by Jenna Jaxon
“No, sir. But I have the letters he’s sent me with instructions for the gang. He’s only ever been here once, to meet with me, not the gang. That was when he came down to get a horse they had stolen.”
“My horse!” Charlotte strode over to Edgar, outraged and shaking. “That was my horse you stole, and my estate manager your gang almost murdered.” She raised her hand, itching to strike the boy who had helped make her life miserable for so many years. Her hand clenched into a fist, but she let it fall to her side. “I swear, you will pay for that, Edgar. My father will be very interested in this case when I tell him you used his property to hide the gang members.”
She glanced at Nash. “I believe it now. When I first married, my father invited Sir Archibald and the two boys down to the hunting lodge. Edgar would have known about an abandoned barn on the property.” She glared at him, then said with a sneer, “I don’t think it’s going to matter much whether you have furniture in your town house or not. I suspect you will not be taking up residence there for some time to come.”
“This is an outrage.” Edgar’s bluster had lost some of its shine. “I demand to be taken to London, where I will be able to explain the situation to a magistrate.”
“You can explain it to Wrotham’s magistrate in the morning.” Nash nodded to Kelliam, who took Edgar’s arm none too gently.
“For tonight you’ll have to put up with the accommodations at The Bull, Sir Edgar.” The Runner pushed the two men toward the door. “A nice locked cellar with the rest of your gang.” Fisk, who had stoically witnessed the entire episode, let them out.
Charlotte heaved a sigh and walked into Nash’s arms. “Is it over? Is it really over?”
“It is, my love.” He kissed her brow and hugged her tight. “Although I am now, unfortunately, in need of a valet.”
“I feel so badly for Thayer,” Charlotte said, winding her arms around his waist. “He was trying to help his family and ended up duped by my stepson.” She peered into his face, his eyes more flinty than she’d ever seen them. Perhaps her best wheedling tone would work. “I know what he did was wrong, but can’t we do something for him? Please, Nash?”
He grunted and pulled her back to him. “I’ll speak to the magistrate. Ask for leniency. Transportation instead of hanging. That’s the most I can do.”
“Was he a good valet?”
“I’ve only ever had the one.”
Charlotte laughed. “But until this evening, he did his job well?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think you should do something for his family. They will be destitute without him.” She gazed into his eyes, willing him to agree. “Please?”
“Well, I suppose a small annuity to keep Mrs. Thayer from destitution might be in order.” Nash pulled her head back and smiled down at her. “Will that suffice, my lady?”
“Admirably. Something is always better than nothing, my lord. Haven’t you learned that?” And she certainly had something now.
“Charlotte!” Jane’s voice echoed in the hall.
She glanced down the hall to find her cousin standing in the doorway to the drawing room. “If you don’t come this minute and explain yourself and all these goings on, I shall have to resort to strong spirits to calm my nerves.”
“We are coming.” Charlotte wound her arm in Nash’s and they strolled down the hall. “I’ve some news for you.”
Chapter 33
Moonlight streamed across the fields, dotted with the gaily colored lanterns of the Harvest Festival as Charlotte and Nash walked back toward the carriage. Quite a wonderful day really, despite all the hullabaloo. But she wouldn’t have changed a minute of it.
After explanations and wishes of happiness for them, the party had arrived back at the festival just in time for the crowning of the corn maiden. Nora Myers, sixteen and dressed in an enticing pink frock, had received the crown of plaited wheat straw and a decidedly unchaste kiss from Michael Thorne. From her enthusiastic reaction, her parents had best keep an eye on her tonight.
When they reached the carriage, instead of handing her in, Nash glanced around, then grabbed a blanket from within.
“What are you doing?” Although loathe to admit it, Charlotte wanted nothing more than her bed. She’d prefer Nash’s bed, of course, but that wouldn’t happen for a matter of weeks. Christmas seemed to loom far in the distance. She might want to reconsider that date.
“Shhh.” He grinned in the pale light of the moon and took her hand. “Come on.” He led her away from the festivities, still in high gear, toward one of the newly cut fields. On and on, they walked carefully over the uneven ground.
“Nash. What are you doing?”
“Here we are.” He spread the carriage blanket on the ground.
Did he want to gaze at the stars? She rubbed her arms. Too chilly out here for that, even with her heavy cloak.
Once he had the blanket spread to his satisfaction, he drew her to him and, without any warning, pulled her mouth up to his. The strains and stresses of the day melted like ice in the sun as he filled her whole world with his presence. He lingered on her lips before slipping his tongue into her mouth, lighting a fire in her belly that the chill air couldn’t touch.
He filled his hands with her breasts, pinching her nipples until they ached and tingled. Oh, the blaze he stoked within her would have to be quenched. She only knew one way to do that.
She slipped her hands around his waist, pulling him flush against her, the hard heat of him searing her through their clothes. An ache of need began deep in her core. By the time it emerged, it would be a growl of desire. The next thing she knew, she lay on the blanket, stubble poking her in the back. She ignored it and reached for his waistband.
“Let me do that, love.” He knelt above her, fumbling with his breeches, then the chilly air swept over her legs as he raised her skirts above her hips. “We will have our own crowning tonight, Charlotte.”
She caught her breath, then thrilled as he entered her. One smooth thrust and he seated himself completely inside her. No pain this time, but a delicious fullness, a sense of oneness. Perfectly right.
He began to move, his slow rhythm quickly giving way to a fast, hard, frantic pace that drove her into a heated frenzy. This had been the ritual from the beginning of time. Seed to a fertile soil. Their land would be blessed and in the spring . . . She thrust her hips upward, his shaft pounding faster and faster until they both cried out their release to the cold night air.
Nash slumped on top of her and Charlotte lay panting, clinging to him, never wanting to let go. But she must. The heat of their passion cooled and the chill temperature set her to shivering. He rolled off her and pulled her skirt down. The corn maiden gone, she was a lady once more.
He sat up, rearranging his fall. “I’ll just be a minute. We’d best get back.”
Charlotte sat up, looking all around her. The lights of the festival gleamed suddenly close. “You don’t think anyone saw us, do you, Nash?”
He grinned in the slight light. “Only the one who needed to see.” He reached above where her head had lain and plucked something from the blanket. In the moonlight, the corn dolly he’d bought her that morning seemed to shine with a light of its own. He handed it to her.
“I really don’t see the need to wait for Christmas, do you, love?”
“None at all, my dear.” She clutched the little straw doll to her. So precious.
“The banns can be read in two weeks,” he said, scrambling up before giving her his hand.
“A special license can be gotten on Monday.”
He laughed and kissed her again. “My wicked widow. You need time to prepare for the wedding you never had. I think six weeks will serve.” He kissed her again, his lips lingering. “Although I see no need for us to wait for anything except to say our vows. Do you agree, love?”
“I do.” The sweetest words to her ears.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
WEDDING THE
WIDOW
the next installment in Jenna Jaxon’s
Widow’s Club series
coming soon wherever print and e-books are sold!
Chapter 1
Village of Wrotham, Kent, England
October 1816
“Here you go, Mrs. Easton.” James, Lord Brack, handed her a pint glass of Wrotham ale.
“Thank you, my lord.” Shivers of delight coursed through Elizabeth Easton as she accepted the dripping libation and took a long sip, cool and nutty with a pleasant bite. She’d first encountered the brew this past summer, during her friend Charlotte’s first house party, at the insistence of her neighbor, Lord Wrotham. Even though ladies weren’t supposed to drink it, she’d enjoyed it, and Lord Brack had remembered.
This weekend party had held more pleasurable sensation for her than she’d known since she’d lost her husband over a year before. Much of it because of the Harvest Festival, here in the village of Wrotham. Some of it was sparked by her best friend’s announcement an hour before that she and Lord Wrotham were to marry before the New Year.
The bulk of it, she suspected, however, came from the handsome young man dancing attendance on her, whose arm she now clasped. Lord Brack, or Jemmy, as his sister Georgina called him, had escorted her about the county festival all day, seemingly to their mutual satisfaction. They had enjoyed shopping among the stalls—he’d insisted on buying her one of the sweet little dolls made of stalks of wheat—had a delicious tea, and laughed themselves giddy at the antics of the participants during the various games. With their sizable party, he could easily have changed partners several times during the festivities. Lord Brack, however, had remained at Elizabeth’s side all day long. Quite flattering for a widow of six and twenty.
Now they were enjoying a quick pint of ale before the final and, as some had said, most important activity of the day: the crowning of the corn maiden.
She wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell of hops. “I wonder why ladies are not supposed to drink ale. Gentlemen should not be allowed to have all the fun.”
“We cannot give up all our best secret pleasures, Mrs. Easton.” Lord Brack’s sky-blue eyes crinkled as he grinned. He was certainly one of the best-natured gentlemen of her acquaintance.
They strolled away from Mr. Micklefield’s temporary stall toward the center of the field, where the games had been played earlier. Even though she’d been sensible and worn her sturdy half boots, the newly mown stubble made her wobble. She clutched Lord Brack’s strong arm tighter, the startling warmth of him seeping through his green superfine coat.
“Careful there, Mrs. Easton. We don’t want you to come to grief.”
Lord, don’t let her spill the ale on either one of them.
Lord Brack led them to the edge of the circle that had formed around the hulking Michael Thorne, the harvest lord, and four young women—local girls vying for the honor of being crowned Wrotham’s corn maiden.
“They do look pretty,” Elizabeth said, motioning to the figures obviously decked out in their finest, most colorful garb, their hair unbound, flowing around their shoulders and spilling over their breasts.
“Yes, they are a bevy of country beauties, aren’t they? Mr. Thorne’s going to have a difficult time choosing his corn maiden.” Lord Brack’s eyes sparkled as he sipped more ale. “The three not chosen will be quite disappointed, I fear. Michael Thorne’s a very handsome lad.”
“Does he choose a girl to marry him?” How scandalous that would be, to be chosen—or not chosen—before all the assembled tenants and members of the village.
“Oh, no. Nothing quite so permanent.” Brack’s smile flashed again. “He claims a kiss only, said to keep the fields fertile through the winter and into the spring.”
“That must be quite a kiss.” The four girls preened and giggled as Mr. Thorne walked around them, looking them over with a keen eye.
Lord Brack took another pull at his ale, the torchlight throwing his features into sharp relief. “According to Lord Wrotham, it used to be quite a bit more than just a kiss.” He gazed into her face, the gleam in his eyes transforming suddenly into hunger.
“More?” she squeaked. Heat blasted her face, as though she stood too close to the flickering torches. The chilly night became hot as midday.
“Long ago, the harvest lord chose his corn maiden as his bride of the fields. After the toasts and celebration ended, the lord took his bride into the fields and the two spent the night together in a makeshift bridal tent. The next spring, if the corn maiden was increasing, it was considered an auspicious sign for a good crop, and the two married.”
“And if there was no child?”
“Then no wedding.”
“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth clutched her glass of ale, her heart beating furiously. “How . . . pagan.” Aware now of her arm through his, she slipped it out and transferred her glass to that hand. “How could the girl’s parents allow such a thing?”
Brack shrugged. “It was the custom, Wrotham said. Pagan perhaps,” his voice deepened, “but it was considered a great honor for the girl to be chosen.” He nodded toward the harvest lord, busy inspecting a harvest bouquet of stalks of wheat and field flowers offered by a very pretty dark-haired maiden on the end. The offering was supposed to be the measure by which the girl was judged, and this one certainly showed hers off to best advantage by holding it in front of her ample bosom. Michael Thorne was getting an eyeful of more than flowers.
Infectious excitement blazed across the girls’ faces. Elizabeth’s pulse beat faster as Mr. Thorne bent his tall frame to sniff the bouquet. From the tented look of the man’s breeches, he was interested in much more than a kiss. A sheer animal heat seemed to leap from him to the girl, their gazes now locked. The power that emanated from them wafted over Elizabeth, making her want to loosen her spencer to cool her body. Lord, she should never drink Wrotham ale again if it made her this fanciful and uncomfortable.
Had the display affected Lord Brack? She sneaked a look at her escort. His cheeks had taken on a reddish hue. He stared at the couple, as enthralled as she.
Too scandalous for their modern time, this pagan performance should be stopped. Yet even in her censure, her gaze inexorably strayed back to the scene unfolding before them inside the ring of torches.
“Has the harvest lord chosen his corn maiden?” Mr. Smith, the unofficial master of the festival, called from the edge of the circle.
“He has.” Michael Thorne spoke, his deep bass voice echoing down Elizabeth’s spine.
The power in that voice had her grabbing Lord Brack’s arm once more. She needed an anchor if she was to hear this pronouncement.
Lord Brack seemed just as affected as she. Scarcely taking his eyes off the couple, he tossed back the last of his ale, then dropped the thick glass to the ground. His big hand came down and covered hers, heat streaming through her gloves.
She wanted to grasp his hand as well but couldn’t think what to do with her own glass. It still contained some ale, which she could not drink, though she was loathe to spill it on the ground. It somehow seemed sacrilegious. Still, she wanted more contact with the strong male protection next to her. So she stepped closer toward him, almost leaning against him.
He plucked the glass from her hands, swallowed almost half in one gulp, then deliberately poured what remained on the ground around their feet.
Protection against the pagan gods or sacrifice to them? Where had these fanciful notions sprung from all of a sudden?
Again the raw animal power of the moment washed over her and she grasped his hand, pressing it to his arm. If she got much hotter, she’d likely steam in the cold air.
“As the seed goes to the fertile ground, so goes the harvest lord to his maiden . . . Nora Myers.” Michael Thorne intoned the ages-old chant, then seized the dark-haired Nora, her face alight with joy and triumph, by the hand and pulled her to him.
A jubilant cry went up from the crowd, a wail of lament from the three would-be corn maidens. T
hey scurried out of the circle, arms around one another.
Elizabeth’s heart thumped so hard she gasped for breath. Could Lord Brack feel her pulse pounding in the hand he held so tightly?
The harvest lord led his maiden into the center of the circle, grabbed her around the waist, and lifted her above his head, spinning her around. After making a complete circle, he lowered her inch by inch to the ground. As soon as her feet touched the field stubble, he grasped her face—her cheeks red, her eyes snapping with excitement—and lowered his mouth to hers.
A stab of desire jolted Elizabeth, tearing through her like a lightning bolt straight to the apex of her thighs. Her breasts tingled as the harvest lord claimed his corn maiden.
As Thorne deepened the kiss, Nora threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against the powerful body before her.
Panting, Elizabeth strained forward as well, her hands clasped viselike around Lord Brack’s arm. A moan of need began in her throat, but she bit it back. What was happening to her?
She’d not been this aroused in over a year, not since her husband, Richard—or Dickon, she’d called him—had gone away to war. She’d felt his death so sharply, she’d not even thought about love or desire for another man. Not until Charlotte had dragged her to the house party in August. There she’d met Lord Brack, who she’d found very amiable but hadn’t thought of as desirable. Well, not exactly. Nor had she paid much attention to his obvious interest in her. Until now.
His arm tensed as he watched the crowning of the corn maiden. From the corner of her eye, she marked his Grecian profile as it stood stark against the flickering torchlight, his gaze fixed on the couple before them. His jaw clenched so tightly she could almost hear it creak. He turned his head to peer down at her, his eyes dark with a desire of his own.
Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he turned them away from the sight of Michael and Nora as applause from the surrounding crowd crashed around them. He led her from the lighted circle, toward a stand of trees at the edge of the field.
