Forget Me Not

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  “Probably not.”

  Her heart plummeted with disappointment. “You’re not happy with what you’re doing. I can hear it in your voice.” She paused. “What is it you want to be doing? A man like you is not without dreams.”

  “A man like me? And what sort of man am I, Lydia?” The tone of his voice was light, but she keenly sensed a hint of wistfulness behind the words.

  “Intelligent, capable, honorable… and a bit of something I can never quite put my finger on.”

  Silence hung in the air, heavy and indecisive, she feared having erred.

  “I should like to breed me own horses,” he said finally, shifting to the next section of hair.

  “Owe!” She shied instinctively from the snagged comb.

  “Sorry, love. Yer hair is a bit of a mess.”

  “I should think it’s more than ‘a bit of a mess,’” she mimicked his accent. “But tell me more about breeding horses. It sounds fascinating.”

  For a long while he was quiet, working his fingers through her hair, the only sound the steady rush of breathing. “Hunters are in high demand, some gentleman will exhaust two mounts a day just to keep up with the fox hounds.”

  “So you plan to breed Hunters?”

  “I’ve entertained the idea, but have always felt rather bad for the fox being hunted.”

  Lydia laughed. “As have I. So, if not Hunters, what to do you plan to breed?”

  “Thoroughbreds,” he said firmly. “Mark me words, Lydia, the future of horses is in racin’, and thoroughbreds will be the front runners.”

  She nodded, enjoying the caress of his hands. Every so often the calloused fingers grazed the back of her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

  “Well, love, it took an hour, but yer hair is just about perfect again. One last tangle, and ye’re free.” He flipped another combed section over her shoulder. “If ye ask nicely I might even braid it fer ye.”

  “That would be lovely, Brian. Thank you. Tell me, where will you go to breed your thoroughbreds? Back to Ireland?”

  “Not hardly.” Brian scoffed. “To be honest I don’t know. In Britain I’d be lucky to make a livin’ selling Hackney Ponies. Hell, I’d be lucky to find a place to breed ponies at all. Recently I’ve considered traveling to the Americas.”

  Lydia nearly choked with panic. The Americas? If he traveled across the sea she would have no hope of seeing him again. His fingers laced through her hair one last time, dragging the length of it, before falling away. She was cold. Lydia whirled, nearly striking the underside of his chin in the process. “Why so far? Surely, the colonies aren’t safe, I’ve heard stories about savages and beasts, you could be killed, Brian!”

  He chuckled, placing his hands on her upper arms, shifting her away from him. “The same as I could have been killed in France, love, and I’m of the impression the Americas are quite civilized now. No need to worry over my hide.”

  But the worry is for my own heart! Could she survive a single day without the hope of seeing the man she loved, knowing he was safe, protected?

  Brian stood, sidestepping away from her. She followed, grasping his forearms. His gaze locked with hers, intense and almost pained, a muscle worked testily in his jaw. “What is it ye want, Lydia?”

  “You,” she whispered though the word nearly trapped in her throat.

  The intensity in his gaze morphed before her eyes. A raw burn smoldered in the depths of his green orbs, reaching for her, beckoning. “Did ye mean what ye told Brandon today? That a man can become anythin’ he wishes in life?”

  “Yes.” Without cognizance she leaned in, trailing her palms up the sinewy contours of his arms to the well rounded muscles of his shoulders and then down the sculpted camber of his lean chest. The honed muscles leapt in response to her touch. A trill of excitement swept through her. “Would you kiss me, Brian?”

  Not a single sound escaped him as his head tilted to the side, gaze roving along the curve of her face to her lips. He leaned so close the gentle gusts of his breath left her mouth tingling, hungry for his touch. One broad palm cupped her cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb dragging across the sensitive flesh of her bottom lip. “Do ye think that wise?” His hand dropped, but he did not move away.

  “How long will we continue this dance, Brian?” Boldly she grasped the back of his neck pulling him toward her.

  “Forever.” Abruptly he shoved her from him, crossing the room to the door. “Good night.”

  The door clicked shut.

  Dejectedly she flopped across the bed, battling tears. Despite his denials Brian wanted her, that much was obvious, but would his silly sense of honor ever let them explore what she was certain could be a magical love? The sort of love her parents had shared. The closer they drew to Wheaton Abbey the more terrified she became of her fate being sealed. After knowing Brian’s touch and kiss she would never yield to the touch of the viscount. Such would be a betrayal to her heart.

  Mind made up, Lydia flew from the bed, and marched straight to the door. It was time to put this little gavotte behind them. The men of her world didn’t believe she knew what she wanted or what was good for her? Ha! Brian Donnelly was about to get an earful of what she wanted in life, and a large slice of that pie was him. She was going to do it. Tell him she loved him.

  A bit apprehensively Lydia stepped into the hall, she’d never been in a place like this without escort, and was relieved to find it deserted. Brian had only been gone for fifteen minutes, and she knew him well enough to realize he would never be out of her earshot. Perhaps she should check the pub for him first. Slowly she crept around the corner of the stairs, noting the raucous noise drifting from the tavern below. She should probably go back to the room and await his return, but she feared losing her nerve, moreover she was entirely too impatient to sit on her hands. Stealing her nerves, she drifted down the stairs, pausing at the last step. She glanced toward the tavern seriously doubting the wisdom of venturing in alone, and then stole a glimpse in the opposite direction.

  Lydia stopped dead in her tracks, a cold dose of shock or, more accurately, reality dousing her senses. She blinked, meant to turn away, but found her eyes riveted to the sight of Brian wrapped in an embrace so provocative it should be criminal with the blond barmaid who’d delivered their dinner. For what felt an eternity she could not tear her gaze away. Dear God, did men enjoy being touched that way? It was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to kiss her, she’d never have thought to do that. “Oh!” The outraged gasp flew from her mouth.

  Brian froze, his arms falling away from the harlot as though he’d touched poison. Slowly he faced her, guilt lining every facet of his visage.

  “How dare you?” she shrieked.

  He took a step toward her, arm outstretched. “Lydia—”

  She jerked backward, fleeing back up the stairs.

  Brian was close behind. “Lydia, please, wait? It’s not what ye think.” His hand closed around her ankle, successfully halting her flight.

  She whipped around catching his cheek with the flat of her palm. “Don’t even try to make excuses, Brian, it is exactly what I think. I am not blind.” He refused to release her ankle and she plopped onto her backside on the stairs. “Unhand me this instant you lout!” She yanked the entrapped ankle, shoving against his shoulders, nearly sending him headfirst down the stairs. He fell heavily to his knees and cursed under his breath. With one last good tug Lydia wrenched free of his grasp, galloping up the stairs to escape him.

  “Cease this foolishness.”

  “You are calling me foolish? Please.” Lydia rounded the corner, desperate to escape the rapidly gaining pounding of his booted feet. “I don’t know why you’re following me back to the room, seeing as you’ve found alternate means of a warm bed and companionship.”

  “Lydia, stop this.” Brian grabbed her shoulders, spinning her with such force against the wall she cried out. “Do ye not understand?”

  “Understand what? That you were kissing another woman.”
Heat and shame flared within her. To think she’d so brazenly asked him to kiss her that evening, been bold enough to go in search of him. The worst was she’d been naïve enough to believe the words I love you might change anything between them. Burning tears blurred his handsome visage; just as well, she didn’t want to see him. “Let me go, Brian, I don’t want to hear your excuses. You owe me no explanations.” Her voice cracked on a sob. “It’s not as if I’m really your wife. You are just not the man I thought you were.”

  The grip on her upper arms tightened until his fingers bit painfully into her flesh. “No, Lydia, please don’t say that.” His voice was soft, earnest. “More than anythin’ I want to be that man for you.”

  She sniffed, letting her head fall forward, dropping his gaze. “From what I witnessed tonight you have a very funny way of showing it.”

  “That is what ye don’t understand, love. What you saw tonight, kissing Maggie, was so that I won’t be tempted by you. You are driving me to madness. I want you, Lydia. Too much.”

  “You mean to tell me that you kissed another woman to avoid kissing me?” She glared in outrage. “What do I say to that? Smile sweetly and gush over the immensity of your sacrifice? I have heard some shams in my day, Brian Donnelly, but that most certainly takes the prize. How naïve do you think I am?”

  “Rah!” he growled in frustration. “I suppose I’ll just have to show ye.” In one swift motion he grasped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers, hard, firm, plundering her mouth.

  She almost melted, nearly evaporated into thin air beneath his fingertips, but… “Stop touching me you incorrigible rake! How dare you kiss me after your mouth was all over that harlot? I may not be the most perfect of ladies, but I assure you there are limits to what I can overlook or endure and this is where I draw the line.” If not for the fact she was trapped between the solid flat of the wall, and Brian’s hulking frame she would have swept regally away. Had her heart not cracked down the center she may have been proud of standing up for herself.

  “Damn it, Lydia, do—”

  A door creaked on its hinges. “Would you two lovebirds kindly take this spat elsewhere? Some of us payin’ customers are tryin’ to sle—” The man’s sentence dropped off as his eyes turned to saucers. “It’s you! The girl from the posters. Why you’re worth 500 pounds, and you’re the son of a bitch Irishman what kidnapped her!”

  Brian uttered another of the colorful adjectives she was not often privy to hear, and raised a placating hand to the man. “Sir, I can assure ye that ye’ve mistaken us fer someone else. This is me wife, Lydia Riley, our son is in the next room if ye’d care to assure yerself of the fact.”

  “No.” The man shook his head, disbelieving. “That’s the girl from the posters, and I’m going to claim myself 1000 pounds.”

  Chapter Eleven

  All hell broke loose.

  The words ‘1000 pounds’ and ‘son of a bitch Irishman’ no doubt pierced the din of the tavern and within moments a horde of men stampeded toward the staircase.

  The man who’d sounded the alarm stepped from his room wearing naught but a knee length nightshirt. He cast an assessing eye toward Brian, seemed to think better of attacking him, and made a lunge for Lydia. Instinctively she sidled behind Brian’s sheltering frame. Visions of Felix Keith waving a heavy billfold swirled through her mind. With one powerful flick of his arm Brian sent the assailant sailing to the flat of his back. In the next moment a crush of attackers, some with guns and knives at the ready, piled over the top of the stairs.

  “Run to our room,” Brian commanded, placing urgent hands at her waist.

  She threw a harried glance into his face as panic enveloped her senses, her arms and legs felt leaden, uncooperative. “But we’ll be trapped.”

  “Now!” he barked, ushering her roughly along. “We’ve no time to dawdle or that mob will have you to Keith by noon tomorrow.” Lydia stumbled through the hall to their door, fingers thick with fear she fumbled with the doorknob. “Hurry it up, lass!” In one swift motion Brian grasped the door handle, snaked an arm around her waist and spun them into the room. Kicking the door shut behind them he slammed the deadbolt home.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Crushed against the heat of his honed chest, the pounding of his pulse was palpable beneath her palm.

  His gaze clouded with a combination of passion, longing, and something she could not quite put her finger on, but it was akin to… fear? Perhaps pain? The pain of loss ever present behind her father’s eyes. “Lydia,” he rasped, voice husky, “should I nev—”

  A horrendous crash caused the aging boards of the door to buckle inward, threatening to give way. The frenzied shouts of the mob were barely discernible, though the intent was more than clear.

  She jumped back out of his arms. “Perhaps this should wait until we’re safely away from the inn.” As if to confirm her statement another collision threatened to splinter the heavy deadbolt.

  Brian grasped her upper arm. “Wait just a moment. Ye must know, Lydia, I—”

  “Blimey!” Brandon’s voice squealed from behind the partition. “Jest wha’ the hell is goin’ on out there.” The boy staggered from behind the curtain, dragging shabby trousers up over his hips. The repeated shouts of “1000 pounds” and “goddamn Irishman” did not leave him wondering long. “Oh, so that mob recognized her did they? And yer worth the same dead or alive, Brian, nice knowin’ ye.”

  “Dead or alive,” Lydia cried, all anger fleeing. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Shut up, lad.” Brian released Lydia’s arm. Testily he grasped a heavy bureau and yanked it onto one side, blocking the door and hopefully the siege. “That may buy us a few minutes.” He strode across the room to the window, scooping up the satchel as he went. Deftly he threw up the sash, leaning over the banister. “We’ll have to go through the window. There is no other way out.”

  Crack! A shower of splinters flecked Lydia’s arm as the door nearly gave out completely.

  Brian looped the satchel strap across his shoulders, and slung a leg over the windowsill. “There is a small ledge just below our window, follow it a few feet to the right and then jump onto carriage house roof below. I will go first should one of ye have trouble.” He turned to escape through the window.

  “Brian, wait!” Lydia stepped forward, visions of him falling to a broken neck or an attacker’s blade flashing before her eyes. He turned back, the reflection of distant longing glittering across the surface of his green eyes. “Please be careful.”

  Without warning he grasped her chin between a thumb and forefinger. Briefly their eyes locked, pure magic, and he pressed his lips quickly, firmly to hers. “Don’t look down, love.” In the next instant he was gone, swinging lithely from the ledge to the rooftop below. Brian crouched with the stealth of a panther on the roof edge, assessing the night below, then leapt to the ground. Brian positioned himself directly beneath their window, and beckoned silently for them to follow.

  The crowd roiling outside the door intensified by the second. “Brandon, you go next. Climb onto the ledge just as Brian did.”

  Vehemently he shook his head. “No, Miss Lydia, it’s you the mob wants. ‘Ou should follow next.”

  She placed her hands to his thin shoulders, prodding him toward the ledge. “Do not argue at a time like this. I will be right behind you. Now go!”

  Another powerful crack sent the boy spiraling into action. Lydia stole an anxious glance toward the abused door. The boards were in splinters, and the bureau would not hold the insurgents at bay but a few seconds more. She swallowed back a wave of nausea, closed her eyes against the sway of the world around her, and reminded herself not to look down. She hated heights, but this was no time for petite fears. Stilling the frantic twitch of her nerves, Lydia hiked up her skirts, stuck a foot through the window, and crept onto the ledge.

  The cool night air kissed her cheeks but did little to soothe her churning unease. She clutched at the coarse bricks lining th
e outer wall, searching for any suitable handhold, and inched away from the window. The whispers of Brian and Brandon floated up to her and she knew the boy had safely reached the ground. Tentatively she stole a glance down. Oh, dear God, I should never have looked. The light quivering of her stomach seeped to her arms and legs until she shook with such force her fingers could not grasp the meager crevices along the wall. The narrow ledge suddenly seemed no more suited to hold a spider than herself. She swayed, nearly losing her precarious balance. A small sob escaped her. “Brian?” she rasped. “I-I ca-a-an’t d-do this.”

  The audible crunching of shattered wood exploded from inside the room. The roar of drunken, money hungry rabble surged into the night air.

  Lydia slipped.

  The surest sense of doom descended upon her as clammy fingers lost their tenuous hold on the bricks. Momentarily she teetered on the ledge, one booted foot sliding in what seemed slow motion from the corner of the gray stone edge. She did not have the presence of mind to scream, but at the same time was acutely aware of everything around her. The dirty black of her boot dully reflecting the moonlight, the blue hem of her skirts billowing up as she fell, even a small spider creeping up the wall; but as her foot finally scraped past the stone shelf and the sense of being weightless, free-falling through the chill air enveloped her…

  “Oughff!” Crrraack.

  Lydia pummeled with crushing force directly onto Brian. The wind rushed from her lungs, her right elbow drove into the ground, and she may have cried out, but the world exploded around her in a swirling rush of shock and pain.

  “Holy hell!” a small voice piped. Vaguely she was aware of Brandon standing wide-eyed over her. “Brian, are ‘ou dead?”

  A faint and ghastly wheeze blew past her ear, sending her into action. She rolled stiffly away from Brian, avoiding use of the sore elbow, and leaned on her knees over him. “Brian,” she gasped, sliding a palm across his chest. His eyes were closed, a grimace of sheer pain frozen on his face. Even in the moonlight his color was remarkably sallow. Lydia held her breath waiting to feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Nothing. “Brian?” she breathed a second time, a hint of panic touching her voice.