Saying I Do to the Scoundrel

by Liz Tyner

  The shop-owner heard the door, raised his head and peered at Brandt, then he recognised him.

  ‘Gardenia,’ Brandt said and he stared at the man. The shop owner didn’t speak. The older man took two steps to the left and pulled a scent bottle from a case and set it on the counter top.

  Brandt walked to the man, took a coin out of his pocket, picked up the bottle and placed the coin in the exact same spot.

  Brandt turned, put the bottle in his waistcoat pocket and left.

  He stepped outside and for a second his feet refused movement. But he took a breath and strode towards his room.

  Then, he stopped again. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached into the pocket, pulled out his purchase, wrestled the clothing under his arm so that he could remove the bottle stopper and took in a savouring breath. Mary’s scent.

  He wondered what Mary would have advised about the big-bonneted woman. He’d never seen eyes widen so when she first saw him.

  He wagered she’d not get that picture from her mind easily. Not from the look on her face. His lips turned up. He didn’t think he’d ever shocked a woman so. Well, she shouldn’t have opened his door. Not before the sun set anyway.

  That was his life now. Nights of drinking. Days of sleeping.

  He felt the familiar ache. Felt the anger, the sorrow and the unfairness. Putting the stopper back in the bottle was easier than putting it on memories.

  He didn’t like the early hours, but couldn’t pace the streets at night. Even in the morning, the fog could make his footsteps haphazard.

  He’d walked the streets so many mornings until he could collapse into sleep that it had become a routine. Many of the merchants watched for him now, particularly when they needed help lifting something. At first they’d offered to pay him, and occasionally he took payment in goods, and he’d pass them along to someone at the tavern. But everyone knew not to talk with him much.

  When the day began to warm and his feet hurt, he turned to his lodgings and let himself inside.

  Brandt looked at the wall. He realised he didn’t know what day it was and he was not even sure of the month. He had lived like this for—how long exactly he didn’t know, but years. He had felt no life in him for such a long time.

  And now some haughty high-born near-spinster wanted him to kidnap her from her father so she could take money from the man.

  He didn’t know why he thought about her. She had a ridiculous criminal mind. Indelicate snorts. An uppity little nose. Layers of skirts which fluffed when she walked. Garments not weighted down with street crust. Probably smelled of sunshine from drying in the breeze.

  He needed not to think about a spoiled heiress headfirst on her way to ruin.

  And if he didn’t help her, she would gather speed on her downhill roll. Another man hired to kidnap her might not respect her upbringing.

  He let out a deep breath, shut his eyes tightly and rolled his head back, cursing. Rage bubbled in him.

  She should not have sought him out. She had no right to ask such a thing of him. Of anyone.

  Then he remembered the fear in her eyes and the pause before she stepped inside her house. As if she had to force herself. He picked up a brandy bottle, drank from it deeply, but slammed the bottom on to the tabletop. He could not drink himself into oblivion and he couldn’t ignore someone who hated to walk inside such a house.

  He stood and the fingers of each hand stretched out of their own volition, almost clawing, and he noticed the twitch.

  The drink. No food. No sleep. His memories. He could not care for himself any longer and now this woman plagued him—wanting him to rescue her. How could he help another when he could not help himself?

  Never in his life had he felt so trapped. Those damn lost eyes of hers kept appearing in front of his face.

  He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe calmly. Blackness surrounded him and he didn’t think he could live much longer as he had, yet he had no wish to change his life. None.

  But then he thought of his wife, Mary, and how he’d not been able to save her, and the rest of it.

  A few shovels of dirt and life was to go on.

  They’d shared their youth, their innocence, and he’d known he had to marry her. Fought hard to marry her. And what had it got her? A few shovels of dirt. And no life to go on. He would have traded places with her. Begged in the night hours to trade places with her, because without her, he was dead. At least one of them could live.

  Helping Miss Wilder wouldn’t ease his loss.

  But he might end with a rope around his neck, he realised, and pictured himself at his own hanging. He almost laughed. A rope would burn, surely, just as the brandy did at first. But he’d got used to the drink quickly. He supposed in the time it took to look at the sky, he could grow used to the bite of the rope, then he wouldn’t feel the caverns in his heart any more.

  He’d not done much but traverse back and forth from bottle to bottle in the last few years. He’d heard his share of rude songs, and crude jokes and vulgar tales. They would still be there tomorrow. The day after tomorrow and the day after that.

  The comfort of the tavern rested in its sameness. Even if the tavern closed, two more would take its place. He’d always have a bottle to hold him.

  He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it up. He grabbed it from the air, slapping it on to the back of his hand, covering it with his palm. Heads, he’d kidnap her. Tails, he’d change his lodgings and forget he’d ever viewed her treacherous—innocent face.

  He remembered her with such clarity it seized his thoughts. When her lashes flickered, it was as if feathery fans fluttered above her eyes.

  He wondered how she looked when she laughed. If her chin quivered? If she tilted her head, or blushed?

  But most of all, he wanted to see the hair she hid under a mountainous hat from a crazed milliner.

  It was not right to think so. Not right to think of another woman besides Mary.

  He stood there, hand covering the coin.

  He slowly moved his palm away and squinted. Tails. Was it tails to take her, or tails to leave her be? He took the coin in his right fist and with his left, backhanded the empty brandy bottle hard enough so the glass smashed into the wall.

  He took a breath and then flipped the coin again.

  Chapter Six

  Brandt wore dark clothing and, as dusk fell, he took both horses and went to the woman’s house. He’d noticed the sky clouding. He wasn’t waiting until Sunday morning at half past eight and fifteen steps beyond the street corner and half a bottle past the refuse in the road. The woman wanted to leave her stepfather. That he could take care of. She could save her blasted instructions for her next kidnapper.

  Nor did he want to be hanged if something went wrong. He really was picky about things like that. Tavern floor, fine. Noose, tight. He’d never even tied a cravat tightly. Things went smoother in the darkness. Fewer eyes watched. Usually the people who were about at such hours would go to great lengths to avoid notice and tried to avoid anything which might bring questions their way.

  Looking up, windows on the first floor flickered with candlelight and silhouettes of figures moved beyond the curtains. He could take her away. He could hide her. He had the perfect place—waiting, but not for him. She could step over the threshold there. He couldn’t, but she could.

  He tied the horses near the back of the house. He’d tried to hitch them as if they belonged to a house because if someone nicked them, he was going to be in a bind. Horses irked him. Heiresses irked him.

  He noted the dim light from an upstairs window and then the corner ones. He knew the end room was more likely the master’s chambers because it received window light from both sides and had the ability to open more windows if the room became stifling. Then, when he saw the curtains being closed, he saw the shape of a valet, not a maid.

  He moved to get sight of the other side window and could see only the dimmest of lights behind it. Miss Wilder’s room. Ear
lier he’d stayed long enough to see the outline of her bonnet as she’d removed it. And he’d watched a footman slink out another door, then rush away, possibly going to a meeting with a sweetheart or to finish an errand he’d neglected earlier. In just moments he’d known where to get into the house and where to find the woman when he returned.

  Now, he stared up at the house darkened except for shadows near the front entrance.

  He went to the back entrance with a bar he had brought along to pry open the door and, when he reached out, the latch was locked.

  He put pry marks into the wood, separating the metal from wood, working to get the lock free.

  Earlier in the day when the footman had left, Brandt had pretended to ask directions. Then he’d discovered Katherine Wilder was the niece of a duke.

  He paused. He had to take care. He knew why she hadn’t turned to her uncle. A self-righteous man who refused to let his servants turn their backs on him or raise their eyes when he spoke with them. He doubted Miss Wilder could ever get on well with the man.

  Lifting the bar, he slipped inside. He walked the hall until he found a stairway and quickly got to the upper floors. Even if someone heard him, he’d be undetected unless they saw him. Footsteps would be attributed to a servant, or to Miss Wilder herself, or to the master of the house. It would be assumed someone moving about was answering a bell pull.

  He found a doorway which he thought paralleled the window he’d watched.

  The door opened easily, with only a small click. The first thing he noticed was the flounces. No man could sleep in a room decorated like a petticoat.

  He took five paces and stood beside the bed.

  His breath caught.

  She lay so still. Beautiful. Innocent. And still as death.

  Memories flooded back, choking him. He turned to the window, stepped closer, and pushed back the curtain until it stood wide. He felt the burning in his eyes.

  He was locked inside his own past.

  The covers rustled as she turned away in her sleep.

  She’d caused the flood of thoughts. The strength of them. She needed to wake and he didn’t want to touch her. But he wanted to shake her, rail at her and curse her. She wasn’t Mary and she’d brought the pain back to his mind, and he didn’t have drink enough to cover it because he had to be here, with her, instead of sitting at the tavern.

  Afraid of what memories would stir if he touched her, Brandt picked up a book from her bedside table. He nudged her arm with the volume. She didn’t move.

  ‘Wake.’ He spoke insistently and this time the book was forceful.

  She sat up, slapping at him before her eyes were open. He watched as she tried to see in the darkness.

  When he saw the mussed look of her hair and the innocence of the white clothing she wore, he clenched his empty hand into a fist. He slammed the book on to the table, uncaring about the noise.

  ‘Come on. Get up. Your chariot is waiting. Her name is Apple.’ He reached for Miss Wilder’s arm and pulled her to a sitting position.

  She jerked her arm away and her eyes flooded with recognition.

  ‘You are trespassing.’ The whisper hissed into the room. ‘You’re in my bedchamber, and I am not some person who might appreciate a man’s night-time attentions.’

  As easily as lifting a child, he grasped her arms and pulled her from the bed and to her feet. He stepped back.

  He moved away, giving her a graceful bow and pointing to the door.

  ‘It is not tonight, you fool. I have not packed yet. There are no witnesses,’ The whisper ended on a hiss. ‘He will merely think I have run away.’

  Fool, she had called him.

  How well she knew. He hadn’t controlled his world enough to keep this one out of it with the reminders of another life she forced into his head.

  This had been a mistake. He’d thought years passing would give him strength. Would have made him able to face what he was about to do. No.

  He’d hoped, like a fool, he had strength to look at his past without dunking his head in a bottle.

  He wanted to swim to the bottom of a pool of brandy and not return to the surface. He embraced the murky depths and they held him. That would be the only touch he would ever again need. And he’d had to forgo it to keep a clear head so he could keep his feet clear on the direction to her house.

  The Miss stood glaring at him.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ She kept her voice low. ‘This kidnapping is not so important to you that you’re able to put aside the drink for one night and attend to it. You are not following my direction, either. Now leave my bedchamber.’ She pointed a finger just as he had done, directing him away. ‘This is not how I wish to be kidnapped.’ Her whisper hardly sounded, but he could hear her well.

  ‘I could be in a warm tavern.’ He gritted his teeth and fought to ignore the soft purity of her skin. She bombarded his senses with the air of womanliness which swept from her to cover him. ‘You’re not staying in your warm bed.’

  Brandt reached for the satchel and pulled out the trousers and shirt. He handed them to her. She had to look like a young man. That would be his salvation.

  She stared at him, her arms crossed over the cotton clothing at her chest.

  ‘You simply cannot follow orders, can you?’ she whispered. ‘And how did you find me?’

  She acted as if unaware she was standing in front of a man in her bedclothes. He wasn’t. Without the bonnet and the cloak, she seemed half the size she’d been before. Or maybe it wasn’t that she was smaller, just that being so close to her caused something inside his chest to feel stronger. His heart beat faster and not because he was scared.

  He needed to concentrate on the task, not the woman.

  He moved his nose closer to hers and muttered. ‘I merely asked people direction to the lady’s house who wears disgustingly big bonnets.’

  ‘My bonnet was of no particular size.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Now, leave or I will scream. You’ll be hanged.’

  She tried to stare him down.

  ‘You may be right,’ he said softly, and grabbed the shirt from the floor. ‘But I am here and we are both leaving. A kidnapping in the daylight is too risky.’

  He saw the mouth open and knew her next words would be raised.

  He covered her mouth with his hand. A sharp intake of breath and she stumbled back, sitting on the bed.

  ‘Don’t draw attention to us yet,’ he rasped in her ear. ‘Or I’ll have to return these clothes to the dead man they were taken from.’ He slowly took his hand away.

  ‘Vile,’ she muttered and slung the shirt at his shoulders, keeping one sleeve in her hand.

  He reached to pull it from her, but she scooted back on the bed.

  ‘You’re going to wear the shirt,’ he said. She tried to wrestle it from his hands.

  He moved to hover over her and tried to secure her hands to keep her from slapping his face again with the shirt.

  Both her wrists were locked in his hands.

  ‘Do you wish to be kidnapped?’ He put his nose nearly against hers and kept his words low. He released her hands and moved back, sitting beside her.

  She glared. ‘I’m considering it.’

  ‘I’ll leave if you wish me to. I’m sick of this house and I’m sick of you.’ He released the shirt. ‘Your choice. It’s now, or someone else. If I leave tonight without you, I want a promise you will never, ever seek me out again.’

  ‘I’ll go.’ She held the wadded shirt. ‘But you’d best hurry. I do not want to be with you another minute more than I have to be.’

  She moved, raising an arm to put it in the sleeve of the garment. And her elbow connected with his shirt and bumped the gun he had hidden in his waistband. She paused, uncertain. ‘Do you have a weapon?’

  ‘It seemed prudent.’

  ‘Well, I have a knife. I’ll show you.’

  ‘A knife?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You think—Why do
you have a knife?’

  She leaned even closer, bringing the scent of a woman’s soft bedclothes closer to him. ‘Because I couldn’t get a gun without raising suspicion.’

  He stopped. Either she had lost her mind, or she was afraid.

  ‘You don’t think Fillmore would come in your room?’

  ‘I’ve woken when the doorknob rattled.’ She moved closer, whispering, ‘But I sneaked into my stepfather’s study and took the key when he was asleep. He doesn’t know I have it.’

  ‘We’ll go. Just keep your silence.’

  ‘I want to be married, just not to Fillmore. Anyone but that beast.’ She reached up with her left hand and put a palm to his chest. His breath was knocked from him. His entire body warmed. He moved her hand away, but his fingers tightened on her wrist. Neither moved.

  He needed out of this mess. He would go out the door and get on his horse and ride far enough away she could never find him and he’d never see her again. But his feet wouldn’t move.

  Brandt leaned so close to her face he could feel her breath touching his cheek and he mouthed an oath when he felt his body respond. She’d trapped him.

  She moved so close he couldn’t breathe and her arm brushed him as she tried to reach under the mattress. ‘I’ve tucked it here. The knife. I’ll show you.’

  He leaned back when she held the blade between them.

  His mind registered the knife she had in her hand, but his body registered the woman standing so close without layers of fabric between them, only the softness of the clothes she wore next to her body. He pried the blade from her fingers and stood away from the bed—taking two steps backwards so she couldn’t touch him.

  He dragged in air through his nostrils. The woman, no sturdier than a stair rail, slept with a knife for her protection. She solicited a governess and a stranger to get her away from the house she lived in. She was either spoiled beyond repair—or afraid.

  She righted herself on the bed, and stepped on to the rug beside him, the skirt of her nightrail tumbling to her calves. In one second, he was in a different world, thinking of things he couldn’t blame himself for.

  She put her hand on his. Fingers over his knuckles clasping the weapon. Warmth on the outside of his hand, the coldness on the inside.