Confusion rioted through Nora. ‘No. We cannot suddenly marry. Marriage won’t make everything right or the past disappear. I thought you understood. Despite the wig, someone could recognise me and put all the pieces together. It is best if I go far from here.’
‘I don’t care,’ Brandon said firmly. ‘You would be surprised at what a peer can accomplish.’
‘I have no doubts about what you can accomplish. I’ve seen you in action. Still, marriage is not something to be rushed into. We’ve not ever spoken of it.’
‘What do you mean? We’ve spoken of nothing else. I asked you to stay with me.’ It was Brandon’s turn to be confused. ‘I have offered you protection, permanent protection under my care.’
‘That was not a marriage proposal. It was a proposition. You and I know very well you were asking me to be your mistress. We didn’t even know if my husband was alive or dead at that point,’ Nora said slowly, trying to piece together this latest misunderstanding between them.
It seemed as if misunderstandings were abundant in this relationship. She was sick of them and sick of the whole game. Nothing was clear any more.
Suddenly, she was angry—wholly, completely, irrationally angry. She could not have articulated why, but anger boiled up. She wanted to fight with Brandon, thrash it all out until nothing remained but the honest truth, even if that truth stung. Even if that truth was acknowledging that her feelings for Brandon were unrequited. Certainly such hard truth would make it easier to walk out the door. Freedom lay just eight feet away. All she had to do was span the distance and step out into the night.
Jack coughed in the corner and nodded towards the vicar, reminding them both that they were not alone. ‘It might be wise if the vicar and I left the two of you alone to sort out this tangle. Come on, my good man of the cloth, I’ll buy you ale at the inn.’
The door shut behind them. There was no longer any need for restraint. The proverbial gloves were off. She was spoiling for a fight with Brandon, and from the looks of the sparks glinting in his eyes, he was too.
‘You are twisting my words. I will not allow you to justify walking out the door because you think I desired to make a whore out of you,’ Brandon responded coldly. ‘You think it will be easier to leave if you can convince yourself to believe the worst and not the best about me, about us.’
Nora adopted an aloof pose. ‘What exactly is the best? I am unclear on that, beyond the great sex, that is.’ She gave him an assessing look that ran up and down his length, hoping the perusal didn’t give away her mounting desire. It would be hard to give up this man, body and soul.
‘I want to marry you.’
‘In case you don’t know, you can buy great sex without a marriage licence these days.’ She was sarcastic and mocking, desperately trying to create some distance, to show Brandon how much he needed to be rid of her.
‘Stop it, Nora. I won’t be provoked on this. You want a fight. You’ve used that strategy before. Well, I won’t give you one.’
‘Just give me the truth, then.’ If he wouldn’t argue, she had no choice but to force his hand. ‘Do you love me?’
Brandon looked nonplussed and she wished she hadn’t asked. If she didn’t know for certain how he felt, she could let the illusion of possibility fire her empty nights in the years ahead. Maybes and what ifs could keep her warmer than the cold truth that he had not cared for her, not like she cared for him. With four words she’d thrown away that paltry parting gift.
‘Do I love you? Don’t you know by now how I feel?’ Brandon shoved a hand through his hair in distress and began pacing the room in great agitation. ‘Of course I love you. I think I started falling in love with you that night in my study when you dangled your feet over the chair and drank down my expensive brandy in a single swallow.’
‘You do?’ Her voice was nothing more than a squeak and it sounded very far away to her. He loved her. She had her answer.
‘How could you not know?’ Brandon’s voice was softer now, the frustration of cross-purposes seeping out of both of them. ‘What man would do the things I did for you if not out of love, Nora?’ He reached for her and she went to him, overwhelmed at his declaration. He kissed her softly, his tongue leisurely tracing the seam of her lips, licking her teeth when her mouth opened. His hands stroked the small of her back, moulding her to him.
‘Can I hope, Nora, that you might feel the same? What truth can you give me? I often wondered if I held your affections. No one has ever led me on such a merry chase,’ Brandon whispered huskily, moving his lips to the column of her throat.
‘I love you, Brandon.’ The words were not as hard to say as she’d imagined. She’d imagined the words would make her feel vulnerable. Tonight, she felt only fulfilment. Saying them had not exposed her, they completed her. With Brandon, she was whole.
‘Then it’s settled.’ Brandon’s voice was low and husky.
The door slammed open on their intimacy. Brandon clutched Nora to him out of a reflexive need to protect, to shelter.
‘Unsettled might be the better word once you’ve heard what I have to say.’ Witherspoon filled the room. Behind him, Magnus St John barred the door.
‘What are you doing here, Witherspoon?’ Brandon asked in cold, commanding tones.
‘The more interesting question is, what are you doing here?’ Witherspoon countered, malice and calculation radiating from him as he took in every aspect of the scene.
‘My betrothed and I were in need of some privacy,’ Brandon responded, daring Witherspoon to contradict his explanation.
He did just that. ‘Your betrothed? She’s no more your betrothed than she’s Eleanor Habersham. Stockport, the ruse is up. You’ve been caught in flagrante delicto with a criminal of the highest order. The woman with whom you’ve been “settling” things is none other than The Cat of Manchester.’ He pointed his riding crop at them for emphasis. ‘And you very well know it.’
Nora twisted in his arms to face Witherspoon. He tightened his grip on her, hoping she wouldn’t do anything bravely foolish. ‘You make unfounded accusations, sir,’ she ground out, sounding very credibly like a lady wronged.
Witherspoon’s smile turned cruel, his gaze raking Nora. ‘St John and I followed you from the jail, my pretty thief. You see, I was curious. Things about Stockport and this situation didn’t add up, particularly his behaviour the night of your capture. He suddenly becomes a dolt on horseback when everyone knows he’s a capital rider.’
Witherspoon tut-tutted and slapped his riding crop against his thigh with a series of ominous whacks. ‘It made no sense that Stockport was in league with you. He has more to lose on this venture than any of us. But then, I got a good look at you—Nora, is it? I began to see the appeal. I began to think that if I had a woman like you in bed, I might start to think less of my factory and more about my pleasures.’
‘This woman is to be my wife. I will not stand here and listen to another word of slander against her. Say what you came to say and get out or face me at twenty paces.’ Brandon nudged Nora off to one side, directing Witherspoon’s attention to him solely. He would not tolerate another of the man’s leers at his wife-to-be.
‘Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten my real news. Your factory is burning as we speak and this woman is guilty of it.’ The chill of evil was evident in his voice.
‘That’s not true! I couldn’t have set the fire,’ Nora cried. ‘I’ve been here.’
Witherspoon drew a pistol from beneath his greatcoat, training it on Nora. ‘It won’t matter what’s true or not. You’ll be dead shortly. Your body will be found in the ashes and ruins along with Stockport’s unless he’s willing to make a deal. There’ll be insurance money enough from the fire for the three of us to make out handsomely, Stockport. There would have been more if we could have waited a year or two. But I’ll cut my losses in exchange for your eternal gratitude, Stockport. All you have to do is keep quiet.’ He jerked the pistol, motioning for St John. ‘Take her now, Magnus.’
Pandemonium broke loose in Mary Malone’s small cottage. Trusting Nora to handle herself against Magnus St John, Brandon rushed Witherspoon, grabbing his gun arm in a dangerous gambit.
The two men fell to the floor in a wrestling heap. The battle for the pistol was on. This was no bloody fisticuffs. This was a fight to the death. Witherspoon and St John had come to the cottage intent on one murder, if not two. Brandon knew he was fighting for his life and Nora’s. There could be no holds barred.
Across the room, Magnus lunged for Nora. She danced away, deftly putting the cottage’s wood table between them. She laughed and taunted as she feinted left, then right, on her side of the table, throwing Magnus St John continually off balance.
The ploy couldn’t last for ever. Eventually, St John would tire and attempt a leap across the table. The cottage was a small place. It would be hard to get past St John and the brawling Witherspoon and Brandon. She knew what she had to do. When St John lunged, she had to find a way to disable him for the duration of the fight.
From the other side of the room came the grunting, punching efforts of Brandon and Witherspoon, punctuated by an occasional crash as Mary’s furniture or few pieces of crockery were sacrificed to the occasion. It took all of Nora’s training and concentration not to glance over at Brandon, to see how he was faring. His situation was more dangerous than hers at the moment. His fight involved a deadly weapon. Her fear for Brandon threatened to distract her—another reason for wanting to subdue St John.
Finally the lunge came. St John dove across the table, swiping at Nora’s shirtfront. She darted backwards just out of reach, causing St John to lose his balance and tumble to the ground.
‘Bitch!’ he roared, furious at having been made to look a fool. He struggled to regain his feet. He never quite made it.
Nora grabbed up a pitcher used for milk and broke it soundly over his head. He staggered and fell. With expert quickness, she shredded a dish towel into strips and tightly bound the unconscious man’s hands. If he woke before the fighting was over, he’d be useless. These bonds were not held with easy, playful knots like the ones she’d used on Brandon a few weeks ago. These knots were practically Gordian. He’d only get out of them with the help of a knife.
She sprang from her trussed captive, ready to join the fray against Witherspoon. She wished she had her dagger handy, but all her usual weapons had been taken from her during her captivity. One look at the fight and she doubted it would do any good. The men were brawling close. Each looked as if they’d taken the brunt of the other man’s fists.
Brandon pinned Witherspoon’s gun arm and was repeatedly slamming it against the plank flooring in an attempt to shake it loose from Witherspoon’s grip. Witherspoon punched at Brandon’s mid-section with his free arm. Brandon groaned from the impact, incrementally loosening his hold on Witherspoon’s pistol arm. It was enough for Witherspoon to force Brandon away from him and scramble to his feet.
Nora screamed a warning.
‘Nora, get out of here!’ Brandon yelled, not once breaking his concentration from Witherspoon. Brandon, still half-bent from trying to rise, rushed Witherspoon like a bull head down, the force of his muscular body taking the other man up against a wall. Caught between the wall and Brandon’s powerful form, Witherspoon lost his grip on the gun. It fell to the floor with an ignominious clunk and misfired.
‘Brandon!’ Nora cried in fear. Both men were down, Witherspoon’s body falling into Brandon’s in a heavy slump that took Brandon to the ground beneath it. Neither moved.
‘No!’ Nora rushed forward, careless of her own safety. Witherspoon was absolute dead weight in his unconsciousness. It took all her strength to heave his form off Brandon. Once she did, she could see plainly where the bullet had struck him in the ribs. It had likely punctured a lung when it misfired. He was dead, beyond her help.
She knelt next to Brandon. Blood soaked his shirt although she fervently prayed the blood was Witherspoon’s. She took the cloth of his shirt and rent it in two, too worried about what she’d find underneath to take the time and undo his buttons. She ran hands over his torso, looking for any sign of serious injury or bleeding.
He was battered and would be bruised in the days to come. But he was all right. Nora sat back on her heels, allowing herself to breathe a sigh of relief. He still hadn’t woken, but now there was at least the possibility that he would.
‘Brandon! Nora! Are you in there!’ Sounds from outside caught her attention. Help at last.
Nora went to the door and unlocked it. ‘Jack! Dulci!’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s been a terrible fight. Witherspoon’s dead and St John is tied up over there. Brandon’s unconscious.’ She tried to control herself. It sounded like she was babbling, but she couldn’t help it.
They went to Brandon’s prone form. Jack felt the back of his head and smiled. ‘He’ll have a goose egg there tomorrow. I would bet he hit his head when he fell. He should be fine in a few moments.’
Protectively, Nora sat down next to Brandon on the floor and took his head in her lap while Jack and Dulci righted the cottage and checked on St John.
As Jack predicted, Brandon stirred shortly. ‘Where’s Witherspoon? Are you all right?’ He immediately tried to rise and fell back in her lap.
‘Shh. Everything’s fine,’ Nora assured him. ‘Jack and Dulci are here. They’ll take care of everything.’
‘You’re fine too?’ Brandon asked.
‘Perfectly.’
‘Help me get up. I want to sit at the table and hear what Jack has to say.’
With Jack’s help, Nora got Brandon to the table and he laid out the events of the evening for Jack and Dulci.
‘I expected as much,’ Jack confirmed grimly when Brandon had finished. ‘When the vicar and I got into the village, I could see the fire in the distance. At first, I didn’t suspect the mill, but the closer we got the more obvious it seemed. I went to the jail for Dulci then. I feared for her safety in case there was a mistaken identity in the dark. We came out here directly. I wish we’d been earlier.’
‘We managed.’ Brandon smiled at Nora and reached out to cover her hand with his.
‘Are you well enough to ride into town and look over the mill, what’s left of it?’ Jack asked.
Brandon shook his head. ‘There’s one stop I need to make first. Tonight has been a cautionary tale about the import of time. I find I don’t want to wait another minute to make you mine, Nora. Will you come with me to the vicar’s?’
Dulci broke in. ‘You can’t be serious, Brandon. She needs a dress and you should have a big wedding.’
Nora looked at Brandon and shook her head against Dulci’s exclamations. ‘I don’t need those things. I only need you. I’ll marry you tonight.’
Brandon rose slowly and held his arm for Nora. His blue eyes danced with teasing good humour. ‘Excellent. I promised the vicar a wedding tonight and I always keep my word.’
An hour later, The Cat retired and Nora became Lady Stockport in a quiet firelight ceremony performed by the vicar and witnessed by Jack and Dulci.
It was an odd wedding as weddings go, but no less heartfelt for its idiosyncrasies. The bride wore black, the groom sported quite a facer and kissed the bride for an indecent length of time. But in the end, the important conventions were followed and Brandon sealed their vows with a ring set with amethyst on the bride’s finger.
The vicar left them alone afterwards while he went to gather the necessary licences and forms. Nora held her ring up to the firelight, watching the gem dance. ‘It’s the ring I stole the first night we met.’ She gave Brandon a coy smile. ‘Why did you want it back so much?’
Brandon came to stand behind her and wrapped his arms about her, hugging her against his form. ‘I always meant for my wife to wear it some day. It belonged to my mother. She was a woman who specialised in making impossible dreams come true.’
‘She sounds a lot like her son.’
‘I think she’s a lot like my wife.’ Bran
don nuzzled her neck. ‘Let’s go home, Lady Stockport.’
Chapter Twenty-One
London
Spring, 1832
‘I heard the bad news, it looks like the legislation will fail again,’ Jack said, deftly swiping two glasses of champagne from a passing footman’s tray at Lady Summersby’s political soirée.
Brandon nodded grimly. ‘Yes. I suppose I should not be surprised. The Reform Act has passed the House of Commons twice, only to be defeated in the House of Lords. I am at a loss as to how it can possibly succeed. We will try again, but I fear it is an exercise in futility.’
Jack sipped his champagne, trying to look as if he hadn’t a care in the world. In a serious tone, he said quietly, ‘I wouldn’t give up. The word at court is that Prime Minister Grey will force success by threatening to create fifty new peers, Liberal peers, of course. And that will carry the bill and much else for years to come.’
Brandon gave a weary chuckle. ‘I see. The House of Lords can either bow to this one victory or set themselves up to be slowly eradicated over the years.’
He raised his glass in salute to a group of passing acquaintances and turned back to his conversation with Jack. ‘If Shaftesbury would change his vote, I think others would follow without all this need for arm twisting.’
‘I thought he believed in reforms,’ Jack said, somewhat surprised by his friend’s comment.
‘I do,’ a low voice said behind Jack as Anthony Ashley Cooper, seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, joined them, Nora on his arm. ‘I am afraid I’ve become a bit misconstrued over the past months.’
Brandon fought back a smile. Apparently, Nora had set the Earl on the right path with her brand of hard-to-resist charm. In the last five months since their marriage and moving up to town, Nora had captured many hearts with her beauty and her intellect. Her introduction into tonnish society had been seamless. Witherspoon had been found guilty of arson and insurance fraud and the village of Stockport-on-the-Medlock had agreed with Brandon and Jack’s theory that The Cat had been Eleanor Habersham.
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