Joy to the Earl Page 2

  “Lady Nelson!” yelled Phillip Vale as he and Donald brought the cart to a sliding halt on the snow-dusted roadside. “What can we do?”

  “Two men are d-dead,” she replied, “but I think a third is still alive. We must move quickly—he’s injured and in the water.”

  “I have some rope,” said Phillip. “Can you loop it under his arms? Then we can try dragging him out.”

  Nodding, Rosalind tugged at the piece of door. Fortunately it moved easily, not yet frozen or embedded in the mud. But it revealed the man was huge, broad-shouldered, and very, very tall. “He’s large. I’ll need some help pushing him up.”

  There was a small splash, and Claire waded toward her. “I’ll help you push, Rosalind. Phillip and Sir Donald can pull. My word, he is a big lad, isn’t he?”

  “Sir,” Rosalind said loudly, touching his face. “Can you hear me?”

  The man’s eyelids fluttered again, but didn’t open fully. Yet deep grooves appeared on his forehead and around his mouth as he grimaced. She could only imagine how the cold and pain must feel as it burst through the numbing shock of the accident.

  “Help me,” he gritted out. “Please, ma’am.”

  Rosalind’s eyes widened at the broad Yorkshire accent. He was far from home. “You just hold tight, lovely,” she soothed, wry tenderness enveloping her for a man who remained well-mannered in an extreme situation. “We’ll have you out of here in a moment. Can you wriggle your arms and legs? Good, good. Now I’m just going to tie this rope under your arms so we can lift you out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Carefully, she eased him forward, thankful for her own five-foot-ten inch statuesque figure as she propped his head on her shoulder and looped the thick rope around his massive chest. All while fighting the urge to stop and hold him as his skin turned pale blue and white, and his body shook with violent shivers. “Not long now, lovely. Here we go. One, two, three…heave!”

  It took four attempts to get the man out of the ditch due to his size, plus the extra weight of his sodden clothing, the thick mud, and the falling snow, but eventually they got him up onto the roadside and into the waiting cart. May chafed his hands, Claire draped a horse blanket over his legs, and Rosalind cradled his head in her lap as Phillip and Donald drove the cart at the briskest pace possible back to the manor.

  Servants charged out the double doors at their yells, and soon the man lay in front of a roaring fire in the bedchamber adjacent to Rosalind’s own, while Donald, Phillip, and several footmen returned to the roadside, unwilling to leave the other two bodies in the ditch. Claire hastened to her own chamber to change her wet clothing, leaving Rosalind and May alone with the stranger.

  “Poor dear,” said May anxiously, as she stoked the fire. “He is frozen solid. Although desperately lucky to escape with no broken limbs.”

  “I can’t get him warm enough. He’s turning bluer,” said Rosalind, panic making her hands clumsy as she tried to tuck a heavy quilt around the man.

  “No good. Won’t help if he is still wearing wet clothing. Cut it off him. I’d do it myself, but Donald will be back soon and expecting me to tend him.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Rosalind leapt up and snatched her husband’s ceremonial dagger from above the fireplace. Slowly, tentatively, she cut the man’s jacket and shirt away, revealing a heavily muscled chest and arms. Then she tackled his ruined boots and trousers, her eyes widening as the fabric tore to reveal strong thighs and a cock that, even flaccid, was long and very thick. “Do you think I should get some trousers…?”

  “Better alive and unclothed than a modest corpse,” said May archly. “Perhaps you should warm him yourself; your cheeks are flushed enough.”

  “Of course! Body heat.”

  “Just as well you’re so tall, you’ll be able to cover most of him. The rest of us would be like frogs on a log…I must go see to your uncle. We’ll talk later.”

  Rosalind bit her lip, unable to stop staring at the perfection of the naked man’s body. Giving herself a sharp mental slap, she quickly wrenched off her own damp, mud-splattered clothing, cutting away her stays and the laces to her boots before cuddling into his side, clad only in a thin, thigh-length chemise. As she wrapped her arms around him, his skin was so cold it made her hiss in discomfort, but she gritted her teeth and held on.

  Oh, but he was wonderfully large, making her feel positively petite. Her head rested on his shoulder, her nipples rasped against his chest, and that cock promised hours of ecstasy. He’d be a demanding lover, expert and sure as he took her on her back, from behind…made her ride him…

  Rosalind sighed. Clearly it was far too long since she’d bedded a man, to be having such depraved thoughts about someone who had just been in an accident. Who was injured, for heaven’s sake. Helping this handsome stranger recover must be her only priority. Not imagining him taking her hard and deep until she cried out with the kind of bliss usually only her fingers provided.

  On that sobering thought, she closed her eyes and succumbed to exhaustion.

  The world was askew in every way.

  He was on the floor, lying on some sort of rug, definitely not in a bed. One side of his head felt like it had been stomped on by a mad bull. He couldn’t move. Christ. His arm—something was wrong with his arm. And the temperature was far too hot to be England, surely.

  Opening his eyes, Jack glanced around, his confusion only increasing at the sight of a roaring fire and an elegant and very expensively furnished bedchamber. This sure as hell wasn’t Northridge, so where on earth was he? And what time was it? No light shone through the window on the other side of the room, but in winter it grew dark in the afternoon.

  “Mmmm.”

  He froze at a soft moan, right next to his left ear. Slowly turning his head, he found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She slept, so he didn’t know what color her eyes were. But her face was oval-shaped, and she had sweeping eyelashes as dark as her jet-black curls, a pert little nose sprinkled with freckles, rosy cheeks, and the kind of soft, plump lips that made his cock twitch.

  Then he glanced down, and the world spun.

  Holy hell.

  He was naked. And apart from a short, very thin chemise, so was she.

  Swallowing hard, his gaze travelled the length of the woman, unable to stop, for her body was as stunning as her face. Tall, certainly. Creamy skin. Ample breasts with large rosy nipples visible through the fine lawn, narrow waist, flaring hips…and a thatch of black hair between her legs, not quite covering the pink folds of her cunt.

  Surely he hadn’t been lucky enough to lose his virginity to this beauty?

  Jack blinked, trying desperately to recall the momentous event, even the lady’s name. All he got was a viciously pounding headache, right behind his eyes.

  Which somehow triggered an erection.

  Gritting his teeth, he stared at the fire, counted backwards from twenty, even recited a few macabre lines from Macbeth, to try to and distract himself. When that didn’t work, he tried inching away from the woman so his rapidly engorging cock didn’t touch her.

  She moaned again and cuddled closer to him, one hand resting on his chest, her breasts pressing against his side and one leg sliding over his so her crisp nether hair brushed his thigh.

  “Hell,” he breathed, almost panting now as his cock stretched toward his abdomen. A drop of pearly moisture appeared on the tip, the earthy scent combining with a citrusy fragrance coming from the woman’s hair and skin, and he groaned, the urge to handle himself and relieve the painful ache overwhelming.

  “Oh! You’re awake. Thank heavens!”

  Startled, Jack turned his head toward the woman, his cock surging further at her husky, seductive voice. Naturally, she was even more beautiful awake, her eyes a perfect matched pair of emeralds.

  “Er, yes, ma’am,” he croaked, snatching a corner of quilt so it covered his groin, thankful beyond measure the fabric was thick and heavy. “I, ah…”

  “Gracious, you are probably wondering where you are and who I am. Well, this is Nelson Manor in Rutland, and I’m Lady Nelson. Call me Rosalind, though—formality seems rather wrong after all this,” she finished with a musical laugh.

  “You’re married?”

  “Not anymore. I’m a widow.”

  Unaccountably, his tension eased, although his cock remained hard as stone. “My name is Reynolds. Jack Reynolds. I’m from North Yorkshire, as you can probably tell from my accent. This is going to sound like the oddest question in the world, but how did I get here?”

  Rosalind frowned. “What do you last remember?”

  Something about the question made him shiver, but his mind remained jumbled and foggy. “Building things in a shed. Lots of tools. I’m a carpenter and woodworker.”

  “Nothing about the accident?”

  Black spots danced in his vision. “Accident?” he repeated hoarsely.

  She took his hand. “You were in a carriage accident. The wheels skidded on a patch of ice and tipped into the ditch outside the manor entrance. I’m so very sorry, but the driver, and the other man…your employer, perhaps…they passed away.”

  Jack shuddered. “I can’t…I can’t remember. Hell.”

  “It’s all right,” she said quickly, squeezing his hand again and stroking his arm. “I’m sure everything will come back in the morning; you did get a nasty bump to the head. But you were soaked to the skin and turning the color of blueberries, so I had to cut your clothing off and get you warm.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “I had help. My uncle and aunt, Sir Donald and May, Lady Kilburne. And Mr. Phillip and Mrs. Claire Vale. It’s after eleven in the evening, so you can meet them tomorrow. I know they’ll be so glad to see you awake
and speaking. But what about you? Is there someone I can write to in the morning?”

  Sadness gripped him. “No. My mother passed just over a year ago. I don’t have a father, or brothers and sisters.”

  Rosalind nodded, her smile sympathetic. “Perhaps a wife? Fiancée?”

  “No, I’m not married. And I don’t have a fiancée…” he finished uncertainly, as something tugged at the edge of his mind. London? But why the hell would he go there? He didn’t know anyone in the capital, let alone a lady.

  “Don’t tax yourself anymore. You need rest. I’ll warm some water and clean that goose egg on your head. You’ve got some bruising on your shoulder too.”

  In minutes she had a porcelain bowl of water, a soft linen cloth, a small basket of distilled herbs, and a shawl to wrap around her own shoulders. Settling next to him again, Rosalind hummed to herself as she leaned back and forth between his temple and the basket, dabbing and dipping and pressing, her unfettered breasts bobbing with each movement.

  Jack turned away and stared at the fire, concentrating on keeping his breathing even and not moaning at the goodness of her touch. He could do this. It was just his head and shoulder. Yet he couldn’t stop a hiss of pleasure when the edge of the cloth scraped his nipple.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. A bit clumsy, was I? Well then. Let’s look at that leg of yours.”

  “No!” he choked out, gripping the only thing between himself and embarrassment. If she uncovered him… “It’s fine, honestly.”

  “It’s not fine,” she said sternly, reaching for the quilt. “Your leg was trapped under a piece of door…oh my.”

  He turned his head back, but her gaze was firmly fixed on his groin. A thick silence ensued, as his cock grew impossibly bigger and harder under her pink-cheeked yet avid stare. But he couldn’t move, not when Rosalind’s nipples visibly hardened under her chemise and she licked her lips. How could this kind, caring, and stunningly lovely woman be aroused by someone like him? Even the thought of kissing her, touching her, having her lush body underneath him…Christ. It would be paradise.

  “You don’t have to tend me. I know what I am. Just give me the cloth,” he said between frantic gulps of air.

  “And if I want to tend you very much?” Rosalind whispered, caressing his thigh.

  His hips lifted involuntarily, nudging her hand higher, and when she brushed his cock, he groaned and murmured please. Gently yet firmly, Rosalind encircled his massive erection with her fingers and caressed the damp head with her thumb.

  He came.

  Horrified at his lack of control, Jack could only gasp and buck in mindless pleasure as his cock erupted, sending several long spurts of seed onto his abdomen and Rosalind’s hand.

  “Sorry,” he gritted out, pure humiliation setting his face afire. The only opportunity he would ever have to be with a woman like her: in the aftermath of a situation where she pitied him enough to touch him, where the firelight disguised his eyes and misshapen hip, and he’d made an utter mess of it. Literally. In less than a minute.

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, her kind smile only making it worse.

  Swiftly, he grabbed a thin blanket from a pile on the floor, and wrapped it around himself. “I hate to inconvenience you, Lady Nelson, but if you could please direct me to a guest chamber or belowstairs—hell, the stables would do—and I’ll be on my way to the nearest town as soon as I can.”

  “Jack. Mr. Reynolds. It’s all right, really it is. And this is a guest chamber.”

  “Ah. Well, thank you. I really am quite tired,” he lied, praying she would leave so he could stand up without revealing his uneven gait, and the leg that occasionally just collapsed beneath him. The last thing tonight needed was another dose of utter humiliation.

  Rosalind bit her lip. “Very well. If you’re sure…”

  He nodded. The sooner it was morning, the sooner he could be gone from this place and back to being alone, the better.

  Chapter 2

  “So, my dear, tell us about our newest friend.”

  Rosalind glanced around the dining table. It was Uncle Donald who finally asked the question during their usual hearty country breakfast, but Aunt May and Claire had both given up the pretense they were buttering toasted bread or sipping tea, and were watching her like hawks, equally curious. Phillip, meanwhile, was constructing a wall of fried potato on his plate.

  “His name is Mr. Jack Reynolds. He is a carpenter from North Yorkshire, orphaned, not married or betrothed, with the manners of a gentleman.”

  May sighed. “Is that your way of saying you did not make use of that superior-sized appendage last night?”

  “Superior?” choked out Donald. “And may I ask when you glimpsed Mr. Reynolds’ cock, madam?”

  “The poor man was freezing to death. Rosalind cut his sodden clothing off to save his life. My word, it was lovely. Very thick and long.”

  “Ooooh, I know someone else like that,” said Claire with a giggle, shooting her husband a hopeful look. Unfortunately Phillip had picked up the most recent newspaper sent from London and was perusing the front page.

  If there was a second newspaper Rosalind would have done exactly the same thing. This was about the last conversation she wanted to have right now, especially when her thoughts about Jack Reynolds weren’t even clear in her own head. A very strong sexual attraction, definitely. Even the thought of him lying on the rug in front of the fire, all handsome and naked and so hard, made her wet. She’d wanted nothing more than to touch him, taste the moisture dripping from the head of his cock, feel him buried to the hilt inside her. To know how he kissed, if he was a man who cared about his lover’s pleasure. If he used those hard lips and long, blunt fingers on a woman’s nipples and quim until she begged him to let her come.

  But something hadn’t been quite right. His demeanor, a certain air about him that said all wasn’t what it seemed. Like the memory loss, for example. Was that genuine? Did he have a wife and six children tucked away somewhere? Why had he been travelling so fast on icy roads in winter? As for his expression when she’d touched him—well no one could say she didn’t know what male pleasure looked like. It was the underlying tension and yearning she didn’t understand. But would he ever let her near him again after her blundering attempts to soothe him when in his own eyes he’d embarrassed himself?

  Determinedly scooping up and swallowing a mouthful of creamy coddled eggs, Rosalind rolled her eyes at her aunt. “Really? You ask if I made use of his cock? Mr. Reynolds had just been involved in a carriage accident.”

  “That is not an answer, pet,” said May, her gaze sharpening. “Did you or did you not welcome Orlando into the depths of your enchanted forest?”

  She groaned. “Please. It is far too early for bardy jokes. Besides, unlike Orlando, Mr. Reynolds isn’t a younger son, and he’s not of the aristocracy, so there’ll be no re-enactment of As You Like It in this house.”

  “Mr. Reynolds had no say in either of those things,” said Claire, far too thoughtfully. “What about his character? Orlando was one of Mr. Shakespeare’s most delightful heroes, was he not, Phillip?”

  “Quite,” said Phillip absently, from behind the newspaper. “Brave, chivalrous, tender, modest, smart, strong, handsome…”

  May clapped her hands. “Well, we know Mr. Reynolds is strong and brave. And a fine figure of a man. Clearly it is meant to be. So, did you have him or not?”

  “Damnation, wife,” snapped Donald. “Not at all a topic for the breakfast table. And of course our Rosalind would have had him. They don’t call her the Wicked Widow for nothing.”

  Dabbing at her lips with a linen napkin, Rosalind barely suppressed a snort. Wicked Widow indeed. So wicked that she’d only had one man since her husband’s death, and it hadn’t gone well. The powerful baronet had spent most of the evening confessing his romantic troubles, then he’d lifted her skirts and shoved inside her with a cock the size of her thumb, nestled into her breasts and fallen asleep. But he’d told everyone she was both a wise woman in matters of the heart and a lover beyond compare, as did his friend, the handsome third son of a viscount who preferred men and had asked so sweetly for her help in staging an encounter to divert talk. After that there had been the older and exceedingly wealthy merchant who liked nothing more than dressing up in gowns of imported silk and playing a devilish game of whist, and the politician who just wanted to be spanked and told he was a naughty boy, before being fed custard.