The Cock and Worm was where everyone else went.
A series of dingy rooms with exposed beams that had caught more than one customer a nasty knock on the head, the Cock and Worm had windows permanently blackened from pipe smoke. A man could sit in peace here and not be recognized by his own brother.
Harry made his way through the crowd to the bar, passing a table of workmen and farmers. One of the men—a farmer named Mallow—looked up and nodded in greeting as he passed. Harry nodded back, surprised but pleased. Mallow had asked Harry for help back in June about an argument he was having over his neighbor’s cow. The cow kept escaping its enclosure and had twice trampled the lettuce in the Mallow’s kitchen garden. Harry had settled the difficulty by helping the elderly neighbor build a new wall for his cow. But Mallow was a taciturn man and had never thanked Harry for his trouble. Harry had assumed Mallow was ungrateful. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
The thought warmed him as he reached the bar. Janie was working tonight. She was sister to Dick Crumb, the owner of the Cock and Worm, and sometimes helped at the counter.
“Yeah?” she mumbled. Janie spoke to the air over his right shoulder. Her fingernails drummed an uneven beat on the counter.
“Pint of bitter.”
She set the ale down in front of him, and he slid a few coppers across the scarred counter.
“Dick in tonight?” Harry asked quietly.
Janie was close enough to hear, but her face was blank. She’d gone back to the drumming.
“Janie?”
“Aye.” She stared now at his left elbow.
“Is Dick in?”
She turned and walked into the back.
Harry sighed and found an empty table near a wall. With Janie it was hard to tell if she’d gone to tell Dick he was here, went to fetch more ale, or simply tired of his question. In any case, he could wait.
He’d gone stark, raving mad. Harry took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam from his mouth. It was the only explanation for kissing Lady Georgina this afternoon. He’d walked toward her, his head bleeding and his gut aching from the beating. He hadn’t been thinking of kissing her at all. Then somehow she was in his arms, and there was nothing in the world that was going to stop him from tasting her. Not the possibility of being attacked again. Not the pain in his limbs. Not even the fact that she was aristocracy, for pity’s sake, and all that meant to him and his ghosts.
Lunacy. Plain and simple. Next he’d be running through the high street, naked and waving his John Thomas. He took another glum sip. And what a fine sight that would be, the state his cock had been in lately.
He was a normal man. He’d felt lust for a woman before. But at those times he’d either bedded the woman, if she was free, or made do with his hand. Over and done with. He’d never had this aching, restless feeling, a longing for something he knew damn well he couldn’t have. Harry scowled into his mug. Maybe it was time for another ale.
“Hope that look isn’t for me, lad.” Two mugs were slammed down in front of him, foam sloshing over their tops. “Have one on the house.”
Dick Crumb slid his belly, covered in a stained apron, under the table and took a swig from his mug. Small, piggy eyes closed in ecstasy as the beer slid down his throat. He took out a flannel cloth and mopped his mouth, his face, and his bald pate. Dick was a large man, and he sweated all the time, the bare dome of his head shining greasy red. He sported a tiny gray pigtail, scraped together from the oily strands of hair still clinging to the sides and back of his head.
“Janie told me you were out here,” Dick said. “Been a while since you stopped by.”
“I was set on by four men today. On Granville land. Do you know anything about it?” Harry raised his mug and watched Dick over the rim. Something flickered in the piggy eyes. Relief?
“Four men, you say?” Dick traced a wet spot on the table. “Lucky you’re alive.”
“Lady Georgina had a pair of pistols.”
Dick’s eyebrows flew up to where his hairline should have been. “That so? You were with the lady, then.”
“Aye.”
“Well.” Dick sat back and tipped his face to the ceiling. He took out the flannel and began wiping his head.
Harry was silent. Dick was thinking, and there was no point in hurrying him. He sipped his ale.
“See here.” Dick sat forward. “The Timmons brothers usually stop in at night, Ben and Hubert. But tonight only Ben’s been by, and he was limping a bit. Said he was kicked by a horse, but that don’t seem likely, do it, seeing as how the Timmons haven’t got a horse.” He nodded triumphantly and upended his mug again.
“Who do the Timmons work for, d’you know?”
“We-ell.” Dick stretched the word out as he scratched his head. “They’re jacks-of-all-trades, see. But they mostly help out Hitchcock, who tenants for Granville.”
Harry nodded, unsurprised. “Granville was behind it.”
“Now I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you didn’t have to.”
Dick shrugged and raised his mug.
“So,” Harry said softly, “who do you think killed Granville’s sheep?”
Dick, caught as he swallowed, choked. Out came the flannel again. “As to that,” he gasped when he could speak again, “I figured like everyone else in these parts that it was you.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Did you?”
“Made sense, what Granville did to you, did to your father.”
Harry was silent.
Which must’ve made Dick uneasy. He patted the air. “But after I’d mulled on it a bit, it didn’t seem right. I knew your da, and John Pye wouldn’t never hurt another man’s bread and butter.”
“Even after Granville?”
“Your da was the salt of the earth, lad. He wouldn’t have harmed a fly.” Dick raised his mug as if in toast. “The salt of the earth.”
Harry was silent as he watched the other man make his tribute. Then he stirred. “If you’ve ruled me out, who do you think is poisoning the sheep?”
Dick frowned into the bottom of his empty mug. “Granville’s a hard man, as well you know. Some say he’s got the devil riding his back. It’s as if he takes his joy in life from causing misery to others. There’s more than your father that’ve been blasted by him over the years.”
“Who?”
“Plenty of men were thrown off land their families had farmed for decades. Granville don’t make allowances for bad years when he collects his money,” Dick said slowly. “Then there was Sally Forthright.”
“What about her?”
“She was Martha Burns’s sister, as is the Woldsly gatekeeper’s wife. Granville messed with her, it’s said, and the lass ended her life in a well.” Dick shook his head. “Wasn’t more than fifteen.”
“There are probably many like her in these parts”—Harry studied the depths of his own mug—“knowing Granville.”
“Aye.” Dick turned his face to the side and wiped it with the flannel. He sighed heavily. “Bad business. I don’t like talking about it.”
“Nor do I, but someone’s killing those sheep.”
Dick suddenly leaned across the table. His ale-soaked breath washed over Harry as he whispered, “Then maybe you should be looking a little closer to the Granville estate. They say Granville treats his firstborn son like a turd in his tea. The man must be your age, Harry. Can you imagine what that would do to your soul after thirty years?”
“Aye.” Harry nodded. “I’ll keep Thomas in mind.” He drained his mug and set it down. “Is that everyone you can think of?”
Dick grabbed all three mugs in one fist and stood up. He hesitated. “You might try Annie Pollard’s family. I don’t know what went on there, but it was bad, and Granville was in the middle of it. And, Harry?”
Harry had risen and put on his hat. “Yes?”
“Stay away from aristo ladies.” The piggy eyes were sad and old. “They won’t do you any good, lad.”
IT WAS WELL PAST
MIDNIGHT, the moon hanging high and full like a swollen pale pumpkin, when Harry crossed through the Woldsly gates later that night. The first thing he saw was Lady Georgina’s carriage standing in the drive. The horses hung their heads, asleep, and the coachman gave him a dirty look as Harry turned into the track leading to his cottage. The man had obviously been waiting a while.
Harry shook his head. What was she doing at his cottage, the second night in a row? Was she bent on plaguing him into an early grave? Or did she see him as something to amuse herself with here in the country? The last thought made him scowl as he stabled his mare. He was scowling still when he walked into his cottage. But the sight that met his eyes made him stop and sigh.
Lady Georgina was asleep in his high-backed chair.
The fire had died to glowing coals beside her. Had the coachman lit it for her, or had she managed on her own this time? Her head was tilted back, her long slim throat exposed trustingly. She’d covered herself with a cloak, but it had slid down, pooling at her feet.
Harry sighed again and picked up her cloak, laying it gently over her. She never stirred. He took off his own cloak, hung it on a knob by the door, and advanced to stir the coals. On the mantelpiece above the hearth, the carved animals had been placed into pairs, facing each other as if they were dancing a reel. He stared at them a moment, wondering how long she’d been waiting. He laid more wood on the fire and straightened. He wasn’t sleepy, despite the hour and drinking two pints.
He went to the shelves, took down a box, and brought it to the table. Inside was a short, pearl-handled knife and a piece of cherrywood about half the size of his palm. He sat at the table and turned the wood over in his hands, rubbing the grain with a thumb. He’d thought at first of making a fox from it—the wood was the reddish-orange color of a fox’s fur—but now he wasn’t sure. He picked up the knife and made the first cut.
The fire crackled and a log fell.
After a while he looked up. Lady Georgina was watching him, her cheek cradled in one palm. Their eyes met, and he looked back down at the carving.
“Is that how you make all of them?” Her voice was low, throaty from sleep.
Did she sound like that in the morning, lying in her silk sheets, her body warm and moist? He pushed the thought aside and nodded.
“That’s a pretty knife.” She shifted to face him, curling her feet on the chair. “Much nicer than the other one.”
“What other one?”
“The nasty-looking one in your boot. I like this one better.”
He made a shallow cut, and a curling strip of wood fell to the table.
“Did your father give it to you?” She spoke slowly, sleepily, and it made him hard.
He opened his fist and stared at the pearl handle, remembering. “No, my lady.”
She raised her head a little at that. “I thought I was to call you Harry and you could call me George?”
“I never said that.”
“That isn’t fair.” She was frowning.
“Life seldom is, my lady.” He shrugged his shoulders, trying to relieve the tightness. ’Course, the tightness was mostly in his balls, not his shoulders. And shrugging sure as hell wouldn’t help that.
She stared at him a minute longer, and then turned to look into the fire.
He felt the moment her eyes left him.
She took a breath. “Do you recall the fairy tale I told you, the one about the enchanted leopard that was really a man?”
“Aye.”
“Did I mention that he wore a golden chain around his neck?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And on the chain there was a tiny emerald crown? Did I say that?” She’d turned back to him again.
He frowned at the cherrywood. “I don’t remember.”
“Sometimes I forget the details.” She yawned. “Well, he was really a prince, and on his chain there was a tiny crown with an emerald in it, the exact green color of the Leopard Prince’s eyes—”
“That wasn’t in your story before, my lady,” he cut in. “The color of his eyes.”
“I did just tell you that sometimes I forget the details.” She blinked at him innocently.
“Huh.” Harry started carving again.
“Anyway, the young king had sent the Leopard Prince to get the Golden Horse from the evil ogre. You do remember that part, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “So the Leopard Prince changed into a man, and he held the emerald crown on his golden chain…”
Harry looked up as she trailed off.
Lady Georgina was staring into the fire and tapping a finger against her lips. “Do you suppose that was the only thing he was wearing?”
Oh, God, she was going to kill him. His cock, which had started subsiding, leaped up again.
“I mean, if he was a leopard before, he couldn’t very well have been wearing clothes, could he? And then when he changed into a man, well, I think he’d have to be nude, don’t you?”
“No doubt.” Harry shifted on his chair, glad the table hid his lap.
“Mmm.” Lady Georgina pondered a moment more, and then shook her head. “So he was standing there, evidently in the nude, grasping the crown, and he said, ‘I wish for an impenetrable suit of armor and the strongest sword in the world.’ And what do you suppose happened?”
“He got the armor and sword.”
“Well, yes.” Lady Georgina seemed put out that he’d guessed what any three-year-old could’ve. “But they weren’t ordinary weapons. The armor was pure gold, and the sword was made of glass. What do you think of that?”
“I think it doesn’t sound very practical.”
“What?”
“Bet a woman made this story up.”
Her eyebrows arched at him. “Why?”
He shrugged. “The sword would break the first time he swung it, and the armor would give to even a weak blow. Gold’s a soft metal, my lady.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” She tapped her lips again.
Harry returned to his whittling. Women.
“They must’ve been enchanted, too.” Lady Georgina waved away the problem of faulty equipment. “So he went and got the Golden Horse—”
“What? Just like that?” He stared at her, an odd sense of frustration filling his chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Wasn’t there a grand fight, then?” He gestured with the wood. “A struggle to the death between this Leopard Prince and the evil ogre? The ogre must’ve been a tough bird, others would’ve tried to take his prize before. What made our fellow so special that he could defeat him?”
“The armor and—”
“And the silly glass sword. Yes, all right, but others would’ve had magical weapons—”
“He’s an enchanted leopard prince!” Lady Georgina was angry now. “He’s better, stronger, than all the others. He could’ve defeated the evil ogre with a single blow, I’m sure.”
Harry felt his face heat, and his words came too fast. “If he’s as powerful as all that, my lady, then why doesn’t he free himself?”
“I—”
“Why doesn’t he just walk away from spoiled kings and ridiculous chores? Why is he enslaved at all?” He threw down his whittling. The knife skittered across the table and slid to the floor.
Lady Georgina bent to pick it up. “I don’t know, Harry.” She offered the knife to him on the palm of her outstretched hand. “I don’t know.”
He ignored her hand. “It’s late. I think you’d better go back to your manor now, my lady.”
She placed the knife on the table. “If your father didn’t give you this, then who did?”
She asked all the wrong questions. All the questions he wouldn’t—couldn’t—answer, either for himself or for her, and she never stopped. Why was she playing this game with him?
Silently he picked up her cloak and held it out for her. She looked into his face, and then turned so he could drape it about her shoulders. The perfume in her hair reached his n
ostrils. He closed his eyes in something very like agony.
“Will you kiss me again?” she whispered. Her back was still toward him.
He snatched his hands away. “No.”
He strode past her and opened the door. He had to occupy his hands so that he wouldn’t grab her and pull her body into his and kiss her until there was no tomorrow.
Her gaze met his, and her eyes were deep pools of blue. A man could dive in there and never care when he drowned. “Not even if I want you to kiss me?”
“Not even then.”
“Very well.” She moved past him and out into the night. “Good night, Harry Pye.”
“Good night, my lady.” He shut the door and leaned against it, breathing in the lingering traces of her perfume.
Then he straightened and walked away. Long ago he had railed against the order of things that deemed him inferior to men who had neither brains nor morals. It hadn’t mattered.
He railed against fate no more.
Chapter Seven
“Tiggle, why do you think gentlemen kiss ladies?” George adjusted the gauze fichu tucked into the neckline of her dress.
Today she wore a lemon-colored gown patterned with turquoise and scarlet birds. Miniscule scarlet ruffles lined the square neck, and cascades of lace fell from the elbows. The whole thing was simply delicious, if she did say so herself.
“There’s only one reason a man kisses a woman, my lady.” Tiggle had several hairpins stuck between her lips as she arranged George’s hair, and her words were a bit indistinct. “He wants to bed her.”
“Always?” George wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. “I mean, might he kiss a woman just to show, I don’t know, friendship or something?”
The lady’s maid snorted and placed a hairpin in George’s coiffure. “Not likely. Not unless he thinks bedsport a part of friendship. No, mark my words, my lady, the better half of a man’s mind is taken up with how to get a woman into bed. And the rest”—Tiggle stepped back to look critically at her creation—“is probably spent on gambling and horses and such.”
“Really?” George was diverted by the thought of all the men she knew, butlers and coachmen and her brothers and vicars and tinkers and all manner of men, going about thinking primarily of bedsport. “But what about philosophers and men of letters? Obviously they’re spending quite a lot of time thinking of something else?”
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