My Lord Jack Read online

  Whether sleeping like a bairn or doing something as innocuous as eating soup, Claudia Valemont was a temptress of the first order. Watching her delicately lap broth from her spoon the night before, he’d been hard put to choke down his own supper. Her sensuality was so much a part of her, so innate to her nature. He only hoped she might not realize the incredible effect she had on him, for once she did, she’d have him eating from her hand much as he’d trained his injured hawk, Lady, to do.

  Damn, damn, damn! He slammed the cup down, sending tea sloshing, and pressed hard fingers to his throbbing temples, unhappily aware that other parts of his anatomy had begun to throb as well. Six months was a long time to suffer a cockstand, not to mention a feisty French lassie who couldn’t get herself out of bed in the morning. Needing to vent some of the frustration building inside him, he lifted his head from his hands, fixed his gaze on the curtain and bellowed, “Dinna make me come in there.”

  The creaking floorboards felt like blocks of ice beneath Claudia’s bare feet as she hurried over to the washstand. Jack must have entered earlier and filled the pitcher while she still slept. Not certain how she felt about that, she poured the water—cold, of course—into the chipped crockery basin and used the cake of lavender soap left beside it to lave her face, neck and other vital parts.

  She was just drying off with the scratchy towel when from the opposite end of the room an annoyed male voice bellowed, “Dinna make me come in there.”

  Zut, alors! Damn it! Taking up her comb, she plopped down on the edge of the bed and swiped the ivory teeth through her hair. Merde, shit, but the comb wouldn’t budge. She’d been so exhausted the night before that she’d collapsed onto the bed before braiding her hair. Touching a hand to the back of her head, she confirmed that overnight the thick tresses had woven themselves into a rat’s nest of knots.

  “If ye’re no out here by the count of ten, I’m coming to get ye.” Sounding angry indeed, Jack began counting, “One, two, three…”

  Infernal man. The comb still stuck in her hair, she found her gown and shoved it over her head. “Je viens. I come, I come,” she called out and started back to the bed in search of her shoes and stockings, when something small and furry and sharp of claw scuttled over the tops of her bare feet. “Ahhh!” she screamed and hopped up on the bed just as the flash of white disappeared into a wormhole in the woodwork.

  Paris had been infested with an abundance of mice and rats, too. As a child she’d once seen a mouse dash beneath a housemaid’s skirts and then run up the unfortunate woman’s legs. Ever since, she’d harbored a terrible fear of the creatures.

  Jack poked his head inside to find her standing in the center of the bed, arms wrapped about herself. “Och, but I see ye’ve met Heather.”

  Quaking on her perch, Claudia looked from him to the woodwork from within which she fancied beady black eyes were surveying her in preparation to pounce.

  “Heather?” Perspiration filming her forehead, she asked, “Y-you…keep vermin as…as p-pets?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldna call her a pet, exactly, nor vermin either, but Heather and I, we’ve an understanding, ye ken?” He turned back to the wall and, crouching low, called softly, “Dinna be shy, my beauty, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Holding out a palm, Claudia shrilled, “Non, non, let her stay as she is.” Remembering the black-and-white cat she’d met the night before, she cupped her hands about her mouth and called out, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty…”

  Back to her and kneeling on the floor, Jack chuckled. “Ye’ll no get any help from that quarter. Despite cats and mice being natural enemies, One Eye and Heather rub along tolerable well.” Tone sobering, he added, “Unlike humans, animals hardly ever kill or maim without cause.”

  Wondering at his change of mood, she glanced down at him. “You let it, er, ‘Heather’ roam free?”

  “Aye, most times I do.” Her sinking spirits must have shown on her face, for looking back at her over his shoulder, he conceded, “I’ll no tolerate harm befalling her, but if it’ll set you at ease I’ll put her in her wee cage when ye’re about.”

  She briefly considered suggesting a mousetrap instead, but decided against pressing her luck. “Merci. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned his attention back to the task of retrieving the mouse from its hiding place.

  Under other circumstances, Claudia might have been moved to laughter at the sight of a grown man, and such a large man at that, crooning baby talk to a wild beast.

  But seconds later a tiny pink snout poked its way from the dark depths of the hole, followed by the rest. The mouse—Heather—all but leapt into Jack’s open palm.

  Standing, he stroked the white head with a single blunt finger, then deftly tucked the creature into his coat pocket.

  Turning to Claudia, he stretched out a hand. “You can come down now.”

  Claudia hesitated. “Will it not come out?”

  “Nay, she fancies my pocket. ’Tis like a wee warm nest to her.”

  Hoping Heather hadn’t deposited any droppings in Jack’s hand, Claudia took hold of it. Fingers wrapped about his broad callused palm, she stepped down. As she did, her comb, heretofore forgotten, fell free from the back of her head and clattered to the floor between them.

  Jack stooped to pick it up. Examining it, he said, “That’s a verra pretty comb ye have. Mother-of-pearl, is it?”

  Jerked back to the present, Claudia assumed what she hoped was a nonchalant air and replied, “Oui. Yes. My mistress, she was most generous with her gifts.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Was that skepticism shading his voice or merely paranoia pricking her conscience? In truth, the full set of comb, brush and hand mirror had been a present from Phillippe, a gesture of good faith in those early days when he’d set out to woo her.

  Apparently satisfied with her answer, he lifted a snarled strand from her shoulder. “’Tis a muckle mess but I dinna think we need cut it just yet. After you’ve finished dressing come out by the fire, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Startled by the offer, she could only stare. She’d been Phillippe’s mistress for seven years and not once had he shown any interest in brushing her hair—although he’d pulled it a time or two.

  “Dinna look so scared,” he said, sounding almost angry. “I willna hurt you.”

  Large and rough though his hands were, it had never entered her mind that he would. “I will be out in a moment,” she said, marveling at how handsome he managed to look even when solemn-faced as a cleric. “And thank you,” she added on afterthought, for it occurred to her that he needn’t have offered to help her at all.

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded and turned away to push through the blanketed enclosure. As soon as the flap fell back into place, Claudia grabbed for her stockings and shoes. She put them on quickly, a strange anticipation causing her to hurry.

  She found him in the kitchen standing facing the fire, hands folded behind him, an earthenware pot of something bubbling from a grill set above the glowing embers. In preparation, he’d set her comb on the kitchen table next to his tea mug. Seeing their two personal articles lying side by side struck her as both homey and intimate.

  Feeling awkward suddenly, she cleared her throat.

  He unfurled the fingers of one hand from his opposite wrist and turned about to face her. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing her to a bench.

  Grateful to face away from that unnerving amber gaze, she sat, tucking her legs beneath the table.

  “Your problem, lass,” he told her, taking position behind her, comb in hand, “is that ye want for patience.”

  She was of a mind to tell him that what she wanted for were a full night’s sleep and a decent breakfast, but all such tart retorts fled when she felt his touch at the back of her head. “Bend forward a wee bit. Aye, there’s a good lass.” He lifted a handful of hair from her neck, his roughened knuckles grazing her nape.

  The contact, li
ght as it was, took Claudia unawares. Tingling warmth shuddered down her from nape to tailbone, enervating some very sensitive spots along the path.

  She must have moved, for instantly he stilled his hands. “Dinna be worrit. I’m no nearly as clumsy as I look.”

  Thankful he couldn’t see her face, which suddenly felt to be on fire, she answered, “I am not worried. And I do not think you are clumsy. I am cold, that is all.”

  The last was a lie for chill though the cottage was in the predawn, Claudia suddenly felt very warm indeed. Her flush flesh verily tingled with awareness. Her breasts, indeed the very blood traversing her veins, felt warm and liquid and heavy.

  His hands left her hair to settle the shawl more firmly on her shoulders. “Better?”

  Calluses grazed her skin in the barest of touches but this time Claudia steeled herself not to shudder. “Oui. Yes, merci.”

  Juste ciel! Good heavens, but if a whisper of a touch could bring her to such a state, what havoc might a more lengthy exploration bring? Imagining those big rough hands, hangman’s hands, no less, caressing her breasts, palming her belly and beyond, caused her to forget all about the chill. Certainement she no longer felt sleepy. By the time the fantasy progressed to big blunt fingers parting the folds of her woman’s flesh and slipping inside, the dampness inside her thighs was all too real. An inner pulse jumped and so did she.

  Jack stepped back. “I’m sorry, lass. I dinna like to hurt ye but that was a verra bad tangle.”

  Had he pulled her hair? More than willing to seize upon the excuse, she said, “Continuez, s’il vous plait.”

  He did continue, humming a soft tune beneath his breath as he worked away at her snarled hair with such patience, such gentleness, that he put to shame even Evette’s expert ministrations. Before long, Claudia felt her eyelids growing heavy and her taut shoulders begin to relax. By the time he stepped back and announced, “Done,” she was all but purring.

  Sitting upright, she lifted a hand to the back of her head. Incredibly the long strands felt smooth and, most importantly, all present.

  Stepping away so that she might rise, Jack chuckled. “Aye, ye’re no bald, if that’s what ye’re worrit for.”

  The savory if unfamiliar scent rising from the cook pot reminded her that she was ravenous. Odd how she’d never cared for food until she’d been forced to go without. To lie awake fantasizing about the yeasty perfume of baking bread or the tart crispness of a freshly picked apple was torture pure and simple. In the course of the past few weeks, she’d developed a grudging affinity for those rioting, miserable masses on whose behalf Marie Antoinette was supposed to have declared, “Let them eat cake.” Those same men, women and children, faces sallow from hunger and from hate, who’d stood just outside Claudia’s front gate, shaking their fists and chanting “À la lanterne, à la lanterne!” with such desperate frenzy that even now, a continent away, she trembled to think of it.

  Pushing the memory to the back of her mind, she turned back to Jack and asked, “Do we have time to break our fast before we leave?”

  He nodded. “Aye, we’ve a good hour before we need set out, but first the beasties must be tended.”

  “The beasties?” She cast her gaze about the cottage but sighted only the cat and Elf, heads buried in their respective food bowls.

  He lifted his hand, ran his thumb in circles over his chin, considering. “There’s the horses and Lady, the hawk, and the chickens’ eggs to be gathered and Grizel to be milked. And of course they’re sure to be wanting their breakfast, too.”

  “What of my breakfast?” Her stomach followed the question with an indignant rumble.

  Eyes softening, he admitted, “Ah well, there’s parritch and honey and tea and if Grizel cooperates there’ll be milk as well. It’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

  “When I come back from—” The rest of her question ended on an oath for already Jack had taken hold of her arm and was steering her toward the cottage door.

  “I’d feed the chickens first if I were you,” he advised, releasing her arm to take down her cloak from where it hung by the door. “They’re the worst tempered.” He draped the cloak about her and then reached around her to open the door.

  “B-but Jack, j’ai faim. I am hungr—” Before she could get the rest of the English words out, he laid his big hands about her waist and lifted her over the threshold.

  Setting her down on the step outside, he shot her an infuriating wink. “Dinna fash, I’ll keep your parritch warm.”

  And with that he shoved a basket of meal into her one hand, a lighted lantern into her other, and the door in her face.

  Chapter Seven

  It was dark still but the first pale promise of dawn lightened the sky as a seething Claudia stepped off the stoop and onto the stone path. She followed it around to the back of the cottage, the basket looped over one wrist and the lantern held out to light her way. A small fenced patch of dirt yard backed onto the cottage; a half dozen or so feathered shapes moved about within. Following the squawking noise to the gate, she opened it and stepped inside, hefting the lantern high to navigate her way around several squishy, dark piles.

  Crowned with a red comb and flaunting a spray of feathers, the rooster broke free from the clutch and came forward. Watching him strut up to her with ne’er so much as a backward glance for the hens holding meekly behind, Claudia set down her lantern and dug her hand into the basket. She must be tired, disordered indeed, for somehow the sight of those bandy legs and beady eyes brought to mind Phillippe. To be sure, her former lover had favored that very same garish scarlet for his coats.

  Addressing herself to the cock, she said, “Égoïste. You, monsieur, shall wait until after your wives have eaten.”

  Jésus, but one night under Jack Campbell’s roof and already she was conversing with fowl! Wondering if perhaps she was becoming a madwoman in truth, she filled her fist with grain and then reeled it back, intending to toss the first handful to the hens. Unfortunately, a blast of wind chose that very moment to rip through the yard, sending the seeds flying backward. Eyes watering, Claudia looked down to find herself covered from head to toe in feed—and the focus of seven pairs of beady black eyes.

  Swallowing hard, she took a step back. “Now, now, monsieur, mesdames, there is no need to look at me so.”

  The fowl advanced an equal measure. There was several seconds’ pause as each side took the other’s measure, then the rooster let out a piercing screech and the chickens charged, wings flapping and feathers flying. Claudia dropped the basket, hiked up her skirts and ran, nearly tripping over the lantern in her haste to escape.

  Through the gate and back toward the house she sped, the crystallized cloud of her huffing breath the only thing she could make out clearly in the semidarkness.

  “Ouf!”

  The impact was akin to barreling into a brick wall. It knocked what breath she had left from her lungs and sent her sprawling backward.

  A strong arm whipped out, catching her before she fell. “Wheesht, woman, what am I to do with you?” Jack lifted his lantern so that the light shone full on her face. “It seems I canna leave you on your own for one wee minute.”

  Shuddering at the thought of those unblinking eyes, webbed feet and oh so sharp-looking beaks, she lifted her face from one very firm pectoral muscle and sputtered, “Les poulets…the ch-chickens, they tried to…to kill me.”

  She shot a glance over her shoulder. Fortunately, avarice appeared to be the guiding principle of the animal as well as human kingdom. Pushing and shoving—or engaging in the chicken equivalent thereof—the beasts crowded about the dropped basket, gobbling grain as if it were their last meal. If Claudia might have had her wish, it would have been that coq au vin would crown that night’s supper menu.

  A deep rumble from the vicinity of her protector’s chest caused her to swivel her head about. Damn him to hell, he was laughing at her. Outrage warred with vanity, for she knew she must appear not only ridiculous bu
t also an utter mess.

  Pushing away to drag a hasty hand through her seed-encrusted hair, she huffed, “F-first…you send me out to the mercy of those…those vicious beasts and now, now you mock me.” Beyond angry, she reached out and gave him a goodly shove.

  He didn’t budge other than to swipe at his watery eyes. “You’re right, I shouldna laugh, ’tis only…” Another tremor of a belly laugh choked off the rest of his apology. Recovering, he reached out to pluck something—a feather—from her hair. “Ah well,” he said, twirling it about, “I expect it’s safe to say ye’ve no seen a great deal of life outside of cities.”

  Still smarting from being the object of his mirth and not wanting to appear a complete idiot, she blurted out, “That is not true. In the summers we would leave Paris for the Valley of the Loire.” Judging she’d said enough, perhaps too much, she ended there.

  “The Loire Valley, you say.” Hefting a russet brow, he regarded her with steely eyes. “Isna that the river country where you French have all those grand big houses?”

  “Well, er, yes,” she answered, wondering just what she’d gotten herself into now.

  “That must mean ’twas a noble household you served in?”

  Seizing on what she hoped would sound like a plausible reply, she cleared her throat of seed dust and answered, “Ah oui, but the house of my mistress belonged to…to her family.” Not a total lie, for Phillippe’s father, le comte, had continued to enjoy robust health, much to his heir’s chagrin. “And it was petit. Small. A cottage really.” Only partly a lie, for the du Marmac summer residence had been of modest dimensions—for a château.

  “Hmph,” was all he said, then bent to retrieve the empty wooden pail he’d dropped in order to catch her. “Then ye’ll ken how to milk a cow, aye?”