Saying I Do to the Scoundrel

by Liz Tyner

  A barely perceptible nod of his head and he leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for her to continue listing his virtues. She suddenly lost patience.

  ‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘You’re a saint. A man of uncommon purity and a sterling reputation about you. Statues should be erected in your honour and placed on every street corner.’

  In an instant the veneer of his patience fled and the muscles in his face tightened.

  ‘And you—’ His face moved so close she could get foxed from the brandy on his breath and, while his body moved, his head remained close to hers. ‘You’re a miss who would never leave an embroidery stitch unfinished. You write poetry proclaiming the injustice of a world which ignores its orphans, and on Sunday you say a prayer for those less fortunate who do not have fashionable bonnets, or new cravats.’

  ‘I see we have an astounding awareness of each other.’ She pushed her voice to match the strength of his. ‘So before we both swoon in awe of each other’s presence, might I discuss a matter of a small bit of importance to me?’

  ‘Who sent you to me?’ he asked, tone soft but with an underlying bite.

  ‘My sister’s governess’s sister’s husband has a friend who knows you from the tavern.’ She forced herself not to step back from those eyes. ‘The friend did think you might have honour, though.’

  ‘Yes.’ He used both hands to tug at the hem of his waistcoat and disdain pushed his chin even higher. His voice softened, but not his face. ‘They would think I’m honourable. I’ve never stolen a mug yet from the tavern.’

  She stepped closer, almost to his nose, and put confidence into her quiet words. ‘You can rest assured that is all they said you had to recommend you.’

  ‘Wise of them.’ He crossed his arms, increased the distance between them and leaned on the doorway. ‘And, what sort of bear do you wish to trap?’ he asked, surprised he found her lips appealing. He didn’t know why he even noticed her lips. They weren’t overly ripe. Nor thin. They were merely pleasant. But lips? Why would he notice that body part when there were so many others to peruse?

  She wasn’t sturdy, as Mary had been. She wasn’t quiet, as Mary had been and he preferred, but that kind seemed to have disappeared before Eve. Once Eve had started talking, the world had gone downhill quickly. Adam should have made peace with the asp and stayed in the garden.

  ‘I wondered…’ she took her time with her words ‘…if you might consider a business dealing which might be considered to be against the law—although some of it isn’t. And it truly isn’t unlawful to the conscience.’

  He wondered what she wanted him to do. Bad enough she’d woken him suddenly.

  ‘You compliment me to suggest I’ve got a conscience. But I dare say you should look somewhere else for that.’

  He walked to the door, opened it and the woman outside took one look at his face and stepped back.

  He paused, stared back at the young wench, pointed to the door and said, ‘Find someone who doesn’t mind being awoken before dusk.’

  The miss stood nearly a head shorter than he and had more bluff in her face than any card player he’d ever seen, but none of the bravado reached the end of the reticule hanging from her wrist. The beads at the end of the tie were bobbing like—he pushed that image from his mind.

  ‘And what might you be wanting me for?’ He spoke before he could stop himself. ‘The chore which might interest a magistrate?’

  Her lips parted slightly, but she closed them again.

  Her lips. When he realised where his mind wandered, he gave a disgusted grunt. His mind had rotted just as he’d wanted, but he wished it had waited one more day.

  Her eyes widened as she stared at his face. She tightened her shoulders.

  ‘I can’t state my exact needs,’ she interrupted his thoughts, ‘until I know you’ll take on the task.’ She waved her hand to the doorway. ‘I am a respectable woman, with a chaperon, and it is intensely important that I be able to sneak back into my house soon. I would never seek out a person…’ and here she floundered a bit for words ‘…such as yourself, if I had another choice.’

  ‘I am pleased you’re so virtuous.’ He lessened the space between them. The soft scent of her touched him—not perfume—but plain soap. The miss nearly reeked with her purity. Forget putting statues of him on corners. This one should have convents erected in her honour. ‘You realise your virtue means you might not offer as much as another woman might.’

  The narrowing of her eyes pleased him. She should never wake a rusty trap unless she expected to see its teeth.

  She stared at him and he could see thoughts flittering behind her eyes. The beads on the reticule clicked together.

  ‘You’ll be paid,’ she grumbled. ‘Then you can buy…’ she paused ‘…whatever services you need.’

  He wouldn’t need any services if Mary had lived.

  And as the darkness closed tightly around him, he didn’t care to do what she wanted, but he doubted he would be able to go back to sleep in such heat and he had nothing else to do. ‘I could be interested in whatever business you might bring to me.’ His voice mocked her with a false sweetness. ‘Tell me what you have in mind.’

  She leaned in so close he could almost taste her soap. Something inside of him froze and then began to unfurl warmth in his body. He bit it back.

  ‘You must kidnap someone.’ Her voice vibrated with excitement.

  This Miss, untouched as newly fallen snow, wanted him to kidnap someone? He gaped at her. ‘I’m guessing it would be someone you find annoying.’

  ‘Not really,’ she muttered.

  ‘My skin has an aversion to rope burns—’ he touched his neck ‘—so even though I am honoured to be selected, I decline.’ He clasped the door, knowing he would have to send her on her way quickly and not really wanting to.

  He just needed to be left alone. ‘Out.’

  ‘You must listen.’ She held up both palms.

  He shook his head and reached for her arm. The simple touch of her brought back the memories he lived with, blurring his vision. He had to get the woman out of his life. Now. He backed away, not wanting to stir any memories of a woman’s softness. Those memories had taunted him, wrapping their dark, nettled cloak around him, until he discovered they would not sting so much if he appeased them with drink.

  He stepped around her and touched the door.

  ‘You would get away with it, I’m sure,’ her voice pleaded.

  He stilled. Before he could stop anything, the soap aroma tangled around him. His throat contracted and, for a second, he couldn’t speak.

  ‘Get out and don’t come back.’ His voice returned with force.

  Her eyes widened and he pushed the thought of her fear away.

  ‘Leave,’ he snarled, snapping his teeth together on the word. ‘You.’ His voice spoke with the authority of a hammer on an anvil. ‘Must leave.’ His arm slashed in the direction of the door. ‘Go.’

  She stared at him and he realised her cheeks had no colour.

  ‘You must do this.’ Her eyes begged. ‘I’ll die if you don’t.’

  Chapter Two

  She meant the words. He could tell by her widened eyes. But just because she meant them, it didn’t mean they were true.

  ‘Well.’ She drew in a breath and crossed her arms, stilling that ridiculous purse with glass beads. ‘I understand if you might be too weak to help an innocent lady.’ The bravado in her voice ended on a tremble. She pulled in a deep breath. ‘After all, you near reek of spirits and I do suppose you could do with a bit of a wash and a shave, and for that matter a good haircut, but might you suggest someone who will do my errand as I have spent a good morning pursuing you and I do not have much time to waste finding someone else.’

  ‘You do not have time to waste, yet you are appearing on my doorstep?’ he asked, quietly. ‘Perhaps you should be at—your home—not wasting time there?’ he said.

  Her shoulders rose and her chin jutted, but her eyes didn’t follow thr
ough on the confidence. ‘I am here to offer you employment.’

  ‘Do I look as though I want employment?’ His lips turned up.

  ‘I have set myself on a course and I will see it to the end. Goodness knows it cannot get any worse.’ She adjusted her bonnet.

  ‘Whatever that end may be.’ He forced the words through his teeth. ‘I must compliment you on the bonnet. No one would ever notice you about in such inconspicuous wear.’

  She eyed him as if he were untouchable. ‘This bonnet was made by Annabel Pierce and is of the finest quality in the world.’

  ‘La-de-doodle.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you think she might make one for me?’

  ‘She would not let you step foot in her fine establishment.’ She tightened her shoulders ever closer. ‘Are you considering the plan?’

  He might as well let her have her say. He’d not fall back asleep easily when she left and he’d be lying, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about her, and wondering what she’d wanted.

  ‘How much money is to be made?’ Soft words from hard lips.

  She appraised him, then she moved to the chair, sitting as if she prepared for a portrait.

  He slid into his seat, then gave a twist, making the legs scrape slightly against the floor.

  ‘What’s your name, Love?’ he asked the woman as she sat across from him.

  She slowly blinked and looked at him. ‘You’ll find out if—if—I decide to hire you.’ Her chin dropped. She placed her palms flat on the table, and leaned forward. ‘And do not call me love.’

  ‘Well.’ He clasped his hands behind his head and pushed back. ‘You kind of look like a Nigel to me. So you can keep your name secret for ever, for all I care. I’ll just think of you as Nigel and, if the magistrate catches me risking my neck for you, I’ll be able to say I owe it all to Nigel.’

  ‘Do not call me that.’

  ‘You know my name, do you not? Surely you found out while you were asking questions.’ He looked at her and she averted her eyes and a hint of blush stained her cheeks. He grinned.

  Her words were stronger. ‘Brandt is all I know of your name.’

  He looked down, dismissing her, and let the front legs of his chair thump to the floor.

  ‘Do you want to listen or not?’ The voice rose at the end, a note of panic in it.

  He shrugged, put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand.

  She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘It’s simple really. You’ll do the kidnapping in the morning. The footman should be no problem. Try not to kill the older man—very important as he will pay the ransom. You’ll handle a ransom note. Collect the blunt. Take a thousand pounds of it, give me nineteen thousand pounds and be on your way.’

  ‘Kidnapping. I could work in a quick nab as I walked to the tavern. Nothing to it.’ He smiled, leaning towards her, his eyes shining. ‘Aren’t you being overly generous?’ he asked, pretending puzzlement. ‘And—’ he raised his head high and put his palms flat on the table ‘—how greedy I feel. For a woman such as you, a man should risk his life for no coin. A simple kidnapping. How much effort can such a thing take?’

  She raised her chin, tilted her head sideways a bit and took in a breath, then looked to the reticule. ‘I have the details worked out exactly.’ She spread the ties and lifted a folded piece of paper. Then she looked at his eyes and flinched. She lowered her hand, slipping the note away. ‘You’ll just have to follow my guide. I believe I have the mind of a master criminal.’

  ‘And what crimes have you committed in the past, Nigel?’ he asked, his voice softening. She didn’t raise her eyes.

  ‘Surely you are jesting.’ He stood and walked to the bed, knelt on one knee. He felt under the bed and pulled out a shirt, or what was once a shirt, and tossed it into the corner.

  He pushed himself back to his feet and frowned, then he leaned down, tossed another garment aside and found an extra bottle, thankful he’d remembered to bring home some breakfast.

  He held the liquid towards her, raising his brows. She grimaced and he popped the cork and put the neck to his lips.

  He caught her eyes as he lowered the drink, his gaze flickering across a shelf decorated with empty bottles. And another peg with a new coat. He’d forgotten about that coat.

  She spoke, her eyes on the wall. ‘I’m sincere about this kidnapping. It has to be done. It will be done.’ She shrugged. ‘There is no alternative.’ She pulled at her bonnet.

  ‘Look, Nigel.’ He held the cork in one hand and the bottle comfortably in the other one. ‘No blackguard worth hiring is going to do all the work and let you have more than half the bounty. You’d be lucky to get a pound. Who are you going to complain to if you don’t get a penny?’

  ‘I’ll report them to the magistrate,’ she challenged him with her voice.

  ‘They hang women as well.’ He put the bottle on the table in front of her, keeping his fingers around it. ‘Breaks up the monotony.’

  *

  Katherine could not marry Fillmore. As her stepfather blocked her escapes, Fillmore’s long fingers kept inching closer to her.

  She had called the one in front of her a beast. But she feared marriage to Fillmore would uncover the true meaning of the words.

  Her stepfather had plans for the banns to be read for her marriage—even though she hadn’t accepted his nephew. She couldn’t imagine any woman desperate enough to marry Fillmore without force.

  Fillmore wore the tight buff pantaloons—very tight buff pantaloons—and on occasion those breeches concealed little more than what she’d glimpsed on the heathen’s bed. He would sit across from her and sprawl his legs longer, tightening the fabric. And then he’d snicker, and she’d want to leave, and Augustine would make her stay and listen to him talk.

  The thought of Fillmore’s rolling flesh pressing against her body and his grasping fingers reaching for her, and she never again having the right to move aside…

  She’d seen the flash of pleasure in Fillmore’s face when she’d stepped away to excuse herself and he’d somehow always managed to be between her and the door. It was a dance of sorts then. He’d grasp her hand to raise it, pulling it near his lips to brush a kiss above, but it wasn’t the kiss she avoided—it was the trousers. They always brushed against her skirts. Always. His smile sickened her.

  Fillmore would not have turned his back if she’d walked in on him without clothes on. Never.

  She’d seen the irritation in this man’s face and that had convinced her he was safer than Fillmore. Her jittery stomach calmed and she appraised him.

  He didn’t know how much she needed him and she didn’t think he cared. He kept looking at her as if he had the secrets of the universe and she had nothing but pretty parasols—of course, she did have pretty parasols, but he had no right to sneer at her so because of it.

  The man was a scoundrel—but she inspected the fingers clenching the bottle. Normal, sturdy fingers. Clean and trim.

  She looked at him and smiled, and she knew, if she had one bit of perfection about her, it rested in the pleasantness she could emit with the evenness of her teeth and the upturn of her lips.

  ‘They don’t hang well-born women.’ She let her words fall to little more than a murmur. ‘We are not smart enough to think of unseemly acts. All our days are spent thinking of ways to beautify ourselves so we may please a man.’

  She raised a hand as if she’d just set her tea cup on the tray to be removed by the maid. Her words flowed into the room. ‘You would not double-cross me. And, if you did, my tear-stained face as I huddled in the magistrate’s office, pouring out my heart—’ Her voice hardened. ‘I assure you if the money were gone, my emotions would be truly distraught—I would be able to convince anyone of my innocence while I pointed a delicate finger right at you.’

  ‘We can’t talk without an agreement on equal shares,’ he spoke. ‘I can’t think why you would go to the rot of kidnapping anyone for a sum as small as that. It’s foolish to risk your neck
for so little.’

  He frowned. The chair was askew from the table and he straightened it and sat, showing no more interest than if he were sitting at the tavern to discuss whatever men discussed when they had nothing to talk about.

  ‘I’m not greedy.’ She put both gloved hands on the table. ‘And, this is a personal matter as well as a kidnapping.’

  When she said personal, his gaze bounced to the ceiling and back. She gave him another of her haughtiest glares.

  ‘Half-share for me, at least. Assuming we agree.’ He scratched at his whiskers, his eyes never leaving her face. Even as he bargained, his eyelids drifted down as if he wanted to fall back asleep.

  She blinked several times.

  He scratched again.

  She gave a silent sigh and a condemning glance at his beard.

  ‘Half-shares,’ he repeated.

  She reached out and delicately tapped the brandy bottle on the table. ‘You may raise the ransom another five thousand pounds for yourself. I know you need funds to finance your efforts to keep the tavern owners from starvation.’ Her eyes settled on his chin. ‘And you do fear wearing out a razor strop so I suppose your coin doesn’t stretch for ever.’ She waved the words away, letting him know the money wasn’t worth a squabble. ‘I would hate to see you perish for lack of liquid,’ she grumbled.

  ‘My dear well-bred miss.’ His eyes half-closed. ‘You must learn to snort with your mouth shut. It’s more becoming a lady.’

  ‘Perfectly acceptable for a Nigel, though.’ She gave a toss of her head.

  ‘And don’t worry about me running out of good liquor.’ He let his eyelids drop again. ‘Or bad.’ He looked at the shelf. Various shapes. Ready to be taken back to the tavern to be refilled. ‘My hand is never far from a bottle. Or a barrel.’

  He didn’t plan to kidnap anyone. For one thing, among many others, he didn’t see her being able to keep her mouth closed. He could see her at an event, leaning to another flowery sort and whispering, ‘Did you happen to read about the kidnapping in The Times? Let me tell you, I have quite the criminal mind and I’m such a good judge of character I had no trouble finding a disreputable kidnapper. Would you like his name in case you have need of him?’