Imposter Bride

by Patricia Simpson

  “Why your room?” Ramsay mused, handing her the gun, assuming she was capable enough to handle it safely. He stripped off his wet stockings. “Two levels up is a lot of trouble to go to for a glimpse of ladies undergarments.”

  His sardonic remark was intended to dispel some of Sophie’s fright. But it seemed to have the reverse effect. He was distressed to see her face blanch even more. Her gaze darted past him to a pile of clothing on the floor. Was Sophie hiding something?

  “I’ll take those, sir,” Mrs. Betrus said, hurrying forward to get the stockings. “And should I send Charles for the constable?”

  Ramsay watched for Sophie’s reaction, and wasn’t surprised to see alarm flash through her eyes.

  “Don’t trouble him, Mrs. Betrus. I believe the danger is over.”

  “But somebody just broke in. Robbed us!”

  “I’ll make a report of it in the morning.” Ramsay held his hand out for the gun. “In the meantime, let’s get this room back in order and see if anything has gone missing.”

  He made a show of removing the grappling hook and rope and shutting the window, while all the time he watched Sophie out of the corner of his eye. The first thing she did was sort through the clothing until she found a pair of linen pockets. She picked them up, and her shoulders relaxed at once. Whatever she had feared was missing was still in her possession.

  What was in the pocket? Something so valuable a thief would chance a second-story fall? Something to do with Jean Coutain’s murder? Ramsay was certain Sophie was not a killer. But could she be a thief? His mind told him that since she was such an artful liar, she could be capable of any duplicity, but his heart told him that she could not have perpetrated a crime. Whatever hung in that linen pocket had a very good reason to be there, if he knew Sophie Vernet.

  And he was beginning to think he knew her very well.

  After they’d set the room to rights, they each had a nip of brandy to settle their nerves. Mrs. Betrus was in a frightful state and had two nips. Ramsay advised her to be sure to keep all the doors and windows locked from now on, and she retorted that she didn’t have to be told twice, he could be sure of that. She left them in the study, fluttering and muttering her way upstairs, and Ramsay couldn’t help but smile.

  He caught Sophie’s eye. She tried to smile back, but couldn’t, and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing the tops of her arms.

  “Want a fire?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s late.”

  “No trouble. I’m cold, too.”

  She gave him a scathing look. “That’s because you’re half-dressed.”

  “Better this than what I usually sleep in.”

  She still didn’t smile. He frowned, aware that she was still terrified, and he didn’t quite know how to help her.

  “Do you want me to take you to—” He broke off, because what he had been about to say seemed far too provocative and far too possible. “—back upstairs?”

  “Not yet.” She swallowed, her mouth pinched and white. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Would you stay?” She implored, her blue eyes startlingly light against her pale skin, their pupils contracted with fear. She continued to chafe her arms. “Just for a little while?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  He longed to take her in his arms and hold her until her fear abated. But he couldn’t take the chance, because an embrace with her might so easily turn into much more, at least as far as he was concerned.

  “I’ll build a fire.”

  Ill at ease, Ramsay knelt down, threw a clutch of kindling upon the grate and lit it, all the while highly aware of her slight figure standing behind him in that accursed night rail.

  Chapter 10

  Sophie sat on the edge of her chair by the fire, staring at the tiny flames dancing around the lumps of coal while Ramsay retrieved the blanket he sometimes pulled over his legs when reading late at night.

  “Here,” he said, draping it around her shoulders.

  “Thank you.” She pulled the fabric to her chin, but still sat on the edge of her chair, unable to relax. Ramsay stood near her for a moment, unsure of what to do, but unwilling to move far away. Instead, he bent over the fire again, and fussed at it with a poker, giving himself something to do and a reason to remain close to her.

  She watched him move the pieces of coal around.

  “I’m sorry to keep you up,” she finally remarked.

  “Don’t be.”

  “I’ve never been awakened like that before, with a thief in the very room I was sleeping in!”

  “You must have been terrified.” He shot her a glance, and she looked over at him and nodded.

  “I was,” she replied. “It feels so violating. You couldn’t possibly know how violating.”

  Ramsay stabbed the fire with unnecessary roughness. Contrary to what she thought, he knew what it felt like to be violated—to stand by helplessly and have everything he loved taken from him. He clenched his jaw, unable to shut off the vision as swiftly as he usually did. Something about Sophie kept bringing his heart and his memories dangerously close to the surface. Hot, burning bile rose in his throat.

  “Ian?” Gently, she touched his shoulder.

  He shook her off and stabbed the fire again, struggling to keep his feelings under control.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing!” He straightened and threw the poker into the rack with a loud rattle. He turned his back to her, unable to look at her. “It’s nothing!”

  For a long moment complete silence hung between them, silence so hard and so binding that he couldn’t walk away as he always did.

  He could see her slowly rising to her feet behind him, saw the blanket slipping to the chair, saw the glowing chestnut nimbus of her hair. He couldn’t turn around. He’d be lost if he looked at her.

  “It’s something in Scotland, isn’t it?” she asked, her words more a simple truth than a question. “And it’s everything to you, isn’t it?”

  He stood there, too distraught to answer her, too distraught to move.

  And then she touched him. She slipped up behind him and put her arms around him. She laid her tousled head between his shoulder blades and hugged him, so tenderly and so sweetly that he felt something cracking deep inside. No one had ever held him like this since he could remember.

  He tensed, knowing he should disengage instantly, walk out of the study, and never look back.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, reading his mind again.

  He hung his head, conquered before he’d even put up a respectable fight, losing the battle he hadn’t had the balls to avoid. Her small white hands were spread over his chest, holding him prisoner, seeming far too delicate for the task but doing it all the same. He felt the rise and fall of her breathing along his spine, felt the warmth of her breasts spreading over him, spreading like a wildfire through him. He stood there, aching, unable to separate his raging grief from the passion that burned so fiercely for this woman, all the while wondering how it could be so, how two such disparate emotions could send him to his knees like this at the same time. He shut his eyes.

  Then she began to caress him with those hands. He reached up and covered her fingers with his, to stop her.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he rasped in a voice both rough and raw.

  “Yes, I do,” she answered.

  He sighed and slowly turned around to find her looking up at him, her eyes heavy with desire and soft with kindness. He’d known it would come to this. He’d known it from the first moment he’d seen her. He had tried to stop the inevitable, but this was not something he could so easily control.

  Ramsay reached for her to pull her close, and felt the soft orbs of her uncorsetted breasts press into his abdomen. The sensation jolted him so much he almost moaned out loud. Then he lifted her off her feet, bringing her lips to his mouth and enfolding her in his embrace as he had
dreamed of holding her. She was soft and warm, and her hands slid under the light cotton fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. She caressed the bare flesh of his shoulders and kissed him at the base of his neck and then all along his jaw to his ear, her mouth strong and urgent.

  “My God,” he swore against her throat. She was on fire and so was he.

  Kissing her, he staggered backward with her, barely in command of his feet, and ended up at the wall next to the door which he intended to close so no one could hear their strident gasps. He turned and wedged her body between the wall and his hips, moving against her, one arm holding her off the floor, the other reaching for the latch of the door.

  His palm slid down the polished wood until it found the latch. He grabbed it. The cold metal was hard and chilled compared to Sophie’s warm young body, and the touch of it brought him back to his senses and reminded him of his grim purpose.

  Sophie Vernet was an instrument of his designs, not an avenue of pleasure. If she was so much as suspected of being deflowered by him, she could ruin him, or at least ruin his plans. The Earl of Blethin might not take soiled goods.

  Before Metcalf agreed to marry her, he might go so far as to assure himself of Miss Hinds’ virginity by having her inspected by a physician. Should there be evidence of sexual activity, the Metcalf family might pressure the earl into tossing the heiress aside. Though the possibility seemed unlikely, since the earl was so short of funds, Ramsay still couldn’t take the risk.

  No moment’s pleasure—even a moment such as this when he wanted Sophie more than he had ever wanted a woman—was worth losing Highclyffe. He couldn’t trade twenty years of work for one evening with a woman, no matter who she was. Ramsay’s mouth went dry, and he rose from her lips.

  Sophie’s head lolled back against the wall, and her eyes opened halfway to see what he was about. Her lips were red and full, having blossomed under his kiss, her cheeks were flushed, and she looked utterly irresistible. His knees felt so weak at the sight of her that he had to look away.

  “Come,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms. He could think of only one alternative to staying in this room and ravishing her. He would carry her upstairs and put her to bed. By the time he carried her up the long flight of stairs, he’d force himself to reacquire his usual firm resolve.

  She allowed herself to be swung up in his arms, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, snuggling against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her skin and the heavy curve of her left breast through the thin layer of his cotton shirt, and the sensation drove him to madness. He was grateful she didn’t speak, didn’t ask him any questions or make demands. He wasn’t certain he could refuse her if she so much as raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  Sophie was but a feather in his arms, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was barely out of breath. But as he had guessed, the effort was enough to cool his ardor and bring him back to rational thought. He steeled himself against the sensation of her body pressed into his, and strode down the hall to his room.

  Her frame stiffened slightly when she realized where she was being transported, and he was somewhat relieved. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting to be bedded after all. Judging by her previous behavior, he guessed she hadn’t had much experience with men, and that pleased him, too, even though he had no personal stake in the matter. He carried her to the side of his bed and gently lowered her to the sheets.

  “You’ll be safe here,” he said, slowly releasing her.

  Surprised, she glanced up at him, with the expected question in her eyes.

  He stood mutely before her, lost for words, wanting desperately to explain himself, but knowing he could not.

  She closed her eyes. Was she about to cry? St. Andrew, he hoped not. He’d never make it out of the room if she started to weep.

  “No thief would dare break into this room,” he added.

  She made no reply and did not open her eyes. She covered her face with the crook of her arm, as if by blocking her view to the world, she could conceal her reaction to him. She partially succeeded. He could still see her mouth, but it was difficult to read without the attending expression of her smoky eyes. He didn’t wish to leave her distraught, just as he had not been able to walk away while she had been in such a frightened state in the study.

  “If it makes you feel any safer, I shall be staying up for a while,” he put in, trying not to worry about what was transpiring under that arm. “I have correspondence I must attend to.”

  “I shall manage. Thank you.”

  He shifted his weight onto his right foot. “If you hear anything, I shall be in the study.”

  “Thank you.”

  He reached down for the coverlet to pull it over her. She lowered her arm from her face but didn’t meet his glance, as he brought the blanket to her shoulders. Then he straightened and searched her expression for the pout he expected to see, but saw nothing but a shadow of sad resignation in her eyes as she stared at the far wall, unseeing.

  The sadness wrenched him. He swallowed, knowing he should leave immediately, but unable to induce his feet to take the first step. “Miss Hinds,” he began, but paused, annoyed by the fact that he must call her by the assumed name. “Miss Hinds, please accept my apology for that abysmal behavior in the study.”

  “Apology?” Her gaze rose to his, unwavering. “But I was not offended.”

  Her unexpected remark galvanized him. For a moment he stood at the side of the bed, staring down at her, wanting more than anything to sink down to her, call her by her real name, promise to help her with whatever trouble she had got embroiled in, and make love to her—long, glorious, night-without-end love. But he knew he could never allow himself the pleasure, not when Highclyffe hung in the balance.

  “Were you offended, Ian?” she asked softly.

  “No.” He forced himself back to rational thought and did not allow himself to look at her. “But it is something better left unremarked. You know that as well as I. Goodnight, Miss Hinds.”

  She blinked at his curt reply and looked away, turning her back to him as she responded with a soft goodnight, her whisper ending the cataclysmic past hour he believed had changed them both forever. How would they act toward each other in the morning?

  Ramsay felt his path shifting under his feet, as when the tide pulled back, drawing the sand with it, no matter how firmly one stood at the water’s edge. He didn’t like the sensation, and yet knew the ocean was a force one could not harness or overcome.

  He suspected Sophie Vernet was like the sea, a force that had swept into his life, changing the way he ate, changing his routines, dredging up his long-buried sentiments, altering the way he felt about his home, about his life, even rearranging his furniture for God’s sake. And all for the better, if he admitted the truth.

  Now here she was in his bed. He’d never permitted a woman in his bed, not in his entire thirty years. Yet there lay the artful Sophie Vernet, his sheets pulled to her delicate shoulders, her tousled head on his pillows, preparing to spend the remainder of the winter night in his room. The worst of it was, he wanted her there.

  Damnation.

  Could he fight this force and overcome it? Probably not. Could he step away and find more solid ground? He would have to. Tomorrow, no matter what the weather and no matter how much he would miss Sophie’s engaging companionship—and her cooking—he would announce Miss Hinds healed and ready to repair to more suitable lodgings.

  Later, when Ramsay was certain Sophie was asleep, he slipped into her room and located the linen pockets, which she had cleverly stowed away in the tip of one of her new shoes. He reached in the thin fabric pouch and pulled out a small square item, not even as big as a guinea, and held it up to the light of a candle he’d placed nearby.

  He had found the diamond buckle. Ramsay sighed as deep disappointment washed through him. The chit had stolen the buckle after all. But why? Sophie simply didn’t seem like a thief, and certainly not the type of thief who would rob from a dea
d man. There had to be more to the story than he’d been told.

  He certainly couldn’t let her retain possession of such a valuable piece of jewelry. It did not belong to her, and implicated her in a serious crime. Someone must return it to the executor of the estate of the late Mr. Coutain. He would arrange to have it delivered. Meanwhile, he must not let her suspect he had taken it. The mere weight and shape of another buckle hanging inside the small pocket might be enough to convince her that she still had the diamond bauble.

  Ramsay reached down to his own breeches and with a sharp yank, ripped off the left pewter buckle, stuck it in her pocket, and then returned the bundle to the shoe. He rose, his scowl deeper than it had been in many years. He could feel it etching into the flesh of his face and into his heart.

  Sophie was a thief? He couldn’t believe it. But perhaps he would have to acknowledge her true nature soon. Before he approached her with the proof in his palm, he would see if Puckett had uncovered anything more about her.

  The next morning, in preparation for the Earl’s visit at eleven o’clock, Sophie was dressed carefully by her maid. Maggie expertly rolled Sophie’s hair, until her unruly locks were tamed into a beautiful mass of curls held up by pins and ribbon. She slipped into a new dress that had been delivered the day before, a pale green silk the color of sea foam, woven in an intricate pattern of roses. Her petticoat was a confection of pale cream that matched the lace stitched to her sleeves, and the front of her bodice.

  After Maggie left, Sophie painstakingly covered the red line on her arm with paste and powder, hoping that Edward Metcalf would take no notice of her rapidly healing wound, which the lace of her sleeve concealed.

  She went down at ten, closing the door behind her and glancing over her shoulder at the door to Ramsay’s room. She had spent the night in his bed, and the thought cast a thrill through her limbs. She could still smell his faint scent on her own skin, and wished she would never have to take a bath and wash away the fragrance.