The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “Naturally. Without men, women wouldn’t find their way home. It’s a sorry thing, but there it is. Now, take off as many clothes as you can and I’ll hang them out in the sun to dry. There’s nothing else we can do, so get on with it. Oh, your ribs. Do you need help?”

  “No, go away.”

  “Fine,” he said, rising. “I’ll strip myself.”

  He heard her breath whoosh out from behind him. He spun on his heel and saw her weaving where she stood, but he wasn’t in time to catch her before she fell back down onto the straw. He let loose with a string of curses that had Brewster neighing loudly at him, and then she whispered, “You’re cursing again.”

  “I’m cursing because it’s simply the only thing to do. It’s what a man does when he doesn’t understand what the devil is happening or why it even dared to happen to him since he is completely innocent, and thus his spleen demands venting. You were stealing my horse, I chased you down, and now you have the gall to be a girl and a mad valet to my great-aunts. On top of everything, you’re sick, damn you.” He smacked his hand to his forehead. “It’s a new day and I had a bloody awful evening and night.”

  “What happened last evening?” She didn’t move, just lay there on her side, trying to control the god-awful pain in her one rib that he’d kicked into her back and the sick throbbing in her head. She felt less cold now, which didn’t make a lot of sense but was true nonetheless. And here she was talking. Who cared about his blasted evening? “Did your mistress tell you she’d found a better protector?”

  “Ah, so there’s still a bit of hornet left in you, is there? What would you know about mistresses and the men who keep them?”

  “Every man has mistresses if he has the money. Everyone knows that. It’s the way things are.” Slowly, she tried to pull herself upright. She managed it, breathing hard, still feeling a bit sick to her stomach, and hating the dampness of her clothes sticking to her. “But it isn’t right. It really isn’t. Men might automatically know directions, but if they aren’t faithful to their promises, then they shouldn’t be admired.”

  “Maybe it’s only other faithless men who admire them. Now, are you going to fall down again? You’re a female, so I suppose I should expect it.” He paused a moment and frowned. “You got the best of me twice last night. I don’t understand that.”

  “Men have direction and women have brains—well, and a bit of luck too. Now, I’m going to get up and I’m going to get these wretched clothes off. Yes, I’m going to do it right now. Turn around. Thank you.”

  “When you get your clothes off, I’ll look at your ribs.”

  “No you won’t, my lord. If you try it I’ll smash you to the ground again.”

  Gray laughed, he couldn’t help it. “We’re somewhere in the wilds of nowhere—well west of London—but at least it’s not raining, so I won’t complain. Look, Jack, or whatever your name is, the thing is—” He’d turned as he spoke and there she was, standing in a chemise that came to her knees, and one riding boot on the other lying in the straw beside her. Dark blond hair spilled over her shoulders and breasts. She looked utterly, amazingly female. He hadn’t a clue as to what he had been about to say. He quickly gave her his back again. “Toss your clothes over near me and then get under as much straw as you can.”

  He stripped down to his breeches, had his hand on their buttons, then sighed and shook his head. No, Jack wasn’t a Jack. He couldn’t strip all the way. He picked up her clothes and his shirt, waistcoat, and greatcoat and left her.

  She lay there, shivering like a loon, wondering what would happen now and knowing it wouldn’t be good. She closed her eyes, felt nausea stir in her belly, and began breathing lightly and quickly.

  He said from above her, “Now, think about your ribs. Did I get one or two?”

  “One.”

  Without saying anything else, he knelt down beside her, wearing only his breeches. She’d never seen a half-naked man before, and the surprise of it made a little noise in her throat, which brought his face to hers. “What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t have a shirt on. I’ve never seen a man’s chest before.”

  He sat back on his heels, frowning down at her. “Don’t be a twit. You dress like Jack the valet, hide in a barn older than my grandfather, and then make silly little noises just because I don’t have cloth over my upper parts? Close your eyes, then.” He unfastened her chemise and pulled back the soft white batiste just a bit. It wasn’t enough. He pulled the material wide, baring her breasts. She was so surprised her eyes popped open. She just lay there staring up at him, not knowing what to do. Then she raised her hand in a protective gesture. He gently shoved her hand back down. She just sighed, closed her eyes, and said, “I’m not a twit.”

  “Good.” He lightly touched his fingers to a lower rib that was yellow and blue, edged with fingers of green and black. She tried to pull away, but it hurt so badly she just groaned instead. “That’s right. Make noise, but hold still. Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.” He pulled the material fully apart. Though he didn’t want to, he saw that her nipples were puckered from the cold. Dear God, it was amazing how a woman’s breasts could do a man in very quickly; on the other hand, her breasts were lovely. No, he was looking at the rib he’d smashed with his foot, not at two very nice female breasts. She lay there, stiff and shivering with cold as he ran his fingers over her ribs, up and down her arms, felt her belly, asking over and over, “Here? Does that hurt? No? Good.”

  It was a relief, she thought, looking at him because she simply couldn’t keep her eyes closed. He didn’t appear to notice her womanly parts at all. She could have been Jack for all he cared. No, he was looking again at her ribs and now he was lightly stroking his fingertips over that particular rib that hurt so badly she had to bite her lip to keep quiet. Then he pressed harder and she cried out.

  He looked up at her briefly. “Sorry. Just hold still. I had to see how bad it was. No, it isn’t broken, thank God, but you’re not going to feel like performing the cotillion for the next week or two.” He sat back on his haunches. “Well, you deserve the pain. Stealing my Durban, a solid old boy I’ve had since I was fourteen years old. The chances are he would have brought you low, you know. Whenever Durban sees any dandelions—it doesn’t matter where—even on the side of a road that’s filled with carriages and other horses, he has to have them. Dandelions are ambrosia to Durban. It doesn’t matter what you do. Indeed, the only thing you can do is simply let him eat all the bloody dandelions he wants. Only then will he move another hoof in the direction you want, even if it’s the wrong direction.

  “Now, I’m not going to feel sorry for you. I’m not going to apologize. No matter what you are, you were still stealing my horse. I’ll bet the aunts had no idea what you were going to do, did they?”

  “They know me very well. If they’d put their brains to it, I’m sure they would have realized that I’d do what I did. I left them a letter.”

  He could only stare at her. “Bloody hell. Actually, that’s just perfect. What should I have expected? You’re a damned female, after all. Now, tell me your name and tell me right now.”

  He was staring at just her face, not her womanly breast parts, which were still very bare.

  She was white and silent.

  “Is it Jacqueline and you shortened it to Jack?”

  She shook her head.

  “What else is there that goes with Jack? Jennifer? Jasmine?”

  “My name is Winifrede Levering and I’m very cold.”

  “Winifrede? What’s a Levering?”

  “Winifrede was my grandmother’s name and Levering was her family name. My grandmother on my father’s side. My father loved his mother very much and I got stuck with the results.”

  He grunted, closed the chemise over her breasts, and covered her with handfuls of straw.

  “Your family name?”

 
She shook her head. Her jaw hurt, the side of her face hurt. She held herself perfectly still and said, “I don’t want to tell you that. If I do, it will be all over.”

  “What will be all over?” He tossed more straw over her.

  “I didn’t mean to say that, precisely. My family name is McGregor.”

  “You’re not any better at lying than you are at stealing. I’ll accept the Winifrede Levering—it’s too dreadful not to be true. It’s a name that really doesn’t suit you at all—it even nearly hurts to say that name aloud, so, yes, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re telling the truth about that. But McGregor? The truth, please, now.”

  She sighed. Why couldn’t she think of a name that he would accept? She wasn’t about to tell him who she was. She had no idea what he would do. Probably he’d return her directly to her stepfather.

  “I must leave,” she said, and he heard the desperation in her voice. There was also pain. What was he supposed to do now?

  “Very well,” he said, his voice as cold as the month of February had been last winter. “Once our clothes are dry, I’ll take you back to London and turn you over to the aunts. I’m certain they’ll tell me everything I want to know. They can also deal with you. Of course, they didn’t do a very good job of dealing with you before, but what choice do I have? Poor old birds, stuck with you. They do indeed have my sympathy.”

  “They did an excellent job of dealing with me. It was just that I had no choice. I had to go back to Folkstone. The aunts are wonderful. They’re trying to protect me. They won’t tell you a thing.”

  “I’m cold as well,” he said, as he lay down beside her and pulled straw over himself. “I came home last night expecting to pour a nice bit of brandy down my gullet and then stretch out on my back and dream sweet dreams, perhaps about my mistress, who doesn’t want another protector. But no, it wasn’t to be.” He gave her a look of loathing. Then he blinked. “Damn. I thought I’d covered you well enough but I didn’t. That straw on your skin will tear you apart.”

  He was over her in an instant, brushing off straw, then pulling her chemise completely together and fastening the small buttons, his fingers lightly brushing over her left breast. She nearly heaved she was so frightened. “For heaven’s sake, hold still. I’m not a bloody rapist.”

  “Stop cursing.”

  “You’d curse too if you had a half-naked girl whose name is Winifrede Levering alone with you in a wreck of a barn and you were freezing your—well, never mind that. Just hold still. There, now you’re covered again. Oh, yes, you look like someone smacked you in the head.”

  “You did. I tried to jerk away, but you still got me.”

  He frowned at that, lightly touched his fingertips to her temple, then frowned again. “I don’t like to see bruises on a woman. Actually, I’ve always hated it. What’s worse is I’ve never been one to do it.” He threw some more straw over her, then lay down beside her.

  “How many mistresses have you had?”

  His eyes came open. “Why? You want the job?”

  “No, I don’t even want you near me, but you fastened my chemise like you’ve done it many, many times. You even had your eyes closed.”

  “I have done many little services. I remember the first chemise I fastened. It was swiftly and very well done. I’m not a clod. I was never a clod. I closed my eyes because looking at your breasts wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Actually, I’d already looked my fill at your breasts. Thus, doing the right thing this time wasn’t that difficult. What am I supposed to do with you now?”

  He sounded like a reasonable man, but she couldn’t be certain. She hadn’t really known many men in her life, other than her father and the two she’d known better than just simple acquaintances hadn’t been reasonable. “Perhaps,” she said, feeling her way since she well realized that she was mired in a very big problem, “you could simply help me back to London. I will just lie low until I am well again. I’ll convince the aunts that I’m all right. You could perhaps just forget all of this?”

  “And when you could, you’d try to steal one of my horses again?”

  He had a point there.

  “No, don’t even try to lie. You’re no good at it. Now, I think it’s in your best interest to tell me the truth and let me decide what’s best to be done.”

  Total silence.

  “Very well. Tell me about Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford.”

  He thought she’d fainted, but when he came up on his elbow to look at her, he saw that she’d squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  “Who is he?”

  “Not a good man.”

  “I know that. Even Quincy knew that. Quincy has something of a second sight about people, inherited all the way down from a great-great-grandmother. Yes, Sir Henry came looking for you.”

  “Oh, God. What did you say?”

  “He told me he was in London on business and just wanted to see if the aunts were doing all right. Then he asked if the aunts had brought a guest with them.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Jack the valet wasn’t a guest. I said no. I’m not certain if he believed me, but he had no choice but to leave.” He saw that her hair was nearly dry. He himself was finally warm again. Her skin had lost that waxy gray color. She must be warmer as well. He came up on his elbow and began picking the straw out of her hair.

  “Since you said you’d never seen a man’s chest before, then I assume that Sir Henry isn’t your husband.”

  She groaned.

  “No. Well, then, your father?”

  “No. My papa’s dead. Mathilda and Maude will be frantic. We must get back to London.”

  He was untangling hair from around a crooked piece of straw. “Since we’re both covered with straw, I think I’ll take my breeches off.” He rose, stripped, laid out his pants, then returned to lie next to her, straw poking him in places he hadn’t thought vulnerable since the time when he’d been fifteen and made love with sweet Florence Dobbins in the shade of a sand dune on the beach at Torquay. “If the sun holds steady, our clothes should be dry in a couple of hours. Now, how do you feel?”

  “Fine,” she said. He heard some strange noises, turned to face her, and saw that she’d stuffed her fist into her mouth and tears were slowly trickling down her face.

  6

  HE DIDN’T think, just acted, pulling away the straw and bringing her close. Her body was incredibly warm against him, which was a surprise, since she’d been shivering just a minute before.

  She stiffened tighter than a virgin in a brothel, which, he supposed, wasn’t all that much of a surprise. He just pulled her closer and pressed her cheek down against his shoulder. Her arms were as bare as her legs, which were against his, all smooth and delightful. He turned his face into her hair and said, “It’s all right. Don’t cry unless you’re hurting, and not just feeling miserable about this impossible situation that you, I might add, are responsible for getting us into.”

  “You didn’t have to come after me. You could have let me have Durban for a while. I would have returned him.”

  He started to burn her ears, but he felt her tears on his neck and cursed instead, then stopped cold. “No, I won’t curse again, at least until it’s impossible not to. I have this feeling that with you near at hand, cursing will become a regular habit with me.”

  “My mother hated cursing. Once I said ‘damn’ when I was just a little girl and she made me eat a bowl of turnips. She wouldn’t let me add any salt or butter, nothing. I came to hate turnips very quickly. I can’t look at a turnip now without thinking about that one small ‘damn,’ which felt very good saying at the time.”

  “Turnips, huh? A better punishment than having a mouth full of soap, which I understand is the time-honored curse punishment. Now, you’re warming up and so am I. Let’s just rest here a couple more hours until our clothes are dry.”
r />   “Then what?”

  “We’ll go back to London.”

  His skin felt itchy from her tears and he shifted just a bit, bringing up his hand to scratch himself. When she realized what he was going to do, she did it for him, lightly digging her fingernails into his shoulder and neck.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You hair smells good.”

  She sighed. “You shouldn’t say that. I’m nineteen years old. I don’t know you except for what the aunts said, and they aren’t sure if you’re nice or very wicked. You’re naked. I can feel your legs and they’re hairy. My rib hurts and so does my head.”

  “All right. Take a nap. Oh, yes—I’m not wicked. I’m staid, even proper. This one small incident with us lying here bundled together isn’t the norm. Trust me.”

  “I don’t know about trusting you just yet. Yes, the aunts wondered if you were like your father. They didn’t like your father.”

  “I didn’t either. Go to sleep.” He was the one, however, who was lightly snoring five minutes later.

  She’d never before lain half-naked against a fully naked man. It was at once strange and just a bit exhilarating. What to do now? She lightly scratched his shoulder again.

  When she woke up, she was quite alone, packed in straw like a fish on the dock. She opened her eyes and stared around her, not moving until she remembered, and then she sat up quickly. She was so dizzy that she nearly fell over. She sat very still, waiting. Finally her head cleared. She saw him some six feet away, shrugging into his waistcoat.

  “Are the clothes dry?”

  He turned around and gave her a smile. She’d never seen him smile before. It was quite nice. In fact, it was a smile that would have knocked her flat—would have knocked any female flat, she imagined—if she weren’t sitting here with only her chemise on, with straw sticking out of her hair. If she hadn’t believed him to be a womanizer, and possibly just like her stepfather, she would have thought his smile quite the nicest smile that had ever been bestowed upon her. On the other hand, he’d assured her that he wasn’t wicked. In her meager experience, however, men weren’t to be believed.