THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  She didn’t want to bed him.

  A slight but deep ache said that perhaps she lied....

  Aware of stillness behind, she turned.

  He was giving that excellent impression of a stone statue. “If I choose to act on impulse, Mrs. Kerslake, it is for my household, my servants, to accommodate me.”

  “You inherited the earldom two months ago and haven’t seen fit to visit here until today. Were we to stand in readiness, just in case?”

  “Since I am paying you, yes.”

  She raised her chin. “Then you should have made it clear that you wanted to waste money. I would have had a banquet prepared every night!”

  His eyes narrowed and danger prickled through the room. From fear as much as anything, she whirled and marched out into the corridor. “This way, my lord. We can produce simple food quickly, and a bath for you within the hour.”

  She kept on walking. If he chose not to follow, so be it. Better so. She needed time away from him to regroup.

  Alas, she heard his footsteps behind.

  “Are you alone, my lord, or have you brought servants with you?”

  “Of course I’ve brought servants. My valet, my secretary, and two manservants.”

  She grimaced. She must be sounding like an idiot. But she kept thinking of him as Con, the ordinary young man she’d met on the headland and on the beach, exploring, teasing, and talking, talking, talking as if they’d make a world out of words and hide in it forever. They’d crawled into caves and waded tidal pools without stockings. Then one day they’d gone swimming in scanty clothing, and that had been their undoing.

  He’s the earl now, she told herself. Remember it. Earl of Wyvern, with all the strange things that implies.

  “You have two footmen?” she asked to fill the silence as she began to climb the stairs. “That will be useful. The old earl didn’t like male household servants, and I haven’t engaged any since.”

  “They’re not footmen, no. Consider them grooms.”

  Consider them? Then what were they? Soldiers? Spies? She wished she could slip away to warn David, but it would be pointless. There was nothing to be done tonight. Was there anything to be done at all? They couldn’t attack an earl without bringing the wrath of the nation down on them.

  But someone could push him off a cliff....

  She realized that she’d thoughtlessly chosen one of the simple servants’ staircases that riddled the house. So be it. If it was beneath his dignity, then he could go the longer way to find steps more suited to his noble feet. Her soft boots made no sound on the plain wood, but his riding boots rapped hard with each step.

  Having him behind her began to unnerve her. She didn’t really think he’d attack her, but her neck prickled. He’d thrown her down and unarmed her so easily.

  She was a tall, strong woman, and she’d fooled herself that she was a match for most men. Perhaps she was, but more likely no man had ever seriously attacked her before.

  Born Captain Drake’s daughter. Now Captain Drake’s sister. She was close to untouchable on this stretch of coast, but she understood the message of that attack. Anyone who threatened the new earl would be instantly and effectively contested, no matter who they were.

  She opened the door into the south corridor, her lamp glowing on walls painted to look like rough stone.

  He spoke behind her. “The dear old place hasn’t changed, I see.”

  She turned and some trick of the lamplight made his eyes seem paler and more intense. “Oh, it has. You probably didn’t notice the gargoyles outside in the dark. We have a torture chamber now, too.”

  She answered his unspoken, startled question. “No, he didn’t use it, except to scare the occasional guest. But he commissioned waxworks of victims from Madame Tussaud.”

  “Good God.” She expected some comment, perhaps an instruction to rip the place apart, but he merely said, “Food and a bath, Mrs. Kerslake?”

  She turned, stung by his indifference. What had she expected?

  So much time had passed, and he must have known many women. She’d given her body to two other men, but they hadn’t erased a moment of the memory of Con, clumsy and imperfect as it had been.

  She’d wanted them to, but they hadn’t.

  As they walked along the gloomy corridor she said, “You won’t want to use the earl’s chambers, my lord. The Chinese rooms are the next grandest. Everything is tolerably well maintained, though I cannot guarantee that the mattress will not be damp. Not having been given notice to prepare.”

  “I’ve endured worse than a damp mattress. Why don’t I want to use the earl’s chambers?”

  ‘Trust me, Con, you don’t.“

  She froze. She’d called him Con, and he was probably laughing at the idea of trusting her. She couldn’t help it. She turned.

  He looked more weary than amused, but like a man who could fight and even kill when weary.

  She was suddenly aware of the sweeping curve of his dark brows above his dark-lashed pale eyes. She’d always thought his eyes the most beautiful she’d ever seen.

  “Who is your husband?” he asked.

  She blinked, puzzled for a moment. “I’m not married.”

  “Mrs. Kerslake?”

  Absurdly, she felt her cheeks heat, as if she were caught in a lie. “It’s convention for a housekeeper to be addressed that way.”

  “Ah, so it is. But I find your domestic incarnation surprising. How did it come about?”

  “I thought you were hungry, my lord.”

  “I’ve known hunger before. Well? How?”

  Buffeted by his will, she explained. “When the old earl died, Mrs. Lane wanted to retire. No one else suitable wanted the job, so I offered to take care of things for a while. Despite tonight, my lord, I am well trained in domestic economy.”

  “And your brother, David? Is he my butler?”

  Susan suppressed a twitch, as if the truth would flare out. “Don’t you know he’s your estate manager?”

  “Swann must have neglected to mention it. How very cozy, to be sure.” He gestured. “Lead on to the Chinese rooms, Mrs. Kerslake. I remember them as being all barbaric splendor, but I suppose I will become accustomed.”

  The Chinese rooms were on the far side of the house, and since Crag Wyvern was built like a monastery around a large central courtyard, the walk there was long. A continuous narrow corridor ran along the outside walls, leaving the rooms facing inward, overlooking the courtyard garden. The only windows into the corridor were the narrow glazed arrow slits.

  The effect was gloomy on a sunny day. At past midnight it was cavernous, especially with the trompe l’oeil stone walls and floor and the ornamental weaponry hanging on them. Susan was accustomed to it. She was not accustomed to a dark presence at her back.

  The weaponry was not, in fact, completely ornamental, and he could seize a sword or ax and decapitate her. She knew he wouldn’t, but she walked between shining blades, nerves twitching.

  “Old Yorrick’s still here,” he remarked as they turned the corner that held a skeleton hanging in chains.

  He touched the chains, setting the whole thing clattering and clanging. Susan did the same childish thing herself sometimes, but now the lingering rattle behind them raised the hairs on her neck.

  Dear God, but she’d thought she was accustomed to this place, but tonight it seemed newly horrid—an outward sign of the traditional madness of the earls of Wyvern. The last one had certainly been insane. Thank heavens Con came from a different branch of the family.

  The walk seemed endless, and she flung open the door of the bedroom of the Chinese suite with relief. Golden dragons snarled in the lamplight, fangs bared against bright red walls framed in black-lacquered woodwork.

  “Zeus,” he said with a short laugh. “My memory had faded somewhat. I remember wishing I had this room. It’s obviously wise to be careful what you wish for.”

  He swung his heavy riding cloak off and spread it over a chair. Beneath, he was n
eatly dressed in brown and buff. “Are there servants’ rooms attached?”

  “There’s a dressing room, which includes a bed for a valet.”

  “The Norse rooms are next door, aren’t they? I remember that my father had this room and Fred and I were in the Norse suite. To begin with.”

  A memory sparked like a falling star. She ignored it. “Yes.”

  “Put my secretary in there. His name is Racecombe de Vere and he’s a rascal. My valet is Diego Sarmiento. His English is excellent and he will use it to complain about the climate and to try to seduce the maids. My other two servants, Pearce and White, are down in the stables in the village. The stables that are strangely lacking grooms and horses.”

  She didn’t respond. He had to know that the Crag’s horses were on loan to the smugglers tonight, along with most other horses in the area. What would he do when he discovered that Crag Wyvern had supported ten horses for years when the old earl never left the place? It would be an inconvenience to the Horde not to have those excellent, sturdy horses available.

  Perhaps he sighed. “Light the candle and go about your housekeeping duties, Mrs. Kerslake. Any sustenance will do, but I want that bath within the hour, regardless of any other business taking place.”

  For some reason, Susan found herself reluctant to leave, and seeking words to bridge the gap that lay deep and wide between them. Did the words exist to make sense of their situation, past and present?

  Probably not. She lit the solitary candle by his bed and left, closing the door on all the dragons within.

  Chapter Three

  Con sucked in what felt like his first clear breath since that figure had walked up to him on the headland and he’d realized who it was.

  Eleven years.

  It shouldn’t be hitting him so hard. There’d been other women.

  They lay in his mind like ghosts, however, when Susan had always lived there in vibrant flesh.

  Being rejected in the crudest, harshest way was like a brand, it would seem. Something a man never got rid of.

  Like a tattoo. He rubbed absentmindedly at his right chest. Another permanent mark.

  He wandered the room, idly opening drawers that were, of course, empty. Everywhere he looked, the dragons writhed and snarled. He glared at one and snarled back.

  Damn the mad Earl of Wyvern. Damn the whole line of them, and the last one for dying far too soon. If not for that, he would be in the peace of Somerford Court in Sussex.

  The curtains and bed hangings were a glorious black silk with more dragons embroidered on them. The frame of the bed was black lacquer, as was all the furniture. The carpet covered nearly the whole floor with thick silk in paler, gentle shades, but still containing a picture of a coiled dragon. He hated to be walking on it in his boots, but he couldn’t get them off without a jack or Diego.

  His army boots had been more practical, but he’d thought he should be fashionable now he was done with all that. Thus, he’d ended up with boots too snug to drag off himself.

  He crossed the carpet to one of the long windows and looked down at the dark courtyard garden. Two lamps cast pale circles of light on paths and touched the edges of branches and leaves. He remembered it as a pleasant spot in the middle of the peculiar house.

  Through a youth’s eyes, Crag Wyvern had seemed a prime adventure, the crazy earl a figure of fun. Now he wasn’t so sure. A torture chamber. He shook his head. The Devonish Somerfords had been mad since the first earl, who’d liked to be called Dragonkiller. He’d claimed to have killed a dragon here two hundred years ago.

  Rumor said they dabbled in witchcraft. They’d certainly been blessed by good fortune enough to indulge their mad whims. Disappointing, then, to find the coffers almost empty now.

  He wondered what was so peculiar about the earl’s traditional chambers and felt a natural curiosity to go and look. He smiled. The boy never left the man entirely. He’d be happy to surrender to the boy again if he could, but life seemed to conspire against it.

  His boyhood had ended when Susan Kerslake had ruthlessly destroyed it, and he’d taken the next step himself by joining the army. He didn’t entirely regret it. As a second son he’d needed employment, and neither the navy nor the church had appealed. Men were needed to fight Napoleon, and he had decided that he might as well be one of them.

  He’d served eight years and felt proud to have done his duty, but he’d also been damned glad when Napoleon had abdicated and it was over. He’d been needed at home anyway, with his father dead, and then his brother drowned in a silly boating accident. He’d become Lord Amleigh, and though he mourned his father and Fred, he had felt blessed to have lived through the war to become owner of his lovely Sussex home.

  Those brief golden days had ended a year ago when Napoleon had left Elba to snatch back his power and his crown. Wellington’s victorious, experienced army had been dispersed, so of course any seasoned officer had to return for the final battle.

  Waterloo, it had ended up being called.

  It had been a bloodbath, as he’d expected. Leaving England for Belgium, he’d known that neither general would be able to ride away to fight another day. It would be to the death, and somewhere in the months of peace and happiness in England he’d lost the calluses that made a soldier able to kill and kill, to wade through blood and mud, and climb over corpses, some of them of friends, to the only goal—victory.

  No, he’d not lost the ability to do that. He’d lost the ability to celebrate afterward.

  And somewhere in the mud and blood he’d lost himself.

  His life before the army was a myth to him now, the memories of his life up till sixteen all invention. Perhaps he’d never been a happy child in Hawk in the Vale, a venturesome schoolboy at Harrow, an innocent youth on the rocks and beaches of Devon.

  A precipitously impetuous lover ...

  He shook that away and looked around the extravagant room, catching sight of himself in a gilded mirror.

  Dark, harsh, and somber—scoured down to the man that war and killing and constant, encircling death had made, a man who smiled only with conscious effort.

  He still had purpose, at least—duty. And the earldom of Wyvern, including this house, was part of it. He’d avoided coming here for far too long. He must make sure that the place was being properly run, that his people here were being taken care of.

  It would be nice to make some sense of the finances, too, so there was money to take care of Crag Wyvern without draining Somerford Court.

  He’d come here knowing that he might meet Susan Kerslake. He’d never imagined meeting her so swiftly and directly.

  And now? He was perfectly aware of all the irrational reactions sweeping through him, but he was not a boy anymore.

  The important question was, What was she up to? Why was she here, playing at being housekeeper? The smuggling didn’t surprise him—it was in her blood—but the domestic work was as ridiculous as setting a thoroughbred to work a mine pump.

  She was up to something.

  He caught his breath. Could she be crazy enough to think she could try again to whore her way into the rank of countess?

  A laugh escaped. She’d have to be as crazy as the crazy earl to think it possible.

  And yet ... and yet the panicked reactions swirling inside him said that it might be entirely too possible if he let his guard down. She was not the coltish girl he remembered, but she was more.

  She was the same person grown devastatingly womanly.

  Despite rough men’s garments and a sooty face, she’d still had the clean-cut features he remembered, and the beautiful hazel eyes. She was tall and lithe and moved like a woman who could still climb cliffs like a mountain sheep and swim like a fish.

  He took a deep breath and stood straight. He was an officer, and a damn good one. He’d faced many dangerous enemies and survived. He could face, and survive, Susan Kerslake.

  Susan hurried down the corridor, fighting panic to try to think which servants could best be
spared from the cellars to prepare food and heat bathwater for Con.

  No, the earl. She had to think of him as the earl to remind herself that he wasn’t the sweet-natured youth of the past, and that he held the livelihood of everyone here in his hands.

  She’d left spine-twisted Maisie in charge of the main part of the house, never thinking she’d have to climb up to tell Diddy to light that candle signaling guests.

  Who else could take care of Con? Middle-aged Jane and young Ellen.

  Con, Con. What had he thought of her?

  She knew what he thought of her! What else could he think after what she’d done all those years ago?

  He was her employer now, that was all, and he wanted food and a bath.

  She thoughtlessly started down the wide stairs that ran straight into the great hall, and hastily swung back out of sight—so hastily that her lamp tilted. Get a grip on yourself, my girl, or you’ll be up in flames!

  There were people down there waiting—two men— and here she was in men’s clothing with dirt smeared over her face. Where were her wits? She might as well announce that she was part of the smuggling gang.

  She knew where her wits were, and she didn’t seem able to do anything about it.

  She let herself lean against the wall for a moment, steadying herself as the white-gold flame steadied, taking the moment to come to terms with the situation.

  So Con was here. Clearly he felt nothing for her now except old anger. If they kept in their proper stations, they need hardly meet. They were both adults now, and that insane youthful passion was a thing of the far past. He wasn’t the same person, and neither was she.

  Deep inside she didn’t believe that, but she must. It was stark truth.

  She took servants’ stairs to the kitchens. Only Maisie was in there.

  “Did I do right, ma’am? Took me a while to get up there.”

  “You did perfectly, Maisie. Don’t worry. Everything’s all right. It’s just that the new earl arrived at last.”

  “He looked right frightening, though, ma’am.”

  “He’s just tired. He wants food and a bath, so build the fire under the big kettle while I go get Ellen and Jane. And boil the small kettle for tea.”