Pompous prig.
Adaira faced him. “You know nothing of me, Mr. Marquardt. Believe what you will. I truly don’t care that someone of your ilk has a low opinion of me.”
She took a step closer and aimed the pistol straight at his heart. “But, hear me, and hear me well, you . . . you horse’s arse. Say another word against my family, and I’ll leave you to starve here in this,” she swept the pistol in an arc, “pit until Ewan returns.”
Seemingly unperturbed, Marquardt unwrapped a napkin holding oat rolls. Palming one, he crossed to the door and lounged against the bars with one shoulder. His gaze resting on the gun, he took a bite of the roll.
Cocking his head, his lips curved into a sensual smile. Adaira’s toes curled in her slippers. Bumps covered her skin from her forearms to her shoulders. Her traitorous nipples hardened once more. She had the oddest urge to press her thighs together, tightly, to still the strange fluttering at their apex.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
It’s the cold. Dampness. Nerves. Worry. Fright. Hunger.
Hunger?
“I’ll admit, properly attired, you’re not unbecoming,” Marquardt murmured.
Her eyes flew open.
His gaze made a visual journey over her. “I’d never have believed you were a beauty beneath that boy’s garb. One has to wonder why you go to such lengths to hide your womanly assets. Though, I prefer a fuller bosom and more curvaceous hips to warm my bed.”
Adaira stiffened.
He was speaking his thoughts again, and his words were more on spot then she cared for him to know. Faith, didn’t the man hear himself? Her threat to abandon him hadn’t appeared to disquiet him in the least. He stood there, munching the roll, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His gaze brimmed with cynicism. And something else.
That unnerved her more than his cutting remarks or blatant hostility.
She deliberately relaxed. Placing the gun inside the bag, she knotted the end. Visualizing Marquardt trussed like a goose, she tried to decide on a fitting punishment.
Mayhap pouring honey over him and inviting a colony of ants to picnic. Or tarring and feathering the twiddle-poop and parading him about Craigcutty, still bound like a goose.
Yes, that would do nicely. With that image firmly set in her mind, she met his indolent gaze straight on.
Adaira shook her head in exasperation. “I’m not hiding my womanly assets, as you crudely put it.”
She was, but she’d eat worms before she admitted it to him.
“And hell would bloody well freeze over before you ever found me warming your bed.” Or, any man’s for that matter. “I’d sooner sleep with an adder.”
A sardonic grin twisted his mouth as his hooded gaze hovered over her breasts. “Oh, there’d be something wiggling about the sheets.”
Heat scorched her face. How dare he make such a vulgar innuendo? Was he raised in a cow-byre? Gentlemen simply didn’t speak of such things. Ever.
Ninny, he’s no gentleman, and he doesn’t know he revealed his thoughts again.
Adaira laughed softly before turning the tables on him. “That must be rather embarrassing, blurting your thoughts aloud.”
She couldn’t keep the mockery from her voice. His nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Egads.” She pointed at Marquardt. “It’s a good thing you’re not an agent for the Corps like Ewan. You’d be unable to keep state secrets and spill all sorts of confidences.”
His lips firmed. He squashed the roll into a lump of dough.
Oh, that had set up his bristles.
“Not nearly as maddening as being locked in a cage by a foul-mouthed hoyden.” Vehemence, sharp as thorns, laced his voice.
“Blame me all you wish, Mr. Marquardt, but your depraved actions have landed you here.” She snatched the lantern from the hook, then turned and ran down the corridor. She had to stop whoever was below before they reached Marquardt’s cell.
CHAPTER 8
“Addy? Addeey? Where are yeee, lasssh?”
Yes, definitely Brayan and most assuredly, ape-drunk by the sound of his slurred speech. The yoke of guilt and regret for involving him in her scheme weighed upon Adaira. He couldn’t be seen by Marquardt. She had no doubt the fiend would also exact his full vengeance on Brayan.
She’d only known Marquardt for two days. Yet, she was certain of one thing. Mercy was not a virtue of his. He’d threatened her each time she’d ventured below. Not that she blamed him. She’d be furious, too, if someone confined her, took away her freedom. She knew full well the horror of being controlled and held powerless by another.
A shiver slithered the length of her spine. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. There was a remote chance, very remote, she kept telling herself, that he was the earl.
God help her if that proved true.
She swallowed against the lump of fear wedged at the back of her throat. Yvette seldom spoke of her stepbrothers. Adaira knew both had dark hair and blue eyes, but little else regarding them. She scrunched her brow. Had Yvette ever mentioned anything that would positively identify either man?
Rushing around corner, Adaira plowed full-on into Brayan’s broad chest. “Oomph!”
He staggered backward, one muscled arm wrapped around her and lifting her off the floor.
She shoved against him. “Let loose, you great oaf! I cannot breathe.”
Gads, but he was strong.
He released her, and air rushed into her lungs.
Rubbing her side, certain she’d sport a large bruise in an hour, she leaned toward him and sniffed. She crinkled her nose. He reeked of whisky.
“Blister it, Brayan, are you touched in the head? Why are you down here?” She grabbed his arm and started towing him in the direction from whence he’d come. “Did you take care to make sure no one followed you?”
“Of coursssh. Yer mother was ashkin’ after ye.” He tripped and swayed.
Adaira tightened her grip on his arm. Her fingers barely went halfway round his massive bicep.
“I tol’ ‘er one of yer mares was due to foal.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “An’ ye’d probably los’ track of the time when ye’d gone to check on ‘er.”
Adaira stopped and smiled at him. “That was brilliant! Vala is due soon.”
Brayan beamed at her, a lopsided grin on his face.
“Now,” Adaira said, hauling him along, “I won’t have to explain my ruined slippers. We need to hurry, though. Let’s use the other door and circle around to the stables. We’ll have to enter the keep through the gatehouse, but that shouldn’t raise any suspicions.”
She gave him a quick hug. “What would I do without you?”
“Addy. . .?”
The seductive timbre of his voice alerted her. She nearly groaned aloud.
Drat, not now. Not ever.
She couldn’t let him declare himself, especially when he was in his cups. She didn’t want to break his heart. Why couldn’t he be satisfied to remain friends?
She grabbed his hand. “Come. This way. Hold your lantern aloft, will you? It will be much easier to see our way.”
Jabbering on, she didn’t allow him an opportunity to say a word. She wended her way through the maze of passages. He lumbered along beside her, weaving from side-to-side. How much had he drunk, the fool?
She glanced at Brayan. “Mother will be miffed.”
His face was puckered in concentration as he strove to place one foot in front of the other without toppling over.
“I told her I was going to take headache powders and return at once. Of course, knowing my penchant for horses, especially the foals, she’ll forgive me.”
Adaira hustled him along another corridor. “Here we
are. Help me with the door, please.”
With a powerful yank, he forced open the stone door. It grated across the floor, sending shivers the length of her spine. Warm air swept across her face. She welcomed it, given the penetrating chill of the dungeon.
The perfume of nearby roses wafted into the entrance. Sweeping through the doorway, her gown caught on a thorn. She stifled an oath. Before she could detach the material, Brayan plowed into her from behind. She stumbled and nearly fell. The delicate fabric tore. A good length of scarlet cloth remained on the bush.
“Oh rot, this is a new gown, too!” She bent to inspect the damage and huffed, “It’s ruined.”
“Ye don’t need fancy gowns, Addeey. Mother always says, ‘A preddy face suits the dishcloth.’ Ye are so bonnie, it doesn’t madder what ye wear.” He ducked his head, bashfully.
Adaira stared, jaw slack. Was he blushing? Impossible to tell, even with the two lanterns. Blast, he was truly trying to court her. That explained why he was in his cups, to bolster his courage.
“I like ye in yer breeches meself.” He waggled his eyebrows, a silly grin on his face. He leered at her hips.
Oh, this was outside of enough. She’d speak to him when he was sober, make it perfectly clear, once and for all, she harbored no romantic feelings for him.
But there was a fetching lass in the village who’d welcome his attentions. She’d seen Megan peeping at Brayan from beneath her lashes and giggling behind her hand. Yes, Adaira had better play matchmaker. And soon.
She pointed to the door. “You close the door, and I’ll douse my light. We don’t need both of the lanterns.” She blew out the flame. “We’d best hurry. . .”
Suddenly, Brayan gripped her shoulders. Before she had a chance to utter a squeak in protest, he mashed his wet, whisky-tainted lips against hers. The coarse stubble of his beard scratched her face. He tried to shove his tongue between her firmly meshed lips.
Adaira wrenched free and slapped him. Hard. She staggered backward several steps, holding her stinging hand against her middle. “Ye’ll not be taking liberties with me, Brayan McVey, ye great drunken sot!”
Her voice wavered with fury. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Disgusting.
Brayan threw back his head and laughed. The sound lodged in the pit of her stomach.
“Aye, lass, I will.” He tilted his head toward the door. “If ye be wantin’ me to keep yer secret.”
Adaira wasn’t sure how long she stood staring after Brayan. Except that it was long past the time his enormous form wobbled from sight and drunken singing faded into silence.
An owl’s hooting roused her from her stupor. With a great deal of grunting and sweating, she managed to shove the keep’s door closed.
She cast a glance skyward. There was a full moon tonight, nearly as bright as dawn’s violet-gray light. She hadn’t realized that with the lanterns lit. A hot tear spilled from the corner of her eye and trailed over her cheek. She rubbed it away, refusing to cry. She loathed waterworks. Besides, this mess was her making.
Yes, but Brayan . . .
A shaky huff escaped her.
She’d never have thought him capable of such treachery.
Mentally shaking herself, she set a course for the stables. Vala still needed to be checked on. The mare wasn’t expected to foal until next week, but foaling two weeks early or two weeks late was common. In any event, it wouldn’t hurt to make a showing in the stable in case anyone questioned Adaira’s whereabouts
What hour was it anyway? She’d not descended into to the keep’s belly until a quarter to ten. She raised her face to the heavens once more. Thousands of stars cheerily blinked back at her.
The moon was just right of straight overhead. It was well past eleven o’clock. Closer to midnight, actually.
The grooms were already abed.
A thought riveted her in her tracks.
She smiled. Brayan’s threat held no merit. Once Ewan was home, the entire castle would know she’d abducted Marquardt. They’d also know why. She’d be vindicated and absolved of all blame.
Her grin faded.
Except, if she did, indeed, have the wrong brother.
CHAPTER 9
Adaira cautiously entered the hall a bit past noon two days later. She’d dressed in her comfortable buckskin breeches, a white shirt tucked into the waistband, and a leather vest secured across her chest,
Since the night before last, when Brayan had threatened her, she’d stayed sequestered in her room. The day afterward, she’d claimed to be indisposed. She hadn’t even gone to the lower levels to check on Marquardt. He had plenty of candles and food. He might be starved for company besides rats and other pests, but he wouldn’t go hungry.
Unless, the vermin invaded his rations.
Blast, she should have provided him with a storage container of some sort. That would have meant opening the door to his chamber though, and the archangel Michael himself couldn’t have persuaded her to do that. If only there’d been shackles in the cell.
Moving farther into the hall, she released a pent-up, breath. Only Mother and Isobel were present. They sat at a smaller table placed before the hall’s gargantuan unlit fireplace. Mother’s midnight tresses and Isobel’s caramel-tinted curls were bent close together as they read a letter her mother held.
Adaira released a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t have to deal with Aubry.
Adaira had never been particularly fond of her female cousin, unlike Callum, Aubry’s brother, who was well-liked by all. They had come to live at Craiglocky ten years ago after their parents were lost at sea.
Since Ewan threatened her with banishment for her horrid treatment of Yvette, Aubry had been rather scarce. She’d begged Yvette for forgiveness. Still, Adaira didn’t trust her surly cousin.
Mother and Isobel glanced up at Adaira’s entrance. Duplicate pairs of aquamarine eyes framed by thick charcoal lashes greeted her. Mother smiled a warm welcome. The corners of her eyes crinkled, the faint lines the only indication she was old enough to be the mother of a man seven and twenty.
She waved the paper. “From my sister. Once again, she’s issued an invitation to visit her in France.”
Mother’s mouth swept upward. “Floressa is persistent if nothing else.”
The paper crackled softly as Mother folded the letter. She set it aside. Her gaze skimmed Adaira. “It’s good to see you up and about, Addy. I was going to have Gregor examine you if you hadn’t improved by today.”
Adaira heard the relief in her mother’s soft, French accent. She forced a cheerful smile. “I’m feeling much better.”
It was true. Knowing she could soon turn Marquardt’s care over to Ewan was a tremendous relief. A day or two more at most, and then she’d never have to see Marquardt again. The lout had caused her more self-doubt and self-recriminations than anyone else ever had.
“Are you?” Isobel’s tilted her head to one side. Her intelligent eyes scrutinized Adaira. “You’re rather pale.”
Drat. Isobel knew her far too well. Their dispositions were as different as summer and winter, yet Adaira was very close to her sister. After kissing their mother on the cheek, Adaira took a seat.
“Truly, Isobel. I am recovered.” Adaira smiled and accepted the china plate covered in blue roses her sister handed her. “As you know, I never remain ill for long.”
Isobel poured Adaira a goblet of claret.
“Here, ma chére.” Mother nudged a plate of Scotch pies and oatcakes her direction. She thought Adaira was too thin as well. The truth was, she was afraid to put on extra flesh. Men seemed to prefer women with amply rounded bosoms and hips. At least Scotsmen did.
And one Englishman she could think of.
Adaira placed a steaming chicken pie on her plate
and made a mental count of the remainders. Nine pies and seven oatcakes. She scanned the table. Apples, strawberries, oat rolls, bread, and assorted cheeses. Her stomach growled at the mixture of delicious smells. She smiled, genuinely pleased. There was plenty of food to pilfer for Marquardt.
“Strawberries, Addy? I know they’re your favorite.” Isobel held a bowl practically under Adaira’s chin. Isobel really needed to wear her spectacles. She couldn’t see past the end of her nose clearly without them.
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 8
