Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  “Your father must feel that he’s failed you. Actually, I suppose he did fail you. Like I said, it’s obvious you didn’t believe him, did you? Didn’t believe his word that you weren’t to blame? Hmm, all this flailing about over long-ago evil and endless bloody guilt, it’s made me quite thirsty. Would you like some warm milk? I understand it’s Mother’s antidote for depressed spirits. My father always rolls his eyes and says brandy is the only drink to realign the humors. Or would you prefer your spirits to remain depressed?”

  “It was you who brought all this up, Hallie, you who demanded to know what happened. My spirits aren’t depressed, dammit.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly depressed mine.” She pulled away from him, rose, beautifully naked, only he didn’t notice, since his eyes were focused on her neck, how his hands would fit nicely around her neck, and squeeze. He felt the heavy burn of anger in his throat. “I told you part of me was dead, that I wasn’t whole, that trust had been burned out of me and that’s why I didn’t want to marry, that—”

  “Oh yes, you did,” she said, as she pulled on her dressing gown. “It is all very sad. Just imagine—being part dead. Yes, that is indeed sad.” She sighed. “Look at the guilt I shall have to carry around now.”

  “Guilt? You? You don’t have any guilt, you were a girl at the time this happened.”

  “Oh yes, I do. Don’t you remember? I jumped on your poor dead innocent self. I was very ready to plunge my fingers down the front of your britches—my father was right about that. Attacking you like I did, I sealed your doom. Poor Jason. In addition to all that soul-shattering pain that haunts you, you were forced to take a wife, namely me, the very last thing you wanted. Having a wife must seem to you like the final instrument of torture—the iron maiden—sorry, just a little joke. Poor Jason, trapped now with both the memory of failure and blame—and a wife. Do you think that long-dead evil Judith is hanging about as a spirit, rubbing her hands together because she knows she still controls your life? That would please the damnable bitch, don’t you think? Hmm. I wonder if her spirit ever believes she won. Would you like some warm milk?”

  He jumped out of bed, so angry he was nearly rabid with it, so angry he wanted that neck of hers between his big hands, now. He shook his fist at her, yelled at the top of his lungs, “Don’t you try to act all superior and smart with me, Hallie. Don’t you bring up Judith’s smarmy spirit to make me feel ridiculous. Damn you, don’t you dare try to jolly me out of this!”

  She saw the pounding pulse in his throat, then stared at his groin. “No, of course not. Sometimes words pop out of my mouth, you know that. I know there’s no way I can make you face up to what happened five years ago. It would be like prying the shingles off a roof with your fingernails. Aren’t you chilly, Jason? Should you like me to give you your dressing gown? I believe it’s over here on the floor, where you threw it about fifteen minutes ago. Ah, but I enjoy looking at you so very much, perhaps—”

  He picked up his own dressing gown and shrugged it on. “Damn you, stop staring at me.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “Why? You have incredible stretches of self that quite delight me. Whenever you have me out of my clothes, you’re either looking at my breasts or at my belly or my legs, or talking about kissing me behind my knees. It’s like you can’t make up your mind.

  “Not that it’s any easier with you. Well, I always know where to begin, but then there’s your chest, I can’t forget about your chest, but then, your legs—goodness, I love your legs too. I guess the truth of the matter is every time I look at any part of you—even the dead parts—I feel all sorts of delicious little tingles. Would you like some warm milk now?”

  “I don’t want any damned milk. I want a brandy.”

  “Hmm. My father would be pleased. Perhaps I’d like a brandy too. Jason?”

  “What, dammit?”

  “You really don’t like the chair at the end of the bed? Perhaps with enough practice, our clothing would end up on the chair rather than on the floor.”

  She was callous and not at all solicitous of him, despite all her bleating to the contrary. He kicked the chair, cursed because it felt like he’d broken one of his toes, and slammed out of the bedchamber. He wished at that moment that Angela was still here. He’d take her a snifter of brandy, pull up a chair beside her bed, and tell her about how he was going to strangle his wife. Then he’d go take care of Lord Grimsby, but Lord Grimsby was a distant second to his crass, unfeeling wife. But Angela had moved to the Dower House three days before, Hollis supervising the four foot-men. He and Hallie were alone in this big house. He’d never believed it was too big before, but he did now. If he strangled her, it would seem even bigger. The entire house would be his. He could do just as he pleased whenever he pleased. Damnation.

  Perhaps he’d wake up Petrie, tell him about this bloody uncaring wife of his, listen to him add his own list of female failings to Jason’s list. How long would that last? Knowing Petrie, possibly a week. Besides, with his luck, Martha would overhear, rush in, and smack them both in the head.

  “Yoo hoo, Jason! The house is very cold, don’t you think? Can one heat brandy?”

  He turned to face his wife, all smiles, trotting toward him down the corridor. She grinned up at him, took his arm. “The house seems too empty without Angela. What do you think is happening at the Dower House?”

  “Hopefully they’re sleeping,” he said in a prissy voice.

  “Oh dear, this is all my own fault. If only I’d not asked you all those soul-wrenching questions that ended up with you walking out on me, why, right now I’d be lying in the middle of the bed, a silly grin on my face, with you sweating beside me, maybe singing a duet.”

  “Be quiet, Hallie.”

  She began whistling.

  He wished he could whistle as well as she. “Whistle that ditty about the drunken sailors.”

  She did. She grabbed his hand and began swinging her arm in march time. When she came to the end of the ditty, she said, “I don’t suppose you’ll want to make love to me on the kitchen table, will you? I could arrange myself, perhaps even lift the corner of my gown so as to focus your lovely eyes—”

  “Shut your mouth. You have the feelings of a damned gnat.”

  It was meaty, that insult. She went on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He felt her hand low on his belly through the velvet of his dressing gown, pressing in, touching him. His breath hitched at the quick punch of lust. “Truly? A damned gnat?”

  “Get your hand off me, Hallie. I am not in the mood.”

  Her fingers stilled, but she didn’t move her hand. “It came to my attention during our ever-so-pleasant stay on the Isle of Wight that men were always in the mood. Ah, Jason?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you so angry with me?”

  He realized they’d been standing at the top of the stairs for the last three minutes. It was dark, but there was a swatch of moonlight coming through the front windows. He opened his mouth, shut it, said, “You refuse to acknowledge the god-awful mess I made, you refuse to understand the devastating shadow I cast on so many lives.”

  “It certainly appears to be a very long-lasting shadow.”

  “Dammit, Hallie, because of me, my family nearly died! Stop mocking me, you’re not treating what happened with the seriousness it deserves.”

  “No, I suppose not. Had I been there, been your wife, it’s possible I would have coddled you and reassured you for a full six months. Then I would have gotten tired of your ridiculous guilty drivel. And I would wonder why you couldn’t see that you survived and those evil people didn’t. Yes, I would have reached the end of my tether of your attachment to a past that would be forgotten if not for your dreary vow to suffer for the rest of your life.

  “Hmm. I’ve heard of sack cloth, it’s spoken of in the Bible. I wonder if one can still purchase sack cloth. Ashes, now, that would be no problem. Wouldn’t you look a treat in sack cloth, all dirtied up?”

  He g
rowled at her, actually growled he was so angry. He left her at the top of the stairs and headed down. He nearly tripped at the shock of the gloomy voice that came from the thick shadows near the drawing room. “Master Jason? Is that you, sir? Oh dear, what is wrong? I heard voices, arguing voices, mainly that of your new wife.

  “Ah, I knew it was a mistake, you’re such a fair man and she took full advantage of you. You had to marry her and now she’s forcing you to argue.”

  Another voice, this one much higher and louder, trumpeted from the shadows back near the kitchen. “You miserable fat-tongued dead-witted slug! Don’t you dare speak of my precious mistress like that. My mistress is the best thing that has ever happened to Master Jason. She makes him laugh and smile and, well—all have heard him groan.”

  Petrie, in a dressing gown as black as a priest’s robes, puffed himself right up. “And what about her, Martha? I’ve heard her groan so loud I feared for the newly hung chandelier. It’s disgraceful that a supposed lady would enjoy, well—”

  Martha flew at him, her white nightgown whirling around her ankles. She jumped on him, took him to the floor, a tangle of black and white. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and began banging his head against the tiles. “You wretched water-piddled trout-brain! Like every other man in the universe, all you can think about is this yelling business. Of course she yells, you cracked pot, she should yell. Do you think the master has no skill at all? You think he’s a clod of a lover? You think he shouldn’t yell as well? You think my mistress is a clod? Never mind that, men don’t need to have skill applied to them to make them yell. Have you no working mental parts at all? No feelings in your heart?” Bang, bang, bang. Petrie groaned.

  Jason said as he lifted her off Petrie, “No, Martha, don’t kill poor Petrie. This thing about men’s hearts, I fear in many it’s lower, much lower.” He realized in that instant that Petrie was staring up at Martha, a very strange look on his face, almost as if he were in very bad pain, which he should be.

  “Master Jason, you may drop her back down on me, if you wish, sir. I don’t mind, the pain in my cracked head is nothing. Her breath is very sweet, it has quite left me wondering what has happened. I am adrift, waiting for enlightenment.”

  Martha shrieked, tried to kick him.

  Hallie said, “Martha, thank you for standing up for me. Now, both you and Petrie take yourselves back to bed.” She paused a moment, staring down at Petrie, who hadn’t moved and who looked both baffled and appalled, his dark hair standing in clumps on his head where Martha’s strong fingers had nearly pulled them out. “You will go back to your own bed, Petrie. You will think of no other bed except yours. You will not think of Martha’s sweet breath. All is well. We are no longer arguing. Master Jason simply wanted some brandy. Perhaps you know. Can one heat brandy?”

  Petrie said, “Well, back in 1769, it’s said that old Lord Brandon was suffering from an ague. His valet, an ancestor of mine, heated him a snifter of brandy over a small hob in the fireplace. It was told me by my mother that the heated brandy made him well within a half hour.”

  “I’m going to sleep with Henry in the stable,” Jason said, and marched toward the front door.

  “You won’t be happy walking out there barefooted,” Hallie called after him. “Petrie, why don’t you fetch your master’s boots, put on your own as well, and the two of you can snuggle down together in the warm straw on either side of poor Henry.” Hallie smiled at both of them impartially, and walked toward the kitchen. “Jason? In case your mood changes, I will take a very close look at the kitchen table.”

  Jason was dressed and on Dodger’s bare back within ten minutes.

  CHAPTER 39

  Corrie rubbed the cramp in her leg. She never should have let James arrange her in such a position, ah, but it had been such fun. She rubbed some more. She’d swear she had never used that particular muscle in her life. Perhaps she should rub in some of her mother-in-law’s special warming cream that seeped to your bones.

  She heard something. She froze, cramp forgotten, instantly as still as James, who was lying on his back, breathing deeply in sleep, nearly dead, he’d told her before falling on his back, an angel’s smile on his face.

  She heard it again. A noise coming from the window. Good heavens, this was the second time. When Corrie crept toward the window, a poker in her hand, she saw it start to slowly inch upward.

  She watched her brother-in-law ease the window up far enough so he could swing his leg over the sill and climb in.

  “I was hoping for a villain this time,” she said, and gave him a hand. “I was armed and ready.”

  “Thank you for putting down the poker, Corrie. I’m sorry to come in through your window again, I know it’s late.”

  “Not that late. I felled poor James. That’s him, snoring from the bed.”

  She sounded quite proud of herself. Jason touched his fingertips to her cheek. “I’ll wake up the sluggard. He doesn’t deserve to sleep.”

  Jason shook his brother’s shoulder. “Wake up, you pathetic excuse for a man.”

  James, as was his wont, opened his eyes without hesitation, and focused instantly and clearly on his brother’s annoyed face above him. “I feel very fine,” he said, and smiled.

  “You don’t deserve to, damn you. Get up, my world has ended and you’re lying here, thinking about how wonderful life is. You don’t bloody deserve it.”

  James, still light in the head and heart, said, “All that?”

  “What’s wrong, Jason? What’s happened?”

  Jason looked with a good deal of affection at his sister-in-law, whose white hand clutched his sleeve, her worry for him shining in her eyes, though in the dim light it was hard to know for sure. “You look ever so nice with your hair all wild around your face, Corrie.”

  James bolted upright. “Don’t you admire her, you dog. Damn you, you’ve got a wife of your own. Step away from her before I flatten you.”

  “What’s wrong, Jason?”

  “I’ve left Lyon’s Gate,” Jason said, and stepped back from his sister-in-law because he knew when his brother was serious. He slid down to the floor, leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his bent knees.

  James pulled on his dressing gown, eyed his wife’s revealing nightgown, and said, “Get back into bed, Corrie. I don’t want Jason to get any ideas.”

  “Ideas? How could he possibly be thinking about me and this lovely peach nightgown when he’s left his home?” Corrie lit some candles, then slipped back into bed, drew a deep breath. “You’ve left Hallie?”

  Jason said, not looking up, “The nightgown is lovely, Corrie, but I’m not thinking about you under it. My life is ripped apart. I meant to go sleep in the stables, but I came here instead. I don’t know what to do.”

  James patted his wife’s cheek, tucked more covers over her, then pulled his twin to his feet. “Let’s go downstairs and have a brandy. You can tell me what’s happened.”

  “Do you know if heated brandy is good, James?”

  When the brothers stepped into James’s estate room, it was to see their father pouring each of them a snifter of brandy. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown whose elbows were worn nearly through. “So,” Douglas said, trying to sound calm, when in fact, his heart was racing, and he was terrified, “why, Jason, did you leave your home in the middle of the night, and your wife of not yet a month?”

  James said, “Actually, it’s not all that late, not even midnight yet.”

  “Don’t make me shoot you, James,” his father said.

  Jason gulped down the brandy and fell to coughing. When he finally caught his breath, his father poured him more. “Slowly this time. Get ahold of yourself. Tell us what’s happened.”

  “I don’t think brandy needs to be heated. My belly is on fire. It’s Hallie.”

  Both Douglas and James remained silent.

  Jason sipped at his brandy. “I’m very sorry to break in on you like this, but I
just didn’t know where else to go. Well, like I said, I was going to sleep in the stable, but I was afraid Petrie would come with me.”

  Douglas said, “What did Hallie do?”

  Jason sipped brandy.

  “What did she do?”

  “She laughed at me.”

  “I don’t understand,” James said slowly. “What did she laugh at you about?”

  “She wanted me to tell her what happened five years ago, and so I did. She made light of it! Dammit, all three of us still live with that awful time.”

  James said, “The gall. Here I was growing fond of her. I thought she was nice, filled with kindness.”

  “She is, usually.”

  “No, she’s obviously cruel,” James said, and shook his head. “Hard, that’s what she is, and unfeeling.”

  Douglas nodded. “Indeed. I trust you set her straight, Jason. I am very disappointed in her. I believe I will ride to Lyon’s Gate right now, and give her a piece of my mind.”

  “I’ll go with you, Papa,” James said. “I’d like to shake her, tell her she doesn’t understand what really happened, how it smote you to your toes, Jason, how deeply you feel about it, and your part in it.”

  “She had the nerve to say that any part I had in it I should have gotten over by now.”

  “What a coldhearted creature,” Douglas said. “I’m very sorry you had to marry her, Jason. I’ve wondered if perhaps she took advantage of you because she knew her father was there, knew perhaps he was even on his way into the stable.”

  Jason drank more brandy. “No, she didn’t know her father was there. She simply couldn’t help herself.”