The Hourglass (34 page)

His room, his house, or her in his arms? Genie did not know, which dimmed her happiness when Ardeth set her down on her own two feet. Two things obstructed her view of paradise: a lovable but unloving husband, and his lack of lovemaking. She was sure the second would encourage the first. “How are you feeling?” she asked, trying to be subtle.

“Not damaged by your feather weight.”

Perhaps she had been too subtle. “You are not too tired?”

“We only traveled a few hours this morning.”

“But we just walked for miles. And then there was the excitement. You did not get too worn-out, did you?”

He gave her a long, slow smile. “Too worn-out for what?” Then he laughed at her inevitable redheaded blush. “I am feeling fit as a fiend.”

“Don’t you mean fit as a fiddle?”

“Have you ever seen a fiend?”

“Now you are being silly.”

He was, and enjoying it. Who ever heard of a silly specter? “Ah, you’d rather have a fiddle than a fiend in your bed?” Then he turned serious. “Or has the day been too much for you, with all the new people and the heavy responsibilities they entail? Being a countess involves far more than wearing the jewels.”

“Do you think I can manage?”

“Of course. I would not have brought you here otherwise.”

“Then so do I. And I believe I will enjoy the duties, too. As for what I wish in my bed, I think you know that.”

“Say it, my Genie.”

“You.”

After a kiss that shook Ardsley Keep to its foundations, or so it seemed to Genie, he said, “I will be there. Later.”

Later got to be much later. Cousin Spotford was so enthusiastic, he kept dragging out maps and charts, drawings and designs, forgetting his strictures to his son about overwhelming the earl. The others wanted to hear Ardeth’s plans for a school, and Genie’s idea about starting a pottery. After that, dinner was indeed a feast fit for a king—and half his kingdom, it looked like.

Nothing was going to waste, Spotford reassured them. He did not believe in that, wasting good food or the
Keep’s blunt. There was to be a party in the barn for the
workers afterward, to celebrate the earl’s
homecoming and how hard everyone had worked to make it a festive one.

“’Twould be a kind gesture if you popped in for a moment or two,” he told them. “There’s nothing raucous or wild about it, just high spirits with a bit of music and dancing for the youngsters. Mrs. Newberry’s girls are going, half their dances promised already.” He looked toward their mother. “I might just try for a jig myself.”

“But what about our mourning period?” Genie asked.

“Well, there’s been a lot of sadness. We all felt this was a new life, a new beginning, and the girls deserve a chance to be young and carefree. We have never been ones to turn up our noses at the common folks, either, but if you feel that a barn dance is beneath you, I am sure the tenants will understand. Neither my sister nor her maid have ever attended.”

“Oh, no. I have never stood on ceremony. I never had a cause to do so.”

“Then if you are too tired, people can accept that.”

Genie looked at Miss Hadley, who was nodding her approval, which matched Genie’s own desires. Ardeth shrugged. He would go if she wanted, his look of resignation seemed to say, although he’d had other, better plans. Later. “We can stay for a short while.”

So Genie and Ardeth went out to the barn after a long dinner, to watch their dependents having a good time.

Young Richard danced with each of the Newberry girls, who also made sheep eyes at the shepherds, the blacksmith, and the handsome blond rector of the village church. Marie danced with Campbell, who protested that he was too old for that nonsense. But he’d rather make a damn fool of himself, he confided in the earl, than see her in the arms of the underbutler.

Although she did not dance, Genie spent her time pleasantly. She spoke to the farmers’ wives and the dairymaids and the goosegirls while Ardeth talked to as many cottagers as he could, promising to visit with all in turn, to see their conditions and listen to their concerns. He reassured them that he would make no changes without speaking to them, that no livelihoods were in jeopardy if they did their jobs, were honest and loyal—and did not gossip about the lord and lady. If that wasn’t enough, he won them over by taking up one of the musicians’ flutes and playing a long, haunting tune that no one had ever heard or would ever forget.

Perhaps the song was Russian, Genie thought. Or his own composition. One never knew about her amazing husband. His music reminded her of woodsmoke and Gypsy camps, the god Pan in the woods playing for fairy sprites, fakirs entrancing cobras—and romance. But then, everything was reminding her of romance: the way his coat fitted so well now that the bandages were reduced, how one lock of his black hair fell across his forehead as he played, how his eyes shut in concentration as he felt the music vibrate through him, as she would feel his heart beat next to hers. Later.

When he was finished playing, Ardeth bowed to the company’s applause, then thanked them for corning and for making him and his lady feel so welcome. He would leave them to their revels, he said, and wished them a good night. With his wife’s hand in his and the crow on his shoulder, the Earl of Ardeth went back to his home.

He’d said he hated gossip. But was it gossip if one noted what a fine gentleman the new master was, how lovely his countess? The talk from London was hogwash, they all agreed, so there was no use repeating it. He was an earl, so was entitled to any eccentricity he wanted. He was openhanded and good-hearted, even if the man was slow to smile. No one wanted to be in his black books, that was the truth, but he seemed fair so far.

He’d said he valued honesty and hard work. Then he would be happy with his people, they swore, for they each put in a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. Then they laughed. It was a good thing young Mr. Fernell Spotford was not around, him as never worked and seldom paid his bills. The pretty girls were better off without the basket-scrambler, too, they said, letting their daughters out of sight for once.

That wasn’t gossip, either, just fact.

Ah well, the earl would see for himself. They went back to making merry.

Lord Ardeth was just getting started.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Like a knight of yore—hell, he was a knight of yore, whenever that was—Ardeth prepared for the lists, his lance at the ready. Praise be to seven saints, his lance was ready. Too eager, perhaps, he worried. He wanted it to last long enough to pleasure Genie. Damn, Ardeth wanted it to last forever. He wanted to give the blessed thing a name, he was so relieved!

Now that everything was working, everything else had to be perfect. He ordered wine and fruit. He had another bath. He deliberated for an hour, it seemed, between dressing again in breeches and shirt, shoes and stockings, which would have to be removed as soon as he could manage, or a brocade robe. He dismissed his
smirking valet and donned the robe.

He carefully placed the ring in his pocket. No, his other pocket, where he could reach it more easily. Then he took it out again and polished it against his sleeve.

Damn, he should have had it cleaned by a jeweler. And what if the blasted thing did not fit?

Genie wore the plain gold band Olive had found in Brussels, and the diamond he’d hurriedly bought for her in London to outshine the other ladies, but he wanted her to have a special ring, on this, their private wedding celebration. This ring, of filigreed silver with a ruby stone surrounded by diamond chips, was actually his, not his first wife’s or the spoils from some siege, but awarded to Sir Coryn by some warlord for winning a tourney. He could not remember if his opponent had lived or died.

The heirloom without heirs had been in the vault at the ancient fortress and moved to this building when it was completed, the other razed.

Spotford had been amazed that the earl knew the combination to the vault in the Keep’s office.

“It was handed down to me,” Ardeth had explained, implying from father to son for generations. “I might not have lived in England, but my heritage lived in me, always.”

All the prizes of those early years were here, some he did not recall. He did recognize the treasures he’d managed to have delivered more recently, winnings at other games of life and death.

Spotford wanted to show him an itemized inventory of the vault’s contents, to prove he had not taken anything except those gems sold at his lordship’s agents’ orders to pay for more land, new equipment, higher salaries.

Ardeth did not want to look at the pages, not today. If the man were a thief, the documents would be altered and forged anyway. But Ardeth did not think so. Spotford’s eyes met his with no qualms, the mirror of a soul without
guilt. Ardeth both envied the man and admired him. “I trust you, Cousin. Else you would not be here.”

The older man fussed with his papers. “Then you will not be telling me to leave? I do have Spotford Oaks, you know. It is rented right now, but we could move there, my boys and I, if you’d rather have the Keep to your own management. I did not want to ask in front of the others, but now that you are returned, you must have your own plans for the properties.”

“Good grief, man, how many generations of Spotfords have lived at the Keep?”

“Since the fire that destroyed the old fort and all the records? Every one of them, with sisters and cousins and in-laws, too. All I have are the two lads now, or I’d be apologizing for another parcel of hangers-on.”

“Hangers-on? The place would have gone to rack and ruin without you and yours. Spotfords have been the Ardsleys’ right hands since the old castle had a seneschal, I’d wager”—he’d win, but that would be cheating—“when the lord rode off to war. I would not know how to begin, or how to get on without you and Richard. Furthermore, the Keep is large enough for twenty families, if you are thinking of taking on a new wife.” He paused. “And her daughters, perhaps.”

Spotford smiled. “I am thinking on it. Early days yet.”

Now Ardeth looked at the ring on his dresser. Was it too early? Would Genie have had time for her toilet? Had she dismissed her maid? He did not want to rush in like some randy young buck. Well, he did want to, but he would not. On the other hand, he did not want her to worry that he was not coming. A bride, even a widowed one, had enough to fret herself about on her wedding night. Lud knew, Ardeth was anxious enough for the both of them.

He decided to shave again. His valet was long gone with the damp towels and worn linens, likely at the barn with the other servants. Ardeth would not disturb the competent—and blessedly untalkative—man’s evening of leisure. He took up the soap and razor.

Olive was hopping up and down, flapping his wings, and screeching something about Ar cutting himself. Like Ardeth, whose powers were weakened with time, the crow was harder to understand.

“Be quiet, you twit. I do know how to shave myself, even if I have not done it much.” Sir Coryn had gone unbarbered in his first life except for a hasty trim now and again with a sharp blade. In his second existence, Ar had neither beard nor blood to spill if the razor slipped.

The bird kept cawing about him getting nicked.

Twitchy enough without the confounded grating noise, Ardeth shouted back, “Damn it, if you do not shut your beak, I am liable to cut my nose off.” Instead he shut the bird out of his dressing room, to make sure.

He did a fine job, if he had to say so himself, rubbing his hand on his cheek to make certain it was smooth enough for Genie’s tender skin.

Just the thought of her soft skin made him harder.

Knowing he could not wait much longer, Ardeth retied the sash of his robe lest he frighten the poor woman out of her wits, and looked for his slippers. His capable valet must have put them somewhere handy, but Ardeth did not have the patience to look. He patted the ring in his pocket, picked up the wine and two glasses, and walked barefoot toward her room.

The connecting door was cracked open. Genie was bending over something, and the sight that met his eyes almost took his breath away. She was wearing a
lacy-trimmed white silk bedgown that hugged the curves of her rounded bottom.

Maybe he should have had a cold bath instead of a hot one.

Then, before he could say a word—if his tongue came unglued and if his brain stopped stuttering—she made a noise, a wretched, heart-wrenching, retching noise. His wife, his bride, his would-be lover, was leaning over the chamber pot, he realized now, casting up the lavish meal they’d supped on.

He looked at her, then he looked down. The work of centuries, gone in seconds.

There was nothing for it but to bring her a damp cloth, hold her while she heaved, and half carry her back to her bed. She lay there, limp and worn-out.

“Shall I send for Marie?” he asked.

She shook her head weakly. “I told her I would not be needing her. Heaven knows if she is in Campbell’s bed or her own, wherever that is. Or she might still be at the dance, surveying the local prospects.”

“Poor Campbell.”

Genie sighed at the state of that affair, or her own. “There is nothing she can do for me anyway.”

And nothing anyone could do for Ardeth now. He poured out two glasses of wine and offered Genie one. “Have a sip of wine. Get rid of the bad taste.”