A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3)

by Laura Trentham

  “I’ll get the contract. It’s binding.” Sutherland slammed the door on the way out.

  Any delay was welcome. Maxwell would turn the house upside down for her, but when would he discover her absence?

  Sutherland crashed back through the door a moment later. “It’s bloody well gone!”

  Dugan, Mary, Craddock spoke on top of one another.

  “It was in the lockbox.”

  “Who took it?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Aye, it was locked up tight.” Sutherland turned baleful eyes upon her. “Have we underestimated you, Miss McCann? What were you up to earlier this evening? Search her, Lady Craddock.”

  Mary wouldn’t find the betrothal documents, but she might discover the curious paper Bryn had stuffed down her bodice. She held her arms out and spun in a slow circle. “Go right ahead. You’ll find nothing, because I don’t have them.”

  “It’s only a matter of time, Bryn.” Mary checked her cloak but not her dress.

  The vicar backed toward the door and held his hand out to Bryn. “Without the documents, I can’t in good conscience perform a ceremony blessed by God. I’ll escort Miss Brynmore back downstairs to her chaperone, shall I?”

  Sutherland propped his fists on his hips but didn’t protest.

  “You’re going to let her leave?” Incredulousness sailed Dugan’s voice high.

  “This is only a delay. Let them leave.” Sutherland turned away and stared out the window.

  Bryn didn’t hesitate. She left at the vicar’s side. Maxwell and the earl stood at the bottom of the steps, the intensity of their discussion coloring the air. She pulled out of the vicar’s grasp and skipped down the stairs.

  Maxwell. She must have spoken, because as his name reverberated in her head, Maxwell and the earl turned. He took the steps two at a time, meeting her on the first landing. They grabbed hold of one another, his lips murmuring her name over and over.

  Puffing slightly, the vicar joined them. “I’d advise you to move the lass somewhere safer.”

  They continued down the stairs and huddled in an alcove. Guests were beginning to leave, and they kept their voices low.

  “I thought I’d lost you.” He took her hand, his thumb rubbing the back.

  “Craddock and Dugan ambushed me in the carriage and dragged me upstairs at knifepoint. The vicar was on hand to perform a ceremony.”

  Maxwell’s hand tightened on hers. “Are you… unhurt?”

  “I’m fine. The vicar’s quick thinking foiled their plans.”

  The vicar bowed his head. “I’m much ashamed to admit that before I heard the name Brynmore, I would have proceeded, damned as I would be in God’s eyes. Sutherland is a powerful, dangerous man to cross.”

  “Have we met before, sir?”

  “You’ve met my daughter, Meredith. If I’m not mistaken, you’re godmother to my newborn granddaughter, Elizabeth Brynmore Douglas.”

  Bryn shook her head. Fate was a mystery of twists and turns, and she could only thank the stars this twist had been in her favor.

  The vicar cleared his throat. “Sutherland will try again. A different vicar, another time.”

  “Yes.” Maxwell’s voice was heavy with portent. “My lord, would you and Penny escort Bryn to the carriage and remain with her until I arrive?”

  Although he posed it as a question, it was obvious he would brook no dissension.

  She laid a hand on Maxwell’s arm. “Wait. They’ve tampered with the axle. Two men are planning to follow the carriage and attack when we break down.”

  “I’ll drop a word in Penny’s ear,” the earl said. “He should be able to take care of it.”

  Maxwell gave a brisk nod and turned his attention to the vicar. She felt dismissed. Pigeonholed. As if Maxwell only cared for her when it was convenient for him.

  The earl flipped the hood of her cloak over her head. “Let’s not draw any more attention than necessary to your reappearance, shall we?”

  Instead of sneaking out the back, the earl guided her out the front door, but they didn’t speak to anyone except for Penny who was out front loading guests into their carriages. Their whispered conversation didn’t interest her as much as what Maxwell and the vicar were discussing inside.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Having Bryn out of his sight and his protection settled like an itch he couldn’t scratch. This evening had revealed how precarious their situation was. His desperation after discovering her absence had been terrifying in more ways than one. He’d felt like he’d lost an arm or a leg or a… heart.

  Maxwell turned to the vicar. “For obvious reasons, Bryn and I told your daughter we were married as we traveled together. Quite out of necessity, I might add. We were accosted on the road by Sutherland’s lackeys, which is how we ended up begging shelter that fateful night.”

  “Goodness, he wants the lass badly.” A flash of fear showed in the vicar’s eyes before he stood up straighter. “What can I do?”

  Maxwell stumbled over his next words. “I… Well, I’m hoping you’ll indeed perform a marriage ceremony. Tomorrow. I need it legal and binding, sir.”

  “What about this betrothal contract? Does it exist?”

  “Aye, unfortunately, it does, but with the mounting evidence that Armstrong means Bryn harm, surely we can circumvent it—in court if necessary.”

  “An English court perhaps but not one in Edinburgh. I’m not sure you realize how far Sutherland’s arms reach into this city. I’ll most likely pay dearly for this display of mutiny,” the vicar said. “You as well, Mr. Drake.”

  “Perhaps a visit to your daughter is in order until it blows over.”

  The vicar smiled. “Yes, a fine idea. I’ll leave tomorrow after I make your union official.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The two men shook hands.

  A moment of doubt assailed Maxwell. Would Bryn agree or stare at him as if he’d grown devil horns? She might not like it, but she would marry him on the morrow. For her safety and his sanity.

  “Lord Craddock and Mr. Armstrong look ready to do battle, Mr. Drake.” The vicar took sidestepped toward the door.

  Maxwell glanced over his shoulder to see Craddock and Armstrong descending the stairs like two bulls. “Go on, Vicar. Until the morning.”

  The vicar moved faster than his spindly legs and belly would suggest.

  “Where is it?” Armstrong bit out with no prelude.

  “Where’s what?” Maxwell blanked his expression. Lessons from bluffing his way through checkpoints during his days as an exploring officer were at his fingertips.

  “You bloody well know what we want—the betrothal papers. I’ll sue for breach of contract.” Armstrong raised his clenched hands, and Maxwell readied himself in case a punch came.

  “You’re welcome to try, but any magistrate will find your little machinations to have me murdered quite interesting. At the very least, I’ll ensure your name is dragged through muck, and your schemes will be for naught.” Even though his voice was calm, serene even, Maxwell had the urge to pull the knife from his inside pocket, slit Armstrong’s throat, and watch him bleed out in the middle of Sutherland’s marbled entry hall.

  “You’ll not have another peaceful night, Drake.” Armstrong jabbed a finger an inch from Maxwell’s face. Maxwell didn’t so much as flinch. What bullies like Armstrong wanted above all else was people to fear him.

  People to fear him. The words went on repeat in his head. But who? He would certainly gain Bryn’s inheritance on marriage, which would widen his reach over a handful of tenants and their sheep. There must be more.

  He sketched a bow and retreated. Let them think he was scared and running. The night air cooled the bloodlust singing through his veins. Bryn, the earl, and Mr. Masterson huddled in the cold next to the carriage as Penny’s muttering snaked from underneath.

  She looked small and slight next to the two gentlemen. Weak even, if he didn’t know any better. Nothing—not abductions or attacks—had dented
the essence of her spirit. Yet if Armstrong and Sutherland and Mary had succeeded in their machinations, would Bryn’s spirit have survived?

  A well of emotion rose. He turned away so she wouldn’t glimpse his face and guess at the depth of his feelings. It was bad enough he’d let his guard down in the study trapped in that blasted cabinet. Suppressing this consuming need for her was exhausting.

  Penny scooched out from under the carriage, wiping his hands on a rag. “Should get you home safely, but I’d have your stable master examine it on the morrow.”

  “Edie is staying warm in my carriage, Drake. Do I need to get her?” The earl’s brows rose.

  “No. Propriety is not as important as Bryn’s safety. Let’s leave this place.”

  The earl and Mr. Masterson climbed into their carriage. Bryn took her place, and Maxwell sat on the edge of the seat across from her. Flicking open the drapes, he scanned the road and kept his hand on a loaded pistol. No one bothered them, but he could feel the shadowy menaces stalking them. He would defend Bryn. With his life, if necessary.

  They gathered in Maxwell’s study on their arrival to peruse the contract. Lionel read out the pertinent parts. Bryn was indeed an heiress. A manor house, twenty thousand pounds, and a good bit of land were hers. Dugan would assume control on their marriage. Perhaps he would petition for a knighthood or barony to solidify his standing.

  Yet a piece of the puzzle was missing.

  Maxwell dropped into his chair and propped his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling. “Murder, kidnapping… Is this all about Bryn’s inheritance?”

  “Money and greed can turn a man’s soul to evil. I’ve seen it. I’ve used the fact to my advantage,” the earl said.

  “Maybe so.”

  “Wait. I took something from Sutherland’s study.” She presented her back and wiggled and shimmied as she dug around in her bodice. “Here it is.”

  She handed over a piece of parchment. Maxwell spread it open on the desk, and all of them bent over to examine it.

  “Those are elected officials all through Scotland,” Maxwell said.

  “What are the numbers?” Bryn asked. “Bribes?”

  Lionel pushed away from the desk and paced, slow and deliberate. “Not bribes. Votes. Each number represents votes. My guess is the ones struck through are politicians they’ve bought. Armstrong wants Bryn’s inheritance not only for the money but the land and votes. He wants standing and respect.”

  Maxwell banged his fist on the desk. “Yes. And Sutherland wants to control Scotland from his seat in Edinburgh. He wants the power of a king, the ability to steer the country. He’s just amoral, intelligent, and brash enough to do it. He’s already succeeded in Edinburgh.”

  “What’s next?” the earl asked contemplatively rubbing his lip.

  Maxwell flicked a glance toward Bryn. “Things will be clearer in the morning, I think.”

  Lionel cleared his throat. “Perhaps so. It’s late and cold, and my bones are crying for bed.”

  Bryn retreated up the stairs with a backward glance full of secrets. He stared until she faded into the shadows.

  The earl trotted down the front steps, but Lionel hesitated. “What are your plans regarding Miss McCann?”

  “Bryn and I have an appointment with the vicar tomorrow morning.”

  “She’s amenable?”

  “I don’t care. She’s marrying me, and that’s the end of it.” His voice was harsh and more than a little desperate.

  Lionel’s eyes were kind, and the pat he gave Maxwell on the arm was fatherly. What would life have been like with a man like Lionel in his life? Old regrets and longings pressed and made it difficult to take a breath.

  “A word of advice, Drake? Use a bit more tact with Miss Bryn. I was married for many years, quite happily because Betsy’s feelings and opinions were important to me. I didn’t trample them.” Lionel tilted his head. “She loves you, you know.”

  Maxwell swallowed. Did he know? Neither of them had spoken of love. She had used him, altered the path of his life. But his new path was sweeter and fuller than the barren road he’d traveled alone.

  “And whether you’ve admitted it to yourself or not, you love her.”

  “I… I…”

  Lionel’s smile was as kind and understanding as his eyes. “You’re a good man, Drake. Be the man that Miss McCann deserves.”

  Lionel ducked into the carriage after giving him one long, last look. Maxwell wished he had the experience to interpret everything Lionel seemed to want to impart, but he didn’t.

  Stalking back to his study, Maxwell tore his cravat and collar off and braced his hands on his desk, the silence crypt-like. The craving to mark her as his was overwhelming. If not with his babe or a wedding ring, then in some more intangible way. It wasn’t a want but a need. He needed her. He loved her, dammit.

  He wasn’t happy about it though. Since leaving Cragian, he’d entombed his heart. Brynmore had snuck into his room at the inn, slipped past his defenses, and breathed life into him.

  One careless word or action from her would destroy him. If she understood the power she held over him, she could manipulate and torment him the rest of his days. He wanted to capture her heart and hold it under a knife in retaliation for stealing his away.

  He moved up the stairs and stopped in front of the door he had stood in front of so many nights. This time he would enter. He reached for the handle as if his hand belonged to someone else.

  Welcome enveloped him on his first step over the threshold. Candles cast a warm glow, and a fire crackled. Bryn rose from a chair by the hearth, wearing a virginal white nightgown made almost translucent by the light behind her. Tied loosely, the gown hung off one shoulder, her red-gold hair licking the delicate white curve of skin like flames. She had never looked more ethereal and otherworldly, her face in shadow, her body lit from within.

  Charming, blithe words couldn’t force themselves past the lump in his throat. He didn’t feel charming and blithe. He was vulnerable and fearful and fought the urge to fall to his knees at her feet in surrender.

  * * * * *

  The fire and the candles aglow around the room highlighted Maxwell’s face. It was almost as if he were scared of her, ready to bolt if she took so much as a step toward him. She held out a hand.

  He approached as if he were a wounded animal seeking a balm, stopping within reach yet not touching her. Tentatively, she stroked down his arm, took his hand, and linked their fingers. A squeeze was the reward for her patience. She trailed her other hand up his chest. He’d removed his collar and cravat already, and she curled her hand around his neck, pulling him down to her.

  As soon as their lips touched, he came to life, wrapping his arms around her, his grip almost painful. He needed something from her, although she wasn’t sure what. He clutched at her hips, her buttocks, her back, as if trying to pull her inside him. In contrast, she ran her fingers through his hair and down his face, softly, soothingly, calming his fervor.

  She shushed him as his mouth careened down her bare shoulder, nipping her and then licking in atonement. Her nightgown rose, the edge tickling past her thighs reminiscent of their interlude in the cabinet, but he didn’t stop. Cloth obscured her sight for a moment, then drifted to the floor in a white heap. His hands were once again frantic on her bare skin.

  Her naked body pressed against his fully clothed one in a crazily erotic buffet of sensations. The rasp of the fabric rubbed against her sensitive skin, and buttons bit against her breasts and belly.

  Her world tilted and spun as he picked her up and laid her on the bed. He stood looking down on her. His silence, in combination with the intensity of his demeanor, unnerved her. Even after all that had passed between them, she felt naïve and unable to speak her heart.

  He attacked the buttons of his waistcoat, peeling it off and letting it fall. His shirt followed. She propped herself up on her elbows. The flickering fire highlighted the play of muscles along his shoulders and arms as he wrest
led with boots and breeches. He was beautiful and perfect, and she loved him.

  Naked, he stood before her aroused but defiant, looking grim.

  Bryn’s eyes pricked with tears. She blinked. Maxwell had stood alone, apart, untrusting for most his life. Painful lessons imparted by Mary had only reinforced his attitude. Would he ever accept he didn’t have to keep himself apart from her?

  Bryn reached for him, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He fell on top of her, settling himself between her legs. She tensed, ready and willing, but he didn’t take her.

  Instead, he kissed her. No, he claimed and dominated her, but he wouldn’t hurt her. She understood it like she understood the sun would rise every morning. He reached out to close the drapes around the bed, but she brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips.

  “No. I want to see you.”

  His hand drew into a fist around the velvety fabric. She waited for him to decide. Darkness or light.

  He grabbed her hand in his, pressed it into the bed, and buried his face in her neck. “My God, Brynmore, please.” His voice was strangled, almost tortured. Nothing like the smooth, velvety brogue she’d grown used to.

  She cupped his cheek and forced him to look at her. His eyes were sad and wet with tears. Forlorn and heartbroken.

  “I love you. Maxwell, I love you. Don’t you know that?” she whispered the words over and over. The moment they settled on him, his expression morphed into something primal.

  Still holding her gaze, he entered her with a hiss, his lids settling low. This was what she’d been craving all night. His pace was slow and decadent, his hips rolling with each thrust. Her eyes closed, her pleasure dancing along the edge of a climax.

  “No, look at me,” he growled.

  She popped her eyes open. His eyes reflected the firelight, and his magic carried her away. The voice calling his name and her love for him over and over was hers. She writhed under him as he released inside her.

  He collapsed on top of her with his face buried in the pillow, still inside her and unmoving. She gloried in the press of his weight and traced his spine with her fingers.