by The Bargain
But admitting to a loss of maidenhood was a far cry from confessing to five years of whoredom! And yet now she knew, no matter if it cost her everything, she must tell him. It was part and parcel of the underlying honesty that formed her character. He loved her, and she could no more deceive this man who'd confessed it and come to mean so much to her than she could deceive herself. He had to know.
Slowly, agonizingly, knowing the risk she was taking, Megan drew back within the circle of their embrace and raised tremulous eyes to his. "Patrick," she said, her voice barely above a husky whisper, "I must tell ye somethin'."
"Yes, ma dílse!" he inquired softly, arrested by the pain he suddenly saw in the green eyes.
Megan swallowed, almost convulsively, then continued in a hesitant voice. "D-d'ye recall me tellin' ye last night I was no virgin?"
Patrick nodded and smiled, then reached to hold her head gently between his huge hands. "Yes, I recall it, but you were wrong," he told her.
At her puzzled expression, he continued. "You may have been without a physical maidenhead, my darling, but I knew, from the moment I caught the surprise in your eyes at your own passion, that your body was responding for the first time."
Startled that he'd perceived so much, Megan's eyes grew wide; then she nodded. "Ye read me well, Patrick. But ye see, there's more to it than—than that." Oh, Holy Mother Mary, this is so hard! she cried inwardly, then forced another swallow to dislodge the lump forming in her throat. Lowering her eyes, afraid to see the disgust in his face when he learned the truth, she made herself continue. "Ye see, Patrick, before I knew ye—"
"You were accustomed to faking your passion," he finished for her, a queer and tender expression in his eyes when hers flew up to meet them. "But, Megan, macushla, I'm hardly surprised, for what else could a sensitive soul like yourself have done at Hampton House?"
Megan's eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth, but still, a gasp of shock escaped. "You knew?"
Patrick's eyes held only tenderness and warmth as he raised one hand and caressed her cheek in a soft, loving gesture. "I knew," he nodded.
Megan's face was an incredulous mask of shock, then dawning joy, before she threw herself into his arms with a sharp cry. "And ye can still say ye love me?" she questioned, her words breaking through a sob.
The rumble of Patrick's joyous laughter met her ears. "I can still say I love ye and hope ye'll not have as much trouble believin' I'm askin' ye t' wed me as well, colleen, asthore!"
Megan's deliriously happy cry reached him through her tears. "Oh, Patrick, I love ye!"
"And...?" he questioned, stretching her at arm's length to grin into her laughing face.
"And I'll wed ye!" she grinned.
Patrick pulled her to him again, his glad laughter joining hers. "Ah, colleen, I'm going to enjoy doing all I can to make you happy!"
* * * * *
A long time later, after they had made slow, languorous love that transcended even the rapture of last night, Megan turned to look at him as he lay, smiling his repletion, beside her on the floor.
"Patrick?"
"Mmm?"
"How is it ye came t' learn o'—o' me past?"
"Oh, that." He smiled, then raised himself up on one elbow to look at her. "Do you remember when I disappeared for a couple of days last week while we were awaiting the wedding?"
Megan nodded. "Ye said ye had some affairs t' take care o' in London. I assumed ye were referrin' t' the purchasin' o' yer weddin' gift fer Ashleigh and Brett." She smiled, remembering the beautiful set of Belleek china with its four hundred exquisite pieces, each bearing the initials AWB, and the Ravensford coat of arms.
"Well, yes," said Patrick, "I did purchase that in London, but I also went there to look into what kind of a place it was that my sister had resided in for so many years."
"Ye didn't know?" Megan questioned incredulously.
Patrick chuckled. "That it was such a house? Oh, yes, Ashleigh told me as much, although I'd already learned the basics from Brett. But I wanted to know more of the specifics. I wanted to learn just how it was that she'd been able to retain her innocence for so long, despite her surroundings."
"So ye spoke t' Madame." Megan's tone was flat.
"Yes, I did, but more important, I spoke to Dorcas," he said with a meaningful look. "It was from that dear woman I learned of a multitude of kindnesses extended to my sister, not the least of which involved consistent protection by a tall, beautiful redhead with a heart bigger than she is."
Megan shrugged, then offered him a small, self-effacing smile. "'Twas nothin' much. I love the wee lass, Patrick."
"I know, macushla, but never underestimate what you did for her—you and Dorcas, bless her."
Megan's eyes grew dark. "But 'tis what I was finally unable t' do fer her that fashes me now. Oh, Patrick, what are we goin't' do fer the poor lass? 'Tis the present I'm concerned about!"
Patrick nodded, his eyes equally troubled. "I cannot help thinking her running away is a mistake. But I have my own guilt to deal with for forcing the marriage. Megan, when she met us looking so heartbroken, so much in pain, what else could I do but promise to help her get away?"
It was Megan's turn to nod. "Aye, 'twas a difficult situation fer ye. I wonder what he said t' her, t' convince her he'd be an unfaithful husband. I mean, I couldn't help feelin' there was more t' her tale than she told."
"I know," Patrick agreed. "I felt it too." His eyes drifted to a point somewhere across the room. "I cannot help thinking it would have been an unlikely thing for Brett to tell her on their wedding night, no matter how angry he'd been. After all, he told me earlier he held no grudges." Patrick ran a hand carelessly through his rumpled hair. "And I also cannot shake the notion that Brett has some feelings for Ashleigh. I've seen the way he's looked at her—when he thought no one was watching."
His gaze found Megan's again. "Well, we've not left England yet, and it will be several days before we can. Perhaps we'll be able to bring her to open up to us more, maybe even persuade her to reconsider... in time."
"Oh!" said Megan, sitting up suddenly. "Speakin' o' time, what o'clock is it? I'd forgotten the beasties are locked in yer chamber, and although that porker's housebroken, I wouldn't care t' test her too far."
"True," Patrick grinned, reaching for his breeches, "and if I know my little sister, she might already be seeking me out in my chamber. She's an early riser, and if she fails to find me there, she's apt to come here. Then she'd put two and two together quickly enough!"
Megan laughed as she reached for her shift.
* * * * *
A half hour later, Megan raised worried eyes to Patrick's as they stood outside Irish Night's stall at the inn. "What could have prompted her t' leave, d' ye think, and without any word t' us?"
Patrick shook his head, bewildered. "And beyond that, where has she gone?"
"Somethin' isn't right about this, Patrick. The innkeeper said he didn't see her leave this mornin', but he also said Mrs. Quimby's the early riser. I'm goin' back inside t' see if she's returned from her trip t' the hen house. Perhaps she saw Ashleigh leave." Megan turned and headed for the inn.
"I'll search around here a bit," Patrick called after her. "Perhaps I'll turn up a clue."
As Patrick entered the empty stall, Finn joined him, his shaggy head bent to the ground. Behind them, a softly grunting Lady Dimples imitated the wolfhound's posture.
Suddenly Patrick heard Finn begin to sniff, and rather loudly. He glanced down to find the big dog pushing his nose into the straw—or was it straw? The light in the stable was poor, but he caught sight of something white beneath Finn's paw as the hound suddenly raised his head and barked.
"What's that, boy? Found something?"
A moment later Megan came running through the door. A puffing Mrs. Quimby, the innkeeper's wife, was right behind her.
"Patrick!" Megan called. "Someone sent her a note last night. Mrs. Quimby says—"
"I know," said Patrick
, looking at her oddly. He handed her a piece of wrinkled parchment. "Finn just found this on the floor there."
Megan took the parchment and rapidly scanned its surface, then raised her eyes to Patrick's. "Tis my writin' form, but, Patrick, I niver wrote this!"
"Oh, no," asserted a breathless Mrs. Quimby as she craned her neck about Megan's shoulder to view the parchment. "'Twas a gentlemun gave me that. Th' lady 'ere, she'd already gone abed."
Patrick's eyes went from the innkeeper's wife to Megan, then returned to the parchment. "I didn't think you could have written it, Megan. You were with me from the time Ashleigh left us until—" he glanced briefly at Mrs. Quimby, then threw Megan a half smile "—until you retired. But," he added with a tap on the parchment with the backs of his fingers, "someone with a knowledge of your penmanship went to a great deal of trouble to make Ashleigh believe you'd written it."
"Someone rather skilled in the art o' forgery," Megan added grimly.
Patrick turned to the stout, middle-aged matron. "Mrs. Quimby, you said a gentleman handed you the note. Can you tell us what he looked like?"
"Oh, that I can, sir," said Mrs. Quimby, suddenly brightening and no longer twisting her apron nervously with her hands. "'E was tall—oh, not as tall as you be, sir, but tall enough, just th' same—and 'e 'ad 'air th' color o' ripe chestnuts—'andsome 'e was, too, with eyes neither blue nor green, but a startlin' color somewheres in betwixt—beautiful eyes, if I may say so."
"Oh, no," groaned Megan.
"Brett," groaned Patrick.
"Is aught amiss?" questioned Mrs. Quimby, her hands again wringing her apron.
"Nothing you need trouble yourself about, Mrs. Quimby," Patrick sighed. "Thank you for your help." He glanced over at the stall that held Saint. "I may have to ask your help in one more matter, however, or Mr. Quimby, perhaps. My horse requires at least another couple of days' rest before he can travel. I'll pay well for someone to tend him, as well as for a mount to hire until he's fully mended. If you'll assist me..."
* * * * *
Ashleigh sat wrapped in a monogrammed silk sheet and gazed about the chamber she'd come to regard as her silken prison. For three lonely, frightening days and three miserable nights, he had kept her imprisoned here. Beyond the lack of clothes and someone to talk to, she hadn't wanted for anything. Well-prepared meals were served to her three times a day by a taciturn Higgins; Higgins also lit a fire for her in the beautiful Georgian marble fireplace if the evenings became chilly; daily baths were prepared; candles were provided for the numerous silver candlesticks in the chamber, and even lighted for her following the manservant's trip with the evening supper tray.... She had everything she required—except her freedom.
She had no doubt as to why he'd brought her here, of course. It was to punish her for leaving him; that much was clear. But what she hadn't learned was what his plans for the future entailed—or if he indeed had any.
A carriage rumbled by in the street outside the open front courtyard, but Ashleigh paid it no heed. It wasn't that those passing by couldn't hear her if she chose to open the front window and yell for help; it was that she was completely helpless to do so. How could she yell publicly through a window in a fashionable part of the city when she wore no clothes? Even if she dared risk it, what could she say to an answering stranger, wrapped as she was, only in a sheet? Considering the incredible details of her story, and whose house she was in, she suspected such passersby would think her a shameless prankster, or worse, stark raving mad; and this was to say nothing of the scandal it would create!
Her thoughts swung back to her husband and his unmitigated anger, as well as his relentless determination to keep her in the dark as to what he planned to do with her. Oh, it wasn't as if she had no access to him! On the contrary, he entered the locked chamber nightly, always arriving well after midnight in the blackest of moods.
He rarely spoke two words to her then, but would cast dark and forbidding looks her way before staggering to the bed and throwing himself, fully clothed, upon the mattress beside her. And always, on these occasions, she would smell the scent of liquor and some strange perfume he brought with him, before flinging herself to the far side of the bed in fear and disgust.
But he never made any further moves to touch her. In the mornings, when she awoke later than was her custom—for she usually had trouble falling back to sleep once he joined her— she'd find him gone, with nothing to show he'd even been there, except a lingering scent of brandy and perfume. And if she'd had doubts about leaving him and the fears that had prompted it, this present behavior erased them from her mind. Not only was he spending his evenings with other women; he was deliberately coming to her with evidence of it—flaunting it before her with obvious intent.
So, as the gray light of dawn crept through the windows, Ashleigh's thoughts would focus on one thing: escape. Desperately, she willed Patrick and Megan to find her, clung to the hope that they would—and soon—for she wasn't sure how much more of her present wretchedness she could endure.
* * * * *
While Ashleigh sat upstairs contemplating her fate, Brett was facing a problem of his own on the floor below.
"Really, Lady Margaret, I cannot see why you've come," he said with cool annoyance. "You hardly ever come up to London, and I especially don't see why you should be here in the warm season."
"Well, then, Brett," said Margaret as she stepped farther into the entry foyer, "you will simply have to allow me to explain myself." Glancing about, she added, "Where are your servants? I'm aware that you occasionally stoop to answering your own door, but—"
"I've given all but Higgins a week's holiday."
"Holiday? But whatever for? Surely you realize—"
Impatient, Brett cut her off a second time. "Lady Margaret, kindly state your visit's purpose and then leave. As you can see, without a staff, I am hardly in a position to entertain guests."
Ignoring him, Margaret walked toward the double doors on their right. "In the drawing room, if you please, Your Grace. You can hardly expect me to discuss anything standing in your foyer. Your manners are disgraceful! And ring for Higgins to fetch some tea," she added while pulling open the double doors. "I've had a long ride."
Sighing with dislike and frustration, Brett did as she said, and a few minutes later, found himself sitting across from her in an upholstered chair in the drawing room. "Now," he said, "what is of such monumental importance that it would bring you all the way up to London in the heat?"
"To begin with, this," she told him, handing over a sheet of paper she'd extracted from her reticule.
Brett's jaws clenched as he recognized the flowing script of his wife, spelling out her parting words.
"You dropped this in your haste the evening you left," said his great-aunt. "One of the maids found it and brought it to me, and I thank Heaven she did. Imagine the scandal if it were found by one of the servants who can read!"
Crumpling the note with a look that denoted weary disgust, Brett met her icy blue eyes. "So you've come about the content of... this," he said, gazing at the crumpled mass for a long moment before letting it drop to the thick carpet. His gaze returned to Margaret. "Well, what of it?"
A soft knock at the door indicated Higgins had arrived with the tea. Brett endured the interruption with a growing impatience that was mollified somewhat by the sight of a brandy snifter and a bottle of his best contraband on the tray bearing the tea service. He quirked an eyebrow at the sober-faced manservant as he set the tray before them, but Higgins's only response was a knowing look, coupled with a quick glance at Lady Margaret before he withdrew.
Pouring himself a liberal helping of brandy, Brett again faced his great-aunt. "As you were about to say, Lady Margaret?"
Margaret finished stirring a lump of sugar into the tea in a delicate porcelain cup, set aside the silver spoon she'd used, and gave him a prolonged look before saying, "I've come to help ease the way for your divorce."
Brett's brows drew together m
enacingly. "And just what makes you think I'm going to obtain one?"
Margaret stopped in the midst of taking a sip of tea and lowered her cup to its saucer. "Well, isn't it patently obvious? The chit's left you. And good riddance to bad rubbish, too, I say! Now, I realize there may be a scandal. Divorce isn't easily overlooked, even for those of our class, but there's where I may help. I know enough of the old guard of the ton, and all it takes is a few carefully chosen words placed in the right ears—of certain gossipy sorts, I mean—and I'm sure I can make it appear you were totally blameless in the entire affair. Why, all I need mention of that girl is that she—"
"You will do nothing of the sort!" Brett ground out from between clenched jaws.
Margaret gave no evidence she'd heard the menace in his tone. "Really, Brett, it's the only way. Face facts. The baggage is gone. What else can you mean to do? Run after her and cart her back? Why, she's likely halfway to America by now with that brother of hers. Divorce her, I say! You have no alternative!"
The turquoise eyes narrowed as he gave her a contemplative look. "But I do have an alternative."
Margaret arched her eyebrows over the rim of her teacup. "Which is...?"
"To remain wed."
"To a woman who is not here?"
"To a woman who is here!"
The teacup rattled against its saucer as Margaret's jaw dropped. "Where?" she breathed.
"Upstairs in my chamber, where she's been since the day she left."
The blue eyes narrowed. "Willingly?"
There was a second's hesitation. "No."
"Oh, for God's sake, Brett! What's the point?"
Brett drained the contents of the snifter, set it down on the tea table, and rose abruptly from his chair. "The point is," he said, walking toward one of the tall front windows, "that I've prevented her from deserting me, and that I want her here. At least, until I decide what to do with her."
