Patricia Rice (14 page)

Striding through the kitchen garden in search of jonquils he knew used to grow in the knot garden, Harry was halted abruptly in the gravel path at the sight ahead of him.

Muddy and bedraggled, Christina leaned over the fishpond with his old butterfly net in one hand. With the other, she shoved waves of soaked golden hair over her shoulder and succeeded in smearing mud across her cheek in the process. Even as he watched, she dipped the net into the pond, dousing her cuff and splashing her bodice.

Before he could halt her, she reached farther to chase something in the bottom of the pond—and tumbled headfirst into the water.

Cursing the fish trapped by her billowing petticoats, floundering in the ooze at the bottom of the pond, Christina barely registered Harry’s flying leap over the pond wall until he hauled her—dripping with mud and fish—into his arms.

Relieved, she grabbed his neck for balance, and without thinking, dripped green slime and muddy water down his coat. Harry cradled her marvelously closer, and she might have snuggled there forever if he hadn’t begun bellowing protests. She emptied out her ears and didn’t listen until he stopped cursing.

“By all that’s holy, Christina, have you no care for others?” he demanded, carrying her out of the pond as if she were made of air. “Don’t you have any idea how
valuable
you are to me? How do you think I’d feel if you drowned in a damned
fish
p
ond
!” The last was more of a shout than a question.

“Valuable?” she inquired with interest, finally hearing something worth listening to. She loved the strength of Harry’s powerful shoulders and muscled arms, and she held his neck a little tighter than was absolutely necessary. Through her wet clothing, she could feel his powerful stride in the movement of his flat belly beneath her hip. Even dripping in green slime, he looked princely to her. The dent in his chin deepened when he was angry, she noticed.

He shot her a scathing glance, and she dismissed the excitement that had stirred in her foolish heart. “Oh,
valuable
as in my dowry and the connections my father can provide. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “if you’re speaking about the shipping business my father wishes to share with all our suitors, he’s merely looking to share his losses, so I’d be wary.”

“Of course I was talking about shipping, you silly twit!” he yelled, carrying her across the kitchen floor to the stares of the entire staff. “I always talk about shipping when my wife nearly drowns in a filthy pond.”

Christina punched his shoulder, wriggling to get down, but Harry proceeded undeterred.

“Hot water, blankets, tea,” he commanded on his way past the gaping servants. “Build up the fire in our chamber before the duchess catches her death of cold.”

“Harry, if you’d put me down, I could take off these wet things right here instead of tracking mud through…”

“How would I explain to your parents if you wasted away from a lung fever because I did not take care of you?” he demanded, hastening up the back stairs. “By Jove, if you can’t be trusted in the damned
garden
, I’ll have to lock you in a tower. What the devil were you doing in the fishpond?”

“Fishing, Harry. That’s what one does in a pond, isn’t it?” Deciding she enjoyed her position in Harry’s arms well enough to quit fighting him, Christina set about studying his aura. He was quite furious, she could tell, but auras were fickle things. The white told her he was feeling protective, but of what? Her? The fish? Himself? The way he was yelling, she had difficulty deciding.

Although his sarcasm had indicated he really
did
consider her valuable, so maybe he was a tad upset. Flushed with pleasure at the possibility, she decided not to torment him too much.

“No, one sits nicely on the wall and admires the damned silly fish,” he shouted. “One does not attack fish with butterfly nets.”

“Oh, is that what the net was for? Why would you want to catch butterflies?” Christina winced as she imagined steam pouring from Harry’s ears. Harry didn’t like being distracted. She tried to mollify him before his roars brought down the rafters. “Lady Anne told me the best way to make potatoes grow was to put fish in the furrows. It sounded quite dreadful, but the pond was much too crowded and your fish were starving. Really, Harry, someone should have been catching the poor creatures or feeding them.”

“Lady Anne?” he roared, carrying her into their chamber and dumping her before the fire.

Maids and a lone footman scurried in their path, setting up the bath and fire screen, pouring hot water, stirring the coals. Christina disliked creating scenes that would be gossiped about all over the county on the morrow, but Harry really did deserve some explanation. If only he would quit bellowing!

She gasped as he began unfastening her gown as if he had every right to do so.

Well, she supposed he did have every right to do so. She held up her soaking hair so he wouldn’t get any wetter. “Lady Anne showed me where the potatoes used to grow, and there are still some trying to survive. And I read the journal—”

“Who the devil is Lady Anne?” he demanded, lowering his voice only an octave or two as his nimble fingers undressed her.

“The ghost who lives in the spinning room,” she explained, quite reasonably, she thought. “Oh, and you must hear this, Harry. There is another ghost, Father Oswald. Lady Anne showed me his name on one of the pews in the chapel. He lives in the priest’s study. He has a book on stone circles—”

“Out!” Harry shouted at the servants who were straining to hear every word they uttered. “All of you, get out!”

“Harry, a hot bath would be very nice,” she murmured, clinging to her sodden bodice to prevent it from falling off now that Harry had unhooked it.

The servants looked a trifle confused. Defiantly, Christina’s maid pointed at the tub. A footman hastened to continue carrying in buckets of water. Another maid followed in his footsteps. Matilda boldly limped in to open the wardrobe and find Christina’s robe.

At the arrival of Luke carrying fresh clothing, Harry’s patience snapped. “
If
you
do
not
all
leave
at
once, I’ll heave you out the windows
.”

Releasing Christina, he grabbed the wooden chair by the vanity and held it up in front of him like a knight’s shield. Waving the riding crop he ripped from his boot, he backed the servants out of the room. “Fetch our dinners and leave them outside the door, but leave. Now!”

Her eyebrows no doubt getting acquainted with her hairline, Christina watched Harry’s performance as gallant knight with more amusement than astonishment. Harry didn’t have much practice at anger, so she assumed he didn’t deal well with it.

Matilda cast her an anxious glance, and Christina shrugged and held up her palms. She wasn’t afraid of Harry, although he’d intimidated everyone else in the place by now. Tall and distinguished despite the green slime dripping from his coat, wielding his aristocratic accent and bearing well, Harry could rout a field of armed soldiers with that chair. She supposed he had acquired that attitude to make the unruly occupants of the House of Commons listen to him.

She wondered how he would fare now that he would attend the Lords. Judging from his current performance, he merely needed a riding crop and a chair and they’d all grovel before him.

She applauded when he succeeded in emptying the room and barred the door. “Thank you, my knight. I’m sure the mud we’ve dripped all over the floor will clean itself while we bathe.”

“Why aren’t you in the bath by now?” Still roaring, he flung down his weapons and stripped off his coat.

Oh, my. She hadn’t realized she’d soaked Harry’s coat clear through to his vest and shirt. Wet, the linen molded nicely to his shoulders. Christina’s stomach did a giddy dance of joy at the sight.

“Don’t you want to dunk me yourself?” she taunted. Harry had always been great fun to tease, but she suspected she was waving a red flag in front of a bull right now.

“You’ll catch your death standing there like that.” Flinging off his wet shirt, he strode across the room bare chested.

Christina would have loved to admire all those lovely chest hairs some more, but she didn’t think letting Harry get his hands on her would be conducive to her goals. She intended to have him laughing before she let him touch her again.

Dropping her sodden bodice and kicking off her ruined shoes, she shoved her skirt and petticoats down and raced up the bedstairs to a standing position on the bed wearing just her soggy shift and stockings. “I’ll be just as wet in the bath,” she pointed out, before leaping off the far side of the bed as Harry came after her.

He missed her by inches and lay sprawled across the mattress, muddy boots hanging away from the newly cleaned covers. Christina winced when she thought he would leap on the bed after her, but he wasn’t too far gone to grasp the damage he could do. He stopped to yank off his boots. “If you’re not in that tub by the time I get these off, I’ll put you in there myself.”

She’d like to see him try, but that would be playing with fire. While the fire sounded good, she had enough sense to know where a combination of nakedness and Harry would lead.

Before he pulled off his second boot, she darted around the dressing screen. “Don’t you want to hear about Father Oswald?” she called. “He’s quite fascinating.”

“Not if Father Oswald is
dead
. There is an entire graveyard of old bones out there and none of them are fascinating.”

She could hear him rummaging around in the wardrobe drawers, slamming doors, and stomping about in his bare feet. Not knowing how to interpret his tumultuous mood, she stripped off her corset, shift, and stockings and climbed into the bath. The water was quite hot, even if the level was lower than she liked. “His spirit is still alive. Shouldn’t that count for something? He seems quite upset about a chalice in the chapel. It’s rather ugly pewter. Do you think we could find—”

“The Holy Grail doesn’t exist.” His voice was a little lower than a shout, but not by much.

Her nightshift, a robe, and a warm blanket sailed over the screen. The blanket caught on the screen, but the filmier garments drifted to the floor beside the tub. He’d found the wedding nightclothes her mother had packed. Trying not to see too much in his choice, Christina ducked her hair into the water and lathered it. “Surely you realize the castle isn’t just a fortress. The towers were probably built in the thirteenth century, but your ancestors have lived here over the ages. Women don’t like living in towers. The keep was added on to regularly, and the chapel was part of it.”

“I know all that,” he grumbled. “Do you need help washing?”

She needed help rinsing her hair, but she wasn’t about to tell Harry that in his current uncertain mood. “I’m not a child, Harry. If I told you I’d found a Roman centurion in the cellars, would you listen then? Is it only priests and old ladies to whom you object?”

“They’re
dead
, Christina! They’re figments of your imagination. If you need company to talk to, then invite your damned family.”

She could hear him pacing up and down on the other side of the screen and tried not to tease him too badly. “I did. I’ve invited Leila and Dunstan to show me how to garden. But Father Oswald is not a figment. I found reference to him in the journal room. You really ought to read your family history, Harry.”

“I know my family history, and I can be fairly certain a damned
priest
isn’t my ancestor. I’m sure there were dozens of Lady Annes, since the name is popular. But there are none alive, and that’s all that matters. You can’t talk to ghosts.”

“Well, I admit, it isn’t easy,” Christina offered in hopes of placating him. Hastily washing off the remainder of the mud, she stood to dry off on the linen left to warm before the fire. “I can’t quite tell what Father Oswald is telling me about the chalice. He toppled the old pewter one from the altar, so I assume he dislikes it. Overall, his aura is quite purple with a nice layer of white, so he’s a good spirit, but whenever he touches the chalice, there’s a sadness about him.”

Silence. Worried, Christina toweled her hair and attempted to determine where Harry was. “Harry? Are you still there?”

“Are you done yet? I believe our dinner just arrived, and I’d like to wash so I can put on clean clothes.”

He sounded suspiciously normal. She heard the door open and shut as Harry carried in their tray. Perhaps he was just hungry.

Wriggling into the diaphanous gown her mother thought brides ought to wear, Christina gazed at her seminakedness in dismay. If she stepped out there like this, Harry would turn into a raging bull again. Well, maybe not
raging
, but definitely a bull.

The robe was little better. It was so light, it clung to every curve when she tied it, and the top fell open to reveal a great deal more of her chest than she deemed wise. It would do very well when she thought Harry was ready for love, but telling her she was
valuable
wasn’t quite the sentiment she was hoping for—although it did give her a nice tingle to know she wasn’t a nonentity to him. She’d known men who wouldn’t have dirtied their boots to help her out of the pond. Harry’s reaction was very gratifying indeed.

She wrapped the blanket around her before stepping out from behind the screen. “Perhaps you ought to call for fresh water, Harry.”

With a sigh of admiration, she froze where she was.

Harry had removed his wet breeches and stockings and no doubt everything else too, given the sodden lump of clothing on the floor. He’d donned a long quilted dressing gown of rich brown velvet, but no shirt ruffle hid the curls on his chest above the opening. He leaned one shoulder negligently against the wall while gazing out the wide window, his queue of hair falling over his collar.

At her silence, he turned back to the room, and his gaze slid approvingly over her damp hair. It had soaked the shoulders of her linen so that he could probably see her skin through the fabric. Christina raised the blanket to more thoroughly cover her breasts.

“Are you cold?” he asked with concern. “I’ll add more coal to the fire. Have some tea while it’s still hot.”

Christina gazed with fascination at his bare, masculine toes and the glimpse of a muscled, hairy calf when the robe swung open as he walked toward her. She scarcely registered his question until he tilted her chin up.

“I’ll hurry,” he murmured before brushing a kiss across her lips.

Oh, my. Sighing, Christina could hardly bear it when he walked behind the screen and threw his robe over the top. Perhaps she should offer to wash his back.