She waited for him for some ten minutes, then turned to see if he were coming around the curve. There was no sign of him.
She fidgeted a moment longer, then wheeled Opal around and urged her back down the road. She felt a spurt of alarm. Could he have been hurt?
She saw Ryder. He wasn't at all hurt. There was a woman on a bay mare pulled to a halt next to him. They were in the middle of the road and they looked to be in intimate conversation. She saw the woman stretch out her hand and lightly touch Ryder's sleeve. She saw Ryder smile, even from here, she saw his white teeth in that utterly devastating smile of his. He then leaned closer to the woman.
Something in her moved and twisted. Something in her rebelled and boiled. Her jaw clenched. Her gloved hands fisted on Opal's reins.
Without thought, she jabbed her boots into Opal's fat sides and sent her straight toward her husband and the hussy who looked ready to leap onto his horse's back and onto his lap.
Ryder looked up and saw Sophie galloping ventre a terre straight at him. The look on her face was grim and pale. Jesus, she looked fit to kill. He grinned like a fool. He'd at first been uneasy when Sara had flagged him down. Now, seeing his wife ride toward him angry as a wasp, he was glad Sara had come. Anger bespoke feelings other than indifference.
Sara was speaking to him. She hadn't yet seen the madwoman bearing down on them. She was asking in that soft, gentle way of hers if he wouldn't like to kiss her. She leaned toward him and he felt her sweet mouth on his cheek, her gloved hand on his chin, trying to turn him toward her. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop, then shut it again. No, let Sophie see another lady kissing him. Her mouth was smooth and fresh but he felt nothing but anticipation to see what Sophie would do. His wife was on them then, and he had to jerk his stallion back so she wouldn't slam into them. As for Sara, she looked at the woman and actually paled.
"Just who the devil are you?"
It was Sophie's voice and Ryder hadn't heard that tone for more than two months. It was cold and angry and arrogant and he loved it. There was fire in her eyes.
"Damn you, keep away from my husband!"
"Your what?" Poor Sara was trying to make her mare back up but the beast was eyeing Opal with fascination and refused to move.
"You heard me! What are you saying to him? Why did you touch him? How dare you kiss him! Keep your blasted fingers and hands to yourself—and your miserable hussy mouth!"
Sara blinked. She turned from the woman to Ryder, who was lazily sitting his stallion, his eyes on the woman's face. He was smiling. His eyes were gleaming. He looked arrogant, naturally, Ryder was the most arrogant beast she'd ever known, but there was no cynical glimmer in his blue eyes, no, just pleasure and she didn't understand it. Goodness, if his eyes had been dark, they would have looked wicked. "She is your wife, Ryder?"
He turned to Sara then and nodded. "I was about to tell you but she rode down on us like one of the damned Greek Furies. Sophie, draw in your claws. This is Sara Clockwell and she is a friend of mine Sara, my wife, Sophie."
It was at that instant that Sophie realized what she'd done. She'd acted like a shrew, a jealous, possessive termagant. She'd yelled and cursed and insulted this woman. And Ryder loved it. He looked very smug and satisfied and she'd just given him more fodder than a five-acre wheatfield needed. She felt humiliated; she felt exposed and very uncertain of herself and what she was and why she'd behaved as she had.
She nodded to the woman, silent as the grave now, a very lovely young woman with large breasts and an uncertain smile on a wide mouth. She said to her husband, her voice stiff as a fence post, "I am sorry to disturb your conversation with your friend. Since you haven't seen each other for quite a few months, I will leave you alone to renew yourselves." She wheeled Opal around and rode away fast as the wind.
Ryder merely smiled after her, the wickedness alive and thriving in his eyes. Douglas had been right about Sophie surprising him. It was beyond wonderful. Sweet heavens, he felt a surge of hope.
"Your wife, Ryder?"
He didn't hear hurt in her voice, just utter disbelief. He turned to look at Sara's bewildered face. "Yes, she is. I met her on Jamaica and wed her there. We have been separated until just yesterday. She's a hellion, isn't she? She speaks her mind openly. Forgive her but she is possessive of me. I like that, you know." He rubbed his hands together in pleasure.
"You . . . you like that?" Sara managed, still trying to grasp this beyond-odd situation. 'You have never wanted a woman to be possessive. Why, Beatrice told me that—" Her voice broke off and she blushed.
Ryder's left eyebrow shot up. "You and Bea? Come, tell me the truth, Sara."
"Bea told me that you hated any sort of clinging or orders or demands from a woman. She said you hated for a woman to be serious, to bedevil you, to . . . well, she did also say that you were honorable and a woman could trust you. She said you were lighthearted and fun, that you only enjoyed women in your bed. She said you were always generous with pleasure and I told her I knew that for a fact."
Ryder was silent for a long moment. So his mistresses discussed him, did they? It made him feel rather strange. Of course men discussed their mistresses, but that was the way of things. But women discussing him? He said finally, his voice very quiet, "Bea was wrong. Sophie is strong-willed and I fancy my days of freedom with other ladies are well over."
"You don't mind, truly?"
He grinned at her.
"But I wanted to see you, to tell you that—"
"That what, Sara?"
She said on a rush, "That I am going to marry David Dabbs. He's a farmer near Swinley."
"Congratulations. Then, I take it, you have no more use for me?"
She shook her head uncertainly, and decided it was her best course to essay a laugh. Sara had never been able to laugh when she was supposed to. But it hadn't seemed to bother Ryder. He'd always adored her breasts and her ears, he'd tell her in the next breath, even as he pumped into her, soft little ears that tasted like plums and peaches. She hadn't understood him, but she'd had more pleasure with him than she expected to share with the dour David. But a husband was a husband, and they lasted until they died, they had no choice in the matter, and now even Ryder was one. It was amaz-ing; it was unbelievable, but he looked quite pleased about it. And this wife of his was possessive.
Only now he was frowning.
"You must go after her, Ryder. She is angry that she saw us together. She is angry that I was kissing you and that you were, well—there it is."
Ryder turned to grin at her. She sounded pleased that his wife was jealous of her. He enjoyed her show of vanity. Perhaps one day, Sophie would be just a bit transparent so that he wouldn't have to flay his mind to constantly outguess her. He leaned over and kissed Sara's cheek. "I wish you luck with your David, Sara. Good-bye."
Ryder didn't ride after his wife. He turned Genesis back toward Northcliffe. A wife should have to stew in her jealous juices once in a while. He certainly had no intention of apologizing to her for Sara or any of the others. Ah, what was she doing now?
He was whistling as he dug his heels into his stallion's sides.
CHAPTER
16
SOPHIE RETURNED TO the hall an hour later. She felt like a fool. She wanted to kick herself. She didn't, quite simply, understand why she'd done it. She left Opal with a huge bucket of oats in the stable, spoke with the head stable lad, McCallum, a man who was crusty and likable and looked at her just like he would a horse, then walked toward the mansion. She stopped suddenly, disbelieving, shading her eyes from the bright sun. No, it couldn't be true. Not again. There, standing on the deep-set front steps, was a young woman, a very pretty young woman with very black hair. Ryder was standing on the step above her. She was leaning into him and her hand was on his right arm. He was speaking quietly to her and she was nodding. Sophie's stomach churned and her jaw locked for the second time that afternoon. All rational thought fled her brain.
She shrieked,
waving her fist at her husband, "You damnable rotter!" She picked up her skirts and ran toward them, unable to stop either her feet or the words that flew out of her mouth. "How dare you! Get away from my husband. If you try to kiss him, I'll break your arm!"
Tess Stockley froze. Then, because she wasn't stupid, she took a quick step back. "My God, who is she, Ryder? She looks like a madwoman. I don't understand ... is she another one of your women? This is very strange, Ryder. Why is she so angry? Surely she knows she's just one of your women."
Ryder didn't reply. He was watching Sophie dash toward them, her hands holding up her skirts so that she could run without fear of tripping. He was enjoying the view of her ankles and the look of utter outrage on her face. Her hair was coming loose from its thick bun and thick tendrils were straggling down about her face. Her charming borrowed riding hat fell to the dirt.
A madwoman indeed—his madwoman. What marvelous timing. His Sherbrooke luck had returned. He crossed his arms over his chest, his heart speeding up in anticipation. Normally his women didn't come to Northcliffe Hall, but Tess had worried because he'd been so long in coming home. Bea had told her to stop her fretting because Ryder was like a cat, he always landed on his feet. But she'd come anyway, and she'd been near to tears when she'd seen him safe, and she was so happy to see him . . . then this strange girl was screaming at them.
Ryder's jaws ached from smiling so widely. He yelled out, "Hello, Sophie. Did you stable Opal? Did you feed her? You wish to say something to Tess? She's a friend of mine, you know. Do come and meet her. We were just talking of Jamaica and sea travel and—"
"You miserable bounder! Another one? How many women do you have? Are they all young and beautiful? By all that's sinful, you should be hung and shot and disemboweled! Why, I should—" Her voice swallowed itself. She paled. She shook her head and the bun fell to thick strands of hair, tangling down her back. "Oh no," she said, unable to believe herself. "I didn't just say that, did I?" She picked up her skirts again and ran away from the mansion toward the Greek statue-infested gardens. She just might enjoy those nude statues, Ryder thought, staring after her. Had she already seen them? He must remember to ask her. He thought of making love to her beneath a woefully bad marble rendition of Zeus seducing some swan or other.
He turned back to Tess, who was gazing with incredulous astonishment upon the fleeing Sophie. He said, smiling like a besotted fool, "She's my wife. Her name is Sophie Sherbrooke, and she's very possessive of me. You must keep your distance from her."
"Your what?"
Ryder knew a moment of irritation. Was his marrying such a bloody shock? Such a cause for disbelief?
"My wife, dammit. Now, Tess, since I am a married man, I must tell you that I cannot see you again. However ..." He paused then smiled. "We have had much enjoyment together, you and I. But now it must stop. Do you think perhaps you would like to wed in the near future?"
She stared at him as if he had two heads. "But you love women, Bea says you need a variety, and—"
"What is Bea, your mother superior? Does she invite all of you over for tea parties to pour advice down your gullets? No, don't answer that. Sophie is my wife. Now, my dear, if you should perhaps like to consider getting yourself leg-shackled soon, why then, let me tell you about this very nice man in Southampton. He is the first mate on a barkentine, a solid man, quite admirable, really. Quite a manly man I should say, arms thick as an oak trunk."
Tess looked at him for a very long time. She said finally, "A girl should marry, I suppose. Sara says that husbands can belch and snore, but they'll stay because they have to. What is his name?"
Ryder told her. She was interested.
He felt very good as he walked into the huge entrance hall. He would have given a great deal of guineas to have been present at one of his mistresses' tea parties.
It was nearly midnight. Ryder rubbed the grit in his eyes with the heel of his hand and reviewed yet again the list he'd compiled during the voyage home. He was pleased. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment.
He pictured Sophie in their bed, probably still awake, probably afraid that he'd come to her and force her again and she'd be more vulnerable if she were asleep. But he hadn't gone to her and he wouldn't for a while yet. He'd keep her guessing. He had her there for he was as unpredictable as she was, his dear heart, and he knew it drove her quite mad. He'd said not a word about her behavior earlier in the afternoon. Not a single word. If there had been a knowing gleam in his eyes whenever he looked at her, well, that couldn't be helped. He'd been exquisitely polite. She'd gotten herself all puffed up, he recognized the signs, and for once she was completely transparent to him, and he'd simply sidestepped her with the ease of long and successful practice. He was well versed in the ways of women. And even Sophie, hide it as best she could, was still a woman. The presence of his talkative family was an unquestioned aid. He'd sent her to bed with a nod and a pat on the cheek. She'd looked three parts furious with him and another three parts bewildered. It was promising.
He shook himself and penned down another name on the foolscap. Joseph Beefly. Miserable last name, but the man was nice and steady, and a girl could do much worse for a husband. He did have a bit of a paunch, but on the other hand he didn't drink too much and he didn't abuse women. His breath wasn't offensive and he bathed often enough. He rather thought that Emily would do well with Joseph. As Sara had said, Tess her echo, a husband, after all, was a husband, and had to, perforce, stay put. Ryder paused for a moment to stare pensively into the wispy flame cast out by the single candle at his left elbow.
The list he'd compiled was impressive and he'd managed to add a couple more names. Alongside each woman's name he listed at least four men's names. It was a good thing he'd lived here all his life. He knew nearly everyone within a fifty-mile radius. So many men, thank the good Lord. Choice was important. The good Lord knew, too, that not all the women would want husbands. But he wanted to be certain each of them was well taken care of. He would naturally provide them all with dowries if they wished to wed. Those who didn't—well, they would get dowries too. He wondered if he should also compile a list of possible protectors to be found in London. No, it was too crass, far too crude for a polished sort like him.
He thought of his children then and smiled. They were a constant in his life and would always remain so. He didn't doubt for a moment that there would be more. Lord, he missed them. He anticipated the following day with pleasure.
Finally, having tired of his list and of making Sophie writhe in uncertainty, he rose and stretched. He blew out the candle. He knew every inch of Northcliffe and had no need to light his way.
Sophie wasn't asleep. She was sitting up in bed, staring toward the far corner of the bedchamber. Ryder quickly lit a candle and quietly approached the bed. At first she didn't pay him any heed. Then she turned and he saw that her face was pale, her eyes dilated, and she blinked into the candlelight.
He frowned down at her. "What's the matter? Did you have a nightmare?"
She shook her head. He stared a moment at all that tousled thick hair that fell onto her face and over her shoulders. She ran her tongue over her lips. Her hands fisted at the covers at her waist. "I think I just met your Virgin Bride."
"Excuse me?"
"The Virgin Bride—the Sherbrooke ghost. I guess Sinjun was right, she wanted to welcome me to your blasted family. Maybe."
"Bosh. You had a strange dream, nothing more."
Sophie just shook her head. She'd been afraid at first, very afraid, but then the young woman, a ghost presumably, had merely looked at her, and she would have sworn that she spoke, but she knew she hadn't because she'd been looking at her face and her lips hadn't moved. But she knew she heard her soft voice clearly saying softly, but with absolute conviction, "Don't worry. Even when they come it will be all right."
"Who?" Sophie had said aloud. "Please, what do you mean?" The young woman had shimmered in the dim light that hadn't
really been there, just shimmered and retreated, quickly, yet there hadn't been any real movement, nothing jerky, just the quiet grace of the still air. She'd seen her clearly yet the bedchamber was dark, too dark to make out the details she knew she'd seen. Then she was simply gone, her hand stretched out toward Sophie, just as Ryder had come into the room.
"Sophie, there's no such thing as the damned Virgin Bride. It's a simple legend. Sinjun is a fanciful girl—it wouldn't surprise me if she occasionally plays the blighted young lady just to tease us. No, you dreamed her up."
"No I didn't. She spoke to me, Ryder, only she didn't, not really, but I heard her, and the words were very clear."
He was caught, he couldn't deny it. He set the candle on the tabletop beside the bed and sat down beside her, not touching her. "What were the words she didn't really say?"
"She said that I wasn't to worry, that even when they come it will be all right."
He frowned at that. Such a message was unexpected. He'd rather thought the words would hark to some sort of secret treasure or some such. Perhaps that Sophie would bear twins and they would grow up to wed English royalty.
"What the hell does that mean? Who are 'they,' for God's sake?"
"I asked her but she just disappeared. Then you came in. I think you chased her away."
"Nonsense."
Sophie turned to him, frowning, then realized that she was in her nightgown and he was sitting next to her, fully dressed, thank God, but still. He was here, sitting on the bed, and he was her husband. She forgot the ghost and the message. She forgot her lamentable behavior of the afternoon. She even forgot, for the moment, those two very lovely young women. She very slowly began to move away from him until she was on the edge of the other side of the bed.