A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3)

by Laura Trentham

  * * * * *

  Bosom sisters? Sharing secrets and giggling with Mary was beyond her imagination’s capabilities. “After Mama died, I ceased to exist for the baron, so I attached myself to Cadell.”

  “Did you not have a governess?”

  Bryn tsked. “Papa was obsessed with having a son, remember? Mary and I were encumbrances. No, that’s not fair. We weren’t useful, therefore we were beneath his notice.” Maxwell squeezed her forearm. The simple gesture and the understanding in his hazel eyes made her keep sharing things she normally kept locked away.

  “I missed Mama, but little by little, I forgot her touch, the way she smelled, and Cadell was more a father to me than the baron. Cadell made me read book after book to him as he worked on the horses. He couldn’t read. It was a way of educating us both, I think.” Tears gathered, and she rolled to her back to keep them contained.

  “Cadell was a good, fair man. Where was Mary during all this? She should have been seeing to you like a big sister.”

  “I much preferred her inattention compared to being a pawn in her schemes.” Bryn cut her watery, blurry gaze to him. “After father died, Craddock was offered up as the new baron, and she had her sights set on being lady of the manor.”

  “I never had a chance, did I? How could I not see?” He rubbed at his forehead.

  “She craves power. When she was younger, it came from manipulating the boys and men in Cragian.” Fears rose up. “She craves a different sort of power now, I think.”

  “Why have you not married before now? Did you never ask her for a season in Edinburgh? With your connections and beauty, you would have been pursued by countless suitors.”

  Distrust ran roughshod over her heart. In her inexperience, she couldn’t read truth from platitude. Mary had only ever called her ugly and ill formed, with her red hair and skinny boy’s body, and sick because of her anxious malady. Yet Maxwell hadn’t touched her as if she were ugly. What did she believe?

  “It was never convenient for Mary,” she said simply.

  “You’ll have your chance to experience Edinburgh now.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. A chance. A chance at a different future. As the fire faded, the silence filled with portent.

  “Did I hurt you last night?” His voice was so soft and deep and mesmerizing, and seconds passed before the meaning of his question registered. “I wasn’t as gentle as I would have been had I known—”

  “A bit sore is all. More from your… size than from the loss of my— I’m fine.” She waited for the quilt to combust from the amount of embarrassed heat she was emitting.

  “It’s going to be a long, cold day tomorrow.” The squeaking bed frame broke the heavy silence as Maxwell turned, his back blocking the weak light from the fire.

  She was intensely aware of his big, warm body even though they didn’t touch. After his breathing became deep and regular, her body relaxed and her grip on the sheet loosened, sleep claiming her body.

  Chapter Eight

  Blessed warmth surrounded her. Usually by morning when the fire had gone out and the dawn chill stole into her room, she was ready to get up and move instead of shivering beneath her covers. Something was different. She wiggled back into the source of heat, only to be startled awake by a deep groan.

  Her eyes popped open, and the winter dawn displayed an unfamiliar collection of furniture. It took a handful of blinks to conclude she was not at the manor house in her drafty, corner room but at the inn in Cragian. And that was no furnace keeping her warm. Maxwell’s body curled around hers. Their legs notched together like a wooden puzzle toy, their fingers laced.

  Embarrassed by the seemingly tender embrace, she attempted to extricate herself. She wiggled but didn’t make any headway from under his heavy arm. In fact, it clamped tighter around her waist.

  “Don’t move.” His sleep-roughened voice was like a caress. The puff of breath and scratch of whiskers against her neck sent a pleasant shiver through her body.

  Something hard nestled against her bottom, and realization streaked through her. His hips rocked against her. She arched her back, pressing into him. Any logical argument to keep her distance was forgotten in the need he inspired.

  He muttered something about promises and breeches before he pushed her away and flopped onto his stomach, burying his head in the pillow.

  Without his warmth, a chill crept to her bones, and goose bumps rose on every inch of skin. Bryn darted from under the covers to grab her satchel. “Don’t peek.”

  “Wear a dress. Wear a bloody dress or I won’t be responsible for my actions.” His muffled command came from the pillows.

  What did that mean? Would he beat her? Was he no better than Dugan? Anger, resentment, and a dash of fear formed a lump in her belly. She was sick of being told what to do, whom to marry, how to bloody well dress.

  She grabbed up her buckskins and stared at Maxwell’s muscled shoulders where the quilt had fallen. Like a blind woman, she remembered the contours, the strength in his body. Yet he’d only ever been gentle and protective of her, even though her actions had vastly complicated his life. Of course, Maxwell was no Dugan.

  Guilt dissolved the anger, and practicality stepped in. If they were going to call on Lady MacShane, a dress it must be. Washing and dressing with speed, she slipped out of the room with one last look at Maxwell.

  * * * * *

  The door creaked and the latch clicked. Maxwell rolled onto his back, his cock straining painfully against his breeches. He looked down with a mirthless laugh. Her innocent wiggling had nearly made him spend in his breeches like an adolescent.

  He’d awoken before dawn slightly embarrassed but mostly aroused to be holding her. When he’d tried to pull away, she held him firm. Her throaty seductive protests had hardened him further.

  He hoped to God the chit had put on a dress. If the soft, faded buckskins curved over her bottom like a lover’s hand, he would have to haul her back up to the bed and shatter the promise he’d made to keep his hands off her. The possibility made his cock throb in anticipation.

  Maxwell levered himself up and rubbed his face. After washing himself in the old bathwater, he scraped at his night beard in the small looking glass and packed his satchel, casting one more longing look at the bed. A rather large, aching part of him prayed she’d defied him and worn those breeches after all.

  He was halfway down the stairs when her lowered voice changed the direction of his thoughts. “Let go of me. Maxwell will be down any moment.”

  Protectiveness roared, but he wasn’t foolish enough to charge into battle without identifying the enemy. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and lurked.

  “Did he take you again last night? Are you enjoying my castoffs? He’ll never love you as he loved me. He was my slave.”

  Mary’s words rubbed salt in a raw wound that had never fully healed. He stepped around the corner. She had a tight hold on Bryn’s upper arm, twisting it.

  “Let her go.” His voice cracked them apart.

  Mary whirled. Her dark red velvet dress hugged voluptuous curves. A vee at the bodice exposed the cleft of her breasts. Curls were gathered below one ear, and rouge pinkened her cheeks and deepened the red of her lips. Mary possessed a beauty like Helen of Troy. Manipulative and destructive.

  Bryn’s face had lost all color, her freckles dancing over her nose and cheeks. The sisters couldn’t be more different in looks and attitude. Mary approached on a whisper of velvet and cloud of flowery scent. She assessed him head to toe with a brazenness he’d only encountered among London’s demimonde.

  “Let’s not make a scene. Perhaps we should discuss this in private.” Mary’s tongue darted out to skim over her upper lip.

  He flicked his gaze to the patrons who were observing the unfolding drama wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Between Bryn’s two nights in his room and Mary’s appearance, he thought it rather too late for discretion. However, he gestured to a small, private dining room to their right, his voice dry. “
We certainly wouldn’t want to generate any more gossip for the local mill.”

  Maxwell stepped inside, but Mary stopped Bryn from following. “You wait here while we discuss the situation, Brynmore.”

  Bryn’s gaze remained downcast. Mary closed the door in her face, and Maxwell had a terrible feeling he’d taken a misstep in their game of chess.

  Mary’s heavy-lidded eyes, pouty lips, and flushed cheeks were the mask of a seductress. The once lovely, enticing girl had turned into a beautiful, irresistible woman. She advanced, stopping a scant few inches from pressing herself into him. He held still while she trailed a hand down his chest, fingering the lapel of his coat.

  “You were always handsome, but my goodness, you’ve grown into a gentleman. You’ve done well for yourself then? Your jacket is very fine.”

  “Yes, I’ve done well. You should have had faith in me.” He tried to keep his tone mocking, but his dry mouth roughened his voice.

  “Maxwell, darling, let’s be frank, shall we? My boyish, virginal sister could hardly have satisfied your, no doubt, considerable needs.” She trailed a hand down to cup him between the legs. Shock held him still. “You deserve a real woman, one with certain assets I know you’re very fond of.” She fingered the neck of her dress and peeled it back.

  His gaze followed without conscious thought. Her manipulations were brash and vulgar. Nevertheless, his cock, already primed from the morning’s torture, hardened under her hand. Mary smiled as she stroked the length of him. Taking his silence as acquiescence, she pressed herself close, her large, soft breasts against his chest.

  How many times had he dreamed of this? Countless.

  “Can we make a bargain? Take me to your room and do with me what you will as many times as you wish. When we’re finished, I’ll take Bryn with me. Dugan will still marry her and promises, if there is a babe, to claim and protect it with his name. There will be no bastard, I assure you.” The fringe of her lashes veiled eyes that were more calculating than lustful. “You must have wondered over the years what it would be like to lie with me.”

  Christ, it was true. The women he had taken as lovers bore a strong resemblance to the woman caressing him so blatantly—always voluptuous, dark-haired beauties. Was he tempted?

  Hell yes, he was, and he hated himself for it.

  He closed his eyes. An image of the red-haired woman waiting outside the door cooled his lust. He’d never betray Bryn and hand her over to Armstrong.

  Maxwell wrapped his hands around Mary’s upper arms, and a triumphant spark lit her face. He pushed her away. “It’s been a long time since I was susceptible to your schemes. Aye, I loved you truly, but you never felt the same.”

  “I did, but…” She grabbed at his sleeve, a desperate thread in her voice “Maxwell, you couldn’t take care of me the way Craddock could. I don’t love him. I’ve never loved him. I loved you.”

  In her vibrant green eyes, Maxwell sensed a kernel of truth underneath the emotional manipulation. He brushed by her but stopped with his hand on the latch, looking over his shoulder. “Is Craddock aware you’re bargaining with your body?”

  Mary’s face hardened, stripping her soft beauty away. “The marriage will take place. If I were you, I would step aside and allow it to happen.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “There are dangerous men about, Maxwell. Scotland is still an untamed place in many ways,” she said with a cryptic, mirthless smile.

  “Bryn and I are leaving Cragian. I wish you and Craddock well, but leave us the hell alone.” He opened the door.

  Bryn stopped midpace. Her fresh-faced beauty compared to Mary’s calculated sensuality was a welcome shock.

  “Come,” he said gruffly.

  “With you?”

  Mary tugged on her gloves and sashayed toward them. The casualness of her approach wasn’t reflected in her emerald-hard eyes and the tension curling her shoulders forward. “Farewell for now, sister. I can see why you so vehemently defended your mystery lover’s skills yesterday morning. He’s quite well endowed.” Mary’s gaze dropped to between his legs, and Bryn’s quick intake of breath echoed in his ear.

  The corner of Mary’s mouth quirked, and she ran a finger down the lapel of his jacket before she added, “If only we had more time, Maxwell, but alas, I’m due for breakfast and must offer a suitable excuse for your absence, Brynmore.”

  Mary pulled the veil of her hat over her face and swept out of the room into a waiting carriage. Maxwell turned to Bryn. She had blanched, but instead of hurt or embarrassment, her brown eyes eviscerated him. “Did you touch her? Kiss her?”

  “I did neither.” Shame at his weakness clipped the words short. And he wasn’t lying. He hadn’t touched Mary, except to push her away. But he hadn’t looked away or batted her hand off him either. Echoes of the power she’d held over him as a young man swirled.

  He strode out the door toward the stables, assuming Bryn’s compliance. She kept pace, and he intercepted several pointed, probing glances, but she stayed silent.

  After a tussle over a sidesaddle, which Maxwell won since he was paying, they rode away from Cragian in stony silence. She had insisted on wearing the mannish brimmed hat, which she pulled low on her brow. He couldn’t imagine her in the millinery confections the ladies wore in London anyway.

  They maintained a brisk pace in spite of the fresh snow on the path. The sky looked as gray and ominous as it had the previous day, but the snow was held at bay. For now. The temperature was nothing compared to the chill coming from Bryn. He owed her something, if not the total damning truth.

  Nudging Primrose with his heels, he came alongside her mount. “Your sister offered a proposition. Her body for my use if I turned you over to Dugan, who promised to claim a babe as his own. I said no.”

  She turned as far as her sidesaddle would allow in order to face him, her demeanor thawing. “She’s ruthless.”

  “Or desperate.” The gray clouds pressed all the way to the horizon.

  His worries turned from Mary’s machinations to Lady MacShane. Odds were excellent she would refuse to see her late husband’s unacknowledged by-blow. He was on a fool’s errand.

  Bryn pointed. “I see the chimneys. Lady MacShane renamed it Riverwalk. A bit pretentious if you ask me. More like Scrubwalk with all the brambles on the road. The river’s a good two miles over the dale.”

  He met her attempt at normality halfway. “The gentry here have nothing on the peers in London. Even the esteemed Baron and Baroness Craddock would be considered country bumpkins. I would almost be tempted to venture back to see them make a bow in London.”

  “What’s London like?” The biting air had returned color to her cheeks, and her brown eyes had the warm comfort of a cup of chocolate. How quickly she went from being intimidated by Mary, angry with him, and now curious about the world.

  “Dirty, foggy, smelly, and crowded. But exciting, beautiful, and interesting as well. I’m glad to have lived there for a time but not sad to leave it behind either. As much as I sometimes hated Cragian, I missed Scotland.”

  “I’ve hardly ventured out of Dumfries. Will I like Edinburgh?” Her nervous shift on the saddle underscored how different she was from Mary. Indeed, unlike any woman of his acquaintance.

  “Edinburgh is nothing like London, of course, but it’s where the best of Scotland gather when not tending to their estates.” It’s why he’d chosen to settle there, after all. His plans included offering his services to those same men. But there was another aspect he hadn’t considered. He might be expected to socialize, and Bryn, as his wife, would be by his side.

  Her cloak was good quality but plain, as was the brown wool dress under it. Everything she wore was designed to blend into her surroundings like a tree in the forest. Did Bryn choose to hide, or had Mary forced her to? A mossy green would suit her well. And a dark blue would cool her fiery hair and add sophistication.

  “You’ll need to be kitted with a proper wardrobe once we’ve arri
ved.”

  * * * * *

  For once, Bryn agreed. She would need sturdy woolen gowns, but financing a new wardrobe posed a problem. Her pin money from Mary had gone toward buying shoes, clothes, and other sundries for struggling families. Her future hadn’t seemed precarious until recent events.

  As soon as they reached Edinburgh, she would pawn her mother’s baubles and buy one or two serviceable gowns, perhaps at a secondhand shop. She was fair with a needle and could alter them to fit.

  As they approached the manor house, a footman, his white wig askew on his head and wearing only one glove, careened down the stairs to help Bryn dismount.

  “Saw ye coming up the drive and said to me mistress, ‘Who’s that a’coming? ’Specting company?’ But she said, ‘Nay.’ So I thought I’d better get gussied up not knowing who ye might be. And it’s Miss McCann. Where’s yer sister?” The footman looked toward Maxwell as if he were Mary in disguise.

  “Lady Craddock didn’t accompany me today.” Bryn smiled but couldn’t bring herself to flutter her lashes like she’d seen Mary do. “Since your mistress is at home, I assume she’s receiving.”

  “Erm… let me check on that, miss.” The footman tripped up the steps.

  “Show us directly to the drawing room before we catch a chill, won’t you?” She handed her reins to a young groom who’d run up.

  Maxwell started to interject, but she shushed him. He raised his eyebrows but said no more. Maxwell may be used to dealing with London’s finest, but she was used to dealing with Cragian’s finest.

  If Lady MacShane was aware her husband’s by-blow was on the front steps, she’d order the door slammed shut and barred. If Maxwell needed to see the woman, the least she could do was help him gain an audience.

  The footman never stood a chance. She maneuvered around him to the drawing room, ignoring the proprieties. Despite the outward show of bravado, her hand shook when she raised it to rap sharply on the door. It swung open with a creak.

  Lady MacShane didn’t bother to look up from her needlework. Her singsong voice was laced with disdain. “You know I hate a rude, loud knock, Hamish. I prefer a more demure scratch. That’s how the servants in London announce themselves. Now, who was that coming up the drive?”