The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

“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.