Devon gave him a warning look. "Blake, I swear, if you tell me you're starting to believe in this ridiculous curse, I will respectfully suggest that you go stick your finger in a dyke."
"Point taken," his brother replied. "Horses will do."
Darkness had already descended upon the estate when Devon and Blake returned from the fields. They were both soaked through to the bone, their feet numb from the chill, their hands shaking with fatigue, blistered after working with the tenant farmers to dig extra drainage ditches where they were needed.
The butler met them at the door and took their wet coats and hats, then they each ordered hot baths and brandy in their rooms. They took a glass together in the study while they waited for the baths to be drawn, then scaled the steps wearily and headed toward their private lodgings, each of them intent upon collapsing with all due haste as soon as they cleaned the grime from their skin.
Devon said goodnight to his brother and started down the long corridor. A wall sconce flickered wildly as he passed by, then blew out.
He stopped in his tracks, then started again. Reaching the next sconce, he kept his gaze fixed upon it. Thankfully it remained lit, illuminating one of the many palace portraits of his ancestor, the first Duke of Pembroke.
Devon stopped in the corridor and looked up at it. It was disturbingly lifelike, as were all the paintings of that man. No wonder their father was obsessed with them and talked to them in the night.
At last Devon reached his door and turned the knob to discover a fire roaring in the grate and a tub full of hot water waiting for him. He closed and locked the door, then stripped off his wet clothing and stepped into the steaming bath. When his hands touched the water, however, his blisters burned like hot pokers, so he rested his arms along the brass rim of the tub, palms up.
His entire body was aching, his mind in a fog of exhaustion. The fields had indeed been flooded, and if his father had seen them for himself, he would have collapsed in a hysterical fit. Something had to be done, but for the life of him, he didn't know what.
Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn't a moment before he felt that pleasant feeling of floating as sleep approached, but a dripping sound pulled him from that place and compelled him to open his eyes.
"I must be dreaming," he said, recognizing his wife sitting beside him, leaning over the tub, dipping a cloth into the water and squeezing it out over his knees. "Because I see an angel."
Indeed, an angel she was, dressed in her flowing white nightgown, her red hair spilling in graceful waves down her back.
Over the past week, they had made love every night, reading from Lydie's diary when it suited them, but more often than not, leaving it in a drawer and exploring their own particular tastes and desires with enthusiasm and curiosity. Their lusty appetites were always in harmony, and the sex was, without question, superb.
Rebecca was adventurous in every sense of the word, and he was thankful for that. It gave their relationship a clear dynamic, for they were both open about what they wanted in bed and had no reservations when it came to the use of titillating words and lusty language. They were each determined to satisfy and be satisfied, and it was the one thing they had in common-the daily anticipation of sex, and the question of when and where they would have it next.
Devon knew their lovemaking was distracting them both from the secrets they had kept from each other before their marriage, as well as his unwillingness to surrender to the kind of love she wanted him to feel.
Every night she said the words to him-I love you-and every night, he answered with a kiss. He simply could not return the sentiment. He was not capable of letting his emotions go free in that way, nor could he lie to her and say it just to please her.
All of it was acceptable to him. He was quite happy to continue on in that way, enjoying sex but never speaking of more intimate matters of the heart. He suspected, however, it would just be a matter of time before Rebecca would want something more.
"How did you get in here?" he asked, determined to enjoy things the way they were, for as long as he could.
"You're not the only one who knows about the secret passages in this house," she said. "Charlotte has been taking me around."
He glanced at the tall wardrobe by the bed with its double doors ajar. "Alas, my secret is no longer a secret. Where else did she take you? Have you seen the mice in the old south passage yet?"
"The abbey underground? No, she refused to take me there. She said it gave her nightmares as a child, because she thought it was haunted by the monks."
He puckered his lips. "I think the nightmares came from her unscrupulous brothers, who told her terrible ghost stories about those monks." His brow furrowed as he recalled certain, specific details from his boyhood. "Maybe there was a spider or two involved," he added.
She shook her head with disapproval, then changed the subject. "I heard you worked very hard today."
"Yes, and I will work my fingers to the bone again tomorrow, and the day after that if this weather continues."
"Not all landlords would do what you did," she said, sounding wistful and pensive. "You picked up a shovel and worked side by side with your tenants. I am sure you won much respect and loyalty today."
He slid down and dunked his head, remained under water for a moment, then surfaced and wiped the back of a hand over his face.
She noticed the blisters and calluses. "Oh, Devon." She took hold of his hand and kissed it.
"I'll survive," he said. "I am not so sure about the fields though."
"The rain will stop," she assured him. "It's just a bad spring, that's all. Summer will soon be here, and we will all be roasting in the sunshine, praying for a cloudy day."
He tipped his head back upon the smooth rim of the tub. "I hope you're right. For my father's sake."
"Of course I am."
She reached for the soap and lathered it between her palms, then stood up, moved behind him, and began to wash his hair. He closed his eyes and relaxed while she massaged his scalp and stroked his temples firmly with her thumbs. He reveled in the sound of swabbing lather, enjoyed the sensation of his genitals swelling pleasurably beneath the water.
"You are a goddess," he said.
"No, I am your wife. Now rinse." She kissed his forehead, then moved around the tub and picked up the cloth again.
He slid down and dunked his head, came back up and wiped his eyes, then lay back while she rubbed the lathered cloth over his neck and chest and shoulders, then down to his navel and lower still.
She had only to look into his eyes to recognize the need coursing through his body and the errant thoughts on his brain.
"Would you like me to get in there with you?" she asked. "Or would you prefer to come out here with me?"
"I think I would like you to hand me a towel."
Smiling, she reached for it and held it out. He rose from the hot tub, water sluicing down his naked body and dripping noisily into the tub, his skin glistening in the firelight.
"I should apologize in advance," he said. "After the day I've had, I doubt I'll have my usual stamina."
"I'll have enough for both of us."
She held the towel up while he stepped out, but he did not make use of it. He took it from her and dropped it carelessly onto the mat, dripping water and leaving shiny footprints behind him as he followed her, naked, to the bed.
"You're going to get me wet, aren't you?" she asked, backing up toward it.
"Undoubtedly, so you better take that off." He pointed at her dressing gown.
With a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, she pulled it off over her head and stood before him, also naked.
He stopped where he was, letting his eyes feast upon the graceful swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips and the enticing triangle of curls between her thighs.