by Holt, Cheryl
“No. I plan to hide at Middlebury until I’m very old. I will trudge around this empty mansion where there will never be a chance that I might run into a wastrel.”
Becky chuckled. “You always hope for the best, but the best never arrives.”
“I’m happy here,” Helen said. “How about you?”
Becky looked up at the house, then at the untended pastures, the vacant fields.
“I’m happy enough,” she responded. “At least we’ll have coal for the stove this winter.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” Helen grinned. “Now get going and put on your brightest smile so you can bring home that sugar. I want a pie for supper.”
“I’ll be charming, but don’t forget we’re Desdemona’s cousins, and everyone knows it.”
“I can’t forget. Not for a single second.”
Becky sauntered off down the lane. Helen watched her until she was swallowed up by the trees. Then she turned and went inside.
It was another good day where nothing bad had occurred. How could a woman wish for more than that?
* * * *
Becky strolled down the road from the village, and she actually had sugar in her basket. She’d only had to suffer a handful of insults before the merchant had deigned to give it to her.
Des assumed credit would be extended forever, but people were reaching their limit. In their opinion, Becky was a beggar, and she was anxious to shout, My cousin is a harridan and an idiot. It’s not my fault that she doesn’t pay her bills!
But Helen was correct that they didn’t have anywhere to go, and in light of some of the hovels where they’d lived the past few years, Middlebury was a veritable castle. Who cared if it was rundown? Becky would tarry until a better option presented itself.
She approached the gate to the estate where she would walk up the lane to the manor. It was quite a distance, and she never hurried.
Helen was always busy, being eager to labor like a fiend, both so she felt useful and needed, but also because she felt grateful to Des for providing them with a place to stay. She frequently tried to persuade Becky to chip in and help, and when Becky refused, Helen was so disappointed.
They never quarreled over Becky’s slovenly habits, but Becky hated to distress Helen. She was the greatest sister ever, and Becky owed her in a thousand different ways, but no other female would have consented to work for free as Helen had.
It infuriated Becky that Helen was treated so shabbily by Des, and Becky wouldn’t encourage Helen. Nor would she lift a finger to make Des’s life easier.
For now, they had to tolerate the situation, but Becky was an optimist. She believed a wonderful conclusion would eventually arise. It was how her father assessed his problems, and she’d inherited his sunny view of the world. Despite how horrid the circumstances, Simon Barnes was always smiling, brimming with a usually-mistaken attitude that everything would be fine.
She arrived at the gate, and as she would have stepped through, she realized she could smell a fire burning. She glanced about, and on the other side of the road, there were some men partially concealed by the trees. They had set up camp and were eating their midday meal.
She might have dashed on by, being determined that they not notice her, but one of them stood to retrieve an item from his saddle. He was tall, broad shouldered, and very blond. When he whirled toward her, she could have fainted from shock.
“Nine Lives?” she muttered. Then she said it more loudly. “Nine Lives! Is that you?”
The sound of her voice had all of them whipping around to discover who had spoken, and there they all were: Nine Lives, Robert Stone, and his two sons, Will and Tom. She was flabbergasted, and she blinked and blinked to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
Nine Lives marched over to her.
“Hello, Miss Becky.”
“I never expected to see you ever again,” she told him. “Why are you in the neighborhood?”
He didn’t answer, but peered over at Mr. Stone. They shared an odd visual exchange, then he said to her, “We’re passing by on our way to London. What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Here, where? At Middlebury?”
“Yes.”
“Who is we? You and your sister?”
“Yes. Our cousin is Desdemona Henley. She’s Lady Middlebury.”
“Is she?” he mused. “I thought your sister had a job as a housekeeper somewhere.”
“Yes, she’s working for Desdemona.” Becky should have kept her mouth shut, but they didn’t know Des, and Becky had been biting her tongue for months. “Desdemona is a shrew and a spendthrift, and she doesn’t have money to pay the wages she owes, so the servants have fled like rats on a sinking ship. Helen was willing to do it for free so we could have a roof over our heads.”
“The Countess is a spendthrift?” he asked.
“Yes, and that’s probably her best quality. The whole stupid property is a wreck. She and her husband have let it fall to pieces.”
“Have they? The farm, the orchards, the herds of cattle, the horses?”
“Yes, and the manor house too. Helen is valiantly trying to prevent a complete collapse, but it’s an impossible chore. None of the old servants have stayed on, and the new servants are all dunces and thieves. Helen has no control over any of them, and I can’t figure out why there’s still any silverware left in the kitchen. I’m surprised every thing of value hasn’t been pilfered.”
“It’s that bad, huh?”
“It’s worse. You’d think a person as lucky as my cousin would be grateful for how Fate lifted her up. But not Desdemona.”
“A carriage pulled out awhile ago. Was that her in it?”
“Yes, and she’s gone. Jasper too. They’re never at home. It’s the principle reason the place is such a disaster. They couldn’t care less about it.”
“Have you any idea when she’ll be back?”
“Who knows? She wouldn’t even tell Helen where she’d be in case there was a problem. She refuses to be bothered.”
“And Jasper—I mean Lord Middlebury—isn’t in residence either?”
“Gad, no. He’s here less than his wife.”
“The estate sounds half-deserted—with no one in charge.”
“You should see it. Helen keeps the main salons dusted and polished, but most of the house is closed off, and there are sheets draped over the furniture. There simply aren’t enough servants to handle all the necessary tasks.”
Will was sitting next to his father and hoping to catch her eye, but she ignored him, instead studying Nine Lives as he stared at Mr. Stone. An entire unvoiced conversation swirled between them.
Finally, Mr. Stone nodded to Nine Lives as if he comprehended whatever message was being conveyed. Nine Lives spun to Becky.
“We should stop in and say hello to your sister.”
“She’d like that.” Becky couldn’t guess if Helen would like it or not.
“We’re in no hurry to proceed on to town. Maybe we could tarry for a few days to help her get matters under control.”
“That would be splendid,” she said. “She gives orders to the staff, but they laugh at her. Especially the men out in the stables. They claim—to her face—that she doesn’t have any authority over them. They’re constantly rude to her.”
“We can set them straight.”
“Good. Perhaps you can also shake up her lazy crew of housemaids. They’re even more impertinent. They never pitch in, so it seems like she’s the only one toiling away. They just watch her and snicker with derision.”
“We’ll fix all of it,” Nine Lives promised. “I always liked your sister. I hate to hear that someone is being awful to her.”
“She could definitely use a champion.”
“She has one. Actually, she has four of them.” He gestured to Mr. Stone and his sons. “We’ll make sure her condition improves immediately. I guarantee it.”
Becky stood on the road observing them. She couldn’t decide if she should continue walking or if she should wait for them or what.
Already, she was having second thoughts about inviting them to Middlebury. What if Helen was angry about the invitation? What if she lit into Becky for being too cordial? What if she wouldn’t let them in the door?
No, no, Helen wouldn’t act like that…
She was the nicest woman on Earth. Even if she still had some unresolved issues with Nine Lives, she liked Mr. Stone and his boys. She’d be glad to see them.
Nine Lives mounted his horse, and he trotted over to Becky.
“Would you like a ride the rest of the way, Miss Becky?”
“Yes, I would.”
He clasped her wrist, and with a quick jerk, plopped her behind him.
Becky pointed to the gate. “The manor is at the end of the lane.”
“I know where it is,” Nine Lives said like a threat.
He kicked his horse into a gallop and blustered forward. He was behaving very much as if he owned the property, as if he’d been to the manor a thousand times prior and could never have forgotten the route.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Helen.”
Helen froze and frowned. From behind her, a man had just spoken her name, and he had a voice she would recognize anywhere, a voice she’d remember if she lived to be a hundred. But it couldn’t be…
England was a huge country, and she was hiding in her small corner of it. She wasn’t even sure he’d come to England. He’d claimed he was going to, but who could believe a single word that tumbled out of his delicious mouth?
She was in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and watching Cook roll out the dough for a pie. Both of them were hoping Becky would bring them some sugar.
Wearing an old dress, her clothes covered with dirt, she was definitely disheveled. Her hair was tied with a ribbon, a kerchief covering it to keep off some of the dust. She’d been cleaning all day, and her hands were rough and calloused. She’d even ripped a hole in her skirt when she caught it on a nail.
“Helen,” the man said again. “Turn around. Look at me.”
She wasn’t hallucinating. He was right there.
She’d been drinking a glass of water and was still clutching it as she stood and spun. There was an odd sort of slow motion to it, and on espying him, she was so stunned she dropped the glass, and it clunked to the floor. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the stool.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him.
“Hello,” Nine Lives said.
“How did you find me? And why were you searching?”
He grinned his devil’s grin, appearing more handsome and more dashing than she recalled in her obsessed fantasies.
“I wasn’t searching for you, you vain tart, but I found you anyway.”
She blinked several times, thinking he might vanish, but he didn’t.
“It’s really you,” she murmured.
“Yes, it’s really me.”
He was attired in the pirate’s clothes he’d always worn on Tenerife: tan trousers, knee-high black boots, a flowing white shirt. His hair was longer, and it curled over his shoulders. He still had that gold earring in his ear, and he hadn’t shaved, so he had stubble on his chin that made him seem even more dangerous than he actually was.
As usual, he was armed to the teeth. He had knives hanging from sheaths on his belt, a pistol on each hip, a sword in a sling over his back. She couldn’t imagine why he’d need so many weapons as he trotted through rural England, but she’d never witnessed a more glorious sight.
“Tell me the truth,” he said. “Did you miss me?”
She wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. “I might have missed you.”
He scoffed. “Might have? I demand to know how much. A little? A lot? You’d better admit you’ve been pining away every second.”
“Not every second.”
“But most of them?”
“Maybe.”
He started toward her, and a wild swirl of conflicting sentiment swept over her. Her destiny was approaching. Catastrophe was approaching. She was happier than she’d ever been. She was terrified of the havoc he’d wreak.
She should have stayed seated on the stool, but his magnetic self pulled her to her feet, and she braced, as if she was about to receive a hard blow. Seeing him was that much of a shock.
He kept coming until he was directly in front of her, until his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. He laid his palms on her cheeks, cherishing her with his eyes.
Then he dipped in and kissed her, just the sweetest brush of his lips to hers. They both sighed with pleasure.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Here at Middlebury,” she said. “Here—all this time. Where have you been?”
“I was chasing after you without my even realizing I was.”
He drew her to him, and he kissed her as if he’d ridden across England so he could do exactly that. He seemed to consume her, to swallow her up, but he couldn’t hold her tightly enough. The baker’s table was behind her, and he lifted her and balanced her on the edge, then he tipped her back, his hand swishing pots and pans onto the floor so they landed with a loud clang.
Vaguely, she noted Cook scurrying out, no doubt scandalized by her raucous display, but she didn’t care. She felt as if she’d been drowning since they’d last been together, and he’d rushed in to rescue her. She felt as if she hadn’t been able to breathe while they were apart. With his sudden arrival, she was finally able to fill her lungs with air.
Their attraction burned hotter than ever, and there was no way to extinguish the fire they generated without even trying.
After she’d sailed from Tenerife, she’d told herself they had enjoyed a short fling and that was it. She didn’t need to languish with remorse. She simply needed to be glad they’d met, and then move on.
Yet she’d been bereft without him, and her affection was much more potent than she’d ever dared acknowledge. She could have wept with elation or perhaps with sadness over all the lost months when they’d been separated.
He deepened the kiss, and he grabbed her thighs, pushing up her skirt so he could wrap her legs around his waist. His loins were pressed to hers, and he was flexing himself against her in a manner that was arousing and very, very wicked.
She should have remembered herself, should have sat up and ordered him to behave. But while her mind was suggesting she prevent what was occurring, her body had an entirely different opinion.
She was ecstatic and relieved.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said.
“I can’t believe you’re here either. What are the odds?”
“I can’t imagine. I was traveling by, and I ran into your sister out on the road.”
“So you weren’t looking for me? You truly found me by accident?”
“It was absolutely an accident, but it has to be the best one I’ve ever suffered.”
He captured her lips again, the torrid embrace desperate and fraught with emotion, as if he was afraid—should he loosen his grip—she might float off into the sky.
She couldn’t predict what might have happened, but almost from a great distance, a woman cleared her throat. Then her sister said, “Helen.”
Helen ignored her, and more vehemently, Becky called, “Helen!”
Nine Lives had been as overwhelmed as Helen, and it took him a moment to grasp that they’d been interrupted. They were salaciously arrayed on the baker’s table. Her thighs were spread, and he was perched between them and leaned over her.
They halted their erotic gyrations and glared over to where Becky was standing in the doorway. She appeared frantic, and she was waving at Helen to straighten herself. Nine Lives eased away and pul
led Helen to a sitting position.
She’d just managed to shove him away and smooth down her dress when someone marched down the hall, but Helen couldn’t see who it was.
“Apparently, it’s a day for surprise visitors.” Becky oozed forced cheer. “Guess who’s here!”
“Who?” Helen asked.
Becky stepped aside, and their father, Simon Barnes, strolled into the kitchen.
At age forty-five, he was dapper as ever, thin and handsome, still possessed of all his dark hair. He had Helen’s same green eyes, but his were more soulful. When a female stared into them, she thought he was dejected and forlorn, a man who could be saved from himself by the right woman.
He was wearing an expensive black suit and his white cleric’s collar, and Helen had no idea what the rules were for him. Was he allowed to strut about like a vicar? She didn’t think he could perform marriages or other religious rites. Not in England anyway, but she hadn’t been apprised of all the restrictions that were imposed.
“Father!” Helen gasped. “As I live and breathe! Where did you come from?”
Nine Lives’s gaze whipped from her, to Simon, to her again. He snorted with disgust. “This is your father?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to beat the hell out of him for you?”
“No one is beating anyone,” she sternly said.
Her head was spinning—from their passionate kisses, but also from Nine Lives, then her father sauntering in in such short order.
She was completely flummoxed, and she wanted to spend hours talking to both men, but at the same time, she didn’t want to talk to either of them. They were the type of overbearing males who liked to explain themselves and who expected a female to listen to their excuses.
“What is your name, sir?” her father cordially inquired of Nine Lives. He gave a courteous bow. “I am Simon Barnes, the lucky father to have sired these two beautiful daughters.”
Nine Lives decided to be surly. He retorted with, “And I am not in the mood to chat with you. Not about your daughters or any other topic.”
“Don’t be rude,” Helen scolded.
“I can’t help it. He deserves a good pummeling, and don’t you dare pretend he doesn’t.” Nine Lives squeezed her hand, not concerned if Becky or her father observed the affectionate gesture. “I’ll check in with you in a bit. I only just arrived, and I have a thousand tasks to accomplish.”
