Beckman: Lord of Sins

perspective. It was easier than judging Nick, and felt closer to the truth. His hand closed on the firm curve of Sara’s derriere, and she undulated again like a cat seeking attention.

“I have discovered”—she closed her eyes—“I like it when you pinch me.”

“Here?” He pinched her, not hard.

“Yes.” Sara arched. “There. And my… breasts and other parts.”

Those parts. While he’d pleasured himself several times with her assistance in this protracted bout of friskiness, she’d yet to demand anything of him. And how odd was it that a woman married for eight or nine years wouldn’t know her own pleasures?

Beck smoothed his hand over her again. “Your husband was a selfish cretin, Sara. You deserved better.”

“I won’t argue that.” She rolled over, which left his hand resting right over her pubic curls, and Beck lectured himself not to start in with her. So far, he’d petted, caressed, looked, and looked some more; he’d kissed, tasted, and teased, but he hadn’t done anything that might irritate her tender parts.

Hadn’t needed to, not for his own pleasure anyway. It was a revelation, at least to a man who’d taken lovers on four continents.

“I haven’t played like this before,” he said, wondering when the brakes had been disconnected from his mouth.

“I haven’t either,” Sara said, fondling his flaccid cock. “It gives me ideas about those hot springs, Beckman. I hope you are prepared to be a sparkling-clean fellow in the near future.”

He hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her to him, in charity with Creation at her words. A feeling expanded out from his chest, of beatitude and humor and overwhelming affection for the woman half-naked on the blanket with him. It crested, and subsided before his fool mouth opened and embarrassed him trying to express it, but it didn’t fade entirely.

Not when they dressed each other, teasing and laughing; not when they drove back down to town, sitting too closely on the buggy’s seat. Not when they made slow, quiet love that evening; not when they fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms that night.

Only when Sara laughingly declined his proposal of marriage over breakfast did Beckman’s newfound joy in life abruptly diminish.

Thirteen

“It came on Friday,” Polly said, handing the little letter over to Sara in the stable yard. Beckman was in the barn, dealing with the inventory and the horses, while Sara dealt with an ache inside that had no cure.

“I wanted to read it, to hide it, and to burn it,” Polly said, keeping her voice down.

Sara glanced at the address, knowing it was from Tremaine even before she opened it. “Thank you.” She put it in her skirt pocket then drew it out again when she saw Polly regarding her with steady compassion.

“You had a lovely weekend, didn’t you, Sara?”

Sara considered the manor house as she and Polly approached it, as well as the outbuildings, gardens, and every other feature of Three Springs that appeared exactly as she’d left it just days ago. “The weather was gorgeous, Beckman is a consummate quartermaster, and Portsmouth shows to good advantage when one has rusticated as long as we have. What about you?”

She put the question as casually as she could, but there was a difference about Polly, a peacefulness that hadn’t been there a few days before.

“We managed,” Polly said. “Allie is going like a house afire on her new painting.”

“What did she choose for her subject?” Sara’s gaze drifted upward, to where the third-floor windows gleamed silver in the last of the evening light.

“Soldier. North professed to be hurt, that she’d consider his horse a more worthy subject than he. She’s probably already dreaming of the next study. She’ll be relieved to know you’re home.”

“Let her sleep, but, Polly?”

Sara met her sister’s gaze, on solid ground now that the first few difficult questions had been answered—or dodged. “My thanks, my very sincere thanks for looking after Allie and Three Springs. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to get away.”

Polly turned toward the eastern horizon, to where two stars were visible against the darkening sky. “Did it go well? With you and Beckman? I can have North thrash him, you know, if he… misbehaved.”

“Or didn’t misbehave? He was everything I could have hoped for, Polly. A completely, thoroughly enjoyable companion.” At least until breakfast that morning, when he’d completely, thoroughly bewildered her with his proposal.

“For somebody who spent the weekend with a thoroughly enjoyable companion, you look tired and sad, Sara. Let’s get Tremaine’s letter over with, and then I’ll tuck you in with a posset.”

Sara had wanted to forget this letter, too, but Polly was right: ignoring the threat Tremaine posed was not prudent. She followed Polly into the kitchen and glanced around.

“Where’s North?”

“Soaking,” Polly said, putting on the kettle. “It helps his back, and he promised Beck he would.”

Sara tore open the letter, scanned it, and handed it to Polly.

Polly frowned. “It’s pretty much the same. Greetings, he’s been remiss, would we consider a visit, how fares Allie… I don’t detect a threat in this, Sara.”

“He has those portraits, Polly.” Sara sat at the table, feeling as if her little weekend in Portsmouth happened to someone else a century ago. Somebody whom God liked and spared a little joy every once in a while—a lot of joy, in fact, and a generous portion of pleasure, too.

“He’s had years to use those portraits,” Polly replied. “He doesn’t mention them, and he may not understand what he has in them. Drink your tea, and where’s Beckman?”

“I expect he’s anywhere I’m not.” Sara did not want tea. She did not want to dissemble before her sister, either. “I think I hurt his feelings, Polly. I know I did, in fact.”

Polly was silent for a moment, stirring a fat helping of sugar into her own cup of tea.

“I used to be a nice person.” Polly sat, pushed Sara’s teacup closer, and covered Sara’s hand with her own. “Now I’m old and mean, and so I say: Better his feelings hurt than yours, Sara.”

“You’re still a nice sister.” Sara smiled wanly and sipped her tea.

* * *

“The prodigal returns.” North’s voice came not from the pool itself but from the shadows to Beck’s left, where the boulders were gathered along the water’s edge. “All that wagon travel put you in need of a soak?”

“Greetings, North.” Beck sat and tugged at his boots. “And yes, I am in need of a soak.”

“Maybe you didn’t get much rest this weekend,” North mused, “what with all that procurement to tend to?”

Beck threw his boot in the general direction of North’s voice.

“Cranky,” North observed, “but you’ve good aim. I take it Mrs. Hunt did not haul your ashes, Haddonfield, which must have come as a blow to your considerable charm.”

Beck fired the second boot at a higher velocity then nigh strangled himself getting his neckcloth undone. “She hauled everything I own or ever coveted, right out to the dung heap.”

“She’s trifling with an upright young sprout like you?” North put a world of dismay into his voice, and Beck was glad no lethal weapons were at hand.

“Stubble it, North.” Beck heard something rip as he yanked his shirt over his head. “I bloody proposed to the woman, and she bloody laughed and told me I mustn’t tease about such things on an empty stomach.”

Even North was temporarily silenced by that admission.

“You proposed?” Then, “You proposed marriage? The ‘do you, Beckman, take this woman…’ sort of marriage? To Sara?”

“That general idea.” Beck stood naked, fists clenched at his side, wanting to break something—or someone. North would have served nicely, except his back was already fragile. Then too, Beck, as usual, had no one else to talk to.