Untamable Rogue (Formerly: A Christmas Baby) (21 page)

“Lark,” Ash said. “He is trembling in my arms. I will take him to my room while you wash and dress, but I think he needs a woman’s touch.”

Lark dressed and went for him in short order. Ash now wore a shirt as well as his trousers, and he held Micah by the hand, as he showed him bauble after worldly bauble that had been purchased in his father’s time.

Micah no more fought her, when she lifted him into her arms, than he had fought Ash, which made her fear that he had been beaten into submission over the years. Despite taking him to her heart and kissing him, her nephew remained stiff and unyielding. “I will take him back to the nursery,” she told Ash, who regarded her as if he saw and understood her sadness.

Ash kissed her brow. “I must wash and dress, see to some estate matters, then I will find you up in the nursery.”

“Go and see your mother,” she said. “Take her hand, kiss her brow.”

In response to her urging, Ash shook his head and turned toward the dressing room, giving her a wave without looking back.

Lark carried Micah up the nursery stairs. “You are not a servant in our house, Micah,” she said. “You are family.” She sang the lullaby she used to sing to him when he was a child, but though he looked straight into her eyes, he made no sign of recognition.

Mim bobbed Lark a curtsey when she arrived. “The boy slept well enough, my Lady, but when he woke, he was afraid. I’m that sorry he got away after his breakfast and bath. I looked and looked, and couldn’t find him anywhere, until I went to tell His Lordship, who had him in his care.”

Lark shook her head as much at a loss as the maid. “No need for apologies. I fear he is acting on years of training.” Lark intended to take Micah on her lap in the nursery rocker, then she thought better of it and decided he should learn to play, again. She took his hand. “Come along, Micah,” she said. “Do you remember when you were three and we climbed a tree at the Stewart’s farm? And then we chased chickens around the barnyard?”

He walked silently by her side and Lark could see that he was listening.

“When you were five and I visited, we went for a walk and found a neighbor who had a good sturdy swing, a rope suspended from a tree with a wooden seat. Do you remember that I pushed you on it?”

Micah stopped and looked up at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and Lark nodded. “We once made a slide of hay. Another time, we rode a pokey old farm horse together, remember? I am sorry I was not able to visit at all last year.”

Lark stopped at the top of the main stairs with it’s sweeping polished banister, the wood flat and wide, perfect for sliding, which she had noticed her first night.

Lark sat on it, and Micah took a fearful step back, before she pushed herself off. She gasped as she slid down its length, for she had forgot what she’d been about all night.

As she expected, the shape of the rail all but placed her gently on the foyer floor. “Go ahead, Micah. Your turn,” she called. “Remember what I taught you? Never be afraid to try something new.”

“A pity you did not remember that advice previous to last night,” her husband said beside her, making her start and shriek.

Micah was on his way down before they realized it, as Grimsley walked by, dropped his tray at the sight, and nearly swooned from fright.

“It’s all right Grim,” Ash said. “There’s no better banister for sliding. I rode it often in my youth.” Ash caught Micah at the bottom and whipped him into Grimsley’s arms. “Grim, old man. You’re taking young Micah, here, to visit cook and have a glass of milk before his next slide.”

Ash took Lark’s arm, walked her into the green salon and sat beside her on the sofa. “You have tears in your eyes,” he said taking her hand. “Because Micah does not remember you?”

“No, not that.” She shook her head. “I think he might be starting to remember some of the things I reminded him of. The tears are for—” She bit her lip.

“What?” Ash dabbed at the corner of her eye with his handkerchief.

Lark took it and blew her nose. “I cannot tell you.”

“Do not play coy with me,” Ash said. “You
will
tell me. After baby-making, and giving you a sling for your monthlies, I hardly think there is anything we cannot discuss.”

Lark grimaced and plopped his used handkerchief into her husband’s hand. “If you must know, I wish I had not slid down the banister on the morning after so much baby making. It hurt. There.”

Her husband could not contain his mirth, which Lark found no-end annoying. “Thank you very much,” she snapped. “Try sliding down the banister on your hornpipe and see how you feel!”

Ash was still chuckling over the last when Grimsley returned Micah to Lark’s care.

“Micah needs new clothes,” Ash said, touching a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “What do you say to having Olive make him some?” Ash asked, as if hoping the boy would respond, but he remained silent and wide-eyed, looking from one adult to the other.

“‘Twould be the first time he’s had clothes of his own,” Lark said. “Can you thank …” She regarded her husband. “Uncle Ash?”

Ash nodded but Micah simply stepped nearer to Lark.

“I shall stop and ask Olive on my rounds today,” Ash said. “Micah,” he added, “I need to take a ride about my estate this morning and thought you might like to sit up before me on my horse, and see your new home.”

“I am afraid of horses,” Lark said, as Micah’s head came up and he looked straight and attentive toward Ash.

“I did not ask you to accompany me,” Ash said with a wink for her, “I asked Micah.”

“I am afraid for him to go with you.”

“Are
you
afraid, Micah?” Ash asked.

The boy shook his head, stepped from behind Lark’s skirts, and slipped his hand into Ash’s.

“Lark,” her husband said, “I suggest a nice long soak in my slipper bath for, ah, whatever ails you, and then I am afraid that, later in the morning, your dancing master is due to arrive. Forgive the poor timing.” He winked and Lark chafed in annoyance. Nevertheless, she turned to leave the salon and head for the slipper bath, an excellent notion, actually.

Half way there, she stopped to regard her amused husband. “I suppose if Micah likes to ride that I should like to have riding lessons as well.”

“See Brinks, then, after your dancing lesson.” He chuckled at his poor jest. “I will tell Brinks to expect you in, say,
three
days time, shall I?” Grinning, Ash squeezed Micah’s hand and led him out and toward the stable.

Lark was not sorry that Micah had taken to Ash; she was only sorry that he had not as yet remembered her.

Her fop of a dancing master lasted two dreadful, horrible weeks of mincing lessons by day, but two glorious, unforgettable weeks of baby making by night. Lark remembered it well, both the good and the bad.

“What do you mean, he broke his foot?” Ash shouted on the dancing master’s fourteenth, and last, day, as the dance instructor was carried to a hired coach.

“It was an accident,” Lark said in her own defense.

Ash scoffed. “How so?”

“I did not intend to hurt him.”

“He said you stomped on his foot with your heel in a fit of rage.”

“Well, I did stomp on his foot—in self defense—but I did not expect the bone to break. How was I to know that dandies had bones as soft as their hands?”

“Doctor Buckston said you broke several of the bones in his foot. He quit you know. Gave his notice and demanded his wages and passage to London as well.”

“The doctor quit? Because I threatened to shoot him in the ballocks?”

“No, dearest, the dancing master quit, and I wonder you did not threaten
his
ballocks.”

“Hah, I’d be surprised if the popinjay had any. Besides, you took my pistol, remember? I had no other weapon at my disposal. I hope you did not give in to his demands. He taught me nothing of value, except that damp hands leave stains on silk.”

“And that foot bones are brittle, I’d wager. Now how do you expect to learn to dance?”

“You may teach me.”

“I do not suppose I have a choice,” Ash said. “If you are half as incomparable a dancer as Brinks says you are a rider, I expect you will do me proud enough.”

“High praise.” Lark sniffed, annoyed at the paltry compliment. “It upsets me that riding is so much a man’s sport,” she said. “Why do I excel at only manly sports? Why can I not dance a step or sew a stitch?”

“I could get Gentleman Jackson to teach you to box,” Ash said, tongue in cheek. “Then again, who would you thrash, if you learned, but me? Overlook the suggestion, if you please. ‘Twas a terrible notion.”

“As my husband, you were supposed to say that you do not understand why I excel in manly sports since I am so soft and womanly.”

Ash leaned close. “You are prodigiously soft and womanly when you are wearing the dress God gave you and riding your prized stallion—and I do not mean the one in the stable.”

Lark felt heat on her face and turned away. “How many other women have you attempted to make a babe with?”

Ash barked a laugh. “Not a single one.”

“You admitted that I was your first virgin, but you have done that before, have you not?”

“What? Play the blanket hornpipe? Good God, of course I have.”

“But you said ‘twas to make a babe and you never tried to make one before.”

“You can do the matrimonial, without making a babe, Larkin.”

Determined to tease her way back into her husband’s good graces after her assault upon the dancing master, Lark shrugged. “Yes, I know, but why would anyone set out to do so?”

Ash gaped. “Have I read you wrong? Have you received no pleasure in making love? If you have not, I shall lay me down and die of shame.”

Lark smacked him in the arm, though she did note that he referred to the act as making love, and held the knowledge close. “Doing the matrimonial
is
an agreeable pastime,” she admitted, surprised he had not caught her jest.

“Just agreeable?”

“Delightful then?”

“It is splendid, you have said more than once, which is why people do it for sport.”

“Sport, of course. That would account for Trixie at the Pickled Barrel.”

“I beg you will
please
remove that pub from your memory.”

“I lived in that pub for twenty-two years, Ash. It will never be gone from my memory, only distanced, and now that I think on it, I remember Da referring to a bit of ‘ballocking’ going on above stairs. Is ballocking also considered a man’s sport?”

“Not my favorite term,” Ash said, “and not entirely a man’s sport, but for the most part, I’d wager it likely is.”

“Drat! Another man’s sport I like.” Lark raised her hands in resignation as she walked away, leaving Ash to hope that since she liked it so much, she might rescind her rule that he quit her bed once he got her with child.

“What the devil?” Ash got shoved from behind and was forced to regain his balance, only to find that his bride had returned to accost him.

“I just realized what you had been doing with all your women these many years.
That’s
why they call you a rogue!”

Ash grinned, unable to hide his pride in the designation, despite his wife’s ire.

“I do not approve,” she said.

“I only do it with you now. There are no more women.”