James and Corrie, Viscount and Viscountess Hammersmith, came out of St. Paul’s, and ran, hand in hand, toward the open landau, festooned with every white flower Alexandra Sherbrooke could locate in greater London. It was, to everyone’s surprise, not a frigid, overcast day as all expected, but a cool, crisp, sunny day, unheard of for the end of October in England.
“It is because I am beloved in the celestial realms,” Corrie had said.
James had laughed. “Ha, it’s because those celestial realms are mightily relieved that I’ve saved you from being a fallen woman.”
Corrie also confided in her new mother-in-law that she’d promised up good works for twelve months if God would send down sunshine on their heads.
“What good works will you do?” Alexandra asked.
Corrie looked perfectly blank. “Do you know, I didn’t believe it would work at all, so I have no idea. I was expecting rain and thick fog up to my knees. This will require thought. I don’t wish God to believe that I wasn’t serious.”
Jason was saying to Judith, “All is forgiven and soon to be forgotten. Corrie saves his life, and now they’re married. Rules are sometimes the very devil.”
“I think they’re perfect for each other,” Judith said. She moved a bit closer, came up on her tiptoes, and whispered in his ear, “Corrie told me that James gave her only one hint about what would happen on their wedding night.”
Jason didn’t so much as twitch. “And what would that be?”
“He was going to kiss the backs of her knees.”
Jason laughed, couldn’t help himself. And Judith, demure as a nun, looked up at him through her dark lashes and said, “You mean that he’s lied to her? This isn’t what he’s planning?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll tend to her knees,” Jason said.
“And then I wonder what he plans.”
“You are too young, my child, to even have a clue about what comes after knees.” And he patted her cheek. “Or before knees, for that matter.” As his fingers touched her face, Jason, in that moment, knew it was all over for him. The wickedness in those dark eyes, the softness of her skin, the way he felt punched in the belly whenever she was near, it fair to knotted his innards, knocked the breath out of his lungs. He realized his throat had closed, cleared it, and said, leaning close to her ear, “If he has any sense at all, he’ll begin with her right knee. The right knee is more sensitive, you know.”
“Oh goodness, I had no idea. Is that really true, Jason? On every female? The right knee?”
“I have proved it many times.”
“Very well then. I will not forget that. Now, if James were you and Corrie were me, I think I’d kiss each finger of his right hand and then lick each finger, very slowly.”
Jason’s breath caught in his throat. He was getting harder than the stone steps of St. Paul’s. He pulled his eyes away from her, and shouted, “Don’t let anyone kidnap him, Corrie, or you’ll have to marry him again!”
She heard him above all the shouts and cheers and well wishes, turned, and waved, her laughter filling the air.
James pulled her against him and kissed her soundly, much to everyone’s enjoyment. The landau rolled forward. As the afternoon progressed, all in society who hadn’t been fortunate to receive a wedding invitation would hear about how the young couple were very pleased with each other, which was a good thing since they were tied together for life.
As for Jason, he patted Judith’s cheek, and walked away, whistling. She stared after him. He baffled her.
Three hours later, after miles of observing countless farms, rolling hills, gentle stretches of forests, picturesque villages, and several great houses, they were at last nearing the village of Thirley sitting in the heart of Wessex. Not much longer now, and James planned to have her in bed not more than five minutes after that.
The day had grown colder, and there was wind now, making the carriage windows rattle, but James didn’t care. And soon after they’d changed from the open landau to the carriage, it had become overcast, perhaps perfect for Devlin Monroe, curse him. James wanted to get Corrie up to a bedchamber, strip her to her skin, and begin an orgy of enjoyment.
By all that was holy, he was married. To the brat. It still boggled his brain when it hit him, made him blink to keep from crossing his eyes. The brat was his wife, and he could still see her—a three-year-old with sticky fingers, pulling on his pant leg to get his attention. Then she was a snaggle-toothed six-year-old offering him a strawberry jam-covered muffin, a huge smile on that small mouth. And now she was sitting next to him, seemingly content to look at the passing landscape, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She was his bloody wife. A tress of hair had come loose and was hanging over her shoulder, escaped from her very pretty bonnet. Lovely hair, and that hank of hair was lazily pointing down to her breast. He wanted to touch that breast, wanted to caress her with his fingers, with his mouth. He began to ferment in lust.
The brat was his wife.
“Corrie.”
She didn’t turn. “Yes, James?”
“Not more than fifteen more minutes. I booked us the largest room in the Gossamer Duck in Thirley. My Aunt Mary Rose says it’s fresh and clean, and the bed in the big corner room that overlooks the town square is so soft it makes you swoon.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’s all right. We’re married now. We can talk about soft beds and no one will be shocked.”
“I know. All of this—it’s rather alarming. I’m eighteen, supposed to be innocent for at least another year, but just look at what has befallen me. I’m riding next to a man who wants to rip my clothes off and do things to me about which I do have some ideas about since I was raised in the country and have eyes in my head.”
“What has befallen you is going to be fun. Listen, I’m going to help you sow your wild oats. We’re going to sow those o
ats together until you’re exhausted and tell me you’re glad we’re together because no other man could sow nearly as well as I do, particularly Devlin Monroe.”
She whirled around to face him. “That made not one whit of sense, James Sherbrooke. A girl sows wild oats with gentlemen precisely like Devlin Monroe, gentlemen she knows are wicked, not gentlemen who are honorable and too kind for their own good.”
She saw him like that? He said slowly, “You think I’m honorable, Corrie?”
“Of course you are, you idiot. We’re married, aren’t we?”
“You don’t think Devlin would have married you if you’d rescued him from kidnappers?”
That brought a thoughtful look. “Do you know I’m not really certain. I think Devlin finds me amusing, you’re right about that. However, I don’t think he would like to face me every morning across the breakfast table, even assuming that he’s able to sit across from a breakfast table, even if curtains were drawn against the morning sun.”
“You think I’m kind?”
“Of course you’re bloody kind.”
“I don’t like the way that settles in my guts. It makes me sound like a perfect weak-kneed sot. Like Sir Galahad, who couldn’t hold his sword properly and was always bungling about.”
She laughed, the little witch actually laughed. “I’ve seen your knees, James. They’re not weak, they’re as nice as the rest of you. As for not holding your sword properly, I remember very clearly how you and Jason were fighting with swords in the forest so your father wouldn’t catch you, and you forced him back into a bog. Sir Galahad was a wonderful knight, it’s his name you don’t like.”
“Weak-kneed sod. On the other hand, Jason once knocked me off the cliff over Poe Valley.”
“I’ll wager you landed with your sword still in hand.”
He laughed. “I did, as a matter of fact, nearly sliced myself in the belly.”
“Well, I will say that a woman likes a man to hold his sword properly.”
He stared at her. Surely she didn’t know what she’d said, even though she was raised in the country and had eyes in her head.
“Now, I am bidding a fond farewell to my wild oats. My heart isn’t broken, not really, since I am determined to make do with you since there is no choice in the matter.
“I asked Aunt Maybella to tell me exactly what was going to happen other than having you kiss the backs of my knees. I wanted all the fine details. Do you know what she said?”
The coach hit a rut and he grabbed the strap to keep himself upright. “No, what did Aunt Maybella say?”
“She screeched, ‘Knees? He wants to kiss your knees?’ And she went on to tell me that this was something a gentleman told a girl so as not to send her running. I told her that was fine, I understood, but then exactly what were you going to do? After the knees? She said you’d begin shaking. I didn’t believe her but I see I was wrong. You are shaking, James, I can see it. She said that means you’re overwhelmed with lust, a good thing, she said it was, but she knew you were a gentleman, and even if you were too young to mind your manners, you were very fond of me and would, therefore, not attack me in the carriage. She smiled then and said hopefully she was wrong.”
He was mesmerized. “Did she tell you what she smiled about?”
“She was smiling about lust, and she was thinking about lust with Uncle Simon. Can you imagine that? I cannot bear to think of Uncle Simon kissing Aunt Maybella’s knees, James. Parents aren’t supposed to do things like that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. My own parents, well never mind that. Come, Corrie, what did she say then?”
“Nothing. Do you hear me, James? She wouldn’t tell me anything. She rolled her eyes and told me to be agreeable to whatever you wanted—unless I found it so repellent that I feared for my modesty—and all would be well. I wanted to clout her, James, and then you know what she did? She started humming.”
“She didn’t mention that I was going to try to be agreeable to whatever you wanted as well, unless of course I found it repellent and feared for my own modesty?”
“You have no modesty.”
“Anything else from Aunt Maybella?”
“Well, no. She did pat my hand before she left my bedchamber, and said that were she I, she would be content to look at you not wearing a stitch of clothes, and agree to whatever you wanted. Being a very observant girl, I’m inclined to agree with her.”
James gulped. Aunt Maybella looking at him and he was naked? He didn’t want to think about that. He said, “I had a chat with my father as well.”
That floored her, as he’d hoped it would, and James tried not to laugh, when she said, “What? You mean you don’t know what’s going to happen either, James?”
“I have sort of an idea, Corrie. My father drew me some pictures, said to study them closely as he didn’t want me to muck it up.”
She ran her tongue over her lower lip, making it all damp and shiny, and he wanted to drag her down to the floor of the carriage, and he wanted his tongue on her bottom lip, making it shinier, wetter, and then—
“Er, do you happen to have the pictures with you?”
He stared at her, unable to believe what came out of her mouth, and then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed.
She was tapping her fingers, leaning toward him, all impatient. “Well, James, do you?”
He looked into her eyes, eyes lovelier than he’d believed them to be an hour before, and wasn’t that odd? “No, I memorized them, then burned them, like my father told me to. He didn’t want Jason to see them yet, you know, wanted to preserve his innocence until he was ready to get himself wedded.”
“Hmmm.” Tap, tap, tap, went her fingers. “Perhaps you could re-create them. Do you have any paper? A pencil?”
He slowly shook his head. “Corrie, why are you worrying about this? You already know what’s going to happen and so do I. Now, kiss me, before I shake myself right out of the carriage.”
And so she did, and it was close.
“Ah, thank God, we’re coming into Thirley.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
JAMES SAT BACK in his chair, his fingers against his chin, and tried not to laugh as he watched his wife of not many hours at all trying to play the courtesan. He didn’t know who was having more fun, Corrie or him. He realized she’d been planning this, and he wondered how far she’d go. All the way to her white skin? He hoped so. He hoped so mightily.
He’d dreamed of having her naked within five minutes of arriving at the Gossamer Duck, but it wasn’t to be. The innkeeper, Mr. Tuttle, was voluble in his greetings and insisted that his missus serve them some delightful tea and scones.
When at last he’d gotten her into the large, corner bedchamber, the door locked, she’d told him to sit down and not move.
As he watched her twirl her pelisse around on her finger and send it sailing toward a far chair, he realized that even when she’d begun sneering at him some three years before, mocking him whenever he came close, he’d enjoyed himself. She’d never bored him. He remembered spanking her, feeling the softness, feeling a spurt of lust that had made him feel guilty, because, after all, she was Corrie, just Corrie, the brat.
She pulled off her gloves and tossed them after the pelisse.
James forced himself to sit back in his chair, his chin propped on his steepled fingers, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and said, “Women wear too many clothes, Corrie. You should have begun your seduction when you were wearing only your chemise. What do you say I help you get to that stage?” He was praying that she’d say yes. He was in bad shape, didn’t know, in fact, how much longer he could last. He was going to shake himself right out of his chair and wouldn’t that be humiliating? He really didn’t want to jump her, but it was going to be close. He had to hold himself steady.
He rose slowly, unable to sit there any longer, and stretched, and Corrie, all sense of wicked adventure whisked instantly out the shadowed window, stood there, her hands over her breast
s, and looked horrified. What she saw on his face was something she’d never seen before. He looked close to violence; he looked determined; he looked to be in pain.
James wasn’t a clod. He’d hoped she would leave her girl’s modesty at the door, and he admitted that she’d tried, and thus her order to him to sit himself down and not move and she was going to entice him beyond endurance.
Well, he was beyond endurance right now and she’d only gotten rid of her pelisse and gloves.
He had to get a grip on himself. His father had told him that it was best to begin as you meant to go on, and that advice clearly translated to not mauling his wife on their wedding night. And then he’d frowned, shaken his head, and when James wanted to ask him what was wrong, he said only, “Life is a powerful and surprising thing. Unexpected things happen. Enjoy it, James.”
“Why do you have your hands over your breasts and you’ve still got your clothes on?”
She licked her lower lip again and James stared at that lower lip. He was breathing hard, his sex harder than his breathing; he prayed she wouldn’t see the wild urgency in him, he didn’t want to scare her witless. Damn, that lower lip of hers . . .
“Stop looking at me like that, James.”
Like what? Like he wanted to lick every inch of her? He hated being that obvious, but just couldn’t help it. “All right.”
“I’m covering myself because you’re not lying on the floor, unconscious, moaning with fever, helpless. You’re strong now, James, you’re quite yourself again, and you want to do things to me that I’ve only seen animals do. It makes me feel quite strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Well, perhaps I could walk the three steps to you and kiss you. What do you think?”
“Do it.”
She hesitated only a moment, then walked the three steps, coming to within an inch of him, and raised her chin. She stood on her tiptoes, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes. She kissed his chin.
“Try again.”
She opened her eyes, looking into his beloved face, a face so beautiful as to make a grown woman cry, and smiled. “Helen of Troy was nothing compared to you.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 87