Keane, the vicar, raised a hand. “Are we going to learn a new formation?”
“No,” Colin told him. “We’re going to stage an invasion. Those little ladies down there in Spindle Cove have occupied what should be your village. Our village. Are we going to roll over and take that?”
The men looked from one to the other.
“No!” Colin supplied, exasperated. “No, we are not going to take that, not one evening more.”
Bram had the right idea, at least. These men definitely needed some help reattaching their bollocks and reasserting their dominance in this village. But his cousin had the wrong tactic, appealing to some vague sense of honor and duty. There was a much better source of motivation—that primal, undeniable impulse that drove every man.
Sex.
“Tonight,” he announced, “is the night we take back that village. And we’re not going to do it by marching in lines or committing acts of brave idiocy. We’re going to do it by being men. Manly men. The kind of men a woman wants to take control.”
Brows wrinkled in confusion.
“But . . .” The blacksmith looked around the group. “We are men. Last I checked, anyhow.”
“It’s not just a matter of having the proper equipment. It’s using the equipment properly.” Leaping up on a crate, Colin spread his arms wide. “Look at me. Now look at yourselves. Now look back at me. I am the man you want to be like.”
Dawes crossed his arms. “Why is that, precisely?”
“Do you know how many women I’ve bedded?” When Rufus and Finn perked, he waved at them. “Have a guess, boys.”
“Seventeen,” offered Finn.
“More.”
“Eighteen.”
“Still more.”
“Er . . . nineteen?”
“Oh, for the love of God,” he muttered. “We’ll be here all day. Let’s just call the number more than you can imagine. Because clearly, that is the case.” Under his breath, he added, “Perhaps higher than you know how to count.” He raised one arm over his head. “Tonight, we’re going to march down to that village, and we’re going to enjoy ourselves in our tavern.”
“You mean the tea shop?” Fosbury asked. “But this is the ladies’ card night.”
“ ‘But this is the ladies’ card night,’ ” Colin mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “That right there is your problem. You’ve all let yourselves be henpecked. Gelded, by this gaggle of bluestockings. Tonight, the ladies are not going to play cards. They’re going to dance.”
Fosbury scratched the back of his neck. “Well, that is what they do sometimes on Fridays. Dancing. But just with each other. They don’t ask us to join in.”
With a heavy sigh, Colin massaged the bridge of his nose. “We’re not going to wait for them to ask us, Fosbury.” He dropped his hand and motioned to Dawes. “You, there. How do you ask a woman to dance?”
The blacksmith shrugged. “I don’t. I don’t dance.”
Finn’s hand shot up. “I know! I’ve heard Sally saying it to the mirror. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’ ” He affected a flourish and bow.
“Wrong,” Colin said. “All wrong.” He lifted his voice. “Every man, repeat after me. ‘I believe this dance is mine.’ ”
The men mumbled the words back at him.
Pathetic.
Colin drew out his double-barreled pistol, cocked it carefully, raised it level with his shoulder, and shot it into the air. The resounding crack caught the group’s attention. “Say it with conviction. ‘I believe this dance is mine.’ ”
The men cleared their throats and shuffled their feet, saying, “I believe this dance is mine.”
“Better. Try this. Your hair is a river of silk.” When he got only puzzled stares in return, he explained, “The first line gets her in your arms. If you’re going to woo a woman to your bed, you need a few more pretty words. Now repeat after me, damn it. ‘Your hair is a river of silk.’ ”
“ ‘Your hair is a river of silk,’ ” they echoed.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He paused, considering. “Now this one. ‘Your eyes sparkle like diamonds.’ ”
They repeated, with a bit more spirit this time.
“ ‘Your br**sts are alabaster orbs.’ ”
“What?” Rufus objected. “That’s stupid. I’m not saying that.”
“Do you have some better suggestion?”
“Why can’t you just say she’s got a fair set of titties?”
Colin looked to Keane. “Vicar, cover your ears.”
The man actually did it.
Colin groaned. Leaping down from the crate, he approached Rufus. “Now listen, lad. You don’t go speaking of titties. It’s crude. The ladies won’t like it. Not unless you’re well into the heat of things. Then, depending on the woman, she may like it well indeed. But when seduction is your aim, you can’t go wrong with alabaster orbs.”
“That’s all sorts of wrong, that is.” Thorne crossed his arms. “Alabaster’s cold and hard. Don’t know what kind of teats you’ve been suckling, but I like flesh-and-blood women myself. Don’t you have something better than that?”
“Of course I do. But I’m not wasting my best lines on you lot.” He raised the pistol and fired his second shot into the air. “Stand tall, snap those shoulders back, and say it loud and proud. ‘Your br**sts are alabaster orbs.’ ”
It took a half dozen more tries, but Colin finally heard the line roared back to his satisfaction.
“Well done,” he said, pacing to and fro before them. “Now for the rewards. Ale.” He thumped his fist on a sturdy barrel. With his boot, he rattled a nearby crate. “Wine.” Pausing for dramatic effect, he hefted a cask he’d raided from Bram’s personal supply. “Whiskey.”
“What are we going to do with all that?” Rufus asked.
“Use it for bootblack,” Colin said dryly. “We’ll drink it, of course. Tonight is the night we eat, drink, carouse, and make love to our women like we mean it. But wait. There’s more.”
He’d saved the sign for last. He’d spent all night working on the thing by torchlight. Not because he found any enjoyment in woodworking, but because the alternative was another sleepless night on his cold, uncomfortable pallet. After almost a week out of London, he was starved for a warm body and good sleep.