The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

Eleanor kept licking.

  Gray laughed. He wondered as he walked up the dark stairs toward his bedchamber just how all this had come about. Surely it wasn’t an expected thing that a man’s wife suddenly appear as a valet who would steal his horse.

  He had to visit Jenny tomorrow. He realized that all he would truly miss was her delicious apple tarts, with Devonshire cream.

  14

  “A VALET? This girl devised a plot to trap you into marriage by actually playing a valet and stealing Durban when she knew you’d be coming home and knowing you’d see her?”

  Gray tried not to laugh, but it was impossible. “Oh, Jenny, she had no notion she would end up being married to me when she stole Durban. No, she had no plans for me to see her. Actually, I strangled her, knocked her in the ribs, hit her jaw, and slammed her to the straw.

  “Come now, I just tried to give you an idea of how this has all came about. Jack is a good sort. She will suit me very well, you’ll see.”

  “Have you slept with her?”

  An impertinent question, but he let it go. “No, Jenny, nor will I until we’re married.”

  He watched his mistress pace up and down, up and down the full length of her drawing room. She was wearing a quite lovely green muslin gown that would have shown the lovely curve of her breasts if she hadn’t had an apron tied around her neck. There were gravy stains on that apron. It was nearly time for luncheon. He sniffed. Roast lamb was only two rooms away, he was certain of it.

  “Very well,” Jenny said at last, and then she sniffed, as well, nodded, her mind obviously in her kitchen. “You will marry her. I knew you would have to marry to have an heir. It is expected. However, I believe that two weeks should be quite enough. Then you’ll be bored with her and come back to me. I shall go to Bath for two weeks and recuperate in the healing Roman waters. Now, I will feed you, my lord. Roast lamb with my special mint sauce.”

  As he ate Jenny’s delicious roast lamb with her special mint sauce, he realized he hadn’t even thought about keeping a mistress and a wife at the same time. Most men did, but now, when he was facing the decision, he knew he wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. A man gave his word and kept it. It was that simple. His father, not surprisingly, had enjoyed a score of mistresses during his time with Gray’s mother, and it had been no secret, not to his wife, not to his son.

  He was still thinking about the business of wives and mistresses as he walked from Jenny’s charming apartments on Candlewick Street back home to Portman Square, a full mile to the east. The sky was overcast, but it wasn’t raining, not like it had the night before, when Eleanor had burrowed so close to him he’d nearly crushed her when he executed a roll onto his back.

  He thought of his mother and felt the familiar pain block his throat. He saw her face suddenly in his mind’s eye, her face as it had been when he’d not been more than eight years old and he saw her staring down into the entrance hall at her husband kissing a woman and rubbing her breasts, all in front of whoever wanted to watch, which had probably been the entire household. He saw the tears streaming down her cheeks, the deadening pain in her beautiful eyes. He shook his head. He hated those memories because there was simply no way to control them. They popped up, spread instant devastation, then simply disappeared again back into the past, hovering there until the next time.

  No, he would never do that to Jack. Once he was married, he would keep to his vows. However, it was surely odd that he hadn’t felt even a flicker of desire when he’d been with Jenny. He’d lusted after the roasted lamb, though.

  Gray remembered seeing an advertisement for a new stove, supposedly so modern that it did everything except actually baste the meat. He would buy that stove for Jenny. He would also look for another protector for her, if she wished it, a gentleman who would enjoy her cooking as much as Gray did.

  He was whistling, swinging his cane, when he walked up the steps to his town house. The door flew open and Quincy, with both aunts hovering behind him, shouted, “My lord, Miss Jack is gone!”

  Jack couldn’t breathe. There was some sort of foul-smelling sack over her head. When she tried to raise her hand to rip it off, she realized her arms were tied behind her back. She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t save herself. She choked and struggled.

  “Shut up,” someone said. “Just shut up.”

  She continued to struggle, wheezing, knowing she was going to die.

  She heard the man curse. The sack was jerked from her head. She sucked in air, concentrating on the fresh, pure air coming into her body. She fell back and lay there, just breathing. Finally, she opened her eyes. She saw a burlap sack on the carriage seat beside her.

  She was indeed in a carriage and it was moving fast, rocking hard from side to side. Odd that she hadn’t realized that before.

  “Well, dear Winifrede, you’re back again. I forgot that you couldn’t stand closed-in places. No, don’t move or I’ll hurt you. I might even put that burlap sack over your head again and listen to you choke.”

  She stared at Arthur Kelburn, Lord Rye’s eldest son. She hadn’t seen him for a good three months. She wished she didn’t have to see him for another thirty years.

  “Why?” she said, nothing more, staring at his very fine white cravat and buff riding jacket.

  He gave her his special brooding, dark-eyed scowl that sent most of the local girls into swoons of delight. His hair was as black as Eleanor’s stomach, long and curling slightly over his neck, a thick lock hanging romantically over his forehead. He was the same age as Gray. There was no further likeness between the two men. Arthur was the antithesis of his noble name. He would very likely prove to be a greater wastrel than his father in the years to come, if he lived that long.

  “Why?”

  He was sitting on the opposite carriage seat, facing her. His hands were clasped between his knees. His dark, brooding look intensified. He probably practiced that look in a mirror.

  “When I was young,” he said finally, “I thought you the skinniest, ugliest little girl I’d ever seen. My father would just smile and say, ‘Wait, my boy, just wait.’ I waited, Winifrede. Now you’re eighteen—nearly nineteen, my father told me—a woman grown, and I must say that my father was right. You’ve turned out quite charmingly.

  “I’m a man grown, and I’m ready to marry. My father and I had determined that it would be he who married you. It was all settled. We knew that those witless old ladies had taken you to London. We even knew where you were. Sir Henry would fetch you back. I told my father that you would prefer me to him and that once you knew I would be your groom, you would cease your complaints. It is, naturally, quite true, and so my father agreed to it.

  “Then Sir Henry came rushing down to Folkstone to tell us that you were going to marry a bloody baron tomorrow morning.”

  He sat forward, his knees touching hers, and his brooding look became turbulent, more laced with violence.

  “You’re not going to marry any bloody baron, Winifrede. You’re going to marry me. We’re on our way to the border. It will take us at least five days to get there and get married. By that time, it’s more than likely that you’ll be pregnant with my child.”

  “Did your father truly believe I would prefer you to him?”

  “Ah, yes, ladies do enjoy having many men fighting over them. It pleases their vanity. Well, my father decided that having you in his bed just wasn’t worth all the aggravation, so he gave you over to me. He told me you were willful and obstinate and had too much guile for a woman. He said you weren’t to be trusted. He assured me that wooing you would be a waste of time. He reminded me what had happened when your stepfather left you alone in your bedchamber, assuming that you were broken, assuming that he’d won and you would do what he told you to do. He told me to master you, it was the only way.

  “My father’s an old man—not that he’d appreciate hearing me say that, but it’s true. He�
��s forgotten what it’s like to take a young innocent like you and teach her what she’s supposed to be, what she’s supposed to do.”

  “My betrothed will kill you.”

  Arthur laughed. “He might wish to, but he won’t attempt it. He’s a useless dandy, that one. I would shoot him down very easily. He knows it. I have a reputation for my shooting and fencing skills.

  “No, your baron will bleat and gnash his teeth because he’s lost your sixty thousand pounds, but he’s not stupid. He won’t do anything, Winifrede, he simply won’t. He has no spine and he realizes it.”

  She was silent, working the knotted rope at her wrists. Her fingers were getting numb. It wasn’t a good sign.

  Arthur looked out the window when she remained silent. He was pleased that she was holding her tongue. He stared at the passing green hills and the interminable yew bushes that lined the road as far as the eye could see. He saw an occasional herd of cows, an occasional flock of sheep. The carriage was well sprung. His father liked his luxuries. He didn’t want his son to be uncomfortable in this venture.

  He turned to look at her again. He stretched out his legs, one on either side of her, clasping her legs between his. “That scares you, doesn’t it, Winifrede? Well, after tonight, you’ll like having me all over you. I trust you’re still a virgin?”

  She continued silent. If she’d had her way last night, just maybe she wouldn’t be a virgin this morning. But Gray was a man of honor, curse him. She kept working the knot.

  “Yes, I suppose you are. Since you were the aunts’ valet, they would have protected you.” He pressed his legs more tightly inward, trapping hers. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just kept twisting and pulling on the knot.

  “You know, I began to believe you pretty after your sixteenth birthday. You’ve turned out well. You’re not as pretty as your mother was—at least that’s what my father says—but I shan’t repine. Your hair is thick and quite lovely, many interesting shades of blond.” He leaned forward and removed the clasp that held her hair at the nape of her neck. He fanned his fingers through her hair, arranging it about her shoulders, bringing over some of it to cover her breasts.

  He sat back again, crossing his arms over his chest.

  To his surprise, she smiled at him. “I would like you to return me to London now, Arthur. Gray won’t kill you if you turn the carriage around right now and go back.”

  “I already told you that he won’t try to kill me, no matter what I do to you. Are you stupid?”

  “Very well. Then I will tell you this: I refuse to marry you. You can’t force me to.”

  “I will simply take you until you have no other choice. I will keep you with me until you’re with child. I’m a potent man. I have three bastards at least to prove it.”

  “I don’t care if you rape me. I still won’t marry you.”

  His brooding look now bordered on the petulant; he looked for all the world like a small boy who’d been thwarted and hadn’t expected it. “That’s ridiculous. You’re a girl. You know nothing about anything. You won’t have a choice. I’m a man. I’m handsome and charming. I will please you in bed as I’ve pleased more girls than I can count. You will admire me. You will be pleased that I’m your husband. You will obey me, but I will never trust you.”

  She continued to smile at him even as she turned her face against the squabs and closed her eyes.

  “Damn you.” He was on her then, jerking her chin back, his hands wrapping themselves around her hair. He was kissing her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He pulled her over on top of him, holding her legs still between his.

  • • •

  Gray said to his horse, “She stole you. You never even had a chance to bite her for what she did. If you find her for me, I’ll let you nibble on her to your heart’s content.”

  Durban snorted, flicked his tail, and lengthened his stride. They passed a farmer in a cart piled high with hay.

  Gray was on the North road. She’d been gone for only an hour. She was probably in a carriage. If the bastard who took her was thinking about a quick wedding, then he’d be dragging her to Scotland.

  Five days to Scotland.

  He didn’t think he’d want to try to hold Jack prisoner for five days. Not when she didn’t want it. It would be five very long days. Who had taken her? Her stepfather? In that case, Gray was wrong to his boot heels, for Sir Henry would be hauling her back to Folkstone. Then Douglas would get him. Perhaps it was Lord Rye, the lecherous old fool. Would he try to take her to Scotland? Or perhaps to Bath, where he’d hide her in one of the many houses for rent in the area? If so, then Ryder would find them.

  No, it wasn’t either of them, and that’s why Gray was riding hell-bent for Scotland. He’d immediately believed Aunt Mathilda when she’d said, “Young and determined.”

  And then Aunt Maude had said thoughtfully, “Any man who took her would have to be not only strong and determined. He would have to be desperate.”

  Aunt Mathilda had nodded slowly and added in her deep, beautiful voice, “Arthur.”

  Mathilda and Maude knew all the possible bounders who could have snatched Jack. They believed it was Arthur, Lord Rye’s heir. Yes, the aunts had assured him. Arthur was strong, not as strong as his namesake, but he wasn’t a weakling like many young men who wenched and drank and played cards until dawn.

  They were just an hour ahead of Gray and Durban, not much more. He pressed his cheek to Durban’s smooth neck and urged him on faster.

  He was groaning, his breath hot on her cheek, his hands furiously kneading her breasts. Her hands slipped loose of the knot. She reared back suddenly and slammed her fists into his neck.

  He gave her a look of disbelieving horror, then gurgled. He was holding his throat, turning blue. She didn’t wait. She opened the carriage door, grabbed his arm, and flung him to the floor. He slid down onto his hands and knees. She managed to squeeze behind him, plant her feet in the center of his back and kick with all her strength. He went flying out the open door. Unfortunately, the coachman saw his master crash onto the road and roll to the side.

  She would have given anything for a gun, for a stick of wood to use as a weapon.

  The horses came to a sliding halt. The coachman jumped off the seat and rushed to look into the carriage at the girl his master had kidnapped.

  “What happened to Mr. Arthur? What did ye do to him? Poor lad, he didn’t do nuthin’ except steal ye out of Portman Square. Ah, there he be, poor lad, lying on ’is face in the dirt, all still. Ye kilt him, ye did. Fer shame, and ye a lady an’ acting like a floozy with no sensibility.”

  The coachman ran as fast as he could toward the fallen Arthur. Without hesitation, Jack jumped onto the box, grabbed the reins, and flicked them over the horses. She yelled at them, jerking on the heavy reins, slapping them against the horses’ necks.

  She heard the coachman shout, “Stop! No!”

  She took a quick look over her shoulder to see Arthur lying in the middle of the road, still. Too still. Oh dear, was he dead?

  She saw herself deported to that place nearly a world away called Botany Bay. She urged the horses forward even as she considered going back to see to Arthur. She looked back one more time. He was sitting up, holding his head. No, he was rubbing his villain’s neck. Good.

  The road was wide, the ruts deep and dry. She pulled back a bit on the reins, for there was a curve coming up. She thought she heard a horse coming. The horses didn’t pull up at all. They didn’t even pause.

  The lead horse, a huge bay, jerked his head up and snorted, then stretched out and lunged forward, bringing the inside horse with him.

  Jack had never driven a pair before. It wasn’t at all the same as riding. She tried to pull them back. It didn’t work. They flew around the curve directly into the path of an oncoming horseman, galloping hard right at them.

  She h
eard the man’s yell, saw his horse rear back onto its hind legs. She saw that it was Durban and his eyes were wild. Gray’s eyes were wild too.

  She saw that he’d kept his seat on Durban’s back, but not for long. As the horses galloped away, Durban went crashing off the road into a thick stand of yew bushes. Gray was thrown off Durban’s back and slammed into an oak tree.

  She closed her eyes for an instant, every action she’d taken in the past ten minutes careening through her brain. Oh God, Gray would have caught them if only she hadn’t thrown Arthur out of the carriage.

  Jack gritted her teeth, sawed on the reins, got no results, then finally, having no idea how to stop the beasts, she just looped the reins loosely around her hands and sat there, feeling the wind tear through her hair, shivering because the air was cold at this colossal speed, closing her eyes because they were tearing and burning from the harsh wind. And she prayed.

  To her relief and surprise, the horses began to slow. It seemed forever, but surely it didn’t take them too much longer to pull up, winded.

  They simply stopped in the middle of the road.

  She jumped down from the box, went to their heads, and stroked both faces, thanking them, promising them oats, promising them her steadfast devotion for a lifetime.

  “Now,” she said, fastening her hand tightly about the lead horse’s reins, close to his mouth, “we’ve got to go back and see to Gray. We’re going to walk back.”

  It took only five minutes to cover the road at a nice slow walk, the same road that they’d flown over but minutes before.

  “Gray.”

  There was no answer.

  Durban was standing in the shade of an elm tree just up the road. He raised his head when he heard her voice.

  “Durban, don’t move, boy. Just stay there. We’ve got to find Gray.”

  She did find him, in an unconscious heap at the foot of the oak tree.

  15