The situation made the weak tea crawl up her throat. Adding to her bitterness was the knowledge she was unimportant and powerless. An expendable pawn. Her selfish attempt to escape Dugan’s clutches had only forced Maxwell into an untenable position.
“Craddock wants elected as MP. Or perhaps it’s more Mary’s ambition. She wants to be part of Society. She’s pushing Craddock to get her to London. Dugan’s people have votes they need. I haven’t a clue what Dugan is getting. I’ve got nothing anyone could want.”
Maxwell slipped a finger under her chin, tilted her face up, and studied her intently for a long, uncomfortable minute. With a grim set to his mouth, he mounted and held a hand out. She put her booted foot atop his, and before she could tense her muscles to help, he hauled her in front of him. She spun to ride astride. He took her hat off and pushed it into her chest.
The horse set off at a brisk walk. With her thighs on top of his and her bottom nestled between his legs, she wiggled to find a more comfortable position. He squeezed her so tightly she grunted. “What’s the matter? Am I hurting your leg?”
He hesitated. “Yes, my leg. That’s what’s hurting.”
“I’d be happy to rub it when we get back to the inn.” Silence from Maxwell. “I can rub it like in the bath. Don’t you remember?”
It started as a lightning-fast guffaw but thundered into a rumbling laugh that vibrated against her back. Twisting around, her stomach swooped to see his mouth curled up into a genuine smile, his hazel eyes glimmering.
“I remember it well, lass. After we’re wed, you can rub it every night,” he said in a roughened velvety brogue.
The realization her innocent offer wasn’t innocent in the least had a blush sweeping through her, as well as a carnal awareness. His horse came to a stop as the two of them stared at each other.
Her fingers itched to smooth over the crinkles at the corner of his eyes and over his bottom lip. A flash of desire sparked as she remembered running her tongue along its soft contour and pulling it between her teeth. She dabbed her tongue along her suddenly dry lips, and his nostrils flared.
His hauled her around to face front again. She squirmed, and he stopped her with a firm hand on her hip and a low, cursing groan.
“I don’t trust your sister or Craddock and especially not Armstrong. I’ve rented a set of rooms and have business appointments set for next week in Edinburgh. I can’t leave you here, and if we travel north together, we must be married.”
Bryn studied the passing rolling fields. This land was dearly familiar to her, and she’d never traveled much beyond the next valley. She’d always wanted to go to Edinburgh. How many times had she asked Mary to take her on one of her frequent trips there? Her sister had always put her off with one excuse or another. But her chance to see something of the world had come at a steep price.
“I won’t force you into an unwanted marriage. That’s what I was trying to escape to begin with.” In a softer voice, she said, “Why can’t we wait to see if I’m increasing?”
He ignored her.
Snow drifted from the steel-gray clouds on their approach to the church. Afternoon was waning, and darkness fell early this time of year. The falling snow muffled any noise. No one was in sight, but smoke rose from the chimney of Vicar Mitchell’s small set of rooms.
He swung her to the ground, and she stomped her feet against the cold as he settled his horse under a tree near the graveyard. Even in the conditions, he took the time to scratch his horse’s forelock and whisper words of praise. The horse nudged him.
“You seem awfully fond of your horse.” She cursed the tart edge of her voice. The gentle hands he used to pet and soothe the horse made her crave the same. Did she want to be treated like a horse? The answer was a humiliating yes.
“She’s been a reliable, trustworthy friend the past weeks.”
“I would have thought you’d prefer a bruising stallion or gelding. What’s her name?”
“It’s a horse’s heart and stamina that are important, not the size nor sex.” He cleared his throat before mumbling, “Primrose.”
Laughter bubbled out. The tension squatting between them eased. “Primrose?”
“Don’t make fun. I thought of changing it, but it suits her. She’s a sweet-tempered girl. Now as for you…” His gaze trailed over her hair, which must have looked funny collecting white snow, down to the tips of her old, scuffed boots.
She ruffled a hand through her hair, smoothing it behind an ear. “What about me?”
“You can’t go around in gentlemen’s clothes.” He sounded almost distressed about her attire.
“I’ve spent more time in breeches than dresses over the years, Drake. I don’t see any reason to stop the practice now. Breeches are much more practical.” She ran her hands down the worn fabric covering her thighs.
“You have no idea what affect you have on the male species in those breeches, do you? I hope you packed a dress in your satchel for tomorrow.”
As she wondered what affect she had on Maxwell, his words sank in. “You surely don’t expect me to ride a horse in the winter in a dress? Anyway, as I recall, I haven’t agreed to accompany you.”
Maxwell shook his head, turned on his heel, and walked away. She hesitated, but the cold drove her to follow him around the side of the church to the vicar’s rooms. Vicar Mitchell, disheveled and sleepy, answered Maxwell’s sharp rap. His hair was standing on end, and he clutched a blanket around his shoulders.
“Maxwell, my boy, you caught me napping, I’m afraid. Why, Brynmore, is that you, lass?”
“Aye, sir.” Bryn dropped a curtsy, which probably looked ridiculous considering her state of attire.
“We have a matter of some urgency to discuss, sir,” Maxwell said.
The vicar’s gaze darted between them as he gestured them into his sitting room. “Shall I see to some tea?” He shuffled off without waiting for an answer.
“Did you see the chapel? It’s quite lovely.” Maxwell’s voice had enough dry heat to spark a fire.
“Mary handled the arrangements. If I had to guess, it’s ostentatious.”
“A little.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “We can marry here in the vicar’s sitting room then.”
“No.” She stepped toward him, her hands on her hips. He didn’t move. The room was small, and she ended up closer to him than she’d intended. It would be too easy to fall into his plans. Too easy to fall into his hazel eyes and strong arms. Too easy to fall from childhood infatuation into danger. “I won’t marry you unless it becomes necessary, and that’s that.”
The rattle of dishes drew their attention to the vicar standing in the doorway, mouth agape. Bryn sighed and sent a brief prayer heavenward.
“You’re due to marry Dugan Armstrong on the morrow.” Confusion was writ on the vicar’s face.
“Not anymore,” Maxwell said ominously.
She cast a quelling look at Maxwell. “I’ve done something rather impetuous, I’m afraid.” She removed the shaking tea tray from the vicar’s hands and placed it on the table. The vicar heard deathbed confessions and counseled the villagers in the best and worst of times. It was his job. Yet her fear of experiencing his disappointment was more daughterly.
She glanced at Maxwell, but he appeared unlikely to come to her aid this time. Taking a deep breath, she grasped the vicar’s hands. “I was desperate. I hoped if I got myself ruined, Dugan would throw me over. I took complete advantage of poor Maxwell and… and seduced him,” she finished in a whisper.
Maxwell turned her so they were face-to-face in front of the vicar. “You took advantage of me, did you? That was a seduction? If I hadn’t been in my cups, I would have recognized you for a virgin sitting there in that horrid muslin white nightdress up to your neck and tossed you out.”
Heated embarrassment whooshed through her, singeing her heart. Familiar feelings of inadequacy sharpened her words even as guilt rose. “You certainly weren’t complaining when you ripped my horrid nightdre
ss off and pounced on top of me like some beast to—”
The vicar pushed them apart and shuffled to plop in his sagging armchair.
“Is there a possibility of a babe, Maxwell?” Vicar Mitchell looked to the small fire in the grate.
“Yes.” Dread dripped from the single word. “I had no plans on acquiring a wife in Cragian, but I’ll not leave a bastard to starve like my father left me.”
Guilt for putting Maxwell in the situation, shame from her confession to the vicar, and anger at the way they were cutting her out of the decision swirled together.
“Dash it. I don’t want a husband either. Men dictate and control because they’re bigger. A bully is what you are, Maxwell Drake. You too, Vicar, if you mean to force me to say vows to any man.”
“You must, Brynmore.” The vicar’s eyes were sad but understanding.
“Why must I? Why can’t we wait? If my courses come, then there’s no reason to marry.” Fighting men’s machinations was exhausting, and the unfairness cut deep.
“People will talk, and they will be cruel.”
She fell to her knees beside the vicar’s chair. “But surely after all I’ve done, they’ll—”
“They won’t be understanding.” The vicar brushed his hand over her hair. “Even the innocent suffer under the stain of sin. Maxwell understands.”
Tears blurred her vision as she looked up at Maxwell. A grimness settled on him like the black feathers of a raven. “It’s true, lass. Sister to a baroness or not, you’ll be a pariah in Cragian.”
“Anyway,” the vicar said, “you should remove yourself from Mary and Armstrong’s reach. I don’t trust either of them.”
Her foolish ignorance had caused this. She had ruined her life, that much was clear, but damn if she would be responsible for ruining Maxwell’s as well.
“I shan’t marry unless I’m with babe, but I’ll accompany you to Edinburgh, Maxwell. Then, if needs must, we’ll marry.”
“I won’t force you to say vows before God.” The vicar hummed and studied them. “And I trust Maxwell to do the honorable thing.”
“I will,” Maxwell intoned as if saying a vow. Something passed between the two men. An understanding, but of what, she couldn’t discern.
With the decision made, she stumbled to her feet. After having spent twenty-four years caught in an eddy, she was suddenly in the current and hurtling toward an unknown fate.
The vicar rose and caught her wrist before she slipped out the door after Maxwell.
“He’s a good man. Trust him,” he whispered.
“He hates me.” A root of her fear bubbled up.
His smile was knowing and sad and hopeful. “He could never hate you, lass.”
She wanted to believe him. Would she see him again? He opened his arms, and she fell into him, burying her nose in his collar. He smelled of Cragian and comfort, things she was leaving behind. “I’ll miss you, sir. So much.”
“I’ll miss you too, Brynmore. All my flock are my children, but you’re special.”
“The donations—”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
She nodded and took a step backward from his warm, welcoming sitting room into the biting cold. Maxwell sat on his horse as still and hard as a statue. As she closed the distance, he came to life, offering her a hand.
Words were beyond her, and she was thankful he didn’t demand them of her on their ride back to the inn. He and Jock argued about a second room, but there were none to be had with the extra guests at the manor.
Cursing under his breath, he threw his hands up. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He didn’t volunteer any more information before leaving her.
Feeling the eyes of everyone on her, she scampered up the stairs to his room. Memories of the previous night rose like wraiths to haunt her. She stared at the bed. A scratch on the door broke her reverie. A maid delivered a hardy stew and yeast bread, her eyes downcast as if Bryn was tainted. And maybe she was.
The country fare was a welcome change from the nauseating French sauces she had been forced to endure under Mary’s London cook, yet nerves stunted her appetite.
If Maxwell was set on them leaving, Bryn had her own plans to settle. She checked out the window but saw no sign of him. The moon was on the rise. She couldn’t wait a moment longer. After sending the hostler off with a note to deliver, she pulled her cloak tight and set off for the manor house.
If Mary discovered Bryn in the kitchens, would she be married off before Maxwell even realized she was gone? The confrontation with Mary and Craddock and Dugan had left her more rattled than she wanted to admit.
The snow continued to fall, leaving everything preternaturally quiet. Bryn stopped under the boughs of a straggly pine and took a deep breath. The cold air scratched her lungs and sharpened her senses. The first hours after a snowfall, before the tramping of people and beasts dirtied the pristine covering, were magical.
The weight on her chest had lightened in some respects. The debilitating fear over her marriage to Dugan had faded to a buzz in the background of her other worries. She would be a fool not to consider him a threat, but now her worries were concentrated on Maxwell Drake.
The man was too honorable for his own good. If she was with child, he would insist on wedding her, no matter that he didn’t love her. For a moment, before Mary’s shrill voice cut them apart, something had sparked between them. Something that might grow into a fire. Then the shock at seeing Mary had revealed something in his face and stance. A longing that had nothing to do with Bryn.
Was he still in love with her sister? The possibility worked a deep splinter in her heart.
As she got closer to the manor, she skirted through the trees to the kitchen entrance and peered through the small slit in the window covering. Mrs. Kidd was alone working on the next morning’s breakfast while Sarah sat on the long oak servant’s table and swung her legs. Bryn knocked five times, three long, two short, and the door swung open.
“My poor dearie. Come in, come in. Sarah and I wondered if you might pay us a visit this evening.” Mrs. Kidd enveloped Bryn in a bosomy hug smelling of yeast and flour. Bryn closed her eyes and tried to sear the moment into her memory.
Mrs. Kidd had been the head cook at the manor for a dozen years until the short, bullying London cook Mary had hired usurped her. As she had nowhere else to go, she returned to chopping vegetables and following orders. A combination of a kind and rebellious heart meant Mrs. Kidd was more than happy to set aside food for Bryn’s pet project—the baskets she coordinated for the poor.
Mrs. Kidd returned to kneading the dough on the table. The kitchen was homey and comfortable. A huge fire burned in the hearth. Bryn took her customary seat at the end of the scarred table and worried her thumbnail.
“I’m accompanying Maxwell Drake to Edinburgh on the morrow.” Both women stopped and looked at Bryn with nearly identical expressions of shock.
“That’s a name I haven’t heard in an age or more. Maxwell Drake.” Mrs. Kidd returned to her work, but her eyes remained unfocused. “I suppose that was the visitor today? But why would you hie off to Edinburgh with a stranger?”
Bryn stared at Sarah. Panic reflected back.
“It sounded to me like Mr. Drake and Mr. Armstrong are feuding.” Sarah shrugged her shoulders.
Bryn grasped the thin excuse. “Yes. Feuding. And Maxwell offered to save me from Dugan.”
Mrs. Kidd’s eyes were no longer dreamy but as sharp as one of the kitchen knives. “Feuding? How long have I known you, Brynmore McCann?”
“All my life?”
“Indeed. You go splotchy when you’re lying, girl.” Mrs. Kidd clapped her hands together, and flour puffed like fog around her. “I know you and your sister had quite the row this morning. Tell me the truth.”
Bryn pressed her hands against her cheeks. Damn her red hair and freckly skin. No wonder men preferred Mary’s classic beauty. “I spent the night with Maxwell Drake.”
“Are you telling
me you went and got yourself ruined?”
The horror and disappointment in Mrs. Kidd’s voice was parental. And in truth, Mrs. Kidd, Cadell, and Vicar Mitchell had played the roles of parents in her life. Sarah moved closer. How many times had they stood side by side as children and been berated for their mischievousness? This wasn’t slipping frogs into Mary’s bed though.
“I was counting on a different outcome. One that involved my freedom from any man. Only now Maxwell feels duty bound to marry me, but I told him I wouldn’t unless there’s a babe. He’s insisting I accompany him to Edinburgh until we know.”
Mrs. Kidd’s face took on the color of the flour dotting the table. She plopped in the nearest chair. “What if there’s no babe and he tosses you out on the streets in the middle of winter? What then, Brynmore?”
The consequences of her actions set her heart pounding so rapidly she grew light-headed, unable to move past a mental image of beggaring in the streets. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll come back here.”
“Yes, I’m sure your dear sister will welcome you with open arms.” Mrs. Kidd’s dry prediction scraped at her raw nerves.
“It’s done. There will either be a babe or not. I’m not here for a lecture or to be talked out of going. I need help with the baskets. I’m meeting with Busby and hoped I could tell him you’d provide a bit of food?”
“Of course I’ll help with the baskets. Don’t worry. We’ll get along fine here without you.” Even as Mrs. Kidd’s voice reassured, another jab of pain made her stomach ache.
Of course they would be fine. The world would turn, the sun would rise, and everyone would go about their lives as if she’d never existed.
Bryn pushed out of the chair, her gaze on the table. “I guess this is goodbye.”
Mrs. Kidd clasped Bryn’s wrist, forcing her to look up. She pushed Bryn’s hair behind an ear as she would a child. “Can I give you a word of advice?” Bryn didn’t relish hearing another depressing prediction of her fate, but Mrs. Kidd didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve given enough of yourself to this little village. Look to your own happiness.”
Tears stung. Would this be the last time she ever saw Mrs. Kidd? “I’ll try.”
A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 7
