by Tanya Wilde
She wandered to the drawing room, noting that some but not all of the furniture had been covered with white sheets. This made her think that no servants had occupied the home for some time.
The sudden sound of her stomach rumbling gave her pause, drawing her attention to her hunger. And with it came a more pressing question. Did they have any food? And if not, did Brahm mean for her to survive on her own, picking berries and hunting rabbits?
Holly would never kill a rabbit or pluck feathers from a bird. About the only thing she could do was bake bread. Or rather, knead the dough that one used to bake bread. Would Brahm at least show her how to use an oven? If he even knew how to use one.
Then it struck her, like the sudden clap of thunder outside that illuminated the entire room.
They were alone for the night.
With a storm brewing outside!
The eventual downpour might rage for days, or it might pass after the night. But it was the perfect opportunity to seize the moment. Or attempt to.
Holly loved storms, the wildness of them. She even marveled at the loud booming sound that crackled through the sky. Come to think of it, it reminded her of Brahm, with his often-dark countenance and crackling voice.
A sudden idea formed in her mind.
Brahm was not aware that she loved storms. And if one thing had become clear these past few days, it was that the surly marquis could not resist assisting a damsel. It was in his nature to protect. And that, as it so happened, provided the perfect footing to get closer to him without spooking him off.
So how to awaken his protective instincts?
Holly considered venturing outside and then pretending to be overcome by distress. Most people were frightened by thunder, right? But did she honestly wish for him to perceive her as a mad, hysterical girl?
She shook her head, disregarding the idea.
But what else could she do?
Just let fate take its course.
Yes, yes. But she had trusted fate once before. With St. Ives. Dare she do so again with Brahm?
When it came to matters of the heart, Holly was now more convinced than ever to fight for what she wanted. How had the poet, John Lyly, expressed his sentiments: “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.”
And indeed, she agreed, they did not.
She was determined to unravel the promise their futures might hold—together. And yes, perhaps she was a tad theatrical in her approach, but for Holly, this was the way with love. Indeed, she would not give up until she had done her best to break his stubborn, aloof exterior. Let them both go up in flames one way or another. At least then she’d know.
The thudding of oncoming boots running toward the house signaled that her time had run out.
Her head swiveled around the room, and she dashed to one corner only to turn and bolt to another one.
Think, Holly!
The front door opened and shut.
“Miss Middleton? Holly?”
Startled by the unexpected call of her name colliding with the crack of thunder, Holly jumped and let out a little shriek. Another role of thunder brightened the sky, and Brahm appeared in the threshold, his face illuminated by silver light.
Well, it’s too late do anything now.
“Holly? Christ, are you all right?”
Er, yes . . . ?
“Bloody hell.”
What was this?
He reached her in four strides. Thunder now shook the room as lightning tore through the night, the storm picking up momentum.
Brahm’s expression tightened. His eyes bore into hers. “You should have told me you’re afraid of storms.”
At first, Holly was so dumbstruck she didn’t know what to do. Did she just stand there, gazing up at him, or did she set him straight? Holly Middleton, afraid of storms? Not likely.
But then as his arms gathered her close against his firm chest, and the earthy smell of his scent filled her senses, Holly knew exactly what to do.
She wrapped her arms around him and embraced him back.
In one fluid motion, she was gathered up in his arms and carried from the room.
Finally.
Was it too much to ask to remain in his arms forever?
Holly sighed in pleasure.
Of course, that was not how he interpreted the sound.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, his strides quickening.
And then he surprised her by starting up a hum, a low melodious tune meant to calm her. And, sure enough, the sweetness of the action weaved a spell over her heart.
Too soon they reached the bedchamber, and she was set down on the bed.
“I’ll light a fire for the cold,” he murmured, moving away from her.
She watched as he kneeled down before the hearth, the motion of his body hypnotic as he stacked wood. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him any concern.
The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war, she reminded herself when a pinch of guilt surfaced.
Her gaze flicked over the orange wallpaper covering the walls. She wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t the dreamy sunset kind of orange but the kind that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be yellow or red or something else.
Not the stuff of romance.
Whoever decorated this room possessed a deplorable sense of taste.
Her eyes were still wide from the color shock when Brahm turned to her, a fire now crackling in the hearth.
Gah! More orange!
Of course, though she had completely forgotten her hunger, her belly chose that moment to protest at the lack of food.
He rose to his full height. “There should be provisions in the kitchen; I will be right back.”
He returned with an assortment of bread and cheeses just as lightning struck and illuminated the chamber in a fine dazzling color, casting his stark features in brilliance.
Their eyes locked. Time seemed to stop.
For a long moment, they stared at one another. Orange faded from her vision. Something—the cottage, the bed, the entire world—shifted. And shifted. And shifted.
And then the spell passed.
He strode forward, five steps exactly, and stopped. Holly’s eyes never left his as he lowered his head to hers. Then they drifted shut as she felt him place a soft kiss on her temple.
She was in heaven.
He lifted her chin, his fingers lingering against her skin. “I just realized,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “that had there been a storm on the day of your wedding, you would have sprinted down the aisle instead of from it.”
Little did he know, she would have gladly darted into a storm to escape her wedding.
“Maybe,” Holly murmured, not wishing to lie outright. “But perhaps I would have taken my chances with violent gusts of wind and thunder.”
“And perhaps the storm would have welcomed you for the tempest you are in your own right,” he said, letting her go and spreading the food he brought from the kitchen on the bed.
“A tempest? I have never been compared to a storm before.”
“Quite apt, I should say, since you whirled your way into my life.”
He sounded suspiciously annoyed by that.
What Holly really wanted him to say was that she had whirled her way into his heart. But for now she would settle for being compared to a wild storm. She quite liked that.
The unexpected warm brush of his fingers against her cheek caused her to jerk in response. Misinterpreting her reaction, he pulled away from her and tugged back the covers.
“You will be warmer beneath the quilt,” he muttered, ushering her underneath.
To her disappointment, he settled on the mattress beside her but remained on top of the covers.
“What do you do when there are storms at home?”
What, indeed, she inwardly mused. “I . . .” she paused, her mind racing with possibilities. What did one do if one were scared of storms? She had no idea. She and her sisters delighted in them—loved them
. “Poppy once built a fort of blankets, and Willow read novels to us the entire night.”
There. Not a complete lie. They had done that once, and a storm had raged outside at the time.
“Sounds interesting.”
Holly nodded. “But let us not talk about that. Tell me about your life,” she urged, hoping to venture away from the topic of her deception. Of course, he would eventually discover the truth. Just not tonight, she hoped.
“Have you always had such an inquisitive mind?” he asked, but then said, “Never mind, I see that you have. In any case, by some good fortune, my life is fairly ordinary.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “I was a boy when my parents’ death left me to act as the surrogate father and mother—the latter a much more impossible task—to my sister.”
So he had been guardian to Josephine that long? No wonder he was so protective. That was a tremendous task for a youth to take on. But he’d done well, Holly thought. Josephine was happily married now to the Marquis of St. Aldwyn, a task that Holly herself had helped with thirteen months ago. And she adored her brother, even if she enjoyed driving him mad more—Holly knew that much.
“That sounds anything but ordinary.”
He was an extraordinary man to think so.
His lips twitched. “Perhaps not. Josephine is every bit as stubborn as my mother. I heard a tale about how she had once refused to be left behind on a hunt and so donned the attire of a boy to fool my father into taking her with them.”
“Did the disguise work?” Holly asked, shocked.
“No, but he took her along anyway.”
Holly smiled at the pride she heard in his voice. The adoration in his tone overshadowed the fierce scowl that knitted across his brows. It was quite clear that their family had been close.
Snatching up a piece of cheese, she considered him. Brahm was sorely misunderstood. Most steered clear of him because of his booming voice and blustering temper—and she suspected he preferred it that way. But his moodiness, at least for her, paled in comparison to the apparent evidence of his unfailing love and dedication to his family.
“You miss your sister terribly, don’t you?” she asked, quietly.
“Is it that obvious?” He helped himself to some bread.
“Glaringly so. You even cast your lot in with me because you missed her shenanigans.”
His chest vibrated with laughter. “That I have.”
Quelling a most peculiar shiver, Holly lifted her head to stare at him. He planned on leaving her as soon as the storm cleared, but she could not think about such depressing things just now.
“I don’t remember much of my mother,” she said after a while. “But I see her every day in the love my father feels for her still.”
“It must be a painful sight to behold.”
“On the contrary, it is the sort of love I have always been searching for, the kind that cannot be extinguished, even in death.”
Holly felt him tense beside her. Her heart drummed in her ears as she waited anxiously for him to say something. Anything.
For a long disquieting moment, silence stretched between them, and she thought it might reach into eternity. So when he, at last, spoke, his words—in a thick drawl that slid right into her, filling her with languid warmth—settled right in her soul.
“You deserve nothing less.”
Those words were, in a sense, deeply romantic. Hardly anyone would agree with him. Society argued that it was not a lady’s duty to be happy and certainly not to find love. Procuring a good match was all that mattered. Love was reserved for books and fairy tales. That fact had never stopped Holly from defying society and its absurd beliefs.
“Everyone deserves it,” she murmured, settling deeper into the covers.
Outside, the storm raged, lightning flashing and thunder booming. Inside, they were safe and warm—and together. She felt it then. That driving force that always had her searching, hoping, wishing. She wanted love. She wanted happiness. She wanted it all.
And she wanted it all with Brahm.
If only they could agree on that.
“Not everyone is as lucky as those who achieve it,” Brahm said, interrupting her thoughts.
Holly turned her head to stare at him. “Achieve it? One does not achieve love. Love, in all its magical properties, achieves us.”
“That is a romantic sentiment, Miss Middleton, and implies that love is sentient, reactive.”
Ah, Miss Middleton again, am I? She must have gotten close again.
“Or just magical,” she pointed out. “Would it not be marvelous to think of it as such?”
“It would certainly confuse plenty of people.”
“I believe that confusion is the point of it all. One begins to question life and its meaning when one gets confused.”
In the distance, more thunder rolled, as if nature agreed with her statement.
“You have an answer for everything,” Brahm muttered.
“A woman’s trait.”
He grunted. “I sent word ahead from London. A maid and a cook should arrive once the storm lets up. They will stay for your duration.”
Her heart burned in protest, even though her lips remained sealed. “You are a strange man, Brahm Tremont.”
“I told you, I’m the most ordinary man you’ll ever meet.”
“If by ‘ordinary’ you mean a moody lord whose voice can raise the dead, then yes, you are the most ordinary man in the world.”
He shot her a look as if to say, “I am not a bloody moody lord.”
She bit her bottom lip. He really was.
He rose to gather the remaining provisions that they’d left uneaten, and the loss of his warmth was immediate; she felt it deep in her bones.
Holly swallowed the objection gathering in her throat. Would she feel this way every day if she failed to win his affection? She had never felt such a longing for a person before.
A deep ache in her chest left her breathless for a moment.
Holly saw the truth then, glimpsed the possibility of the same future that haunted her father awaiting her if she did not win Brahm’s heart . . . The thought was too awful to contemplate.
Chapter 13
Brahm had never put much stock in his name. After all, it was just a name. Everyone had one. To him, a name held more meaning for the person who bestowed it than for the person upon which it was bestowed. Besides that, few called him by his given name, Josephine being on the forefront. He would even venture as far to say that precious few people even knew his Christian name. After all, what was a name compared to the title a man carried?
At least, that was how he thought until his name was purred from Holly Middleton’s lips.
With longing.
In her sleep.
It had been a whisper of breath, but he had caught it.
Brahm.
And he felt the precious hold on his carefully constructed world slip. She had said everyone deserved love. But he’d never thought of marrying for love. For so long, his whole life had been about duty—his duty to the title, his commitment to Josephine, his responsibility to honor his parents’ memory. His duty to sire an heir.
All this time, even though his parents had loved one another and his sister had married for love, Brahm had never truly considered the possibility for himself.
And why the hell should he? He was a man, and men did not lounge around mooning over love matches. They did what needed to be done when it ought to be done. The end.
Wasn’t that the way of things?
He cast one last look over his shoulder to where Holly lay slumbering. She was so bloody beautiful it hurt not to look at her.
Outside, the rain made no promise of passing. So neither would he.
He turned and strode from the chamber. Christ, just in descending the stairs, his lungs heaved as if he had run a great distance with the hounds of hell nipping at his heels. All the while a brilliant, feverish storm raged inside him.
&nbs
p; All because one woman had whispered his name.
What a bloody mess.
And, to his mortification, it only then occurred to him that he had never left word to Josephine of his departure. That was highly out of character for him.
He checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter to noon. They had slept the entire morning, and he was famished. He also still wore the same clothes as the day before, now rumpled and creased. His valet would be horrified.
Brahm shot a glare toward the front entrance, his dark scowl aimed at the storm, which trapped him inside the cottage with the biggest temptation he had ever faced.
Earlier, he had awoken to find Miss Middleton draped over his chest, her limbs entwined with his. He had scarcely been able to breathe in that moment.
Dammit—he had gone to bed above the damn covers with her beneath them. How the hell had she ended up on top of him?
Taking a deep breath, he raked a hand through his hair. It had been pure torment to wake with such a painful erection that he could not ease any more than he could escape to London in the storm. Even now his body was alive with fire.
But he was her guardian. Her protector.
And supposed to be a bloody gentleman.
It had taken every bit of his strength to untangle himself from her and slip away. And, as punishment—he was certain—a low moan of objection had escaped her full, parted lips. Followed by his name.
He cursed again at the memory.
His fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to control the urge to return to her.
The winds howled against the windows, mocking him, keeping him caged in this house alone with her. This snare of nature alone possessed the power to snap him in two.
But it was not Holly’s fault that her innocent touches enflamed him. Of course, his lack of control over his own body and emotions served to annoy him further. He should be able to ignore the feelings her touch brought on. For some reason, he couldn’t.
He should have retired to his room or slept in the chair. Or on the floor. But no, he had wanted to remain close to her in case the thunder frightened her more. Frankly, sleeping outside amid the storm would have been better than staying in bed with her.
