The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

"Do you want to know?" Douglas asked his wife, who was now lying flat on her back, grinning up at him like a fool.

"Ryder made up those names—Goosie, indeed! And Brassy—'tis too ridiculous."

Douglas raised his hand. "No, it's true, I prom­ise." Douglas eyed the brandy bottle, then grinned down at his wife, leaning down to kiss her mouth. "No hope for it, I guess." He picked up Alex's snif­ter, filled it with brandy, and downed it. He set the bottle down, arranged himself cross-legged, and said, "Now, as to the story—Goosie was a very popu­lar lady. Actually, she was the first one to escape off the island. She'd only begun to carve up the pirate's wooden leg. All she managed to carve was what looked like a keel. She went to St. Thomas with a crew of Dutchmen who were all blond and couldn't understand a word she said. But the cap­tain, ah, he wasn't Dutch, he was a Dane and, of course, blond, but he understood the universal lan-guage, and that is one language that Goosie spoke quite fluently." He leaned down and kissed his wife again.

"You mean French, Douglas?"

"No, no, Alex," Ryder said from the doorway, "my brother is talking about love."

Sophie stared at her husband, stared at the bran­dy bottle, then flopped over on her back, and closed her eyes. She moaned.

"May I join the party?" Ryder asked.

"You said you'd be busy all day," Sophie said, her eyes still tightly closed.

"I was. It's after five o'clock now."

"Here," Douglas said, and handed his brother the nearly empty brandy bottle.

But Ryder had no intention of getting drunk. Therein lay disaster for a randy man. He'd watched and listened from the doorway for a good ten min­utes and had been charmed. Sophie was drunk. He'd heard her laugh, a sweet, merry sound that warmed him to his very toes. Hell, all of them were going to feel vile tomorrow, but that was many hours away. The hours Ryder wanted were those just ahead. He tilted up the bottle and pretended to drink the rest of the brandy, then carried the bottle over to the sideboard and fetched another.

"Tell us what happened to the one-legged pirate," Alex said. "Douglas doesn't know, I'm sure of it. I want to know about Brassy. Douglas keeps avoiding it and going on to other stories."

"Actually, Brassy's story is shown in the gardens."

"What are you talking about?" Sophie said, still not looking at him.

"There are statues hidden deep in the garden. Haven't you yet seen them, Sophie? They were brought over by our very own uncle Brandon—you know, the fellow who left me Kimberly Hall. Let's go and I'll show you. Then you can come back and tell Alex."

"An excellent idea," the earl said, coming up on one elbow. Ryder saw that his brother wasn't at all drunk. What he was, the fraud, was enjoying him­self immensely. He was running his fingers light­ly over his wife's arm, then up her shoulder. He watched his brother's fingers lightly caress Alex's ear. Douglas was a cunning bastard, no doubt about it. Ryder grinned at him, then reached out his hand to take Sophie's. He pulled her to her feet, jerking hard at the last minute, and she came flying against him and he held her against his chest for a moment, before touching his fingertips to her chin, kissing her, then releasing her.

Sophie looked profoundly worried, and said even as she was weaving slightly, "Statues, Ryder? A statue of Brassy? How is that possible? Why Brassy and not Goosie?"

"You will see," Ryder said. "Douglas, take good care of your wife," he added, and led Sophie from the estate room. As he closed the door, he heard Alex giggle.

"I suppose this drinking orgy was brought on by something awesomely miserable?"

"Your mother," Sophie said.

"I quite understand."

"You will really show me Brassy?"

"I will show you whatever you want to see," he said.

When he led her onto the narrow paths of the garden, trees planted so closely together that there was a thick green canopy over their heads, she said, "This is beautiful. I didn't know about that turn back there. Why is this hidden?"

"You'll see," Ryder said.

He watched her look at the first statue—entwined statues, actually. The woman was sitting on the man's thighs, her back arched, her marble hair hanging loose, and his hands were on her hips, frozen in place, half lifting her off his sex.

Sophie gasped. "This is just awful."

But she didn't sound as if she thought it awful. She sounded very interested. She was weaving a bit again and he put his arm around her and brought her close to his side. "He's inside her, Sophie, as you can see. Not a bad life for a statue. Frozen for all eternity in the throes of pleasure."

"That looks difficult."

"Nonsense. Would you like to try that or see some other statues? There's a good deal of variety."