A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 8

  Sarah walked her out the door. The two friends faced each other. “I’m going to miss you something fierce, Bryn. Don’t listen to Mrs. Kidd’s dearth and gloom. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Bryn managed a slight smile and threw her arms around Sarah. A tear slipped into her friend’s braid. “I’ll miss you too. Can you do something for me?”

  “Do you want me to short-sheet your sister’s bed? Put salamanders in her unmentionables? Anything.”

  A huffing laugh stole through her tears. She pulled back and put her hands on Sarah’s shoulders. “No. Give Colin Conrad a chance.”

  Sarah moaned. “The man can’t even bring himself to talk to me.”

  “He thinks you’re the most beautiful creature on earth. You make him nervous.”

  “Beautiful?” Sarah fingered her braids and looked over the blanket of snow. “I’ll give him a chance if he manages to say hello. Will you write?”

  “If I can, I will.” It’s all she could promise.

  A clatter down the hall had her heart racing like a rabbit’s. After one more bracing hug, Bryn darted toward the tree line. Only when she was tucked into the fronds of an evergreen did she look back. A figure stood in the doorway. A ripple of fear shuddered through her. The kitchen light sparked Mary’s auburn hair and green dress, making her glow like an avenging goddess.

  Bryn backed into the trees. Were Craddock and Dugan out searching for her? Every scrabbling animal quickened her pace and made her heart leap. Her footprints in the snow would lead them straight to her, but on the flipside, she hadn’t seen any tracks but her own.

  The hoot of an owl brought her to a standstill. It came again, and this time she cupped her hands around her mouth and returned the hoot twice. A man stepped out from behind a spruce tree. Bryn ran to him and braced herself against the tree, her knees nearly giving way.

  “What’s the matter, lassie? Why’re you in a tizzy?” Busby asked through a woolen scarf wrapped around his face.

  Bryn peered into the trees all around them. All she could hear was her own breathing. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

  Busby pulled the scarf down to grace her with one of his beatific smiles. It lit his black eyes and caused his entire face to crinkle in such a way it was nigh on impossible not to smile back. His hair was as white as the snow around them but as thick as a lion’s mane. “What can I do for you?”

  “Thank you for coming. It’s a night to be curled up under your quilts at home.”

  “Aye, aye. What’s so urgent?”

  “I’m leaving on the morrow, and I need help with the baskets. The Widow Monroe’s children must have extra meat. And is there any way you could find some shoes for the oldest lad? He was in town last week and had tried to fill the holes with mud. He’ll lose his toes if it goes on much longer.”

  “Aye, o’ course, lassie. No need to fash yourself. I’ll acquire some shoes for young Dongal.” Busby winked. Bryn had learned not to question his methods. “Is Armstrong taking you away from us then?”

  “I’m not marrying him. He’s horrid.”

  “I’m not disputing the fact, but then where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow.” Bryn looked down and twisted a button on her cloak. Apparently, the news hadn’t swept through the village—yet. “With Maxwell Drake.”

  “The bastard of Cragian?”

  “Don’t call him that, Busby. He’s made something of himself.” Her hot defense of Maxwell gave away more than she’d intended.

  Busby ran a hand over his face. “Goodness me, this is quite a turn of events. Drake was a good boy, always tried to do right by poor Eden. Can he take care of you? Keep you safe?”

  “I trust him.” And she did, up to a point.

  “Dugan Armstrong is not likely to give up until you marry and maybe not even then. I’ve never seen a more prideful man. You and your Mr. Drake need to take care. Between Armstrong and your sister…” Busby shook his head.

  Considering she’d run headlong through the woods sensing the danger Busby hinted at ready to swamp her, she didn’t argue the point. The question that had been plaguing her grew more insistent. What had Dugan been promised on their marriage?

  “I’ve come from talking with Mrs. Kidd and Sarah at the manor. They’ll fix the baskets, if you can sneak in to pick them up for delivery.”

  They discussed the particulars for a few more minutes. Then it was time for another goodbye. Bryn’s eyes stung with tears as they separated to head in opposite directions.

  The quiet woods settled her anxious thoughts. Maybe Sarah was right and everything would be fine.

  The breaking of a stick behind her registered a heartbeat before a man grabbed her upper arm and hauled her backward. She kicked her legs to regain her balance. Her scream was cut short by a gloved hand pressed over her mouth.

  Chapter Seven

  What in the bloody hell are you doing out?” Maxwell asked roughly.

  She fought him until he shushed her. Once she stopped bucking, he dropped his hand from her mouth but not the arm wrapped around her waist. Her cloak and hat had fallen to the snow.

  “None of your business.” A surprising amount of reflected anger clipped her words. “You scared the life out of me. I thought you were Dugan.”

  Maxwell was furious for too many reasons to count. The fact the chit had snuck out of his room was bad enough. To make matters worse, the breeches he had forbade her to wear clung to her hips and emphasized her legs.

  He preferred his women voluptuous and sensual. Or at least he had. Her lithe body in the provocative breeches drew him like a siren. The feel of her long legs wrapped around his hips skittered constantly on the edge of his consciousness. But it was her bottom, molded by the buckskin breeches, that was driving him slowly insane. Or perhaps it was her lovely, pert breasts straining out the top of the ill-fitting waistcoat making his thoughts go awry.

  “What you do is very much my business after our night together. Who was the man you met? If you carry a babe, I must be confident that it’s mine.”

  She grew as stiff as a board in his arms, her breaths puffing white in the cold air.

  “I… You are implying that I would… I would…”

  “Would what? Wait in dishabille in a man’s bed bent on seduction? Oh, not to mention, any cock would do, wouldn’t it? Anything to break that pesky maidenhead of yours and leave you ruined for your betrothed.” He hated his petulant, scorned, jealous-sounding tone.

  Bryn pushed at his arm, and he released her. She whirled to face him, her hair fanning out. Maxwell wouldn’t have been surprised to see the snow steaming at her feet from the strength of her fury.

  “You followed me.” Bryn swept up her cloak and hat and put them back on.

  He’d been startled to see her emerge from the inn after he’d concluded the business of procuring her a mount and sending correspondence to Minerva Drummond, his former employer and friend. He’d waited and wondered whether Bryn was seeking him, but it was clear soon enough that she wasn’t. After he handed the little mare to the hostler, he’d tracked her footprints.

  “Aye. I did.”

  “You don’t trust me.” Hurt was ripe in her voice.

  Damnable guilt rose even though it was underserved. Wasn’t it? What did he really know of her except that she’d pretended to be a whore and turned his life into a complicated mess? “Who was that man?”

  “A friend. I wished him farewell.” The brim of her hat cast her face in deep shadow.

  Truth or lie? He didn’t know. Did it matter? If there was a babe, he would be bound to her no matter her moral proclivity. Or lack thereof.

  To be fair, she seemed loathe to force his hand unless there was a babe. The escape of a lifetime commitment should have filled him with relief, but instead, it had sent him into a snit. Perhaps it was his unruly cock proclaiming its opinion.

  “You’ll not be running unbridled through Edinburgh. Is that understood?”

  “
I’m not a blasted horse, Drake.” She turned on her heel, her back ramrod straight, her pace bruising.

  Maxwell refused to call quarter because of his leg, and by the time he clattered into the common room, his thigh radiated waves of agony. His vision narrowed. The hot water of a bath would ease him. Pain buried the anger over Bryn’s escapade. He ordered a bath and focused on the mountainous climb up the stairs.

  If he’d been alone, if the eyes of every patron—especially Bryn’s—weren’t boring holes into his back, he would have dropped to his knees and crawled up the last few steps. Pride be damned.

  He stumbled into the room and collapsed on the bed, leaving the door open for the servants to bring the bath. Scurrying feet and the splash of water invaded his pain-muffled consciousness. The door shut and time passed. The bath awaited, but Maxwell lay wrapped in a blanket of agony, unable to walk the few feet to the bath.

  A splash of water brought Maxwell out of his fitful doze. He cracked his eyes open to see Brynmore McCann’s luscious arse slipping into the tub from the corner of his eye. His instinctive shift for a better viewing angle sent shards of pain through his leg and threatened to wring a groan from him.

  After a few deep breaths, an ache in an entirely different place took some of the focus off his leg. By the glances she cast in his direction and her hurried washing, she obviously assumed he slept. Her arms moved in soft white arcs, soaping and rinsing her hair, running the cloth over her body.

  With another furtive glance over her shoulder, she rose. Water sluiced down the beautiful arch of her back and over her buttocks. She toweled off with a piece of linen and slipped a thick winter night rail over her head but not before a glimpse of the underside of a pert breast tormented him further. Sitting in front of the fire, she combed her hair, a domestic scene only a husband or lover would be privy to. A surprising underpinning of contentment tempered his pain-fueled lust.

  He remained as still as the dead, and when she approached, he closed his eyes. What would she do? Prod him awake with the fireplace poker to make him sleep in the chair? No less than what he deserved.

  A long moment passed. A tug on the boot on his good leg had him tensing. As it pulled loose, she staggered back into the door. No use in pretending he’d slept through the clatter. He opened his eyes and raised his head. “If you want me naked, all you have to do is ask, lass.”

  “I hardly— I wasn’t trying to get you naked, you blasted man. Your boots are dirtying the quilt.”

  He dropped his head back to the pillow and wiggled his other foot. Even the small movement sent pain blazing through his thigh. She worked the boot off his bad leg. A grunt escaped him.

  The boot thudded to the floor, and the bed dipped at his hip. He started when her hands landed on his thigh. She massaged around the old wound, casting the same magic she had the previous night. The tight scar tissue relaxed under her touch, and a sigh of relief hissed from between his clenched teeth.

  The minutes stretched to infinity as the pain holding him captive surrendered to her touch. Her fiery golden hair swung back and forth across her shoulders and brushed her neck. She worried her bottom lip and paused to tuck her hair behind her ears, giving her the look of a pensive elf.

  He flexed his leg, and only a slight echo of the brutal, stabbing pain remained. “Thank you, lass. It’s better now. You must be cold. Go on and get under the quilts.”

  The question in her eyes didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

  “I’ll not touch you again until we’re married,” Maxwell said so emphatically he wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to convince.

  Bryn buried herself under the covers. He rolled off the bed and walked across the floor with minimal discomfort. After stripping naked, he washed. He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder. His skin heated from her gaze, and not even the lukewarm water diminished his erection.

  Pulling his breeches back on, he extinguished the candles and slid under the thick quilt, staying well on his side of the bed. The glowing embers in the hearth cast a hazy light over the room. Tension thickened between them. He wanted to thank her for her care or apologize or roll on top of her and…

  “Not any man would have done— When I saw you in the stable…” Her voice treaded between them like a skittish cat. “If it hadn’t been you, I would have married Dugan and gone to him a virgin. I had nearly given up, but then… I found you.”

  The one time he’d confided in a mistress about his birth and the privations of his youth, she’d been unable to hide her aversion. He’d walked out of her rooms, never to return. Bryn had seen the ugliness firsthand and had still chosen him. Through his resentment, satisfaction hummed.

  “What were you doing out tonight? Tell me the truth.” He gentled his voice and banished the vitriol.

  “I needed to say goodbye to people who have helped me. That’s all.”

  He wanted to believe her, but something about her furtive race through the woods filled him with doubt. “I suppose you’ll be sad to leave Cragian.”

  “I suppose.” Her voice was thoughtful and not teary in the least. He wanted to question her further, but she sighed. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”

  A portion of the tension between them ebbed. “Aye, and we have a stop to make before we head north to Edinburgh.”

  Bryn turned on her side and tucked her hands between her cheek and the pillow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  As he was thinking how innocent and pretty she looked, how sweet she smelled, and how maybe one kiss wouldn’t break his promises, he said darkly amused, “I very much doubt it. What are you thinking?”

  “We should make an attempt to get my marriage settlement.”

  “And you think Craddock would hand it over if we ask nicely?”

  “Well, no. But I could distract him while you search.”

  “Do you know where he keeps it?”

  “Not for certain, but he keeps a drawer locked in his desk.”

  “Too dangerous. Let’s pray distance will discourage Armstrong.” He turned on his side, putting them face-to-face.

  “Where are we stopping then?”

  “MacShane’s holding. I need to see old Lady MacShane. Has her son married?”

  “Not yet. Lord Albert’s mother doesn’t approve of the gentry around Cragian. Or in all Dumfries for that matter. She’d much rather him take a season in London and bring back a proper English lady.”

  A strange hollowness settled in his chest at his half brother’s name. Maxwell had never met him, but Albert MacShane was the last link to his father, and although he didn’t want to be, he was curious.

  “Do you know him? What’s he like?”

  “He’s written a book about Scottish flora. And he hunts. Plays cards and drinks. Mary and Craddock invited him to the manor house often. He’s not without influence.” In a hesitant voice, she continued. “If you’re after revenge or something of the sort, be warned that you and Albert are not evenly matched.”

  His thigh flexed as her jab landed. “I assure you, even with my leg, I can be a formidable opponent. If you’re worried that I can’t protect you—”

  Bryn laughed, husky and sensuous. “You dolt. I meant you would make mincemeat out of poor old Albert. I saw how you handled Dugan, and he’s not the wilting violet Albert is. You make me feel quite safe.”

  He harrumphed, but a now familiar damnable warmth squeezed at his chest. “I’m not after revenge. My years at war excised the aggression and hatred bred into me by my treatment here. And then some.”

  “Was your time in the army horrible?”

  “Horrible? There were horrible, terrifying moments. Men who had slept next to me one night would die the next day. The battles were brutal and bloody.” He closed his eyes, and images that had imprinted on his soul flashed. “But it wasn’t always horrible. I remember a sunrise over the Pyrenees, the colors chasing away the blanket of stars. Fields of dazzling yellow sunflowers and the buzz of a million bees, so b
right and loud you had to shield your eyes and plug your ears. I remember the blue of the bluest sea stretching to forever.”

  When he opened his eyes, she had scooted closer and propped herself up on an elbow, her mouth parted in a bemused smile. “I can almost see it myself.”

  “If I hadn’t received my commission, I’m not sure what would have become of me.”

  “If you hadn’t been wounded, would you still be serving?”

  Maxwell considered his answer a long moment. “I suppose I might be. The work felt worthwhile.”

  “Where did you go after you left the army?”

  “I was good with numbers, and long hours waiting in the ranks honed my skill with cards. I went to London and made a small fortune, dissecting lords from their money, but gambling was only a means to an end. I made connections, and some of those connections owed me favors. I was put in contact with a solicitor looking to retire from handling the Duke of Bellingham’s affairs. It was an unusual situation, and the man was having a difficult time filling the position.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “You worked for a duke? How exciting. What was he like?”

  “A spoiled, pompous little prick.” Maxwell’s lips twitched at her shocked gasp. “For all intents and purposes, I worked for his sister, but she married recently, and the duke came into his majority. I left before he could sack me.”

  Maxwell considered himself a quiet man—some might say dour—who kept his own counsel. He had never lain in bed with a woman… talking. If there was a woman in bed, he made sure she was well pleased but never lingered. This was a different sort of intimacy.

  “Once I gave up cards, I began to dabble in a different sort of gambling. Investments.” Maxwell’s wealth was modest by some’s standards, but compared to his childhood, he was rich as a sultan.

  “That’s amazing.”

  He shrugged. Was it? It had consisted of hard work and long hours. Feeling like he had revealed too much of himself, he deflected to her. “It’s obvious you and Mary are not bosom sisters. What transpired to incite such hostility?”