Almost a Gentleman (38 page)

"What's this?" David looked up from his mail on Saturday morning. "A letter from Wolfe, how nice."

"Lady Kate's exceedingly well, he says… that's good… plans for dinner with Alec… that's good too… and—ah, splendid—he and his lady will be announcing their engagement shortly. They plan to marry in April."

"How wonderful, David."

He looked a bit abashed for a moment. "Listen, Phoebe, you haven't minded that I haven't moved to… to
formalize
things between us yet, have you?"

"Of course not." Actually, she thanked heaven for it every evening. She looked at him warily now.

"I simply thought," he continued, "that we'd wait until the business with Crashaw was cleared up, if that's all right with you."

"Oh yes. Perfect. Rather what I had in mind as well."

"Good. Well then, let's see—what else does Wolfe write? Oh blast it, the scoundrel…"

"What is it?"

"Dammit, Crashaw couldn't resist sending one more of those infernal notes—this time to Kate. INFORM P. THAT ESCAPE IS IMPOSSIBLE. Bloody hell… excuse me, my love, but I'm going to find it deuced difficult not to punch him in the jaw when I see him."

"Bloody hell indeed. It's one thing for him to torment
me
, but quite another when he takes it out on someone completely innocent."

And it would be even worse, she thought, if it
weren't
Lord Crashaw who was responsible, but someone they hadn't even considered. But no, she assured herself immediately, it had to be Crashaw.

"Anyway, Wolfe warns me to be on the lookout for any suspicious characters lurking about during the celebration."

"That's wise of him."

"Wise but unnecessary. I know everyone in the village and countryside. In fact, I've been at the christening of everyone younger than myself—and everybody who's older than I am came to mine. But yes, of course we should all stay on the alert. A pity to have to be suspicious during a celebration, though, don't you think?"

He tossed his napkin down. "Finished your coffee? Good. I'll see if they've brought the sleigh around yet."

The two of them were off to cut boughs of evergreen to decorate the Great Hall. No, David had told Mr. Neville, he didn't need any farmhands coming to help: Miss Browne had the strength often; he was lucky to have engaged her assistance for this year's harvest. And quite cheaply too, he'd added, winking. She'd pretended to smile.

But it was delightful to be alone with him, out in the cold, bright sunlight.

Cutting and sawing, they worked quickly and well together, tossing the fragrant boughs into the back of the sleigh until Scots pine and yew, holly, ivy, mistletoe, juniper, and box were heaped several feet deep.

"My goodness, smell them, David," Phoebe called. "They're so strong and tarry. Gorgeous."

She threw herself on top of the pile of greenery and buried her face in the soft yew needles.

He lay next to her and nudged her around until they were kissing each other's cold cheeks. "Well, it's rather the opposite of kissing under the mistletoe, isn't it?" he murmured.

"I'm cold," she said. "Cover me up."

"With branches?"

"With yourself. Cover me and fill me too. You know what I mean."

"Out here? In the cold?"

But she was already lifting her skirts and undoing his buttons. "I don't mind."

He fumbled with his leather gloves but they fit tightly around his big hands. "Here," she said. She bit the very tip of the middle finger, neatly pulling the glove off his hand with her teeth. He slid the other one off. His hands were warm; he lifted her buttocks to him, holding her tight and open as he entered her.

"Your belly's cold. But not your prick."

"Not now. Well, you're hot so inside. I shall never want to leave."

Stray bits of clothing threatened to get in the way—buttons and buckles dug into their flesh and a few of the branches were rather spikier than they'd seemed at first. None of that mattered.

The deep thrusts of their joined bodies rocked the heavy sleigh on its runners, causing the horses to turn their heads in mild curiosity. The scent of the needles rose around them, the sweet potent oils mingling with their bodies' saltier smells. They came quickly, basking in each other's hot breath and then, as their energy subsided, groaning with the effort of drawing their wet, sticky clothing back on in the cold air.

"Well,
that was
absurd," he whispered. "
Perfectly
absurd."

"Perfectly absurdly lovely," she whispered back.

"Exactly, but, oof, move a little to the right, will you darling, so I can get that button. Yes, that's better… well, it's all very well for
you
, you know—it mostly happens
inside
your body, where everything's so nice and warm."

"You don't regret it, do you?"

"Not for a moment. And you?"

She began to tell him that she'd cherish the memory of it forever. But no—she stopped herself quickly; there had been something discordant, she thought, about that solemn, valedictory declaration. His eyes had begun to widen in confusion, so she only laughed and told him that no, she didn't regret it either, but that she
was
looking forward to her bath.

"We must hang these first."

"If we haven't crushed them too horribly."

"Come on, let's see how quickly we can get home."

What a pretty word home was.

The Great Hall did look lovely all festooned in green and finished off with bare hawthorn branches laden with red berries. David and Phoebe worked by the light of large torches ensconced in the stone walls: the eight hundred and thirty-six candles in their freshly cleaned chandeliers wouldn't be lit until tomorrow. Ancient tapestries hung between the torches: their faded reds and blues told the stories of unicorns captured and dragons slain, of Noah and the flood, Abraham and Isaac, and the flight into Egypt. The high table rested on its platform along one of the short ends of the hall; set perpendicular to it were four rows of trestle tables, each of which would seat thirty people. The players and dancers would have plenty of space at the end of the hall opposite the high table.

"And will you—or we, I expect—sit in the center of the high table surrounded by the local gentry?" Phoebe asked.

David laughed. "Not a bit of it. The gentry will sit at the high table, but you and I will be at the foot of one of the trestle tables. It's an ancient tradition here; everybody expects the earl to sit among his people on Plough Monday. Nature's democracy or some such thing, I imagine. It's a reasonable enough idea but what I really like about it is that we'll be able to see the entertainment so well from close by."

"This is an extraordinary chamber," she said. "It seems to ring with centuries of past festivities and ceremonies."

"It will look very bright," he told her, "with all the candles lit and reflected in the plate. Not to speak of the white damask tablecloths and red velvet runners. You'll look quite of a piece with it in your white dress and red shawl."

"Yes, I suppose I shall."

"It's more than a celebration, Phoebe. It's quite magical. You'll see."

She'd smiled and turned to examine the crossed Saracen swords that hung above one of the big fireplaces. Walking slowly around the hall, craning her slender neck to peer up at the old ironwork and the woven hangings, she looked as delicate as the lady in the unicorn tapestries. But she wasn't delicate, he thought happily; she was wonderfully strong and lusty.

He remembered the feel of her body underneath him in the sleigh. How cold her cheeks had been; how hot, how voracious, she'd been in other places. It was glorious, he thought, that she seemed as hungry for his touch as he was for hers. And even, perhaps—his eyes lit hopefully—as eager to start a baby. At least he liked to imagine so; how wonderful if she was beginning to get beyond the terrible pain and loss she'd suffered.

But he mustn't hurry, he reminded himself; he must be cautious. The way he'd stroked her belly the other night, for example—it had been childish, and impatient. He'd be more tactful from now on—especially in those times when he couldn't entirely read her emotions. Her odd solemnity after their coupling in the sleigh today—what had
that
been about, he wondered.

Their week together had been as magical, mysterious. But perhaps love simply
was
this mysterious. Perhaps it took a lifetime to learn everything about someone you loved: well, that would be the commonsense explanation, anyway.

Still,
ix. felt
magical.
It's the time of year
, he thought,
the old rituals
. Or simply the depth of his emotions—sometimes he felt so overwhelmed by his feelings for her that he'd accept any assistance that presented itself, natural or supernatural.

Not that he really believe that the Plough play had magical properties. Well, he was as modern as the next gentleman, wasn't he, adopting up-to-date farming methods and machinery and even subscribing to scientific papers from the Royal Society. When he'd told Phoebe that the ceremony was magical, he'd merely meant that it felt that way to him. That when he watched the play—which he supposed might seem a bit simpleminded to someone who hadn't loved it all his life—he became a child again, filled with as much joy and wonder as any child sitting on the benches alongside him.

Of course he didn't believe in any of that claptrap about how the play guaranteed fertility to the land. It was simply a useful custom, a time-honored way to ease the people's painful entry into a new planting season after weeks of holiday carousing. And any fool would agree that the land would yield better crops if it was worked willingly by laborers who'd put some good food in their bellies.

And as for the legend that a woman in love would soon conceive a son after having watched the Plough play—well,
that
was nothing but the rankest medieval nonsense.

And yet…

Completing her circuit of the Great Hall, she came and stood next to him. Enough of his silly speculations, he thought. What
was
clearly magical was her smile. Her hand slipping into his. Her eyes half closed as she asked in her low voice whether he might like to join her in the bathtub now. And his own immediate physical response. Which perhaps was not precisely magical—he'd always been a ready sort, he supposed, or so women had told him—but certainly a
bit
readier than he remembered being in the past.

A bath would be very nice indeed, he told her. A long one, for this would be their last night alone without guests in the house.