The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (165 page)

That was all it took. He sucked in his breath, began kissing her again, and in a remarkably short time, he was moving inside her again, and it no longer surprised him at all. He wanted to make it last longer this time, and it did, at least a full minute longer before he was jerking above her like a palsied man and she was heaving, so frantic that it seemed to him in one single sane moment that she wanted him all at once, just as he did her. When his hot fingers found her, she cried out into his mouth, her breath hot and fierce, and he poured himself into her.

“I want you on top of me,” he said into her ear when he could draw a breath. She said nothing, not that he expected her to. She was utterly relaxed beneath him, probably asleep, he thought. Then he simply collapsed, his head beside hers. It was as if someone had slammed a door down on his head, only it didn’t hurt at all, and his sleep was very deep and profound. He just winked out, holding her tightly, still deep inside her, her arms holding him hard against her. He felt her hands on his back, warm even through his clothes and he realized in some part of his brain, that he’d just pulled his breeches down and that he still had on his shirt and his jacket.

He was a pig, but he would think about it later.

He awoke at the touch of a wet tongue on his left ear. “Spenser,” she said, then licked him again. He reared up over her, balancing himself on his elbows and looked down at her face.

She looked dreamy, vague, and excited, a combination that ignited him instantly, no delay whatsoever.

“Spenser,” she said again, and when he leaned down to kiss her mouth, to taste her, to revel in her, she said, “I’ve seen pictures of the woman on top of the man. I would like to try it. You don’t believe I am too big, do you?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “But not just yet, Helen, not just yet. I’m sorry, but I just can’t. I’m an old man, Helen—” And then he was moving deep inside her again, growing harder and harder by the moment as her mouth was on his, and she was biting him, licking him, and his world once again spun out of control.

“I’m going to die,” he said when at last they were both breathing hard, pressed hard together, his face only an inch above hers because he didn’t have the strength to push himself up higher. “I am thirty-three and I’m going to die. Helen, I may be a man of interesting habits and experiences, but this goes beyond anything I’ve ever known in my life. I’m tired now. Would you like to sleep for just a little while with me?”

She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. There was a slight smile on her mouth. He kissed her, then once again they were asleep in Lord Prith’s gazebo.

Lord Beecham awoke to realize his butt was bare and he was cold. It was twilight. He slowly eased off Helen. He fastened his breeches and pulled on his boots. He stood over Helen, just watching her breathe. Her legs were glorious, long and white and sleekly muscled, his seed smeared on them, and he groaned with the feelings that flooded through him. He hadn’t asked for this. Life had been perfectly pleasant.

Of course life had been pleasant. What had he done to make it unpleasant? He had enjoyed himself, done precisely what he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it. He wasn’t vicious or petty, but it was rare that he saw things outside his pleasant existence.

He looked down at Helen.

She wanted him for a partner. She wanted to find that damned lamp more than anything else in this entire world. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she wanted that damned lamp more than she wanted him, except for the few moments when he touched her and she touched him and they came together as fast, as violently as a winter storm lashing out of a midnight-black sky.

He lightly touched his palm to her thigh. Slowly, very slowly, she opened her eyes. She didn’t move, just looked up at him. She smiled at him. “I didn’t get to be on top,” she said.

His muscles nearly went into a spasm. “Next time, I swear to you, next time.”

“It is too much,” she said then. “Simply too much. This cannot continue.”

He had thought the same thing, recognizing the strangeness of this immense need for her, so different from the other women who had come into his life. But to hear her actually say the words made him go right over the edge. It made him nearly wild with rage.

He jerked up and removed his hand from her leg. He straightened. His voice was colder than a delicious vanilla ice at Gunther’s. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course it will continue. It is too much, but we will figure all that out sooner or later. Keep these inane conclusions to yourself, Helen. I have promised that next time you will be on top.”

She frowned at him. She cocked her head to one side, regarding him from beneath her lashes. Then she sat up and looked down at herself. She said blankly, not looking at him, “I am wet with you. Very wet.”

“Yes.” He handed her his handkerchief. He turned away to walk to the narrow arched entrance of the gazebo.

“I’ll return your handkerchief to you tomorrow.”

“Yes, do that, since I imagine that you will be needing it again.”

She didn’t say anything at all, just walked around him, down the gazebo steps, across the vast expanse of lawn and into the library entrance on the east side of the hall.

He didn’t move, just watched her. At first her steps weren’t all that steady, and he knew it was because of the special strain he’d put on her muscles, something she wasn’t used to. He smiled. He realized something else then. This proud, very independent woman was fighting him for all she was worth.
It cannot continue.
Like hell, he thought.

At that moment, he realized that he himself had lost all perspective on this situation.

It was a mighty lust, a lust the strength of which he had never experienced before in his life. And perhaps that was all it was—lust, an incredible lust, a lust that would bring a man to his knees in short order, or simply smite him dead from overindulgence.

This had to be dealt with. He knew there would be no dealing with anything as long as she was beside him, just there so he could make love to her, and not stop.

He had some soul-deep thinking to do. It could be that the conclusion of his thinking just might end up changing the course of his life.

The thought of taking a wife didn’t freeze the blood in his veins. Odd that it didn’t. He was thirty-three years old. He would have thought that life would have settled into its lifelong pattern by now, but, Lord love him, it hadn’t.

Life had seen him coming around the corner and smacked him between the eyes.

Whatever had happened between them, repeatedly, and even more repeatedly after that, he was prepared to face head-on. He just couldn’t face it with her anywhere in the vicinity. Seeing her, listening to her talk, looking at her, any of it, all of it, turned him into a cock-hard fellow with no thought of anything at all but being inside her and hearing her yell out his name when she clenched and shuddered beneath him. Ah, the pleasure, that gut-deep, nearly painful pleasure. He had promised her that next time she could be on top. He nearly swallowed his tongue at that thought and the incredible image it brought clear to his mind.

After Lord Prith and Flock had left for their evening walk, Flock bemoaning his fate—namely a future without Teeny being his wife—all the while Lord Prith was walking out the front door beside him, Lord Beecham said to a very silent Helen, “I am going back to London tomorrow. I need to go to the British Museum. I need to speak to scholars I know there. I am at a standstill with the scroll.”

She didn’t like it, he could see that plainly, but what didn’t she like, specifically? Him leaving her? She wanted him with her? He began to glow.

“I don’t want to let the scroll out of my sight,” she said, and his innards tightened alarmingly. The damned scroll. He stopped glowing.

“I will make a copy of it,” he said, all clipped and cold, as he rose.

“You are my partner. I don’t want to let you out of my sight either.”

Partner, she said, not the man she’d willingly lusted with nine times in three days. He thought in that moment that he would simply burst with rage. He was on her in an instant, his hands hard around her upper arms and he was shaking her. Not that he could shake her very much because she was nearly as tall as he was, and strong. But she didn’t retaliate, just stood there and let him shake to his heart’s content.

“You don’t trust me, is that it?”

“I don’t know you all that well.”

“Damn you,” he said, “you have made love with me nine times in three days.” It felt excellent to just say it, yell it actually, right in her face. “You don’t know me? Jesus, Helen, you know me all the way to my toes. Yes, I did manage to get my boots off before I fell on you this afternoon. You think I would steal this wretched scroll and go haring off on my own? Steal from you?”

“I know that you are a passionate man. In that, you are true to your reputation. As a partner you have been superbly satisfactory to date.”

“But?”

She just shook her head. “It is so very important to me, Lord Beecham.”

More important than I am? he wanted to ask, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. He ground his teeth and left her then, without a backward glance, and went to her study. He spent the next hour carefully copying the leather scroll. He oiled it again, smoothing down the cracked humps in the leather, then gently laid the cheesecloth on it once more. When he came out of the study, Helen was on the third step of the staircase.

“Do you wish me to take this copy or not?”

Very slowly, she nodded.

Lord Beecham left Shugborough Hall at six o’clock the next morning, damp fog enclosing everything in filmy gray, his luggage and his valet Nettle with him.

“I HEARD YOU AND REVEREND Mathers had your heads together,” Reverend Older said to Lord Beecham two weeks later when he collared him on St. James Street just beneath the bow window of White’s. He leaned close, looked around furtively to ensure that no one could overhear them, then loosed his hot, excited breath in Lord Beecham’s face.

Lord Beecham raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t used to a furtive Reverend Older. He felt excitement rippling through the man. What was going on here?

“Don’t fret yourself, my boy. Old Clothhead Mathers told me all about this find of yours—an ancient leather scroll written in Pahlavi that speaks of a very old magic. This is a wondrous thing.”

Naturally, Lord Beecham thought, he and Reverend Mathers had agreed to keep all of this between them. He had believed the man would hold silent—indeed, Reverend Mathers had sworn himself to silence because, as he had told Lord Beecham, “this incredible scroll, my lord, it makes up for all the miserable years of mediocrity I have known. To be a part of this, ah, it will give all of us proud modern men amazing insights upon the ancient world. I thank you with all my heart. No, sir, no one will ever learn of this from me.”

Lord Beecham had known Reverend Mathers since his Oxford days. An honorable man, a scholar, a man more attuned to the mysterious ancient past than to a present he found unimaginative and trivial. Lord Beecham had been a fool, and he hated the bone-deep feeling of betrayal. Because he was not a man to spill his guts at the first attack, or even the second, for that matter, his expression remained impassive, his eyebrow elevated. He looked faintly annoyed. But his heart was pounding, slow, deep strokes.

Reverend Older leaned forward, patted Lord Beecham’s sleeve and dropped his voice to a near whisper, “Now, don’t you worry, my lord. None of this will go beyond me, Reverend Mathers, and his brother. You see, Reverend Mathers didn’t willingly tell Old Clothhead, no; it seems that my friend talks in his sleep whenever he is unduly excited or worried about something. Old Clothhead said his brother spoke of strange and magical things and this ancient old scroll written in Pahlavi that would tell all about it. Of course, Reverend Mathers would have brought you to me eventually. I am renowned for my knowledge of old myths that have a grain of truth to them. I searched you out, my boy. I am here. You may now ask for my assistance.” Reverend Older finally pulled away a good six inches from Lord Beecham’s ear and beamed at him.

“Yes, I propose that we be partners, my lord,” he continued. “I can assist you in ways you never dreamed possible. We will explore all those possibilities together. Now, do tell me all about it.”

The man talked in his damned sleep. Lord Beecham wanted to laugh at the vagaries of fate, but his uppermost reaction was vast relief that Reverend Mathers had not intentionally betrayed him. And apparently he had not said all that much specific in his sleep, thank God, which was why Reverend Older was here, now, trying to whisper in his ear. He smiled down at Reverend Older and said pleasantly, “No. There is nothing to tell. This is all a fabrication by Old Clothhead. You should not encourage him to drink so much brandy.”

Lord Beecham had seldom if ever seen a frown on Reverend Older’s face. There was one now, deepening the lines alongside his mouth. “Come, my boy, you don’t wish to be the coy one here.”