The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “Not as low as I’m able to get if the circumstance calls for it.”

  In less than three minutes, Helen was on her back on the table, and he was gently pulling her toward the end. She was trying to grab him, to bring him over her, to kiss him, but he was holding her legs apart, staring at her, trying not to expire on the spot, and then, in the next instant, he was inside her, to the hilt, and he was moaning and pushing, and then he heard her crying out, soft, deep cries that went right to his sex, and he fell over her, kissing her until he was breathless, and he felt her muscles tighten around him, felt the immense power of her climax as she twisted and held him so tightly he wondered if he would be black and blue in the morning. He laughed then, raised his head, and yelled to the beams in the small private dining room.

  Geordie gave a final mighty yell from outside.

  “That was his last stroke,” Helen managed to say, then bit his shoulder. She was panting so hard she could barely draw a breath. He didn’t leave her, just waited, and it wasn’t at all long before he was moving inside her again. “Your breasts,” he said. “This time I have some control. I want to taste your breasts.”

  He was pulling at her gown, but he didn’t have the time. She lifted her hips, and it was all over for him. His fingers found her and she bit his neck this time and it both stung and made him wild. Her hot breath was fast and slick on his flesh. This time he took her lovely moans into his mouth. As for himself, he pressed his mouth against her neck and yelled against her soft flesh.

  “There,” he said, every shred of male arrogance sounding loud and clear in his voice. He straightened between her legs, still inside her, and he laid his hands on her white thighs. “Open your eyes, Helen. Look, I am still inside you. I am part of you. Now, there will be no more of your wrongheadedness. You will consent to marry me. I am the only man for you. You and I belong together. Together we will find this damned magic lamp. Together we will create a life that will make us stronger as two than what we are now singly. Perhaps, in five years or so, I will have enough control so I will be able to kiss your breasts, and that’s just the start of it.” Slowly, he pulled out of her, never looking away from her face.

  Helen managed through pure force of will to sit up on the table. She was so very wet with him, and with herself, she supposed. She looked past him into the fireplace. There were just two or three small embers that were glowing with any light at all now.

  She nearly fell when she tried to stand up. She batted down her skirts. At least she was not wearing her riding hat. That would have been simply too much.

  “You are mine, Helen.”

  That stiffened her backbone. “I will see you in the morning, Lord Beecham,” she said and walked to the door. It took her several moments to get the damned key to turn in the lock.

  “And will you be thinking about us, together? Forever?”

  She didn’t say anything, just walked out of her inn, saw that Geordie was standing there in the moonlight, six or so women around him, and several men as well, and he was holding the lamp between his bound hands. He was stark naked.

  She nodded to him. She heard him whimper. He didn’t sound very distressed to her.

  One of her lads saddled Eleanor for her. She was home in twenty minutes. Her father and Flock, thankfully, were out for their nightly walk. She heard her father yelling at the two peacocks. She heard Flock sigh over Teeny. It was later than usual for their walk. It must have been Spenser’s visit that threw off their schedule.

  Teeny, unusually quiet this evening, helped her undress and pulled the covers over her once she was in bed. Teeny blew out all the candles. She stopped at the door and said, “Miss Helen, Flock told me all about Lord Beecham’s talk with your father. He is in a very bad way, Flock said. His eyes were nearly rolling in his head. He would have even drunk champagne if your father had demanded it of him. You should marry him, to save him, to give him back his charming boldness. He isn’t short, Miss Helen.”

  And Teeny left her alone.

  That night Helen thought of poor Reverend Mathers and who could have killed him. She fell asleep seeing a man whose back was to her lean over Reverend Mathers and plunge the stiletto into his back. If only she could see his face.

  The next day Helen didn’t go to the inn. She remained at the hall, alone, brooding. Her father remained silent, which she appreciated. Flock did a good deal of sighing whenever she appeared, but she ignored him.

  Lord Beecham didn’t come. She waved her fist in the direction of Court Hammering—and was relieved.

  In the middle of the following night, when the chill was heavy in the air and the moon was starting to fall toward the horizon, there was a slight rustling sound just outside Helen’s bedchamber window. She stirred, but there was silence again, and she stilled, settling again into a dreamless sleep.

  A black shadow filled the window. Slowly, ever so slowly, the window went up until the black shadow eased a leg over the casement and entered her bedchamber.

  22

  LORD BEECHAM RATHER liked the romance of wearing all black to kidnap the object of his affection. He smiled as he stood by her bed, looking down at her. Her beautiful blond hair was spread over the pillow. The moonlight made her face look luminous. Because he wasn’t a fool, because he knew well enough that if she were peeved with him, she could inflict a good deal of damage to his person, he dampened the white cloth he held in his hand with the contents of a small vial. He pressed the cork back into the vial, then he leaned over and pressed the cloth over her nose and mouth.

  She came awake, tried to jerk up, but he had braced himself and so managed to hold her still for another ten seconds. Then it was too late for her because her strength was gone. She fell back against the pillow, seeing the shadow over her, feeling the sickly sweet scent fill her nostrils, seep into her mouth, filling all of her eventually. She wasn’t afraid, there was no time. Just this growing lassitude, just the slow, inexorable withdrawal of consciousness.

  She sighed and closed her eyes.

  Lord Beecham straightened, folded the small square of cloth and put it and the vial into his pocket. He looked down at the woman he fully planned to marry and smiled a man’s smile, a hard smile that was wicked and determined and shouted that he was ready to do anything to get her to a vicar.

  He paused only twice while he dressed her, to kiss her breasts, finally, and to admire them as much as he was able in the shadowy light. He just couldn’t help himself. Her breasts were incredible, all soft and white, beautifully full and round—and her taste, it made his breath hitch. As for her belly—he had to kiss her belly as well, and he had to close his eyes because it was just too much.

  And then she moaned softly deep in her throat, and he nearly fell on top of her.

  It took another ten minutes to pack clothes in a valise. Lots of lacy silk things. Because he knew he couldn’t very well take her to the vicar wearing only her chemise, he selected a pale-yellow gown that he liked very much, a petticoat, and a chemise. He found a pair of slippers and stockings. He had done well. He was a man of experience and decision. The stockings even matched the slippers and the gown. He didn’t bother with a bonnet. Enough was enough. Both of them could be married bareheaded.

  Yesterday had undoubtedly been the busiest day of his entire life.

  He had thought about carrying his big girl and her packed valise over his shoulder and out the second floor window, three steps down the foot-wide ledge and then climbing down the sturdy trellis, covered with a thorny rosebush, without the both of them crashing down to the flower beds below.

  Yes, he had thought about it and just laughed, but now he wondered if he would make it without killing both of them. He thought of the folded letter he had left on her pillow and smiled yet again. The romance of it should surely appeal to her father. If Helen wished it, he would marry her three times during their life together.

  It was a close thing, climbing down that thorn-covered trellis with Helen slung over his shoulder, too cl
ose for Lord Beecham’s peace of mind, and when he finally got both his feet firmly on the ground, he raised his eyes to the heavens and offered up a very sincere prayer of thanksgiving.

  He had his big girl. She wasn’t trying to kill him because she was blessedly unconscious. He realized he didn’t have all that much time. He didn’t want to tie her up, at least not just yet.

  He carried her all the way past the front entrance to Shugborough Hall, all the way to where the night shadows were deepest, to where he had hidden a carriage. He heard one of the peacocks bleat after him. He was breathing very hard.

  He was, he thought, as he gently closed Helen inside the carriage, an amazing man, strong of back, mighty of will. He had wrapped her up in three blankets on the floor of the carriage, and tucked pillows around her. He hadn’t wanted to take the chance that she would roll off the seat. He was still breathing hard when he climbed up onto the box and click-clicked the sturdy gray gelding forward. Both Eleanor and Luther were safe and snug in the Shugborough Hall stables.

  He whistled into the soft night air as he drove the ten miles to the small hunting box he had rented yesterday morning at ten o’clock from Lord Marchhaven, who had asked Lord Beecham if he was planning on entertaining a hunting party. Spenser had just shaken his head and smiled. “Ah,” said Lord Marchhaven, nodding. “I am pleased that it is a nice house.”

  “I will require it for perhaps a week,” Lord Beecham had said.

  Again Lord Marchhaven merely nodded, then said as he and Spenser shook hands, “I have learned that sometimes in life a man is forced to do something that sits perilously close to the edge of scandalous to obtain the indispensable. Enjoy yourself, my lord.” It was obvious that Lord Marchhaven sniffed a week’s worth of wickedness. Lord Beecham should have told him that he intended a lifetime of marital wickedness.

  Well, as he figured it, Helen was indispensable to him. He believed, deep down, that he was also indispensable to her. Why had she refused him? It didn’t make any sense.

  The Marchhaven hunting box was an elegant little Georgian brick house, all stiff and starchy, nearly a perfect square, two stories high, ivy twining in and out of the red bricks. It was set on the edge of the Houghton Forest, much of it owned by the Marchhaven family, for hunting parties. No one was there at present.

  When he finally carried Helen into the house, he was still whistling, thinking of how he had wheedled and pleaded and even drunk a glass of champagne with Bishop Horton to obtain a Special License, but he had done it. He whistled louder, so pleased with himself that he nearly dropped Helen on the stairs. His back hurt a bit, but he discounted it.

  The house was simply set out. Upstairs there were four bedchambers, the master’s bedchamber at the end of the hall. It was nice and big. So was the bed, at least large enough to hold six men side by side. Helen would be quite comfortable here. The headboard was slatted, a truly convenient thing for him.

  He shook off the blankets and his cloak and gently eased Helen under the covers. He whistled while he lit three branches of candles, then started a fire in the large fireplace.

  He looked around the bedchamber. It was excellent, just excellent. It was an ideal place for a man to bring the woman he’d kidnapped, the woman who must need learn that not marrying the man she bit on the neck wasn’t to be tolerated.

  He had given it a good deal of thought. Helen wasn’t a milksop. If she could, she would brain him at the first opportunity. He couldn’t allow her any opportunities, but accomplishing this did set many problems in his path.

  He went back to the carriage, brought up the two valises, the second one his, and took the nice old gelding to the small stable to stick his nose in a trough of oats. Back in the bedchamber, he pulled out four of his cravats.

  She would awaken soon enough. Ah, that marvelous potion Mrs. Toop had given him, stars in her eyes when he had pleaded his case, giving in quickly because of the glorious romance of all of it. “Just imagine,” she said, her hands over her large bosom, “my mistress will learn more about discipline. Oh, goodness, she will, won’t she, my lord? Do you promise?”

  Since this seemed inordinately important to her, Lord Beecham had quickly nodded and given her endless assurances that he had more to teach Miss Helen than any other man in all of England, and she would enjoy herself immensely, he gave her his word. Mrs. Toop had given him the vial of chloroform and told him how much to use on her sweet mistress.

  His last view of Mrs. Toop was her standing at the inn door, her rheumy eyes glittering beneath the lamp that Geordie had proudly held up for three hours the previous evening.

  Everyone, it seemed, wanted Helen to marry him. It was up to him now to convince her. He was prepared to do whatever it took.

  He gave the smoking fire a big grin, added a couple more small sticks, turned on his heel and walked back to the bed.

  Helen awoke slowly, which was strange, because usually her eyes opened and she was ready to bound out of bed, her body and brain thrumming with energy. But her eyes were slow to open. When she finally opened them she saw that it was daylight, bright daylight, with the morning sun shining through the uncurtained windows just to her left.

  But she didn’t have windows to her left. They were to her right. Something was wrong.

  Her brain seemed on the blurry side, the way it felt just after Spenser had loved her until all she had left was a silly grin on her face.

  She tried to sit up. She couldn’t move. That was surely odd. She tried again. Then she realized that her hands were tied above her head. Tied?

  She blinked at the sound of his voice.

  He cupped her cheek in his palm. He kissed her mouth, lightly. “Good morning, Helen. I hope you’re feeling more alert now? You’ve been moaning a bit for the last several hours.”

  “Spenser?”

  “Yes,” he said, lightly stroked his fingertip over her eyebrows, leaned down and kissed her mouth again.

  She kissed him back before she quite realized what she was doing. She blinked up at him. “Why are my hands tied above my head?”

  “So that you won’t try to kill me. That is, you could try, but I don’t believe that even you, my dearest, could manage it.”

  “Why would I want to kill you?”

  “The complete truth is that I have kidnapped you. You are quite alone with me. I have tied you down to my bed. In short, my sweet little Nellie, you are completely and thoroughly at my mercy.”

  She did try to bring her arms down to punch him in the nose, but even though the bonds around her wrists didn’t hurt or rub, and she realized they were his soft cravats and thus there was just a bit of pull in them, she couldn’t get free.

  Her feet. She tried to bring up her legs to smash him in the back. He had secured her ankles as well, again with those lovely cravats of his.

  She stopped and just looked up at him.

  He was smiling down at her. It was a smug smile, one also filled with joy—an odd combination, but it was so. She didn’t know what to think, but she knew that she could not allow it to continue.

  She tried not to grit her teeth, but it was difficult. She had to start somewhere, and so she said, “You will release me this very instant.”

  “I don’t think so, dearest. You would try to pulverize my liver.”

  “No, I swear I won’t. I won’t even destroy your bloody manhood. Let me go now.”

  “That is a lie of considerable width and breadth, Nell. Now, we do have a bit of a problem, and I want you to know that I have given it a lot of thought. When you must need relieve yourself, I will release both ankles and the wrist that’s right here closest to the side of the bed. I will bring the chamber pot close to the bed. You will be able to manage. To assure myself that it could be done, I myself tried it earlier this morning. I was successful.

  “You have slept a long time. Now, before you have your breakfast that I have myself prepared for you, let me release your hand and your ankles. And, Helen, don’t be foolish. Relieve yourself,
no more than that.”

  She didn’t say a word. To be honest, she was still too befuddled. She was alert, but befuddled.

  “You kidnapped me?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I did. I even carried you and your valise over my shoulder, out of your bedchamber window. I didn’t falter even once. I am still standing tall, at a minimum at least two inches taller than you.”

  “But why? Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Mrs. Toop wants me to teach you more about discipline.”

  He released her right wrist and her ankles. He rubbed feeling back into them. “There. Now, I am not going to leave the room because I know you will immediately try to undo the knot on your other wrist. I will be right here.”

  He patted her cheek lightly and walked back to the fireplace.

  She used the chamber pot. He turned to see her begin to work on the other wrist knot. He grabbed her free hand and pulled it back above her head. “Lie down, Helen. Don’t fight me.”

  It was like telling a maddened tiger not to attack the nearest moving creature. She yelled and kicked with her legs and tried to jerk her hand free of his. She got a couple of good licks with her feet, but he finally managed to find the exact position to do away with any leverage she had. He tied her wrist back against the thick headboard.

  He stood over her. “That was a nice try. Now, would you like your breakfast?”

  “I will kill you, Spenser.”

  He leaned down and kissed her hard, jerking back before she could bite him.

  He smoothed her nightgown over her legs. Then, almost as an afterthought, and before she could fight, he pulled her right ankle out and tied it again. He had her now. “Very nice. Now let me tie your left ankle.” She tried to kick him, but couldn’t manage it. Soon, her legs were nicely spread.

  “After breakfast, dearest, we will enjoy dessert,” he said, and whistled his way out of the bedchamber.