Pendragon (Sherbrooke Brides 7)

“Send the fool packing,” Thomas said. “Not Melinda.”

“Ah, well, such a pity I didn’t think of that at the time. What’s done is done. Now, I am on the lookout, you could say.” He paused a moment, stroking his long fingers over his jaw. “I think I just might be in the market for an older, more experienced female person. Will you consider it, Libby?”

“Will I have to lose flesh?”

“I have decided that a bit of strategic padding on a woman’s body isn’t as distasteful as I have always believed. How could a man dislike such a lovely expanse of white flesh? No, my dearest Libby, you may continue eating to your heart’s content. I will come back on the morrow and we will discuss how this is to be accomplished.”

Libby nodded and bowed her head, a lovely smile on her mouth. She was humming under her breath.

Meggie’s uncles were outrageous, no doubt about that, even though they did try to keep their hands off their wives and keep all their drawing comments to a whisper when any of the children were near. But since she was the next generation eavesdropper after her aunt Sinjun, she’d heard quite a bit over the years, but never anything like this. She stared at her husband. He had no expression at all on his face. No, that wasn’t right. He was looking a bit amused, maybe a touch of irony mirrored in those dark eyes of his. She wanted to go to the stable, find herself a stout horse, and ride back to Cork Harbour. Maybe there would be a boat headed back to England.

Thomas said abruptly, “Niles, you remember Bernard Leach, do you not? He and his wife own the Hangman’s Noose near St. Agnes?”

“Oh yes, a tippler is Bernard, tried to cheat me once about ten years ago. I kicked him but good in his ribs, his wife holding him down for me, all the while cursing him from Cornwall to Scotland. Marie’s a good woman. Why do you ask?”

“His wife, Marie, was murdered—hanged—and Bernard is missing. Before he disappeared, he told me the Grakers did it.”

“Marie is dead? Murdered? Oh no.” He sighed deeply and everyone in the room knew he was much affected. “How we enjoyed each other whenever I managed to sneak into the inn, usually right under Bernard’s nose. Now, what is this about Grakers? Cornish pixies? Why, those little mites wouldn’t harm a soul. Whenever I am in England I swear I can hear them singing in the yew bushes. Bernard is lying. He killed her, the bastard.”

Lord Kipper had slept with Mr. Leach’s wife? “Evidently Grakers can be vicious,” Meggie said, knowing in that moment that she’d been thrown into Bedlam.

Niles shrugged. “That’s a tale. You say that Bernard disappeared? Come now, Thomas, where could he possibly disappear to?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t join the search for him because I needed to come home to Pendragon. Stay away from my wife, Niles, or I will break your leg, not your lame one, your very fit one.”

Niles, Lord Kipper, sighed, and toasted Meggie with his teacup when she handed it to him and said, “I shall miss Marie. Lovely woman, although her tongue had grown sharper over the years. I hope they catch old Bernard and stretch his neck.”

Alvy Shanahan, Meggie’s fifteen-year-old maid, was small, pert, her hair was as black as Thomas’s, and she had the most beautiful lilting accent Meggie had ever heard.

And she heard a lot of that lilt because Alvy didn’t stop talking, not for a single moment, from handing Meggie her chemise to the final pat on her hair, Alvy talked. And she talked of only one person—Thomas Malcombe, how very handsome he was, and ah, so very big and manly, and all that lovely black hair, and those forearms of his, thick with muscle and brown from the sun with black hair on them, and don’t forget those lovely dark eyes of his, that ye could just fall into.

Oh dear, Meggie thought, she didn’t want her maid to be in love with her husband.

Just after nine o’clock that evening, Thomas led her into the

White Room, dismissed Alvy, ignoring her look of abject adoration, and said, “I have decided to sleep with you, Meggie.”

“Good. Then I can begin improvements on you immediately.”

He laughed even as he unfastened the long march of buttons down her back. “Cook—Mrs. Mullins—came here to Pendragon with my mother. That’s why you had English fare.”

Another area needing improvement. “You liked the beef, Thomas?”

“Oh no, but no matter. She has been with us as long as I’ve been on the earth. When I am really hungry, I ride into Kinsale to visit a friend and beg my dinner. However, you will have a pleasant surprise at breakfast.”

“Perhaps I can give her some new recipes that will improve upon the meals.”

“Just go easy, that’s all I ask, Meggie.” He pulled her sleeves down to her elbows, trapping her arms to her sides. Slowly he turned her to face him. “I like the dark blue against all this white. A splash of color in the snow.”

She raised her face and he kissed her.

“Oh my,” she said when he finally raised his head some time later. “Oh my. That is so very nice, Thomas. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are wicked, in the very best of ways.”

He was pleased with his wickedness when he brought her to orgasm some fifteen minutes later, had her shuddering with such deep pleasure that she looked ready to expire from it. She lay panting on the beautiful white bed with its white counterpane and white sheets with him still deep inside her, and she loved the feel of him, the sound of his voice as he said love words to her and sex words, many of which she didn’t understand, for after all, she was a vicar’s daughter. Many of them, however, she did understand because she was, after all, also her uncles’ niece.

“Thomas,” she whispered against his shoulder, then lightly bit him and licked his salty flesh.

“Ah, don’t,” he said, but it was already too late. He groaned, harsh and low that groan that bespoke his innards were being stomped on as he spilled his seed so wonderfully deep inside her.