To Catch a Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “Ayisha.”

  “Yes, if she sees it, it might help your case to make it obvious your family supports the match. I think a large notice with the family crest should do the trick.”

  “It would, George. Thank you,” Rafe managed to say. He knew full well that the large notice and family crest was not for Ayisha to read—even if she read newspapers, she wouldn’t recognize the family crest. It was a message for the ton.

  His brother was making it clear to the world that this marriage had the full support of the Earl of Axebridge. And that the Earl of Axebridge expected the ton to fall into line and support it, too.

  It was more family support than Rafe had experienced in a lifetime.

  At midafternoon Rafe passed through Andover. Ten days since he’d last seen Ayisha. Desperation gnawed at him increasingly, the fear that she might indeed be gone forever goading him on in his relentless search. He refused to give in to despair. He would find her. He had to. His entire future happiness depended on it.

  He rode past the turnoff to Foxcotte when an idea struck him. What if she’d gone there? She knew it was his, knew it was close—she’d noticed the sign that first time.

  What if Ayisha had gone to earth at Foxcotte?

  He urged his horse faster, rode through the village at a smart clip, and stopped at the big, old wrought-iron gates, with the fox emblem so familiar and beloved from his boyhood.

  Then the gates were black and gleaming and always stood open, waiting for his return. Now they were dull and closed, chained shut with a thick chain and an old padlock.

  Beyond them the gravel drive was weedy and unkempt. No carriage had driven up there in a long time.

  Rafe tied his horse to the gate and climbed the wall. Some of the stones had fallen away, he saw. Repairs were needed.

  As he walked up the path, memories flooded him. The place was a mess, but oddly, his spirits lifted. He’d always loved this place, had been happy here.

  But because he’d never really come to terms with his grandmother’s death he felt somehow . . . guilty. She’d died alone, with nobody to hold her hand, comfort her. He should have been there. She’d taken him in when nobody had wanted him. He’d let her down.

  Logic argued that it wasn’t his fault, that nobody had told him, but he knew in his heart he hadn’t written as often as he should have, and if he had, someone—one of the servants—would have told him. The guilt remained, so he’d never been back. He would not profit by her death.

  It was a mistake, he realized. This place would have helped his guilt, not exacerbated it. He reached the front of the house. Of course it was locked. He peered in at the windows and all was stillness, dust, and holland coverings over the furniture.

  Nobody had been here in a very long while.

  He walked around the side, glancing in at each window he came to. It was the same: shadows, dust, undisturbed for years, and holland covers. The stables were silent and empty, also chained and padlocked shut. The high-walled kitchen garden was largely gone to weeds; only a corner patch next to the gardener’s cottage was cleared and neat. A wisp of smoke twined from the chimney of the old gardener’s cottage.

  Rafe smiled, remembering. Old Nat’s cottage, built into the wall. Nothing had changed. There was the sagging clothes-line strung between the cottage and the old apple tree, and on it were pegged an apron, some dishcloths, and two of Mrs. Nat’s enormous bright pink flowered flannel nightgowns, flapping like giant sails in the wind. He smiled at the familiar sight.

  The old gardener would be ancient by now. Or maybe there was just Mrs. Nat still living there. Mrs. Nat who’d always produced a thick slice of cake or a handful of biscuits for a growing boy.

  He didn’t go over and knock on her door. If he did, she’d make a pot of tea and he wouldn’t get away for an hour or more. He needed to keep searching.

  He needed to get back to Cleeveden, see if there was any news there.

  Nobody had been inside Foxcotte for years. Ayisha wasn’t here, after all.

  He trudged down the drive, climbed the fence, and rode back to the village. He’d get tenants in, he decided. He’d laid his ghosts. The place was starting to crumble, and he didn’t want that to happen.

  The agent, Mr. Barry, was very pleased to see him. “I’m just about to have my tea, Mr. Ramsey, and I’d be honored if you’d join me,” the man said.

  A hearty tea of bread, butter, honey, jam, cream, cheese, pickles, and several kinds of pastries was laid out on the table, along with a jug of cool local beer. Rafe had no interest in the spread, but he accepted. Best to get the property sorted as quickly as possible. He wanted everything in order once he found Ayisha.

  They discussed the property—or rather Mr. Barry discussed, while Rafe listened and nodded while the man ate his tea. Rafe ate nothing. These days he had no appetite for food. He sipped a little of the sour local beer.

  “I’ve had several offers to rent Foxcotte, sir. Try one of these.” Barry passed him a plate and Rafe absently took one of the pies.

  Barry continued, “I did write to you, if you recall. Please eat something, sir. You’re looking a mite peaky if you don’t mind me saying so. Have a bite of that little little pie there, why don’t you?”

  Rafe, sighing inwardly at the man’s kindly concern, forced himself to take a bite, just to shut him up. “I did get your letters,” he said “but now I’m thinking—” He broke off and looked at what he was eating. A flattish, triangular pie that looked and tasted very familiar. And not from his boyhood. His heart started thumping.

  “Where did this pie come from?” he asked Barry in a voice that was strangely calm.

  “The village bakery, sir. They’re a bit different but very tasty—sir? Sir?”

  But Rafe had shoved the rest of the pie in his pocket and was gone. In three steps he’d slammed out of the cottage, hurled himself onto his horse, and was galloping toward the village.

  Oh God, he prayed. Let it be her. He didn’t dare hope, but the pie . . . it was exactly like—

  Please, God.

  What if she was there, in the bakery itself? It had to be her, it had to.

  He burst into the bakery and looked wildly around. No sign of Ayisha. Hollow desperation gripped him.

  He pulled out the remains of the pie and brandished it fiercely. “Who made this pie?”

  “Summat wrong with it?” The baker came forward, a big meaty-looking fellow, his chin jutted belligerently.

  “No. But who made it?” Good God, he was shaking.

  “A young lass brings ’em in.”

  Oh God, oh God. “Where does she live?” Rafe said, amazed to hear how calm his voice sounded.

  The man gave him a long, suspicious look. “I don’t rightly hold with telling toffs where a pretty young girl might live—she’s a good lass, an’ all—”

  Rafe wanted to punch the man in his fat, smug face, and at the same time shake his hand for protecting Ayisha, for it must—it had to be her. Instead he fixed him with a cold look and said, “I must insist—”

  “Oh, Thomas, don’t you know who this is?” A plump, middle-aged woman came bustling forward. “It’s young master Rafe from the old house, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes.” Rafe stared at her and through the fog of desperation, his memory stirred. “Jenny—no, Janey Bray, isn’t it?”

  The woman beamed. “That’s right, but I’m Mrs. Thomas Rowe now. Fancy you rememberin’ me. I haven’t seen you since you were a lad, but I remember you, sir. Always liked my curd cakes, you did.”

  “I remember. Now, the young woman who made these pies,” Rafe reminded her.

  “Old Nat’s granddaughter? She bakes them pastries herself and brings ’em in every day. Something a bit different, aren’t they, sir? Very tasty.”

  “Old Nat’s granddaughter?” he echoed hollowly. “You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” Damn, damn, damn. If she was known to these people, she couldn’t be Ayisha. The bitterness of deflated hopes swamped him.


  “That’s right. Turned up, she did, nearly two weeks ago, gave Nat’s place a good clean out—well, it needed it—been so long since Mrs. Nat passed on, and old Nat before her. I disremember who told us she was Nat’s granddaughter—do you recall, Thomas? No, me neither, but that’s who she is, right enough.”

  Hope stirred cautiously. Rafe said carefully. “She’s at the old gardener’s cottage?”

  “That’s right, sir, you remember—” But Rafe was gone.

  The gardener’s cottage was built into the high garden wall, and one of its charms that Rafe recalled from his boyhood was that you could walk into the cottage from the kitchen garden and go right through it and be outside the estate.

  Rafe rode around the back way, his heart racing. To think he’d avoided going there earlier because he thought old Nat’s wife would keep him talking.

  With shaking hands he tied his horse to a tree, wiped his damp palms, and knocked at the door of the old gardener’s cottage.

  The door opened and she stood there dressed, village style, in some faded old dress of Mrs. Nat’s and an apron. There was a smut of flour on her cheek, her hair was carelessly tied up with a bit of green cloth, her nose was red, her lips were chapped from the cold, and she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.

  His hungry gaze devoured her. She stared at him, shocked, unmoving, silent, her eyes as wary as they had been when he first knew her.

  He didn’t care. He’d tamed her then and he’d do it again. Or die trying.

  The kitten emerged and rubbed against his ankles, meowing plaintively to be picked up.

  Rafe only had eyes for Ayisha.

  “You’re all thin again,” he choked out. What a stupid thing to say. All the speeches he’d rehearsed in his mind, all the words he’d saved to bring her back to him and when it counted, that was all he could say. But it was true. She was pitifully thin. She must have starved all this time. He ached for her.

  He stared at her, willing the words to come, but he could only stare. And stare. Devouring her with his eyes.

  “You’re thinner, too,” she said softly.

  “Perhaps, but if I am, it’s not because I was starving,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “It’s because I’d lost you.”

  She gave a wobbly smile and gestured behind her. “I had food, but I wasn’t hungry for food. Only for you.”

  At her words his self-control cracked, and he stepped forward, seized her around the waist, and lifted her off her feet, holding her against him, never to let her run from him again. He held her tightly, exalting in the feel of her in his arms again, breathing in the beloved scent of her, burying his face in the softness of her neck.

  Her arms came around him and she hugged him, kissing him on the crown of his head, on his ear, anywhere she could, caressing him with loving urgency. “Oh, Rafe, oh, Rafe,” she murmured.

  He slid her slowly down his body until their faces were level, and kissed her deeply. “Never leave me again,” he ordered. His whole body was shaking.

  She cupped his face in her hands and stared earnestly at him. “Are you sure about this, Rafe? I don’t want to ruin your life.”

  “The only way you could ruin my life is to leave me,” he said forcefully. “I need you. In my arms, in my life.”

  She gazed into his eyes a moment, then gave a tremulous little sigh. She tightened her grip on him and whispered, “Then take me now my love, for I need you, more than I can say.”

  He kicked the door shut behind him and carried her to where she’d dragged a mattress in front of the fire. He laid her on the mattress, sat down, and pulled off his boots.

  She lay quietly, looking up at him. “I’ve missed you so much, Rafe.” She ran her hand lightly up his spine.

  He might as well have been naked, the way he could feel her lightest touch, even through several layers of clothing.

  He stood to remove his coat. “Don’t ever run away from me again,” he told her, pulling off his shirt.

  “It was worst at night.”

  “Yes, well, in England it gets cold at night.” He began to unbutton his breeches.

  “The temperature wasn’t the problem. I found these wonderful thick, warm nightdresses.”

  He gave a choke of laughter as he realized she’d been wearing Mrs. Nat’s enormous flannel nightgowns. “You’ve been wearing—”

  She placed her hand around his thigh, and he forgot what he was going to say.

  “Did you really miss me, Rafe?” she asked.

  He turned, his breeches half undone, and gave her an incredulous look. “Miss you? Miss you?” The glow in her eyes completely unmanned him, and he groaned and sank to his knees in front of her. “I’d rather lose an arm or a leg or both my eyes than lose you again. I’ve never felt so . . .” He shook his head. “My heart is too full for words.”

  “Then show me,” she said softly, pulling him down to her.

  He showed her, loving every inch of her with a tender thoroughness that left her weak and gasping, helpless with love and on the verge of tears—why tears, she could not imagine.

  She was his, to do with as he wanted, for now, at least. Nothing was resolved between them, only that she’d missed him desperately and he, apparently, felt the same. For now it was enough.

  The flames danced, gilding his skin, caressing every glorious muscle, every masculine angle and plane, her man of gold and shadows. Outside the wind whistled through the trees.

  The tiny cottage suited her perfectly, caught between two worlds. On one side was the grand house he owned, and on the other, the wild, wild woods. Was this where she belonged?

  No, she belonged in his arms, she thought, as his hands and mouth slowly drove any coherent thought from her mind. No matter where in the world they were, as long as she was in . . . his . . . arms . . .

  And then she heard them, the words he’d never spoken, so deep and soft that at first she wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed them. “I love you, Ayisha.”

  Her eyes flew open. His gaze locked with hers. Frantically she tried to scrape her wits together.

  He said it again. “I love you, Ayisha.” His body still moving within hers, scattering every thought but one.

  “I love you, Ayisha.”

  She wanted to respond, but she had no words, no will. She shattered around him, his words ringing in her ears, as the rhythm pounded through them: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  Afterward she lay in his arms, watching the fire glow and dance. After a time she sighed and sat up. “I shouldn’t have allowed that. I won’t be your mistress, I—” she began.

  “Hush,” he said, kissing her. “I love you. I want you for my wife and always have.”

  Her eyes filled as she took in that he meant every word. “Oh, Rafe, and I love you, so very, very much. I always have,” she confessed. “I think even in Cairo, though I tried hard not to. But if you are to be an earl . . . My grandm—Lady Cleeve said I would be your social ruin.”

  “Stop fretting. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. You mean more to me than anyone or anything. I love you and I need you and I’m going to marry you.”

  “I won’t give up my children,” she warned.

  “Neither will I, though it’s not an issue.” He told her what he’d learned, how his gentle, tragic sister-in-law had almost stolen a baby. And how it had driven his brother to make the bargain that had so enraged Rafe.

  “The poor, poor lady,” she whispered. “We must do something about that, Rafe. We must find her a baby to love.”

  He looked at her with an unreadable expression. “Ayisha Cleeve Machabeli, if I wasn’t already head over heels in love with you, I would have fallen in love with you again, just now,” he said in a husky voice.

  Oh, how his words warmed her. She couldn’t help but show it, and next thing she knew they were making love again.

  “Why did you come to Foxcotte?” he asked much later.

  “It was the only place I knew,�
� she told him. “I almost didn’t find it. It was late and pouring with rain, and I was lost and feeling my way in the dark, following the wall, thinking it must lead somewhere. And then I felt a window. And then a door. So I knocked, but nobody answered. And I tried the door and it opened, so . . .” She’d found wood and a tinderbox and soon she had a fire going. It was a heaven-sent refuge for her and Cleo.

  “It was only when I went into the village that I learned this was Foxcotte after all. You said you hadn’t been here since you were a boy, so I thought it was the last place you’d think of looking for me. You didn’t come here looking for me, were you?”

  “No, not to Foxcotte. I came to visit my agent and make arrangements to rent the place out. He was eating one of your pies . . .”

  He kissed her again, then said, “It’s time we dressed. I’d like to return to Cleeveden while there’s still light.”

  “Must we?” Ayisha didn’t want to go back to a grandmother who despised her.

  “Stop fretting. I think you will find that much has changed since you ran off.”

  “What’s changed? Tell me.”

  But Rafe wouldn’t explain. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Trust me. Get dressed and come and find out.”

  Nothing she could say or do would budge him from that position, so she dressed and gathered her things together, ready to make the journey back to Cleeveden.

  “I could have been happy here,” she said, looking around the tiny cottage.

  “Happy?”

  “Lonely, but content,” she corrected herself. “It’s a dear little cottage. And the countryside is beautiful. And did you know? I started a garden.”

  He gave her a surprised look. “I thought you would dislike country life.”

  She shook her head. “No indeed. I’ve never lived in the country before, but it’s lovely. I would love to live here.” She laid her hand on his arm. “But if it’s painful for you, we need not.”

  He smiled. “No, I’ve laid my ghosts. I couldn’t bear to see this place without my grandmother here, knowing how she died alone. But I loved this place as a boy and I love it now, all the more since it brought you back to me. Grandma would be so happy to have us here. It’s settled then; once we’re married, we’ll live at Foxcotte. And,” he added, “we’ll keep this cottage for our own private place.”