Lyon's Gate

by Catherine Coulter

  She was asleep, belly and head calm, within the next minute.

  It was a hot morning in July. Jason could smell the freshly scythed grass from the open breakfast-room window. It filled him with contentment, that, and the fact that there were now six mares in the stables, hopefully all of them pregnant, all of them sent by friends or friends of friends or friends of relatives.

  “Isn’t it nice having such lovely big families?” Angela said at the breakfast table. “This is a note from your aunt Arielle, Hallie. She writes that the duke of Portsmouth will be contacting you and Jason about two mares to be covered by Dodger. He also wants to breed his favorite stallion with Piccola next year.” Angela raised her head.

  Jason appeared distracted. “Yes, Angela, lovely.”

  Hallie licked some gooseberry jam off her toast, looked at him, and sneered. “What is this? You wish to run away in the morning?”

  Jason tapped his fork on the plate, picked up a slice of bacon and ate it. He rose. “I have work to do,” he said, and was gone.

  “The young master seems to have a lot on his mind,” Angela said. “Perhaps Petrie will know what’s going on.”

  “Petrie is a clam when it comes to Jason. As wily and subtle as I am, even I couldn’t get a thing out of him.”

  “Perhaps Petrie needs a more mature hand, one that makes a lovely fist.”

  “Hmm. I never thought about threatening him,” Hallie said.

  “I will begin with wearing a soft glove over the fist.” Angela left the breakfast room humming.

  Hallie looked down the short expanse of breakfast table and saw that Jason had left most of the food on his plate. What the devil was wrong with him? He seemed jumpy lately, as if, somehow, he were in some kind of distress. This wasn’t good. She had to find out what was going on with him. After Angela was done with Petrie, Hallie would push her own gloved fist in his face.

  But Petrie was nowhere to be found. As for Jason, Lorry, their new jockey, told her, he’d ridden off in the old gig.

  An hour later, nearly high noon, Hallie dressed in one of her split skirts, grinned down at her reflection in her shiny boots, and took herself to the stables. There was always so much to be done.

  There were only two mares in the paddocks, both asleep where they stood, their tails flicking gently. It was later than she’d thought. All the lads were out exercising the horses. She walked around the corner of the stable and stopped dead in her tracks. Jason was forking hay into the back of an open wagon, his movement rhythmic and graceful.

  He wasn’t wearing his shirt. In point of fact, he was naked from the top of his head all the way to his waist, well, perhaps even a bit lower than that. There was a line of hair that trailed beneath the waist of his trousers. She saw a faint line of sweat. He paused a moment, and stretched.

  She nearly expired on the spot.

  Jason walked back into the stable. She walked quickly after him, not even realizing that her feet were moving. She came to a stop in the open doorway, heard the mares whinny, watched him stroke each nose as he gave each mare a sugar cube.

  When he wiped his palms on his breeches, he turned, whistling, and froze. He hadn’t heard her, hadn’t known she was anywhere near. She was standing not six feet from him, her arms at her sides, staring at him like a halfwit. “How is your head?”

  “My head? Oh, fine.” She gulped, trying to bring her eyes to his face, which was always a treat, but unable to this time. “Just fine. Lorry said you had left in the gig.”

  “I had to deliver two saddles to the blacksmith in Hawley.”

  “That’s nice. The gooseberry jam Cook made you for breakfast was wonderful.”

  “Well, yes, it was. Hallie—” He scratched his chest—his bare chest. He hadn’t realized he’d taken his shirt off. Bright sunlight shone through the open stable doors, and he saw it on a tree stump twenty feet away. He looked toward the shirt, back at her face. “Hallie,” he said again. “My shirt—let me fetch it.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’ve seen men without their shirts before.”

  “Why don’t you go back to the house? Or I can go back to the house and pick up my shirt on the way.”

  “Actually, the only man I saw without his shirt on was my father. He grabbed his shirt really fast so I didn’t see all that much, which is a pity since he is so beautiful and a girl needs to know what’s what. I have younger brothers—I bathed them, went swimming with them—but to be honest here, that’s not really the same thing.”

  “No, it’s not. If would be best if you turned around now.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Jason. You are very lovely to look at.”

  “Do you think you could look me in the face when you say that?”

  She began walking toward him. The mares whinnied. Jason stood nailed to the spot. When she was no more than three feet from him, she hurled herself at him, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed close.

  She nearly knocked him over backward. He grabbed her arms, tried to peel her off him, but it was no good, she was strong and determined. He couldn’t believe he was panting, but he was. “Hallie, for God’s sake, you’ve got to stop, you’ve got to get hold of yourself—” He felt the length of her hard against him. “No,” he said into her mouth. Oh God, her mouth was so very soft and her breath tasted sweet. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, but Jason kept his arms stiff against his sides. One of her hands stroked down his chest. His breath whooshed out when her finger slipped beneath the waist of his trousers. She didn’t know what she was doing, she couldn’t know. No, he wouldn’t seduce her, no, it wasn’t going to happen, he refused—

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  A man’s voice, sharp, appalled, a voice vaguely familiar, a voice he’d heard before, but not here, not in England. Oh God, that voice was from Baltimore. That was a father’s voice, a voice ripe for murder.

  Hallie’s father’s voice. Baron Sherard. Bloody hell and back.

  “Hallie, step away from the man.”

  She turned to Lot’s wife. Her breathing was hard and fast, but she didn’t move, if anything, she pressed closer, warm, soft, all of her pressed so close, too close, and her father was spitting distance away. “Er, Father?” She sounded out of breath, like she was walking on a tightrope and was going to fall at any moment, like she wanted to fall, and—

  “Yes. Hallie, I’m your father, and I’m here, not more than eight feet behind you. I want you to listen to me now. Take your arms from around Jason’s neck. Do it now. Step back.”

  “It’s hard,” she whispered, breathing in the scent of his flesh. “Very hard, Papa. He doesn’t have a shirt on.”

  “I can see that. Step back, Hallie. You can do it, I know you can.”

  She felt her father’s hand on her arm, tugging her, but still, it was so difficult. Slowly, she managed to put an inch between herself and Jason, then two. She wanted to weep at the distance.

  Her father was here, not three inches behind her, his hand on her arm. Sanity returned with a solid thunk. She turned. “Papa? You’re here at Lyon’s Gate? I mean, you’re here at this specific time, which is really very unfortunate for me. Should you like to come to the house for a cup of tea?”

  His little girl, he could see her all of five years old, sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the quarterdeck of his brigantine, practicing her knots, clad in denim dungarees, a straw tarpaulin hat covering her head. Dear God, here she was nearly twenty-one years old and her eyes were glazed with lust. It was hard for a father to accept, but no matter, it was up to him to remain cool and calm, to remain in control, to save his daughter from herself. He cleared his throat. At least she wasn’t pressed against Jason Sherbrooke like a second shirt any longer. He cleared his throat again, this time for himself. “First, you will tell me why you’re plastered against Jason Sherbrooke.”

  Hallie licked her bottom lip. Her father saw that tongue of hers and knew to his toes that if he’d been five minutes l
ater, Jason would have had her naked under him on the stable floor. Or she would have had Jason naked and on his back on the stable floor. His little girl had tied the best rolling hitch on board his ship, but that little girl was no more.

  “Jason,” he said, never taking his eyes off his daughter’s face, “go get your shirt and jacket on.”

  Jason nodded.

  Alec Carrick took his daughter’s arms and pulled her slowly against him. “Hello, sweetheart. May I say you’re always surprising me?”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

  “No, I could see that you were completely involved in what you were doing. Could you tell me exactly what you were doing, Hallie? What you were planning to do?”

  She blinked up at him. “I’m not really sure. It’s just that I saw Jason without his shirt on, and I fell off the cliff.”

  Alec Carrick didn’t need to ask which cliff.

  “Oh dear. I’ve never even thought to do anything like that before. I was getting used to his face, and that’s taken some doing, I can tell you that, but then to see him from his head to his waist—it was like a blow to the belly.”

  Alec Carrick closed his eyes a moment. He’d learned all about blows to the belly at age thirteen.

  “Baron Sherard,” Jason said, his shirt buttoned to his throat, his jacket buttoned as well, looking ridiculous in the heat. “Welcome to Lyon’s Gate. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “No, I planned a surprise,” Alec said slowly, eyeing the young man who’d left scores of female hearts cracked when he’d steamed away from Baltimore to return home.

  “I apologize, sir, for this particular surprise. I swear to you this hasn’t happened before, and it won’t happen again.”

  A gentleman, Alec thought, he was a gentleman, taking the blame off his daughter’s head. As for Hallie, she was staring at Jason like the village idiot, lust still blooming bright on her cheeks, still glazing her eyes.

  “Hallie,” her father said, “I would like some tea. Go into the house, fetch Angela, and Jason and I will be coming along soon.”

  Both men watched Hallie walk slowly back toward the house, head down. It soon became obvious she was talking to herself. She waved her right hand, which meant she’d made a good point and the other part of her brain had to accept it.

  “She’ll lose this argument.”

  That brought Alec up short. “You know what she’s doing?”

  Jason shrugged. “She was arguing with herself about me once. I was relieved that the side of her who’d taken my part that day, won. She didn’t bash me on the head. Sir, about what you saw—”

  “Yes?”

  “As I said, this has never happened before. It happened this time because I was forking that damned hay, and it’s really warm this morning. I just didn’t think. I took my shirt off. I’m sorry.”

  Alec Carrick stood not three feet from Jason, his arms crossed over his chest, legs spread. He looked perfectly capable of drawing a pistol and shooting Jason between the eyes.

  “Would you like to tell me why one of my daughter’s hands was straying down to your belly?”

  Jason nearly shuddered, felt again quite clearly those long fingers of hers on his flesh, tangling in his hair. He’d wanted to jerk and quake. “No, sir, both hands were around my neck except for the very shortest of moments. I swear to you I hardly noticed her hand. Or her fingers.”

  That was a lie of the first order, but Alec didn’t nail him. “Thank God you didn’t or I imagine my daughter—what’s this? Oh yes, the stable lads have returned from exercising the horses. No one was about. That’s fortunate. I hate to ask myself what my daughter would have done if the stable lads were in the stables. Would she have controlled herself? As a father, I pray so. Shall we continue this at the house?”

  “Certainly.” Suddenly, Jason grinned. “I wonder what Cook will do when she sees you.”

  An eyebrow went up as the baron strode next to him. “Why the devil should your cook do anything?”

  “If she swoons at the sight of you, my lord, do catch her, else we won’t eat well for dinner.”

  Cook looked at both gentlemen, standing side by side, and burst into a vaguely Italian aria, both hands clasped over her breast. She never stopped singing as she skipped back to the kitchen, an amazing sight, given her bulk.

  “Heavenly groats, Miss Hallie, and me poor whirling eyes, this is too much bounty for a simple female. Two perfect gentlemen, both of them standing right here in our house, right next to each other. Are you perhaps Master Jason’s older brother, sir? Oh my, did Cook swoon?”

  “Cook sang,” Hallie said. “Actually, she is still singing. This is my father, Martha, Baron Sherard.”

  “Lawks, sir, ye—you—can’t be a father. You’re a god.”

  CHAPTER 30

  That evening, after a delicious dinner of turbot of lobster with peas and asparagus and a savory roast saddle of mutton, Cook delivered up a chocolate cream for dessert to make the angels sing.

  It was still light outside, so the draperies in the drawing room weren’t pulled, and several windows were open to the sweet night air.

  Hallie poured her father tea, added a dollop of cream, just as he liked it, and handed it to him. She could still smell Jason on her skin. How was that possible, since she’d bathed before dinner? Her hand trembled. She couldn’t think about Jason, at least not now. Her father was telling an amusing story, she had to pay attention. She said, “So what did Genny do to this Mr. Pauley?”

  Alec laughed. “I believe she asked him if he played the piano, which he did, of course—she’d found that out before she asked the question. She then patted his hand and told him despite the fact that playing the piano, just like painting watercolors or sewing samplers, was a distinctly female pursuit, she still believed he looked manly enough, well, perhaps not quite as manly as he could if he eschewed the piano keys, for say, billiards and cheroots. He looked at me, studied himself for a moment in the mirror, coughed, then asked her very politely to design his yacht.”

  Jason, who knew Genny Carrick, Lady Sherard, nodded when Hallie said, “I never saw her back down from a fight. And she’s so smooth. I still get so mad I want to spit nails in a man’s face when he tells me I’m too pretty to be out in the mud.”

  Alec said, “Genny was the same as you at one time. However, since she married me, she’s learned to deal with businessmen with far more finesse.”

  “That’s because if she could deal with you she could deal with the devil himself.”

  Alec laughed and toasted her with his teacup.

  Angela said to Jason, “Baroness Sherard taught Hallie to stand firm when the ground was firm enough to stand upon, otherwise, she was to step back quickly.”

  Alec Carrick looked at his watch, looked at his daughter, and rose. “I believe Jason and I will have a short conversation. If you ladies will excuse us.”

  Hallie jumped to her feet. “Oh no, Papa, don’t you dare take him outside and shoot him or break his head. He didn’t do anything. It was all me. I attacked him. I nearly knocked him over I wanted to get to him so quickly. You cannot blame him, it isn’t fair.”

  “I cannot very well call my daughter a blockhead and knock her in the jaw, now can I?”

  “You’ve called me a blockhead many times.”

  Alec Carrick sighed. “I forgot.”

  “Listen, Papa, he was helpless, he was polite, there was nothing he could do except maybe kick me away. Besides, all the stable lads were out with the horses. Angela won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Certainly not, my dear, but you know these things have a way of oozing out of cracks in the walls.”

  “No,” Hallie said. “No, it’s not possible.”

  “Hallie, go to bed,” Jason said. “Sir, it’s quite a lovely night. Would you like to see Piccola prance around the paddock? It is one of her favorite pastimes.”

  “Prancing on a moonlit night?”

  Hallie said, “She refuses to p
rance if the sky isn’t clear. I don’t want to go to bed. I want to speak to my father, set his mind on the right road, assure him that if anyone did happen to see anything at all, I would bury him under the willow tree.”

  Alec Carrick walked to his daughter, clamped his hand over her mouth, and said quietly into her ear, “There will be no bodies buried anywhere. You will not open your mouth again. You will go upstairs and you will stay there.”

  Angela took Hallie’s arm. “It’s one of those times when the ground isn’t firm enough to stand on, my dear. Come along.”

  Five minutes later, Alec Carrick was smoking a cheroot and thinking about this very odd day. He said as he watched the smoke curl up into the clear night sky, “My daughter is one of the most self-contained individuals I have ever known. Even when she was small, she looked at those around her with a dispassionate eye. However, she was not at all dispassionate today in the stables.”

  Jason had never seen her dispassionate, indeed, did not recognize this woman her father spoke of. Hallie, dispassionate? Never. He said, “It is true, sir, what I told you. Nothing like that has ever happened before. I would not dishonor your daughter.”

  “No, the shock on your face, the desperation, was as stark as the white moon. The initial letters my daughter wrote to her mother and me after the both of you wanted Lyon’s Gate—she was quite ready to tear your head from your body. When she wrote of your male beauty, I could picture the sneer on her face. What do you think of my daughter, Jason?”

  “She has more guts than brains.”

  Baron Sherard nodded, remained silent.

  “This is something that shouldn’t have happened, my lord. I never wish to wed, you see.”

  Alec said slowly, “I heard rumors to that effect, rumors that you’d exiled yourself from England, spent nearly five years of your life living with the Wyndhams. You did this because of a woman?”

  Jason shook his head.

  “I had heard you were shot, nearly died. I will admit, I wondered what happened.”