Pumpkinnapper Page 3

  “Nonsense. My goose ruined your clothes, and I will mend them. Go into the other room.” She lit a candle from the fire and handed it to him. She waved in the direction of the hall as she glanced around. “Now where did I leave my sewing basket?”

  “But—”

  “Go on. Pass your clothes out when you are ready.”

  Giving up, and grateful she couldn’t see the tear, he backed out of the kitchen and ran down the hall. The right room’s door was open. He raced inside, shut the door, and slumped against the panel, his eyes closed. For a few seconds he rested. Only then did he raise his eyelids. And curse.

  He was in her bed chamber. Facing him was her bed. The blankets were flung aside, the sheets rumpled, left as she had sprung out, disturbed by the commotion. Dying coals in the hearth at his right cast only a dim glow, heightening the room’s intimacy. On the wall beside him was a clothespress, and the single window, with curtains drawn, was at the front of the house. Very slowly, he walked to the bed and placed his candle, hat, gloves and pistol on the bedside table.

  She slept here. He put a hand on the disheveled sheets and stroked them. They were still warm. Her heat flamed up his arm and swamped his body as his mind conjured images of her in this bed. Images of her without that hideous, and unfortunately opaque nightdress. He would pull it over her head … He gulped and wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t need any tea to warm him.

  He backed away from the bed and his foot brushed something yielding. Bending, he scooped up the pillow wedged between the bed and the table. Delicate rose fragrance wafted to his nose. He pressed the pillow to his face and took a deep breath, inhaling essence of rose and another scent that could belong to no other but Emily. His head spinning, fantasies fogging his mind, he placed the pillow at the head of the bed and shifted to the side.

  His injured hip whacked the table, and he cursed again, the pain jolting him out of his dreams.

  With a grimace, he pulled off his coat and draped it over the hearthside chair. Leaning his uninjured side against the wall, he pulled off his boots, then stripped off the breeches and laid them on the chair back. He stood in his stockings, shirt and waistcoat and spread wide the goose-produced hole. Gads, for an animal with no teeth, that miserable goose had done a deuced good job destroying his breeches.

  And what else? He ran his hand over his bare backside and warm wetness slid over his palm. “Hellfire and damnation.” He stared in disbelief at the redness on his hand. The blasted bird also drew blood.

  “Is something wrong?” Emily’s voice sounded from the hallway.

  Rot it, she heard him. “Nothing. I’m bleeding a bit.”

  “Oh, let me help.”

  “No!” He whipped a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his lower body at the exact moment she opened the door.

  Red-faced, he turned to her. Draped over the chair back were his breeches, a gaping hole in the seat. He wore nothing but his shirt, waistcoat and stockings, that she could see. Good gracious, was he naked under that blanket? Oh, why hadn’t she asked where the goose had bitten him?

  She swallowed. “No time for false modesty.” Taking great care not to look at him, she crossed the room, and then poured hot water from the steaming kettle she held into the washstand basin. She set the kettle on the floor, picked up the towel beside the basin and dabbed it in the water. She pulled a strip of cloth from an old towel she had draped over her shoulder and folded the rest into a pad. Still not facing him, she asked, “Now where did he bite you?”

  “On the back of my … person.”

  “Oh.” She felt herself flush. Ladies and gentlemen did not discuss men’s backsides. Well, she had asked for this. Stiffening her spine, she picked up the towels and strip, and turned, looking only at his face. You are not looking at him as a man. You are looking at him as a patient. Her inner voice roared with laughter even as she thought the words. “Turn around.” She clutched the fabric tighter. “And drop the blanket.”

  He hesitated, his expression panicked, looking as if only a pry bar would loosen his grip on the blanket. Then, his stance radiating reluctance, he pivoted on his heel to present his back to her. His hands moved on the blanket as if he was debating with himself whether to obey her, when, all of a sudden, he let go.

  His shirt came halfway down his thighs. She could see his stockinged legs, and was not surprised to discover they were muscular.

  “Where is the bite?”

  Slowly he lifted the right side of his shirt, holding the other side down to display as little of himself as possible. The cut was large, red, raw, and bleeding. On a taut, muscular backside. The heat in her face pulsed hotter. Good gracious, her husband’s backside hadn’t looked like that. For all that, he had been a Navy officer, and the work was very physical, but he had never looked this good. Gathering her scattered wits with an effort, she dabbed at the cut with the rag.

  He flinched.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I. Bitten in the—er—unmentionables by a goose. How humiliating.”

  “Well, I’ll never tell. Say you fell on a sharp stone.” She pressed the worn towel to the wound and handed him the cloth strip. “I will hold the pad, and you wind this strip around your leg to hold it in place.” She was not about to feel around his naked front.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to do it?” he said in that same sinful voice he had used this afternoon, the one that could lure a woman to his bed, the voice she had dreamed about all day.

  “No,” she said through gritted teeth.

  His seductive tone turned into a chuckle as he fastened the strip. The shirt dropped back into place and she stepped back, relieved, and at the same time disappointed. “I will return your clothes in a few minutes.” She grabbed the breeches and the kettle and fled, his laughter floating down the hall after her.

  When she reached the kitchen, she collapsed onto a chair, her legs too wobbly to hold her. She covered her burning cheeks with her hands. Oh, what a coil! Everything she had felt for him when she was a fourteen year old child returned in a rush, amplified by a wife’s knowledge of how a man’s body looked and felt.

  Two figures, one tall and one short, leaned against a beech at the edge of the woods out of sight of Turnip Cottage.

  “Well, what d’ye make o’that?” Cornelius, the shorter one, wheezed.

  “Someone else is trying to steal my pumpkins!” Shifty Jack stomped back and forth, outrage in every step. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his tattered coat. “Pah! I have neither my pumpkin nor my handkerchief.”

  “What? Ye lost that fancy monogrammed wiper ye stole from that gentry cove?” Cornelius cackled. “Serves ye right.”

  “I did not steal it.” Jack flicked a hand in the air. “‘T’was naught but a trifle I found.”

  “Ha!” Cornelius jeered. “Ye ‘found’ it in that bugger’s pocket yesterday when he got off his horse to strip off his greatcoat.”

  Jack sniffed. “Fustian. I simply came upon it. And now I have lost it.” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Oh, my life is over!”

  His companion paused as he gulped in a large breath of air. “No, it ain’t, so stop yer caterwauling. You died some two hunnert year ago. And it be yer own fault neither Heaven nor Hell will take you. Trapping Old Nick hisself in that tree until he promised not to take you to Hell. O’course he wouldn’t let you in when you decided you wanted to go there.”

  “Fine time for the Devil to keep his word. Why, he’s the Devil! He breaks faith all the time.” Jack sank to the ground and his companion slid down the trunk beside him.

  “Only when it suits him,” Cornelius cackled again. “Mayhap you be too mean a knave even for Old Scratch. Sure now, if Hell won’t have you, Heaven won’t take you, neither.”

  “Oh, yes, kick a man when he is down.” Jack placed his knuckles against his forehead and leaned back against the tree, a theatrical picture of woe. “I must now wander the earth with a lantern until Heaven
or Hell will have me. But how can I be Jack O’Lantern without a lantern?”

  “You be lucky Old Scratch give you that hell-coal to light your way instead of lighting your bum with it.”

  With his foot, Jack nudged the hollowed-out turnip that contained his hell-coal. A piece flaked off the face he had carved in its side. “Last year’s lantern is worn out. I need a new one. But all the turnips this year are shriveled. I need that pumpkin.”

  “Stubble it, Jack. What do we do now?”

  “We shall try again, but we must bide our time.”

  With more care than was necessary, Emily washed the blood off Hank’s breeches and mended the tear. She dawdled over the task, and she knew it. Oh, she couldn’t go back to the room where he stood half-naked. But at the same time, a vision of what he would look like completely naked flashed through her mind, and her cheeks heated. Again.

  When she could delay no longer, she stood up straight and marched down the hall. Her face turned away, she stuck her hand through the doorway and passed him the breeches. His hand grazed hers as he took the garment. She closed her eyes. She would not look.

  But, oh, she imagined. Those legs, strong and muscled, and his backside … She fanned her face with her hand as she fled back to the kitchen. Desperate for any distraction, she grabbed the water bucket by the sink and refilled the teakettle. Water sloshed onto the floor as she poured with shaky hands. Concentrating on the heavy overfilled kettle, she placed it carefully on the hearth and stoked the fire.

  Steam whistled from the spout and she was laying out the tea things when he entered the kitchen.

  He was fully dressed, his movements stiff. The bite must hurt.

  “Please sit and have some tea.” She gestured to a bench with a pillow on it. “I am sorry about Henry. I have no idea what came over him. He has never bitten anyone before. I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

  He perched with one hip on the bench. “I doubt talk will do any good with that beast, but now I know to defend myself when I return tonight.”

  “Please, stay away. Henry will bite you again.”

  He expelled a long, exaggerated breath. “I fear I am condemned never to sit again.” He tilted his head and his eyes crinkled with humor, mock resignation in his gaze. “Because I will return tonight, and every night until we catch your pumpkinnapper.” He exhaled another woebegone sigh.

  Her lips quivered.

  His quivered in response.

  And they both burst out laughing at the same time.

  “Oh, Hank, you could always make me laugh.”

  “Will you let me come back tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “The goose bit you on the arse?” Philip clutched his sides and roared with laughter.

  In his drawing room the next morning, Hank grunted his disgust as he dropped a goose down pillow on the hard settee and lowered himself into its soft center. He winced and perched on his uninjured hip. “I fail to see the humor.”

  “You would.” Philip wiped away tears of mirth. “I, on the other hand, think the situation hilarious. How glad I am I accepted your invitation.” He plopped down next to Hank, jostling the settee and Hank’s hip.

  “Bloody hell, be careful.” Hank shoved Philip and resettled himself on the pillow. Not for the first time, he wished Henry’s feathers filled the pillow—feathers he himself had plucked from the goose’s carcass.

  “Oh, yes, the injured arse.” Philip smirked. “Have you decided on the next move in this little game?”

  “I return tonight.”

  “And face—or should I say—back into that dreaded arse-nipping goose again?”

  “Em said the goose never bit anyone before. Why me?”

  Philip leaned to the side to examine the body part under discussion. “Mayhap the goose finds your arse unattractive.”

  Hank growled.

  “Or perhaps attractive?”

  Hank’s fist shot out. Philip made a neat dodge, and then jumped up and out of reach.

  He threw his head back and laughed again. “Mayhap the goose considers you a rival.”

  “Fustian. A goose cannot be attached to a person.”

  “Oh, yes, animals and their owners can become quite attached. As they say, dog is man’s best friend. For all we know, goose is woman’s best friend.” He shook his head. “But I daresay; you have come down in the world, old chum. Henry Grey, rich, young—” He looked Hank up and down “—well, tolerably so—” He tapped his chin with his finger. “—Good-looking—at least the ladies think so—one of the catches of the ton. Competing with a flea-bitten goose for a lady’s affections.”

  “Cut line. I am merely helping a friend.”

  “Oh, yes, a ‘friend’ you refer to by the delightful diminutive of ‘Em’. In most circles, everyone would expect the calling of the marriage banns. Does the goose know something we do not?”

  Hank growled again.

  Philip pursed his lips into a frown, but his eyes glittered with devilment. “However that may be, have you thought your little escapade through? Sneaking out one night is doable. But if you continue, how will you explain your absence to the servants? You know how they gibble-gabble.”

  “I consider it unlikely the rascals will come in the early evening. So I intend to go very late, in the dark after moonset. Everyone will be asleep.”

  Philip glanced out the window at the bright blue sky. “And if it rains? The entire night will be dark then. What excuse will you use for leaving early?”

  “Then I need your help. We will invent an appointment in town, and you go without me. Did you think I invited you here just to look at your pretty phiz?”

  “And if you are caught?”

  “I won’t be, if you help.”

  “Ah, yes, but the course of true love never runs smooth.” Philip laughed and left the room before Hank could reply.

  True love? Nonsense. He raked a hand through his hair. He shifted yet again on the pillow and winced. Who did he think he was fooling? Philip wasn’t fooled, so why did he think he could fool himself? He wanted to see Emily. That blasted goose could bite every part of his body, and he would let it if he could be with her.

  Emily paced in the kitchen, resisting the urge to twitch the curtains aside and again search for Hank. The moon rode high in the sky, its opalescent light silvering the flat fields surrounding the cottage. Much too early for him to arrive.

  She jumped at the quiet knock on the back door. She peeked out the window, and then hurried to unbolt and swing the door wide. Hank flashed a smile as he slipped into the dim room. To fool the pumpkinnappers into thinking she was asleep, she had doused all the candles, and the only light emanated from the banked fire and Hank’s covered lantern.

  In the corner, Henry, a low rumble in his throat, lifted his head and glowered at Hank.

  Emily directed a stern look at the goose. “Henry, be quiet.” Henry’s head sank, but his beady eyes still glared at Hank. “I decided he should stay here where I can watch him.”

  “I disagree. The thieves expect Henry outside. They will be suspicious if he is gone.” Hank placed his lantern on the table and walked to stand over the goose. Arms crossed over his chest, he scowled at his avian adversary. “You and I must be friends, Henry. After all, we both want to protect Emily.” He lowered his arms and marched back to the door and swept it open. “Out you go.”

  With his eyes slitted, Henry didn’t look as though he wanted Hank’s friendship. Still, he pushed to his orange feet, fluffed his white feathers and with great dignity, if very slowly, stalked outside.

  Hank leaned out the door to call after the goose. “I, and my breeches, thank you.” He shut the door, dusted off his hands and with an unholy grin, turned to Emily. “Good riddan—er—good night to Henry.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep from laughing aloud at Hank’s and Henry’s sparring. “I have been checking on the pumpkins from the parlor window, but nothing so far.”

  “A
fter last night’s attempt, the culprits may not return for a few days. Still, we must keep a lookout. Now, what would I do if I were a pumpkinnapper?” He tapped a finger on his lip. “I would come late, after everyone was abed, and in the full dark after moonset. I also would approach from the woods. So I will watch the back, and you can keep an eye on the front.”

  Leaving his outer garments in the kitchen, he lit a candle from the fire and led the way down the hall into the parlor. Although she doubted he would be so forward as to enter her bedroom, she had closed the door many hours ago. After he had left last night, she had dreamed about him in that room. Long, detailed dreams of a half-naked—no, a fully naked Hank in her bed. And of the things they would do. Her body clenched. Oh, she must forget these distracting thoughts and concentrate on the business at hand.

  Hank set the candle on the fireplace mantle, then slipped the curtains open a crack and peered out to the quiet pumpkin patch. “From here you can see the front and the side, so we have everything covered. But mayhap we can see better from upstairs.”

  The second floor contained two rooms, each running the length of the house. The room above her bed chamber was a storeroom, with windows at the front and back. Hank looked out both windows, but saw only the stubbled fields to the west and the woods behind the cottage. “All quiet,” he said as he returned to where she waited at the doorway.

  She hesitated before she opened the door to the other room. She leaned back against the wooden panel as he entered. This room contained windows on three sides, as well as a neatly made bed, two chairs, and against the wall, a clothes press. On the bedside table were a hand mirror, a hairbrush, and, at the far end, away from the candle’s glow, a rag doll. Would he remember the doll?

  A crease formed between Hank’s eyebrows. “Is this room your mother’s?”

  “No, I sleep here. My mother chose the downstairs room because her knees pain her. I have been sleeping there until she returns.” She had always enjoyed the peace and quiet of her solitary cottage and, with all the windows and doors locked, had never been afraid. But, for some reason, the isolation had tugged at her the evening before the pumpkinnappers’ first attempt and she felt safer downstairs.