The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

“Do you smell the olives?”

  She nodded, “When I carried the cask out of the cave and gently set it on a rock, I looked at it for the longest time before I could bring myself to open it. I don’t know if I expected some sort of genie to float out. When I did open it, the smell of olives nearly overwhelmed me it was so strong. It has grown weaker over time, allowing the other smells to come out.”

  “The smell of age.”

  “Yes. I felt too as though I were in the presence of something ancient and powerful, yet very strange, very different from me. The smell or the feeling of this thing hasn’t changed. Don’t you think that odd?”

  He slowly nodded. He had no words. Slowly, with infinite care, Helen gently lifted out the scroll of leather. “You can see how very fragile it is.”

  She unrolled it while he held down one side. It covered a third of the desk. There were four paperweights, each set carefully upon a corner, to hold it down. “Did you measure it?”

  She nodded. “It’s twelve inches by nine and a half inches.”

  He lightly touched his fingertips to the old leather as a blind man would. “There was probably something tying it closed?”

  “Yes, but it disintegrated long ago. It must have been tied for a very long time, because when I found it, the scroll was still tightly rolled.”

  Only then did he allow himself to look down upon the old leather. It was the color of dried blood. The writing was black. The person had pressed the inked tip hard into the leather. It wouldn’t have mattered if the leather had turned completely black over the years. The deep grooves and shapes were still perfectly clear.

  Reading what was written, however, was a different matter.

  “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  “Yes, right here.”

  The silence grew long and thick. Helen walked away from him to the French doors of the small estate room, which gave onto a private walled garden.

  She looked back at him, leaning over her desk, staring down intently at the leather scroll. He was frowning.

  “What is it, Lord Beecham?”

  “I believe,” he said at last, turning to look at her, “that it is time you called me by my given name. It’s Spenser.”

  “All right. You may call me Helen.”

  “Helen is a good name. This scroll—it is not Latin or old French or anything like that.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is something along the line of ancient Persian.” He straightened. “Does your father have any texts about languages?”

  “Yes, but Persian? I doubt it.”

  Lord Prith had nothing at all ever written east of Germany.

  “It’s time we went to see Vicar Gilliam,” Helen said. “It will take us about an hour to ride there.”

  Lord Beecham looked back at the leather scroll atop the desk. “I’m thinking that we should oil the leather, make it more pliable and more resistant to cracking and splitting, particularly when you and I touch it.” He paused a moment, then said, “You know, Helen, the chances are that this says nothing at all about the lamp. In fact I would say the odds are very much against it.”

  She was shaking her head even as she said, “No, I don’t believe that. I believe that King Edward hid the lamp near Aldeburgh and that is where the cask was buried. The lamp is nearby, I know it is. What is the purpose of the leather scroll if not to explain the lamp? That must be it, don’t you see?”

  “Then why would the scroll be written in ancient Persian and not in French, if it is indeed some sort of explanation about the lamp?”

  “Robert Burnell, the king’s secretary, was vastly learned. He must have done it. He must have wanted the lamp to be difficult to find.”

  Lord Beecham didn’t think that was the case, but he said nothing.

  They used the almond oil that Helen poured into her bath. “I thought the scent was somewhat familiar,” he said over his shoulder as he gently rubbed his thumb in the oil and lightly touched it to the leather. He lifted his thumb to his nose. “It smells like you.”

  “Keep rubbing, Spenser.”

  “Just look at that,” he said after a moment. “It’s working.”

  Together they oiled the leather, going very slowly until, finally, it was done. There were only three small tears and perhaps a dozen places where a single touch would split the leather and destroy some of the words.

  They covered the newly softened leather with a clean cheesecloth, locked the door to the estate room, and remounted their horses to ride to Dereham to see Vicar Lockleer Gilliam.

  They didn’t make it.

  9

  FROM ONE MINUTE TO THE next, as happened so often in England no matter what the season, the sky went from a soft, misty gray to the near black of nightfall, only there was no moon to light the way, just heavy black clouds rolling and tumbling in low, right over their heads.

  “Oh, dear,” said Helen, looking up. “This is a new riding habit. One of your London modistes made it for me just last week. You would not believe what the peacock feathers cost.”

  “Which modiste?”

  “Madame Flaubert.”

  “She is rather conservative, I have found, but the quality is excellent. Actually, given your size, I like the cut. Simplicity is—” He didn’t have time to finish his thought because at that precise instant lightning struck an oak branch that stretched over the narrow country road. Smoke billowed out as the branch snapped off and struck the ground not three feet from their horses. Thunder ripped through the silence. Luther, maddened beyond control, reared up on his hind legs.

  “Helen, hold tight!”

  Lord Beecham didn’t have a chance. When Luther twisted sideways and hurled his hindquarters in the opposite direction as he kicked out his hind legs, Lord Beecham flew off his back to land headfirst in a thick hedge on the side of the road. He heard her yell to him.

  As for Helen, she had her own difficulties. Luther, his eyes wild and rolling in his head, slammed into Eleanor, who had already backed away, tripping over her own hooves. Luther bit her neck. Eleanor whirled about and skidded to a dead stop. Helen yelled as she went flying over her mare’s head. She landed at the edge of a ditch and rolled down to the bottom, coming to a stop on a carpet of luscious wild daffodils in full yellow bloom.

  Lord Beecham, just slightly winded now, no bones broken, climbed down to her and went down on his knees beside her. He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

  She was lying flat on her back, a bunch of daffodils sticking up between her riding boots. Her left arm was over her head, showing the huge rent beneath her right arm.

  There were two of him weaving above her when she managed to get her eyes to open. “Stop moving, it is making me dizzy. Please, just hold still.”

  “All right. I am perfectly still now. Is that better?”

  “Yes, thank you. Oh, dear, my riding habit, is it quite ruined?”

  “Helen, I am worried that you might have broken something or hurt yourself internally, and all you can do is cry piteously about your damned riding habit. I will buy you a new one. I will even select the material and the style. Forget the habit. Yes, there is a big tear under your arm. It looks like you put a boot through the hem. Nothing important. Now, attend me. How do you feel?”

  “You have dirt on your face.” She raised a hand to flick it away. “You’ve got a small cut beside your right ear. I don’t feel any particular pain. Did you rattle your brains?”

  “No. Luther very kindly tossed me into a thick hedge that cushioned my fall. I saw you go right over Eleanor’s head. Both those damned ingrates are probably trotting happily back to Shugborough Hall. At least I hope that Eleanor will lead Luther back there.”

  “Luther was so maddened that he bit Eleanor’s neck. Or maybe he is in love with her. If that’s the case, you can be certain he will follow her as closely as he can.”

  He would never be able to explain why he did it. Perhaps it was all the unexpected danger, the utter relief that
both of them were still alive. It didn’t matter. Blood pumped wildly through his veins, his heart pounded deep, heavy strokes, and he felt ready to burst out of his skin. He leaned down and lightly nipped her neck just above the lace on her white blouse.

  He drew back, holding to a thread of control. “I did see Luther eyeing Eleanor’s flanks earlier today.”

  “You did not. Forget mimicking your horse any further. You may not bite me there next. Now, I am getting myself together again. Yes, I am very nearly together. How did my neck taste?”

  At that moment the black clouds burst open.

  “Oh, no, my poor riding habit.” She tried to pull him down over her to protect her habit. Lord Beecham was laughing so hard he got a mouthful of rain. But he ended up lying on top of her, all of her beneath him, a perfect fit, like no fit he had ever experienced in his entire adult life.

  “This is a goodly dose of nature’s discipline,” he said, leaned down and kissed her mouth.

  She turned to stone.

  He raised himself up just a bit so he could look down at her face. “What’s wrong? I didn’t slide my hand under your riding skirt to stroke my fingers over the soft flesh behind your knee. I didn’t nibble at your neck again. I haven’t headed anywhere near your flank. No, I just kissed you. Nothing of any import, really, just a touching of mouths. What the devil is wrong with you, Helen?”

  He was lying on top of her, balanced above her on his elbows. Rain was coming down so hard she knew the ditch would fill up very quickly, but she didn’t say anything. She just stared up at him.

  “Are you thinking about pulling off my boots again?”

  She shook her head.

  He leaned down and kissed her again.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said into his mouth, locked her arms around his back and pulled him so tightly against her that no rain could even get between them. His hands were in her hair, pulling at the riding hat, with its broken, drooping peacock feather, and his tongue was in her mouth and he was panting, beside himself, but perhaps Helen was even further gone than he was. She managed to open her legs and he was between them, and he was hard and ready and this was indeed ridiculous, just as she had gasped into his mouth.

  He jerked away from her and hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed her hand and pulled her upright. “It’s raining hard. We have to find shelter. If we are possibly so lucky as to find anything at all that will provide even a dollop of protection, I am going to be inside you in a matter of moments.”

  He started pulling her up the side of the ditch. “Where are we?”

  She was looking at him like a half-wit.

  “Helen? Get ahold of yourself. Stop thinking of what I’m going to do to you. Or are you thinking of what you’re going to do to me? Think. Where can we go for shelter?”

  She raised her arm, the one with the big rip in the armpit, and pointed. “There’s a wreck of an ancient cottage through the woods, there, to the east. Perhaps it’s only a quarter of a mile away.”

  They struggled to the top of the ditch and found an opening through the thick line of trees that clustered near the country road. The foliage was so thick that it at least protected them from the worst of the deluge.

  Lord Beecham stopped for a moment, aware that his right leg was drawing up on him. “Well, damn.” It was something of a sprain, but not too bad. He looked at Helen, who was breathing hard, her beautiful blond hair flattened wet against her head and face, a long sheet of hair down her back. “How do you feel?” He cupped her face in his hand.

  “Better than you. Do you want me to help you?”

  He shook his head. “No, it isn’t that bad, just a slight sprain. Which way?”

  They slogged their way through the forest until Helen stopped and looked around. “It’s near here. Just over there, to the right. There is a small clearing.”

  They stepped into the clearing in another three minutes.

  “Thank God it hasn’t collapsed in on itself,” Helen said as she ran toward what once had been a dilapidated cottage and was now a relic. “At least a part of the roof is still up there.”

  “Stay here,” Lord Beecham said and carefully pulled the rotted door open. It creaked and groaned, and the hinges scraped and loosened even more.

  “Come inside,” he said over his shoulder as he stepped into the most appalling excuse for a shelter he could imagine. Half the roof was gone. Three beams held up the other half of the room. There were still wooden floors, of a sort, mostly rotted, undoubtedly dangerous.

  But bless the munificent Lord—there was one dry corner. They were laughing as they eased down very slowly and carefully onto the wooden floorboards and leaned back against the wall. It creaked loudly, then stilled.

  They grew quiet. The rain pounding on the roof over their heads sounded like hails of bullets. As for the roof-less part of the single room, the rain came down in a thick gray sheet.

  He looked at her mouth. “Come here, I want you right this minute.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” Helen said, not moving an inch. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We are partners in this exciting venture. In my experience, the minute a man is tired of a woman or vice versa, the last thing they want to do is spend more time together.”

  He raised a dark brow. It made him look utterly insolent and arrogant. He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. “Just tell me about all this experience of yours.”

  “Men aren’t always reasonable or logical.”

  “Neither are women.”

  “My point exactly. Let’s not muddy things up with physical sorts of things.”

  “What is your experience, Helen? I know you are the prominent mistress of discipline in Court Hammering. I know that the men who work for you tremble in delicious fear of your discipline threats. I know I can see you pulling off my left boot, your bottom thrust toward me. And the smile on your face as you’re looking over your shoulder at me is decidedly wicked, filled with knowledge of pleasure and how to dole it out.”

  She stared straight ahead at the pouring gray sheet of rain not six feet away. The rain splashed to within two feet of where they sat. It was chilly. She was wet clear through, and all she wanted was to have him bite her neck again, perhaps even take a nip or two of her flank. She turned to say something, but the words never made it out of her mouth. He was on her, pressing her onto her back. Thank God there were no leaks in the ceiling over them.

  She was not the least bit cold, not now, not with his hands on her upper arms, caressing her shoulders, her neck while his mouth was heavy on hers, drawing her into him and his urgency, into his wild need for her, and she made a decision she knew had already been made in her own mind the first time she saw him. She gave him her mouth, gave all of herself to him, pushing and bringing him tightly against her, her hands frantic on his back, coming between them to the buttons of his riding breeches.

  The heat of him amazed her, drew her even deeper, so quickly now, arching up when his hands were on her breasts, and then on the buttons of her riding jacket.

  “Helen, now,” he said into her mouth, his breath hot and wild. “I can’t believe this.” He was panting as he reared up over her, stared down at her for just a fraction of a moment before he jerked up her riding skirt and her petticoats. When she was naked to the waist, he sat on his heels and stared down at her. Slowly, with her watching him, he stretched out his hand, let it hover a long moment over her belly, then ever so slowly let his palm lie flat against her soft flesh.

  He was looking at his hand resting on her belly and she knew he was looking at his fingers as they slowly moved downward, so slowly, savoring every bit of her until at last, he was cupping her.

  She arched upward and grabbed his shoulders to bring him down on her.

  “No, Helen, not yet. Good Lord, not yet. Once I kiss your mouth again I won’t be any good to you at all. I’ll spill my seed and then you will believe me the greatest clod in England.”

  “Spense
r.”

  She whispered his name on a soft sigh as he slid a finger inside her. He nearly lost himself right then, right there. His breathing quickened, his heart was pounding out of his chest and he knew it was all over for him. She was so very hot and soft and she wanted him. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, and she was staring up at him like he was the only man in the entire world and the only man she wanted.

  “Helen,” he said again, jerked down his breeches, lifted her hips, and came into her, deep and hard.

  She screamed at the pain of it, then screamed again at the pleasure of it. He was on top of her now, his mouth on hers again, and his tongue was touching her lower lip, then easing into her mouth, and she accepted him and kissed him until she thought she would die with the power of the feelings that were so deep inside her. He was moving now inside her, so deep, so much pressure, filling her, and it was delicious and she wanted him there forever.

  But it wasn’t to be. He knew he was almost gone. He hadn’t given her a woman’s pleasure. He tried, he truly did, to draw out of her, to put his mouth and his fingers on her, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, he simply lost every shred of control. He threw back his head and yelled to the pounding rain.

  He was flat on top of her, his face in her wet hair beside her head. He had been stomped into oblivion by the greatest pleasure he had ever experienced in his adult life. He had been stripped of all control. He had soared to the heavens by himself—in short, he had been a bore.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, coming up on his elbows. “I’m very sorry, Helen. You are so bloody beautiful.” He couldn’t help himself and leaned down to kiss her again and found that he was again hard inside her.

  “I am thirty-three years old,” he said between kisses. “I want you again immediately. You’re a witch. You’re incredible.” And he pulled out of her, throbbing and hard but not as hard as his heart was pounding. He was panting as he kissed her, his fingers finding her to begin a rhythm he did so very well, but the simple touch of her flesh beneath his fingers, the softness, the heat of her, but no, it was something more than that, and it flooded through him and he wanted desperately to see her pleasure. He kissed her and loved her until he felt the tension near to overflowing in her, and he lifted his head to look at her face when she arched against his fingers, her eyes frantic and vague, and she screamed as her own pleasure flooded through her, his fingers the focus of everything that was swamping her. She screamed again, this time into his mouth.