The Courtship (27 page)

“That is something I still don't understand. I am coming to believe that you are a sorcerer, sir. You have but to touch me and I am suddenly mindless.”

“Yes, it is rather nice, isn't it?”

She looked suddenly lost.

He was at her side in an instant. He came down on his haunches beside her chair. “Helen,” he said. “I know we only met each other a month ago. I know that I never wanted to marry, at least not until I was nearly ready to cork it. But now everything is different. We are different. Marry me, Helen. We will deal well together. We will find this bloody lamp and perhaps become joint rulers of the world through its magic. What do you think? Is that enough power? There are lots of mysteries in the world, just waiting to be discovered. We can search out our fair share of them. Say yes, Helen.”

“I am as strong as you are.”

“Possibly.” He grinned up at her.

There was another very long yell and a short moan.

“Who was that?”

“The vicar's wife, Mrs. Possett. She enjoys more the pain end of things. I believe she is seeing the vicar in Geordie's place. He isn't a very tolerant man. I have heard her gnash her teeth.”

“Tell me yes, Helen.”

“I was married before.” There was a deep and dangerous pause. “I didn't care for it.”

“You were young, your exquisite mind unformed. The man was an idiot. But it doesn't matter now. He is long dead. You and I are different, Helen. We are no longer children. We know what we want.”

“No.”

He looked like she'd shot him. He rocked back on his heels. He rose slowly then and stared down at her. The shadows cast off by the fire made a halo around her blond hair. She looked like an angel. She had just had the gall to turn him down.

He felt disbelief. He felt outrage bubble and roil in his belly. “This makes no sense at all. You want me out of my britches all the time.”

“Yes, well, that I can't seem to help. Come, Lord Beecham—”

“Damn you, call me by my given name—Spenser.”

“Spenser, admit it. It is lust, boundless, mindless lust you feel for me—just as I do for you—nothing more, nothing less. Just lust. What would happen if we married and in six weeks you were over your lustful cravings? What would you do then? We would be bound together forever. No, I don't want that.”

“You have written an amazing tale, madam. You have plucked an ending out of the ether that has no substance or meaning or validity. I devoutly pray that our lust for each other wanes just a bit or else we will never get anything accomplished outside of our bedchamber.

“Now, let me propose quite another ending to your amusing tale. We will love and fight and yell and laugh and have a very nice time of it well into the foreseeable future. What do you think about that?”

“It is a good ending,” she said, sighed, and looked away from him, into the fire.

“And have you had other lovers, madam? Other men who gave you such pleasure?”

“No.”

He wished he could think of more to say. “Why are you saying no to me, Helen? What is it I cannot give you? I don't for a moment believe that ludicrous tale you have spun. I believe you would very much like to become my wife. We would be partners and lovers for life.”

Her hands were folded in her lap. She wasn't moving, just sitting there, staring down at her hands. “I don't wish for another husband. I don't want to lose what I have, what I am.”

“For God's sake, what kind of a man do you think I am? I wouldn't take anything from you. I would hope that what I would give you would enhance your happiness.”

She didn't look at him, simply shook her head.

He was so frustrated, so disbelieving that she would actually turn him down, and for no good reason that had yet come out of her mouth, that he was momentarily speechless. Then, finally, he said, “I wish that were all there was to it.” He threw himself down on the chair next to hers. He leaned his chin on his fist, stretched out his long legs, and stared into the fireplace.

“There is nothing else to it. Just lust, nothing more.”

“You're being a blockhead, Helen. Obviously this man you were married to, when you were too young to have even the beginnings of a brain, gave you a very bad opinion of men and of marriage. It won't be anything like that between us. Use your sense, woman.”

She shook her head.

“I too have always had a very bad opinion of marriage, given the utter devastation my father wrecked on three women's lives, but it fades into the shadows when I think of having you at my side, in my bed, sitting across from me at the breakfast table. Why don't I banish your bad experience from your mind, Helen?”

She was shaking her head even before he had finished speaking. He wanted to strangle her. Instead, he rose, walked to the dining room door, shut it, and to his immense delight, there was a lock and a key. He turned it.

“Now,” he said, turning around. “Now.”

He heard her breath whoosh out. She stood, made to run, then stopped, her hands fists at her sides. “No, Spenser, I don't want to make love with you. You will not coerce me in that way. It is low.”

“Not as low as I'm able to get if the circumstance calls for it.”

In less than three minutes, Helen was on her back on the table, and he was gently pulling her toward the end. She was trying to grab him, to bring him over her, to kiss him, but he was holding her legs apart, staring at her, trying not to expire on the spot, and then, in the next instant, he was inside her, to the hilt, and he was moaning and pushing, and then he heard her crying out, soft, deep cries that went right to his sex, and he fell over her, kissing her until he was breathless, and he felt her muscles tighten around him, felt the immense power of her climax as she twisted and held him so tightly he wondered if he would be black and blue in the morning. He laughed then, raised his head, and yelled to the beams in the small private dining room.

Geordie gave a final mighty yell from outside.

“That was his last stroke,” Helen managed to say, then bit his shoulder. She was panting so hard she could barely draw a breath. He didn't leave her, just waited, and it wasn't at all long before he was moving inside her again. “Your breasts,” he said. “This time I have some control. I want to taste your breasts.”

He was pulling at her gown, but he didn't have the time. She lifted her hips, and it was all over for him. His fingers found her and she bit his neck this time and it both stung and made him wild. Her hot breath was fast and slick on his flesh. This time he took her lovely moans into his mouth. As for himself, he pressed his mouth against her neck and yelled against her soft flesh.

“There,” he said, every shred of male arrogance sounding loud and clear in his voice. He straightened between her legs, still inside her, and he laid his hands on her white thighs. “Open your eyes, Helen. Look, I am still inside you. I am part of you. Now, there will be no more of your wrongheadedness. You will consent to marry me. I am the only man for you. You and I belong together. Together we will find this damned magic lamp. Together we will create a life that will make us stronger as two than what we are now singly. Perhaps, in five years or so, I will have enough control so I will be able to kiss your breasts, and that's just the start of it.” Slowly, he pulled out of her, never looking away from her face.

Helen managed through pure force of will to sit up on the table. She was so very wet with him, and with herself, she supposed. She looked past him into the fireplace. There were just two or three small embers that were glowing with any light at all now.

She nearly fell when she tried to stand up. She batted down her skirts. At least she was not wearing her riding hat. That would have been simply too much.

“You are mine, Helen.”

That stiffened her backbone. “I will see you in the morning, Lord Beecham,” she said and walked to the door. It took her several moments to get the damned key to turn in the lock.

“And will you be thinking about us, together? Forever?”

She didn't say anything, just walked out of her inn, saw that Geordie was standing there in the moonlight, six or so women around him, and several men as well, and he was holding the lamp between his bound hands. He was stark naked.

She nodded to him. She heard him whimper. He didn't sound very distressed to her.

One of her lads saddled Eleanor for her. She was home in twenty minutes. Her father and Flock, thankfully, were out for their nightly walk. She heard her father yelling at the two peacocks. She heard Flock sigh over Teeny. It was later than usual for their walk. It must have been Spenser's visit that threw off their schedule.

Teeny, unusually quiet this evening, helped her undress and pulled the covers over her once she was in bed. Teeny blew out all the candles. She stopped at the door and said, “Miss Helen, Flock told me all about Lord Beecham's talk with your father. He is in a very bad way, Flock said. His eyes were nearly rolling in his head. He would have even drunk champagne if your father had demanded it of him. You should marry him, to save him, to give him back his charming boldness. He isn't short, Miss Helen.”

And Teeny left her alone.

That night Helen thought of poor Reverend Mathers and who could have killed him. She fell asleep seeing a man whose back was to her lean over Reverend Mathers and plunge the stiletto into his back. If only she could see his face.

The next day Helen didn't go to the inn. She remained at the hall, alone, brooding. Her father remained silent, which she appreciated. Flock did a good deal of sighing whenever she appeared, but she ignored him.

Lord Beecham didn't come. She waved her fist in the direction of Court Hammering—and was relieved.

In the middle of the following night, when the chill was heavy in the air and the moon was starting to fall toward the horizon, there was a slight rustling sound just outside Helen's bedchamber window. She stirred, but there was silence again, and she stilled, settling again into a dreamless sleep.

A black shadow filled the window. Slowly, ever so slowly, the window went up until the black shadow eased a leg over the casement and entered her bedchamber.

L
ORD BEECHAM RATHER liked the romance of wearing all black to kidnap the object of his affection. He smiled as he stood by her bed, looking down at her. Her beautiful blond hair was spread over the pillow. The moonlight made her face look luminous. Because he wasn't a fool, because he knew well enough that if she were peeved with him, she could inflict a good deal of damage to his person, he dampened the white cloth he held in his hand with the contents of a small vial. He pressed the cork back into the vial, then he leaned over and pressed the cloth over her nose and mouth.

She came awake, tried to jerk up, but he had braced himself and so managed to hold her still for another ten seconds. Then it was too late for her because her strength was gone. She fell back against the pillow, seeing the shadow over her, feeling the sickly sweet scent fill her nostrils, seep into her mouth, filling all of her eventually. She wasn't afraid, there was no time. Just this growing lassitude, just the slow, inexorable withdrawal of consciousness.

She sighed and closed her eyes.

Lord Beecham straightened, folded the small square of cloth and put it and the vial into his pocket. He looked down at the woman he fully planned to marry and smiled a man's smile, a hard smile that was wicked and determined and shouted that he was ready to do anything to get her to a vicar.

He paused only twice while he dressed her, to kiss her breasts, finally, and to admire them as much as he was able in the shadowy light. He just couldn't help himself. Her breasts were incredible, all soft and white, beautifully full and round—and her taste, it made his breath hitch. As for her belly—he had to kiss her belly as well, and he had to close his eyes because it was just too much.

And then she moaned softly deep in her throat, and he nearly fell on top of her.

It took another ten minutes to pack clothes in a valise. Lots of lacy silk things. Because he knew he couldn't very well take her to the vicar wearing only her chemise, he selected a pale-yellow gown that he liked very much, a petticoat, and a chemise. He found a pair of slippers and stockings. He had done well. He was a man of experience and decision. The stockings even matched the slippers and the gown. He didn't bother with a bonnet. Enough was enough. Both of them could be married bareheaded.

Yesterday had undoubtedly been the busiest day of his entire life.

He had thought about carrying his big girl and her packed valise over his shoulder and out the second floor window, three steps down the foot-wide ledge and then climbing down the sturdy trellis, covered with a thorny rosebush, without the both of them crashing down to the flower beds below.