Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

He wished he could whistle as well as she. “Whistle that ditty about the drunken sailors.”

She did. She grabbed his hand and began swinging her arm in march time. When she came to the end of the ditty, she said, “I don’t suppose you’ll want to make love to me on the kitchen table, will you? I could arrange myself, perhaps even lift the corner of my gown so as to focus your lovely eyes—”

“Shut your mouth. You have the feelings of a damned gnat.”

It was meaty, that insult. She went on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He felt her hand low on his belly through the velvet of his dressing gown, pressing in, touching him. His breath hitched at the quick punch of lust. “Truly? A damned gnat?”

“Get your hand off me, Hallie. I am not in the mood.”

Her fingers stilled, but she didn’t move her hand. “It came to my attention during our ever-so-pleasant stay on the Isle of Wight that men were always in the mood. Ah, Jason?”

“What?”

“Why are you so angry with me?”

He realized they’d been standing at the top of the stairs for the last three minutes. It was dark, but there was a swatch of moonlight coming through the front windows. He opened his mouth, shut it, said, “You refuse to acknowledge the god-awful mess I made, you refuse to understand the devastating shadow I cast on so many lives.”

“It certainly appears to be a very long-lasting shadow.”

“Dammit, Hallie, because of me, my family nearly died! Stop mocking me, you’re not treating what happened with the

seriousness it deserves.”

“No, I suppose not. Had I been there, been your wife, it’s possible I would have coddled you and reassured you for a full six months. Then I would have gotten tired of your ridiculous guilty drivel. And I would wonder why you couldn’t see that you survived and those evil people didn’t. Yes, I would have reached the end of my tether of your attachment to a past that would be forgotten if not for your dreary vow to suffer for the rest of your life.

“Hmm. I’ve heard of sack cloth, it’s spoken of in the Bible. I wonder if one can still purchase sack cloth. Ashes, now, that would be no problem. Wouldn’t you look a treat in sack cloth, all dirtied up?”

He growled at her, actually growled he was so angry. He left her at the top of the stairs and headed down. He nearly tripped at the shock of the gloomy voice that came from the thick shadows near the drawing room. “Master Jason? Is that you, sir? Oh dear, what is wrong? I heard voices, arguing voices, mainly that of your new wife.

“Ah, I knew it was a mistake, you’re such a fair man and she took full advantage of you. You had to marry her and now she’s forcing you to argue.”

Another voice, this one much higher and louder, trumpeted from the shadows back near the kitchen. “You miserable fat-tongued dead-witted slug! Don’t you dare speak of my precious mistress like that. My mistress is the best thing that has ever happened to Master Jason. She makes him laugh and smile and, well—all have heard him groan.”

Petrie, in a dressing gown as black as a priest’s robes, puffed himself right up. “And what about her, Martha? I’ve heard her groan so loud I feared for the newly hung chandelier. It’s disgraceful that a supposed lady would enjoy, well—”

Martha flew at him, her white nightgown whirling around her ankles. She jumped on him, took him to the floor, a tangle of black and white. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and began banging his head against the tiles. “You wretched water-piddled trout-brain! Like every other man in the universe, all you can think about is this yelling business. Of course she yells, you cracked pot, she should yell. Do you think the master has no skill at all? You think he’s a clod of a lover? You think he shouldn’t yell as well? You think my mistress is a clod? Never mind that, men don’t need to have skill applied to them to make them yell. Have you no working mental parts at all? No feelings in your heart?” Bang, bang, bang. Petrie groaned.

Jason said as he lifted her off Petrie, “No, Martha, don’t kill poor Petrie. This thing about men’s hearts, I fear in many it’s lower, much lower.” He realized in that instant that Petrie was staring up at Martha, a very strange look on his face, almost as if he were in very bad pain, which he should be.

“Master Jason, you may drop her back down on me, if you wish, sir. I don’t mind, the pain in my cracked head is nothing. Her breath is very sweet, it has quite left me wondering what has happened. I am adrift, waiting for enlightenment.”

Martha shrieked, tried to kick him.

Hallie said, “Martha, thank you for standing up for me. Now, both you and Petrie take yourselves back to bed.” She paused a moment, staring down at Petrie, who hadn’t moved and who looked both baffled and appalled, his dark hair standing in clumps on his head where Martha’s strong fingers had nearly pulled them out. “You will go back to your own bed, Petrie. You will think of no other bed except yours. You will not think of Martha’s sweet breath. All is well. We are no longer arguing. Master Jason simply wanted some brandy. Perhaps you know. Can one heat brandy?”

Petrie said, “Well, back in 1769, it’s said that old Lord Brandon was suffering from an ague. His valet, an ancestor of mine, heated him a snifter of brandy over a small hob in the fireplace. It was told me by my mother that the heated brandy made him well within a half hour.”

“I’m going to sleep with Henry in the stable,” Jason said, and marched toward the front door.

“You won’t be happy walking out there barefooted,” Hallie called after him. “Petrie, why don’t you fetch your master’s boots, put on your own as well, and the two of you can snuggle down together in the warm straw on either side of poor Henry.” Hallie smiled at both of them impartially, and walked toward the kitchen. “Jason? In case your mood changes, I will take a very close look at the kitchen table.”

Jason was dressed and on Dodger’s bare back within ten minutes.

CHAPTER 39

Corrie rubbed the cramp in her leg. She never should have let James arrange her in such a position, ah, but it had been such fun. She rubbed some more. She’d swear she had never used that particular muscle in her life. Perhaps she should rub in some of her mother-in-law’s special warming cream that seeped to your bones.

She heard something. She froze, cramp forgotten, instantly as still as James, who was lying on his back, breathing deeply in sleep, nearly dead, he’d told her before falling on his back, an angel’s smile on his face.