by Desconocido
“Yes, and he never stopped, not even after he married my mother.” He began to inch down her body, one slow kiss at a time. “I thank God that she finally locked her bedchamber door against him nine years ago.” He moved past the place he intended to feast upon in a moment to kiss his way down her leg and was certain he heard a murmur of disappointment. “At best guess, it was a year later that he caught the pox.”
“Oh, Ashton. Thank God your mother was spared that.” Penelope knew it was only the brief cold slap of his words that gave her the ability to utter such a complete, coherent sentence. As he kissed his way up her other leg, the wild need only he could awaken in her was already returning.
“He did not stop his rutting until shortly before he died so God alone knows just how far and wide he spread it.” He traced the shape of each of her hipbones with his tongue. “He finally brought his ravaged body home so that the family he had so shamed and ignored now had to suffer through his increasing insanity. Then, one night, he ran naked from the house, screaming that there were mermaids in the pond and he would have one. We could not catch him in time. He flung himself into the water. By the time Marston and I caught up to him, he had drowned.”
“Oh, I am so sorry for you.”
He propped himself up on his forearms and looked at her. “Do not be. He was no father to any of us. Ever. There was a touch of sadness at lost chances, something I believe we all suffered, but no more. What I am trying to say is that, at some point, it finally sank into my poor, stunted male brain”—he grinned when she laughed—“that I was letting that fear control me so I cut myself free of it. And this is not wrong. What we share is beyond words.”
“Aye, it is.”
“And I mean to revel in it, including gorging myself on the sweetness of you.” He bent his head and slowly licked her.
Twice he took her to a shattering release. To Penelope’s astonishment, she still ached to have him deep inside her and she murmured a complaint when he urged her up onto her hands and knees. She did not think she had the strength or the patience for any more games.
“Grasp the head board,” Ashton said, not surprised by how rough and thick his voice was for he was shaking with his need for her.
Penelope did as he said and gasped when he joined their bodies from behind. Shock over the unusual position faded quickly, burnt away by desire. Her last clear thought was to wonder just how many ways one could do this.
They were both dressed and ready to go downstairs before Penelope found the courage to ask, “Ashton, you have told me that you have no imagination and that you were temperate, so how is it that you know so much about, well, this.” She blushed and waved her hand toward the bed.
He grinned and then kissed her. “Books.” He kissed her again. “And beautiful inspiration.”
“Books? There are books written on such things?”
“Yes, and they are the fabled pirate treasure of every boy who reaches the age to start thinking on women.” He saw the shocked look on her face and laughed.
“Boys will never change,” she muttered and followed him downstairs.
“Shopping?” Penelope looked at her aunt then her uncle and then back again.
Argus nodded and tugged Darius close to his side. “I decided to take the older boys out to a tailor I know. He does fine work and is not a thief, never pricing his clothes far beyond reason. So we are off to get these brothers of yours and Darius here measured for some new clothes. Septimus is coming along to help.”
Penelope looked at each of the boys and Septimus, who was not much more than a boy himself. She could see their eagerness. Argus had undoubtedly insisted Septimus go so that he could also get a few new clothes. It would certainly make up for the young man’s meager wages. She did not have the heart to deny any of them just because her pride pinched over the fact that she had never been able to give them such a treat. That, she knew, was not her fault. She looked at her aunt Olympia, who stood holding the hands of Juno and Paul.
“I intend to take Juno and Paul out for a wander.” Olympia softly instructed the children to stay where they were and, grabbing Penelope by the arm, dragged her to the far end of the room. “If that little darling’s mother spent any of Quintin’s money on that child’s clothing, I will eat my shoes. I saw Juno’s things and they are little better than rags. I suspect the woman bought that one pretty dress just to drag her here.”
“I know,” Penelope muttered, “yet the mother was dressed quite exquisitely and warmly. But, Aunt—”
“No. Do not argue. You have been consistently and monstrously robbed. Argus and I agreed that we all should have kept a closer watch on this place and you. ’Tis bad enough that the rogues in our family feel free to leave you with the burden of raising their children, especially when you began this when you were little more than a child yourself. Consider this an apology for that unforgivable neglect. And they are our family, too. Now, we have already told the other boys that we shall take them out on the morrow,” she said as she led Penelope back to where the others waited near the door.
Before Penelope could even think of a reasonable protest, they were all gone. That left her alone with six little boys. Not even Mrs. Stark was around, having left the house an hour ago. The woman’s daughter was still too sick to be left alone all day. Penelope had also hoped to have a woman-to-woman talk with her aunt, but that would now have to be arranged for later.
She sighed and collected her sewing. When she stepped back into the parlor, she found the younger boys already gathered there playing a game or reading a book or drawing. They were being amazingly well behaved and she had to wonder what promises her aunt and uncle had made to them to get such a result. For a moment, she wanted to complain, her pride ruffled by the apparent usurping of her place, but good sense intervened. She ruled in the matter of the boys and she knew it. She had made a family for them. If, now and then, aunts, uncles, cousins, or wayward fathers wandered by spreading their largesse, she would not let it trouble her, but share in the boys’ joy over whatever gifts they got. She would, however, make certain that the boys understood that not every visiting relative would be so open-handed, if only because they could not afford to be, and that not every father would include every child in his attention and generosity. Her family was mostly kind, loved the children they bred no matter which side of the blanket they were born on, and were generous, but they could also be unintentionally thoughtless. She would not let her boys be hurt.
It was not until it was time to begin cooking for the evening meal that Penelope ceased her work. She stretched as she stood up, a little astonished by how much work she had accomplished in a few hours. Her mending basket had only two items left in it. Penelope then grimaced, knowing it would quickly fill up again. She turned to the boys and was about to ask Conrad and Delmar to come help her in the kitchen when the dog growled.
“How bloody cozy,” sneered a familiar voice, which rapidly built a hard ball of fear in her belly.
Penelope slowly turned around to face Charles and had to struggle to hide her shock. He looked terrible. His clothes were a mess and she suddenly feared for TedNed, whichever of the twins had stayed with her while his brother went with Olympia. The footman would never have let Charles into the house without a fight. The fact that Charles had obviously won that fight was astonishing. Charles also looked ill, his face flushed and his eyes gleaming with a too bright light. Penelope prayed that was from the excitement of a hard-won fight.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Where is my footman?”
“Bleeding on your steps.”
“Bastard. What do you want?”
“Everything you have, you useless little bitch. My mistake was in thinking I would enjoy a bit more than your lands and money, have a little taste of what you have been giving Radmoor so freely. That little game failed and I suddenly figured out why. That bitch Cratchitt brought Radmoor to you, planning to cheat me on being the first. Everything has gone wrong since then.
I should have just killed you the first chance I had years ago.”
He lunged and grabbed her by the arm. All the boys and the dog moved forward to protect her, and Penelope felt the muzzle of Charles’s pistol push hard against her temple. Pressed against him as she was, she could feel the hard shape of another pistol inside his waistcoat. He had obviously come well armed.
“You brats stay right where you are or I will shoot this bitch.” Charles glared at the snarling dog. “That mongrel, too. God, how I ache to shoot that little cur. Now, back away. Faster, faster. You do not wish to make me feel threatened, do you?”
Penelope suddenly noticed something else about the man holding a gun to her head. He smelled bad. Charles never smelled bad. Perhaps the only good thing she could ever had said about Charles if someone had asked was that he was always clean. It had almost been an obsession with the man. But now, there was a nose-wrinkling odor about him. Even his breath was foul. A heartbeat later she knew what it was. Charles was indeed ill. Very, very ill.
“Charles,” she said in as calm a voice as she could muster, “you are not well.”
“I know I am not bloody well,” he yelled. “I am sick. Hell’s teeth, I think I am dying. And ’tis all your fault!” He aimed his pistol at Killer. “And that thrice-cursed cur!”
Her cry of alarm was drowned in that of the boys. The shot fired so close to her head left her ears ringing. Penelope realized she had closed her eyes and slowly opened them. There was no bleeding corpse of a dog to be seen, and if the fury in the expressions of the boys was any indication, none of them had been hurt, either. The boys took one unified step toward Charles, and Penelope silently cursed when her captor pressed the muzzle of yet another pistol against her head.
A movement near the fireplace revealed the homely face of the dog peering out from beneath a chair. Penelope suspected that was where the beast had ended up when Jerome had flung it out of danger. He had obviously been honing his skill. She was just wondering if the child had enough skill to remove Charles’s gun from his hand when Charles cursed. The muzzle of the pistol began to tremble against her temple. Penelope’s heart leapt into her throat so quickly she almost choked.
“I do not know which one of you little bastards is doing this, but you had better stop it right now,” Charles said, his voice a hard, cold snarl. “Ere you finish playing that trick, I will have shot her or you could make me shoot her by accident as I struggle to hold firm to my pistol.” The pistol grew still. “Now back up again, you little abominations of nature. Cod’s body, someone should have been sent out to drown your kind at birth ere you could became a plague on the rest of us.”
“We may be abominations, sir,” said Delmar, never taking his eyes from Charles as he took a step back, “but we would never attack women and children and never live fine and high off what is not ours.”
Delmar was a lot cleverer than she had ever guessed, Penelope realized as she listened to his very adult words. Unfortunately, that cleverness could easily get him killed right now. It was dangerous to poke at a rabid dog, and Charles was as close to one at the moment as a man could get.
“Delmar,” she whispered in warning.
“That brat begs for killing, Penelope,” said Charles as he started to drag her to the door. “You need to teach him how to treat his betters. Respect for his elders and all that, eh? I might have had a bit more for mine if the pig had not been such a fool. Showed him, though, eh? Who is the fool now, Papa?” he muttered.
She shivered at the implications of what Charles had just said. Arguments had peppered the relationship between the old baron and his heir, but she never would have thought Charles capable of killing his own father. The fact that her mother had been with the old baron at the time of his death had either been a matter of a callous disregard for innocent life or Charles had intended it to be that way.
“He drowned,” she said. “The boat sank. You cannot plan for a boat to sink. It is impossible to plan for a storm.”
“You can pay good coin to get a boat scuttled in a way that the damage is seen too late. That storm that blew up was just good luck. Meant no one looked too closely.”
Charles had killed her mother, as well as the three others who had worked on the boat, along with his father. Penelope was dazed by the confession, one that was tossed out as casually as if he had been speaking of the weather. Charles had planned for that boat to go down, not caring at all that innocents drowned along with his brutish, greedy father. The sickness she could smell on him now had not made him mad; it had only sharpened a madness that had obviously been lurking in his veins all along.
“Patricide,” she whispered.
“Hah! As if that has not been done many times. Sometimes a man gets bloody tired of waiting around for what is rightfully his.” He kicked shut the door to the parlor and locked it.
Penelope silently cursed her habit of leaving the keys in the locks of all the inner doors. She winced as she heard the boys started kicking and pounding on the door. Charles abruptly shot the door, and even through the ringing in her ears, she heard a high-pitched curse.
“Jerome!” she cried as she tried to pull free of Charles.
“We are unhurt!”
Tightening his grip on her, Charles began dragging her up the stairs. He kept his arm around her and yet another gun pointed at her head, glancing behind him every step of the way. He was either afraid that the footman would rouse and come after him, or he did not believe that a thick door was enough to keep him safe from six little boys. She began to think that all the weaponry he carried was not to fend off large footmen.
Penelope tried to drag her feet, but he simply hefted her up a little higher as he walked. “You will not get away with this.”
Charles snorted. “Could you think of nothing more clever to say, witch?”
“I am not a witch.”
“Of course you are. The whole lot of you are. Everyone knows that. It did not take me long to dig up the truth on you and that family of yours. They made a mistake when they did not burn the lot of you years ago.”
He shoved her into her bedroom so forcefully, she stumbled along for several steps and fell against the side of the bed. By the time she regained her balance and was steady on her feet again, he had slammed shut her bedroom door, locked it, and pocketed the key. No matter how desperately she wanted that key, she had no intention of getting within reach of the madman. When he staggered over to the small table where she kept the drinks to help himself to Ashton’s brandy, Penelope eyed the distance to the window. It would be a long fall but she had a better chance of surviving that than she did if she stayed in reach of Charles.
“You can cease plotting, witch.”
“I told you, I am not a witch,” she said and wondered why she was even bothering to argue with the man. About all it did was keep him from shooting her right now.
“And I say you are. The Wherlockes and the Vaughns. All witches. Told you. I searched out the truth on you. My father wanted your mother’s money, no question of that, but he also hoped she might have some useful witch’s tricks. Well, failed there, too, the old sot.” He took a deep drink of the brandy. “She was useless. Just filled the demmed garden with noisy birds.”
Penelope felt her eyes sting with tears but fought them back. She could not let her lingering grief for her mother deter her thoughts now. Yet her mother’s affinity for birds did not deserve such scorn. A woman with such a gentle gift had also deserved a happier life than she had been given. Penelope decided it was a bad time to begin to forgive her mother for her weaknesses.
“And you? Ghosts? What the bloody hell use is seeing ghosts?”
“They can tell you who killed them.”
He glared at her. “Well, that knowledge does you no good, does it. Who will listen to you? Your lover? The man who is supposed to marry my sister? She is none too happy with you for that, I can tell you.” He chuckled and took another drink. “She had her heart set on being a viscountess and I wo
uld have made sure she did not have to wait too long to be a duchess.”
“What can killing me possibly gain you, Charles? There will be plenty of witnesses to this and none of them ghosts.”
“And why should I care? I am dying, I told you, and it is all your fault.”
“Why? Because our dog bit you when you tried to kill me in the park?”
“He nearly bit my balls off! I am rotting! I could not go to a doctor, could I? Not a good one. I could not trust one of those self-righteous twats not to tell someone!” He started to tear at the buttons on his breeches. “Want to see what that cur has done to me?”
That was the very last thing she wanted to see and started to inch toward the window. Then a thumping at the door drew his attention. Somehow the boys had gotten out of the room. She was just opening her mouth to tell them to run, when a softly cursing Charles shot at her door. There was a screech and a sudden scrambling from the other side of the door.
“Boys? Are any of you hurt?” she called out, her eyes widening as Charles produced a very large knife.
“Just a scratch,” Jerome called back.
“Get out of here!”
They were brave little boys and she did feel proud of them. She was also terrified. Charles was insane. Her boys were risking far too much in their attempts to help her.
“Yes, get out of here, you little bastards,” said Charles. “I can take care of you later.”
“There is nothing to be gained from hurting any of them.” She was pleased to hear the boys hurrying down the stairs. “They have nothing that you want.”
“No? I wager they will get all your money if you die. Well, I am tired of stealing little pieces of it. I want it all and you are going to make out a will giving it all to me.”
“And you expect me to give you everything I have so that you will be rich when you kill me? You are mad.”