He’d never raised a hand to a woman. Never. Oh, he’d wanted to. There had been the boardinghouse mistress in Boston who’d taken the rent he’d risked life and limb to steal and kicked him out on the street, and the urchin who’d stolen the bread he’d bought with a hard day’s honest wages. God knew, he’d had the opportunity to retaliate for both insults with his fists. He’d never laid a finger on them. He’d be damned to hell before he laid a finger on Adelaide in anger.
His eyes tracked over the angry bruise on her cheek.
He’d be damned if he didn’t lay fists on Sir Robert.
Rage was a towering flame inside him, blistering his skin and threatening to consume his control. He banked it through a well-honed force of will and let it simmer below the surface. Later, he would let it spill over, when it was Sir Robert, and not Adelaide, who would suffer the burns.
He strove for a lighter tone. “I’d not thought Sir Robert would make it so easy for you to decide in my favor.”
Her eyes darted away. “I didn’t decide because of this. This is because I had decided.”
“Had you?” It gave him a ridiculous amount of pleasure to hear her say it. “Dare I ask why?”
She looked at him again and gifted him with an adorably cheeky smile. “The fifteen thousand pounds.”
“Naturally.”
He didn’t believe it. That she would marry for money, he never doubted, but she hadn’t chosen him because he had more money. Sir Robert’s income was sufficient to see her family comfortably settled, and she would have been content to accept sufficient, if it had been offered by the better man.
Damn if he didn’t like knowing she’d thought him the better man, even before Sir Robert had betrayed his true nature. But knowing for himself and hearing her admit it were not the same thing.
It was ridiculous that he should need the words from her. He knew, didn’t he? Clearly, she knew as well. There was no reason for the obvious to be said aloud. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from asking to hear them.
“I would like the truth, Adelaide. If you could see your way to giving it.”
Chapter 15
Adelaide considered Connor’s request and the manner in which it had been given. There was a new kind of hesitancy in his voice, something she’d not heard from him before. If she’d not known better, she might have called it uncertainty. She knew better. Men like Connor were never uncertain of themselves. They were confident to a fault.
She was tempted to repeat her insistence about the fifteen thousand pounds, but in the interest of beginning their new life on a more affirming note, she decided to try for a bit of honesty.
“I chose you because you told me . . .” She trailed off and reconsidered her words. Almost, she’d said she’d chosen him because he’d told the truth. Which was perfectly absurd. “You told more truths than Sir Robert. You said you’d taken notice of me before you knew of the baron’s courtship.” She nodded once. “That was the truth.”
It wasn’t the only reason, or even her first reason, but it was the one that carried the most weight with her now. After her temper of yesterday had passed, she’d looked beyond the tangle of lies and latched onto that one truth.
Connor had wanted her, just for her. Only until he’d found other reasons to want her, of course, and it hardly excused him from having played merry hell with her reputation. But still . . . He’d wanted her, and that was something.
“You believed me.” Connor didn’t sound stunned, exactly, but there was an unmistakable note of surprise.
Good heavens, he had been unsure. Amusement tugged at her lips. “Yes.”
“And do you believe he stole my inheritance and sold me to a press-gang when I was a boy?” he asked, a hint of eagerness in his tone.
She remembered the fury and violence in Sir Robert’s eyes. “It is possible.”
“And tossed me in prison and made another grasp at my fortune when I returned?”
“Yes, of course.” She’d believed that from the start.
Now he was just looking smug. “And that I have, in fact, saved you.”
Insomuch as a gentleman could save a lady from a burning building after he had set it on fire. She opened her mouth to inform him of Sir Robert’s own plan for revenge but thought better of it at the last moment. Connor may have noticed her first, but it didn’t follow that his first thoughts had been of marriage. Would his offer stand if he learned Sir Robert had never really cared for her? That there was no revenge to be had in marrying her? She wanted to think it would. She wanted to believe he would keep his promise. But she couldn’t be sure.
“You provided a viable alternative,” she replied.
His mouth turned down at the corners. “An equivocation, but I’ll accept it.”
“Generous of you.”
He didn’t smile as she’d hoped. His gaze was steady and intense, his voice soft and even. “You’ll be Mrs. Brice. You will not regret it.”
For the life of her, she couldn’t tell if he was making a promise or delivering an order. She nodded, thinking it was an appropriate response either way.
“You’ll not see him again,” Connor said.
She nodded with more enthusiasm, not caring if it was an order or a promise, so long as it was true.
Connor caught her chin gently and brushed a whisper-soft kiss against her lips. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured. Then he dropped his hand, spun on his heel, and strode toward the door.
“But . . .” They had more to discuss—more details and negotiations to work through. There was still that awful matter of how many times a day. “Where are you going?”
He threw a sharp smile over his shoulder. “To not kill Sir Robert.”
There were quite a few things a person could do to a man without killing him. Arms and legs could be broken, or even removed. A body could live without all its limbs. A body could live without a number of things—the eyes, nose, ears, and tongue.
Connor hadn’t included mutilation in his original inventory of ways Sir Robert would pay. But he was a flexible man, and he’d always meant for the list to be open-ended.
He took dark pleasure in adding to that list now, carefully selecting each gruesome punishment. It gave him something to do while he waited in the dark alley between Banfries’s tavern and the mews. He needed something to distract himself from the image of Sir Robert lifting his hand to Adelaide, and visions of divesting Sir Robert of the offending appendage almost did the trick. Almost.
The fury he’d kept carefully concealed for Adelaide’s sake had boiled over the moment he’d walked out her front door.
The bastard had used his fist. His fist.
So, it would be the hands first. He’d break each finger individually. The tongue next. A fitting price for the lies that had spilled from Sir Robert’s mouth. Then . . .
He turned his head at the sound of the tavern door swinging open and laughter pouring outside. When Sir Robert and his man stepped into the alley, the list was forgotten. Connor forgot everything but his fury. The urge to attack clawed at him, but he waited, letting the rage build higher, until the men were in the dark of the alley. Then he stepped from the shadows and reached his quarry in three purposeful strides.
He gave Sir Robert time to defend himself—he gave Sir Robert time to try, anyway—but the man just stood there, immobile but for the widening of his eyes.
Those eyes snapped shut when Connor’s fist connected with flesh. Connor found satisfaction in the throb of his hand. He found greater satisfaction in hearing Sir Robert grunt with pain and watching him fall back against the wall.
Sir Robert’s fingers scrambled for purchase on the bricks. He succeeded in keeping himself more or less upright and stumbled over a pile of refuse, into the center of the alley. He spun around, his face a mask of fear, rage, and blood from a missing tooth.
“Help me, you fool!” He shouted at his man.
Connor stayed the man with a quick shake of his head and a simple flick of the
hand.
At the sight of his companion backing away, palms out, Sir Robert pulled a small knife from his coat, let out a shout of fury, and charged at Connor. He swung his arm in a wide arc. It was almost too easy for Connor to dodge the attack, knock the knife away, and land another blow. It was just as easy to step out of the way of Sir Robert’s swinging fist, then step back in again to catch his adversary in the gut.
When Sir Robert let out a sharp wheeze and doubled over, Connor grabbed him around the throat and shoved him straight again. There was no pleasure to be had in punching the back of a man’s head. But there was quite a bit to be found in the sound of Sir Robert’s nose breaking on the next punch.
Sir Robert crumpled to the ground, a bloody, groaning heap.
Connor battled the urge to follow him and pummel with his fists until the groaning stopped . . . Or the vision of Adelaide’s bruise faded from memory. Whichever came last.
Instead, he kicked the knife and sent it skittering over the cobblestones to bounce off Sir Robert’s knee.
“Care to try again?” he taunted. He hoped Sir Robert would take the bait. Nothing would give him more pleasure than an excuse to break his promise.
Sir Robert’s groaning faded. His fingers curled around the knife, and he struggled to his knees.
“You’ll hang for this,” he rasped.
“They don’t hang commoners for brawling with your type, only killing them. And I’ve not laid a hand on you.” Connor made a show of brushing a bit of dust off his coat. “In fact, I spent the night at home, nursing a brandy.”
“I have a witness,” Sir Robert barked, his voice gaining strength.
“Do you?” Connor dug a sovereign out of his pocket and tossed it at Sir Robert’s man. “What did you see here?”
Graham Sefton snatched the coin out of the air. He studied it, a line of concentration across his brow. “It’s not right, a man telling what he knows for a bit of coin. Ought be speaking the truth for its own sake.” He tossed the coin back to Connor. “And it weren’t fair, I tell you, the way those footpads laid into my master. Two of them, there were, and the elder was a brute of a lad. At least ten years of age.”
“You . . . The two of you . . .” Sir Robert glared at Graham, his skin turning nearly as red as the blood on his mouth and chin. “You traitorous filth! I should have known better than to hire your kind!”
“Aye,” Graham agreed with a pleasant nod. “You should have. I might have run off with your silver. Or slit your throat in your sleep . . .” He cocked his head. “Thought about doing both, truth be told.”
“I get his throat,” Connor said mildly. “It was my fiancée he laid hands on.”
“Miss Ward?” Sir Robert threw his head back and let loose a short, raspy laugh. “That’s what this is about? Miss Ward? Oh, Christ, this is priceless. You think you’ve won. You think you’ve landed me a terrible blow, but you’ve accomplished nothing but to tie a noose round your own neck.”
He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand and managed to gain his feet. “I never wanted the bitch. I’d not have given her a second glance if it hadn’t been for you. Poor Mr. Brice,” he crooned in a singsong voice. “Unjustly accused. Locked away without cause. Fated to spend every Saturday watching, pining for just a glimpse at his fair maiden. My God. So tragic. So romantic .” His rapidly swelling lips curved into a gruesome smile. “Such a pleasure to steal her out from under your nose.”
Connor was careful not to react. He wanted to believe Sir Robert spoke out of shredded pride and spite, but he couldn’t.
Bloody, buggering hell. He was responsible for bringing Adelaide to Sir Robert’s attention.
“Even more pleasure to be had in watching you fail,” Connor returned with false calm.
“I’ll have her yet!” Sir Robert’s voice rose in pitch and volume. The humor in his eyes vanished. “I’ll have her when she’s tired of you. When she’s itching to have a man and not a bastard boy. And then you’ll know. You’ll know what it’s like!”
“What what is like?”
“To be passed over!” He was near to screeching now, his voice strained and scratchy. “To come second! To have your life ruined—” He took a breath, then another, visibly calming. He pointed the blade at Connor. “—because of a whore.”
Connor could all but feel the hate coming off of Sir Robert in waves. It coated his skin and slithered into his pores. He took a menacing step forward and bared his teeth. “Come within a mile of Miss Ward again, and I’ll cut your heart out with that knife.”
“You can have her,” Sir Robert spat. “For now.” And with that, he spun on his heel and loped off unsteadily toward the mews.
Connor watched him go as Graham strolled over and let out a long, low whistle. “Mad as a hatter, that one.”
“No.” Connor rubbed the back of his hand across his jaw. “Just mad enough to be dangerous.”
“He’ll clean his house of staff now.”
Connor nodded. “Do you know which are to be trusted?”
“Don’t know but one or two in the lot who wouldn’t be happy to find other employment.”
“They have it. At Ashbury Hall.”
“Will you still be getting married?”
He spoke without hesitation. “Yes.”
“You’re a good man.”
He wasn’t, particularly. He was selfish, and greedy, and territorial. It was a pity Sir Robert hadn’t fancied himself in love with Adelaide, and it infuriated Connor to know he’d been the reason Sir Robert had sought Adelaide out. But neither of those things altered the pertinent facts. He’d wanted Adelaide, and now she was his. She would always be his. That was what mattered.
Graham sniffed and cocked his head. “Connor?”
“Hmm.”
“Can I have the sovereign back?”
Chapter 16
Connor called on Adelaide the next morning. He didn’t mention where he’d gone the night before, and Adelaide didn’t ask. As far as she was concerned, what was done was done. She was more than ready to put the distasteful events of the past week behind her.
That’s not to say she forgave Sir Robert for his actions, nor intended to forget the humiliation she had suffered because of Connor. She simply saw no benefit in dwelling on her anger, not when there was so much else to occupy her time and thoughts.
Wedding plans, for example, took up an inordinate amount of time and energy. A circumstance she attributed to Connor possessing an inordinate amount of stubbornness.
He wanted the efficiency of an elopement. She wanted to wait for the banns to be read. He suggested they compromise with the purchase of a special license. She called it an inexcusable waste of money and refused to admit the truth of why she wished to wait. No bride, no matter how steeped in pragmatism, wanted the memory of her wedding day to be marred by a bruise the size of Inverness-shire.
To distract him from that argument, she started another. She wanted a small ceremony. He insisted it would be a grand affair.
She thought to wear a simple muslin dress. He offered to pay for a gown made of the finest silk.
She reminded him a lady did not accept articles of clothing from a gentleman. Not even her fiancé.
He offered her the fifteen thousand pounds in advance so she could purchase the items herself.
“She accepts.”
This immediate response came from Isobel, who had been entertaining George with a tugging match over an old apron and watching Connor and Adelaide argue across the dining room table for the last half hour—an exercise she gave every appearance of enjoying.
“Do I, indeed?” Adelaide inquired. She might have, actually, if she’d been given the opportunity.
“Yes.” Isobel turned to her with twin flames of mischief and excitement in her eyes. “I am fully willing to bear the consequences of this decision.”
“Selfless creature,” Connor murmured with appreciation.
“Beetles!” George dropped the apron and
ran to Connor. “Beetles! Beetles!”
“Not that sort of creature, lad. Look, look what I’ve brought for you.” He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, set it on the table, and unwrapped it to display its contents for George.
“Biscuits!” George snatched one from Connor’s hand and held it up for Adelaide to inspect. “Biscuit.”
“It certainly is. Gingerbread, by the looks of it.” And there appeared to be three more just like it in the handkerchief. She smiled at Connor as George tottered off to play with a step stool against the wall. “It was very kind of you to think of him.”
“Not at all. I wasn’t certain if he cared for gingerbread, but I thought—”
He broke off when George shoved the step stool into Connor’s leg and, biscuit caught between his teeth, scrambled his way onto Connor’s lap.
George turned about, nestled his back against Connor’s chest, and went about the messy business of eating his treat.
Connor went very still and stared at the top of George’s head. “Er . . . Is this safe?”
A choking sound came from Isobel. Adelaide forced a bland expression.
“Yes. Small children have been known to sit on a lap or two and emerge from the experience unscathed.”
“Right . . . Right, of course.” He neither sounded nor appeared particularly convinced. He lifted his hands to George’s shoulders, as if afraid the boy might tumble off without warning, then seemed to change his mind. He gripped the table edge instead, neatly boxing George in between his arms. “Right.”
Adelaide smothered a laugh, fearful she would break the sweet spell of the moment. This softer, less confident side of Connor was still new to her. She’d caught a glimpse of it when he’d asked for the true reason she’d chosen him, but seeing him with George . . . This was another level of endearing.
It wasn’t every man who would allow—however reluctantly—a child to climb onto his lap. Most gentlemen of her acquaintance would balk at such a familiarity. Few would have been so charmed, or so transparently ill at ease.
AN Unexpected Gentleman Page 16
