Maxwell finished seeing to Primrose and piled hay into a corner of the roomy stall, checking out the door every few seconds for a sign of Bryn.
She appeared with her arms full, and he met her halfway to help carry a skein and a half loaf of still-warm bread, leaving her with two trenchers of stew.
They huddled in the hay, shoulder to shoulder, eating. The stew was rabbit with carrots and potatoes, hearty and delicious. He tore off a hunk of bread and sopped up every bit. The skein contained a weak, sweet wine. Between the two of them, they finished every drop.
“I don’t think anything has ever tasted so good.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed.
He set the empty trenchers to the side. “It was kind of them. What did you tell them?”
“We are newly married and on the way to Edinburgh to start our life with nothing in our pockets.” She yawned noisily like a child, and he hid a smile in the collar of his cloak. “They wished us health and happiness and blessings.”
“Let’s lie down. It’s going to be a cold night.”
“Aye. I’m so tired.”
He was too, yet once they were settled with their cloaks and a plaid for blankets and hay all around them for warmth, sleep proved elusive. She scooted fully into his body and sighed. It was dark in the barn and under the hay. A comfortable, safe nest. Perhaps that’s where the question was born.
“Why do you let Mary bully you?”
* * * * *
Bryn didn’t protest or pretend she didn’t take his meaning.
“Once Mary wed Craddock, she decided to turn me into a model young lady and make an advantageous marriage for me. And them, I suppose. To that end, she took up my neglected education. My lessons proved difficult.”
For years, Bryn had woken with a roiling stomach. Elocution and dancing instruction were her morning misery. By the time her afternoon pianoforte lessons commenced, her mind had been a jumble and unable to process the sheet music. The attacks that heated her body and made her want to run away had started a few months after her lessons began.
His arm tightened around her waist as if she didn’t need to explain further, but she found herself saying, “Mary would stand over my shoulder as I played the pianoforte or practiced my needlework and point out every flaw. Said I’d never make a proper wife.”
“Men don’t give a damn whether their wives can embroider a silly pillow or play a boring drudge.”
She chuffed a small laugh. “Don’t they? What matters then?”
His breath tickled the hair at her temple. His hesitation made her guess he had only been humoring her, but finally he spoke. “Kindness. Humor. And the kind of strength that might not be obvious but shores up a life like the limestone in the cliffs.”
As no-nonsense and practical as Maxwell seemed, sometimes his words cast magic. She tried to dispel it before she was ensnared. “Fine words, but men want beauty.”
“Beauty, aye. But there’s many kinds in the world.”
Did he think she was beautiful? More beautiful than Mary? Reality smacked her. Bryn wasn’t a great beauty like Mary. Her looking glass didn’t lie. “Mary got one of the village women up to the house to dye my hair.”
“That’s ridiculous. You have lovely hair.” He fingered the ends, and a shock tore through her as if her hair were alive. She brushed her hand over her neck and pulled the offending strands out of his hand.
“No. It’s atrocious and too brassy. Men want a shiny chestnut, like Mary’s, or pretty blond curls.” When she’d spotted herself in the looking glass for the first time after the dyeing, she’d cried. It was black as night and made her look like a sickly witch.
“I suppose your sister instilled such nonsense in your head.”
She wished she could see his face.
“I cut it all off,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
“You cut your hair?”
“It used to be to my waist, but I couldn’t stand it so black and ugly. I thought Mary might commit murder when she found me.” The moment was etched in her memories. Black hair clumped around her like dead ravens. Her sister’s scream. Bryn couldn’t even claim hysterics, for she’d grimly and methodically cut it off within an inch of her scalp.
A kernel of rebellion had been planted that day. She’d provided baskets for Maxwell because she couldn’t bear the thought of him starving. But those same baskets had provided a way to defy her sister. Satisfaction at seeing the money her sister valued funneled back into Cragian had kept Bryn’s spirit from withering.
“Mary is beautiful,” she choked out.
“Indeed, she is.” His words clawed at the festering wound on her heart. “As are you. Only you have yet to discover your power.”
Power. A funny choice of words since she’d been powerless against the Fates most of her life. She made decisions when forced into a corner like a feral dog. And like a dog, she would rip at her own limb to escape the traps set for her.
She sat up and turned toward him. Cold air knifed between them. “I have no power. You said yourself that I’m merely a pawn.”
He pulled her back down into his warmth and pressed her face into his chest, but she squirmed, not sure what she was trying to escape.
“Don’t fash yourself. Let me get you warm. Settle… settle…,” he whispered to her in the same soft, comforting brogue he used with Primrose. “You have a special sort of power, Brynmore. Trust me on this.”
His velvety voice soothed her. A small part of her brain protested. She was woman, not horse, and this man would use her as everyone in her life used her.
She didn’t care. In his arms, she felt protected and strong at the same time. Two states of being that were foreign to her.
She wiggled closer. One of his hands stole over her back to the top curve of her bottom. She lay on his other arm like a pillow, his breath puffing on her forehead. Her free arm stole around him and pressed into the hard planes of his back. If the farmer’s wife discovered them, she would certainly believe they were wed.
She slid toward sleep, warm for the first time all day. “Why aren’t you bothered by the cold?”
She had almost drifted off when his chest rumbled words. “I learned to bear it. The shack Mother and I shared was full of holes. Barely a notch above sleeping outside. The floor turned to mud in rain or snow, and we had only one cot.”
She breathed his name. He hugged her tighter, and she pressed her lips against his jaw. He heaved a sigh. “Go to sleep now, lass.”
For once, she did as she was told without an argument.
Chapter Twelve
Maxwell closed his eyes, his body rocking naturally with the motion of the horse. A tortuous mimicry of sex. Her bottom shifted back into him again. Even separated by his breeches, her dress, and both their cloaks, he had no trouble picturing her naked rounded backside pressed against his cock.
He imagined bending her over in front of a looking glass so they could both see and pushing inside her. He’d not been drunk enough to forget the feel of her, tight and hot and wet.
“—an inn. Our attackers have given up.”
“What are you blathering on about?” After the night they’d spent in an embrace in the farmer’s barn, he convinced himself his predicament was her fault. If she hadn’t up and seduced him, he would have been in Edinburgh, safe in his rented rooms with his new life begun. Alone. There would be no half brother or jilted fiancé out for his bollocks, no uncomfortable nights on piles of hay, no constant thrum of need and want.
“We’ve seen no one who wishes us harm on the road. Can we take a room in an inn tonight?” She favored him with a sunny smile in spite of gray clouds overhead.
His insides twisted like a wrung-out rag. A bed and a fire and Bryn waiting in a chemise. Or less. “No, we bloody well can’t.”
She turned away, taking her smile with her. He wished she’d whine and complain like a normal woman. Instead, her smiles and laughter warmed him in unexpected places. Places he’d thought
locked, the key misplaced.
“They’ll be no need of an inn tonight. We’ll be in Edinburgh by afternoon.” He tempered his voice in weak apology.
Once in Edinburgh, he needn’t spend time with her. Or even see her. It would be a waiting game. If she carried his child, they would marry by special license or over the anvil, if necessary. If not… He didn’t want to consider the alternative.
He tugged her into his chest and breathed into her hair. She smelled like fresh hay and a crisp winter’s wind.
“When are your courses due?”
Bryn started. “Ah, I’m not exactly sure but not yet.”
A shot of satisfaction, relief, and resentment coursed through him. The emotional stew had too many ingredients and left a bitter taste in his mouth.
After hours of silence, Edinburgh materialized through the fog. Ornate spires clawed into the clouds as if trying to sneak into heaven. The castle loomed on the hill, nearly swallowed in white. Ancient cobblestones echoed underfoot. The fog muffled and distorted sound. Hawkers called out their wares, but they were indistinct, crowding into an opposite street.
Maxwell had come to Edinburgh before joining his regiment as a newly minted lieutenant, and he’d known in his bones he’d be back someday as man or ghost to roam the streets with long-dead clansmen and lairds.
With the castle still in sight, he guided Primrose onto a quiet street lined with town houses. Primrose’s clops echoed off the stone. A handful of people were out, scurrying with cloaks pulled tightly around faces.
A fission of energy had him sitting straighter. Success and autonomy were in his grasp. His plan was to offer the same sort of services he had to the Bellinghams but on a nonexclusive basis. He would act as steward or advisor for several property owners instead of one and take a cut of their profits instead of a salary. And he would turn a profit or that he had no doubt.
“Here we are. Eighteen Barrow Road.” Maxwell dismounted in front of a town house with green shutters. Knobby, brown stone fit with the rest of the ancient city, but Maxwell knew it to be a façade. The house was only a decade old, if that. It was a newly prosperous area of Edinburgh, perfect for reaching out to landed aristocrats and wealthy gentry. While the ghosts of the city beckoned, he desired to live like a modern man.
He helped Bryn down. She clutched his forearms, digging her fingers into his muscle. A tiny moan escaped. The memory of her moans and pleas their night together in Cragian ignited an ember in his belly, no matter how road worn and weary he was. Would he ever be able to forget?
Damn his hands. They circled her waist to support her more fully.
The front door opened and cut them apart. A middle-aged lady with salt-strewn black hair stood in the doorway. Candlelight wavered behind her, but the diffused light of the afternoon lit her expression. Shock? Disapproval? Or merely surprise?
Maxwell tackled the steps as best he could with his stiff, sore leg, his limp more pronounced than usual. “I’m Mr. Drake. May I assume you are my housekeeper, Mrs. Soames?”
The lines creasing her forehead smoothed, and in a heavily accented brogue, she said, “Indeed, I am, and pleased to finally make your acquaintance, sir. We were growing concerned. We expected you nigh on two days ago.” Mrs. Soames glanced at Bryn with shiny, dark eyes, but her discretion did her proud.
“I was delayed by the weather. And I acquired a guest. My betrothed, Miss McCann, will require lodging. Could you ready a chamber for her?”
“Indeed, Mr. Drake. And I’ll send young Seamus around to see to your horse.” She gestured them into the town house, tutting about the cold and damp.
The dim, characterless entry made it difficult to get a lay of the land. A young man in a natty blue uniform barreled out of a side corridor, smoothing his coat with one hand and his hair with the other.
“This is Henry. Your footman and man of all work. Henry, send young Seamus to tend to the horse, and tell Isla to ready another chamber for the young lady. Will there be anyone else arriving, Mr. Drake? A chaperone, perhaps?”
Bloody hell, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He hummed. “Yes, we’re expecting her any moment.”
Bryn’s swift breath was audible, but he didn’t dare look over at her.
“Is this the drawing room, mayhap?” He cupped Bryn’s elbow and opened the door on their right. Warm greens and browns lent a welcoming, charming feel. Although it wasn’t lit, fuel was stacked next to the hearth. This was more to his liking. “We’ll both require baths at your earliest convenience, Mrs. Soames, but first some tea and whatever the kitchen has available, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.” She backed away and disappeared into the shadows. The jangle of keys grew faint until they disappeared.
Bryn stood in the middle of the room, still in her cloak and chafing her arms. If he was tired, she must be close to collapse. Although his last years in London had been comfortable, years spent surviving first Cragian and then the war had hardened him.
He squat in front of the hearth and got a fire crackling. The glow and warmth spread. He stared into the hypnotizing flames.
“We made it.” She had come up next to him without his notice. Color flooded her cheeks, and her hair sparked in the firelight.
“Aye.” His throat was dry. Where was the blasted tea?
“Are we safe?”
If only troubles were so easily left behind. His father’s will and her betrothal agreement loomed like harbingers. “Perhaps, but most likely not.”
“Always the optimist.” She side-eyed him with a half smile.
Mrs. Soames reentered and deposited a laden tray on a low table in front of a settee. “The lady’s bath is filling now, sir.”
Bryn took a piece of dark bread, slathered it with butter, and took a bite, expelling a sigh.
“Thank you, Mrs. Soames.” Maxwell followed the housekeeper into the entry.
“Should we expect the lady’s chaperone this evening, sir?”
Darkness had fallen. Mrs. Soames’s candle cast long shadows along the walls. “Miss Bryn’s chaperone might be detained a day or two. There is to be no gossip, is that understood?”
Mrs. Soames seemed to grow taller. “Certainly not, sir. I realize we have only corresponded through letters, but I’ve run houses twice this size with efficiency. I do not tolerate gossip.”
As he had little choice, he would have to trust the woman. “Did you get my trunks?”
“The books are unpacked and on the shelves in your office, and your clothes are in your room.” She gestured across the entry to the closed door. “You’ve received correspondence over the past week, sir. I’ve stacked the missives on your desk.”
“Very good, Mrs. Soames.”
“Should I be expecting a trunk with the lady’s things, sir?”
Damnation. “We met with some misfortune on the road. Thieves. She’ll require a new wardrobe. Is there a dressmaker you could commission?”
A look of sympathy softened the stern lines of her face. “Indeed there is.”
“Could you ask her to come around with samples at her earliest convenience? It will consist of a large order.”
“I’ll send a note in the morning, sir.”
Henry, the butler/footman, clomped down the steps, slowing as he caught sight of Mrs. Soames. “The lady’s bath is ready. The kitchen is heating water for the master’s now.”
“Thank you, Henry,” Mrs. Soames said. “Shall I escort the lady to her chamber?”
Maxwell nodded. Bryn stumbled out of the room like a sleepwalker and swept up the stairs in Mrs. Soames’s wake. He finished every scrap of food left on the tray and drank tea until he was called for his own bath.
Henry led the way to his room. It was at the far end of the upstairs corridor. Candlelight flickered at the bottom of door halfway down the hall. Bryn was likely naked in a steaming, fragrant bath, her skin pink and flushed, much as it had been after—
He quashed his thoughts. A single candle and small fire lit his chamb
er. The door closed with a snick. Finally he was alone.
He stripped out of his road-worn clothes and slipped into the bath, the heat loosening his muscles and easing the pain in his leg. The state of being alone wasn’t unusual. In fact, silence had been a boon companion for as long as he could recall.
The past days with Bryn should have been grating. It hadn’t been. She understood the beauty of silence and didn’t fill it with inanities.
Only when the water cooled did he heave himself out, his leg’s protests muffled. The air nipped at his damp body, and he pulled on small clothes and wrapped himself in a plaid folded on the end of the bed.
He hesitated between bed and door. Muttering a curse, he padded barefoot into the hall. Light shone through the cracks in Bryn’s door. He rapped. Nothing. Had she fallen asleep in the bath?
He pushed the handle, and the door swung open with a long creak. The bath was empty. The bed was not.
She was curled in a tight ball on the coverlet, a pillow clutched to her chest, the gold in her damp hair muted. The night rail she wore was reminiscent of the one she’d seduced him in—thick and covering her from neck to feet. She’d even tucked her toes under the hemline. The lass was likely to freeze to death.
His already chaotic emotions tumbled. He rolled her and peeled back the covers. A few throaty noises later, she was covered. Between the blankets and the fire, she would be warm enough without him. It was only concern for his possible babe.
Yet he didn’t move. He tucked a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheekbone behind her ear. The skin of her jaw was soft under his fingertips. In his memories, the rest of her body was just as tempting. He forced himself to take a step back, his hand drawing into a fist.
He was an addict, and she was his drug. He’d hoped the brief touch would satisfy his craving, lest it overwhelm him and he find himself at her bedroom door every night begging entrance. One touch had only fed his craving.
He would distance himself from her until time revealed his path forward. But if she was carrying his child, they would marry, and he would keep their marriage bed warm indeed.
A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 13
