A Reckless Redemption

by Laura Trentham

  Although the dinner was ostensibly to celebrate her union with Dugan, in truth, Mary and Craddock played political chess. Forming alliances, gaining pawns, plotting coups. When Bryn had pleaded nerves—not a lie—Mary had waved her away, unbothered the bride-to-be would be absent.

  Young Gavin, the butcher’s handsome son, entertained at a corner table. A prospect? Bryn took a small table by the door, constant drafts swirling under her skirts. A smoky haze gave the entire scene a misty, nightmarish quality.

  Sarah pushed through the throng around the bar to order them ales. Perhaps the alcohol would impart courage. False or not, it would be welcome. Bryn ran a finger over the rough planks of the oak table, aware of every indentation and scar.

  Male voices buzzed around her, but she gave no heed to the bawdy comments and occasional shouts of laughter. She examined each candidate, assessing and then discarding them before moving on to the next.

  Sarah set two tankards on the table and slid into the chair beside Bryn, their knees bumping. “Have you settled on anyone yet?”

  Bryn shushed her, but no one seemed to be paying them particular interest. “Is this really the best that Cragian has to offer?”

  Sarah looked around the room. “This is better than the usual fare, to be honest. Why do you think I’ve never succumbed to the fine institution of matrimony? Most of the good ones—bad ones too—have up and gone to Edinburgh.”

  “Colin Conrad is still about.”

  “Colin Conrad is not a man to be tupping a woman willy-nilly. Are you mad?” Sarah asked with starch.

  Bryn smothered a small smile and waggled her eyebrows. “I meant he’s a fine man who hasn’t up and left for the city.”

  “Are you seriously playing matchmaker for me at a time like this?” Sarah shook her head and gave Bryn her full consideration. “For tonight, think of yourself. Please. Find a man with kind eyes and bed him.”

  Kind eyes? Would she even recognize such? Cadell had been the only man who cared a whit about her. Once the midwife had ascertained Bryn wasn’t a longed-for male heir, her father, Baron McCann, had walked away, not sparing her another thought up to his untimely death almost a decade earlier.

  Tonight might change the course of her life. The man she chose might only be scratching an itch, but the damage to her body and reputation would be irreparable. The collar of her dress drew tight, constricting her breath, and in spite of the chilly drafts, an unbearable heat beaded sweat on her forehead. The uncontrollable panic had pressed and constricted her body like a vise more often since the announcement of her betrothal to Dugan. She pushed back from the table and dove for the door. For freedom.

  The night braced her upright and held her against the rough planking of the inn in a cold, comforting grip. Her lungs exchanged smoke with crisp, winter air. It felt like a betrayal when her body reacted this way, and she fought hard to regain control. With every breath, the oppressive panic dissipated but left her shaky.

  Bryn did what she always did when troubled. She retreated to the stable. Rich, loamy air surrounded her like a warm plaid. The mixture of horse, manure, hay, and leather was so inherently comforting her anxiety lowered in pitch and intensity.

  A man’s murmur rose through the occasional nicker and whinny. For a long moment she stood still, letting the cadence soothe her like a wild pony. The deep, rich voice mesmerized her, and she found herself under its spell, moving inexorably closer to the open stall. She peered around the door to see a man rubbing down his horse with sweeping, graceful strokes of a blanket.

  He exchanged blanket with brush and methodically groomed the horse’s flanks, all the while talking nonsense to his besotted mount. The low timbre of his voice lilted with a Scot’s brogue. The horse nuzzled the man during his ministrations. A greatcoat and brimmed hat kept his identity a secret.

  The edge of his coat and boots were muddy and road worn but of excellent quality. How had such a fine gentleman ended up in such an out-of-the-way village as Cragian? For her wedding? Why then wasn’t he at the house with all the other kowtowers?

  He circled to the horse’s opposite flank, and she caught sight of the lower half of his face. Weakness crawled into her knees, and her stomach took a fearless leap. She knew him.

  Dark stubble covered a strong, square jaw. In juxtaposition, his mouth was sensuous, the bottom lip full and curled up in a smile as if caring for his horse was a pleasure and not a chore. Something deep inside of her, something she hadn’t even known was lying dormant, stirred to life after almost ten years.

  It would be this man or no one. The man who’d once loved her sister. The man she’d loved from afar for too many years. Maxwell Drake. The Fates had made her decision.

  Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was her sigh, perhaps the streak of lightning awakening her memories crackled the air. Whatever the reason, he swiveled his head faster than a wolf sensing prey, his gaze snaring her.

  Shielded by his hat, she couldn’t tell whether his eyes were kind, but his smile had vanished, and he looked… unapproachable, unyielding, untouchable.

  She shuffled backward, breaking the unseen taut bindings, and ran. With her hood pulled low, she banged back into the common room, drawing nearby stares. She grabbed Sarah’s arm and pulled her friend into the narrow servant’s hallway.

  “What’s the matter?” Sarah asked with wide eyes, standing on tiptoe to see over Bryn’s shoulder toward the door.

  “There was a man in the stable.”

  “Who?”

  Bryn bit her lip. Sarah knew all her secrets. As if the walls leaned in to eavesdrop, she whispered, “Maxwell Drake.”

  Although her eyes flared even wider, Sarah only pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’ll discover which room Jock gives him.”

  Bryn stayed hidden under her cloak and in the dim hallway, waiting for the door to open and reveal him. When it did, she sagged against the jointed planks of the wall, her relief profound. She hadn’t imagined him. He whipped his hat off to duck under the low beam, ran a gloved hand through his thick, dark hair, and rubbed his nape.

  Peeling her gaze off him, she examined the crowd of men, but no one showed signs of recognition. An irregular gait carried him to the innkeeper’s desk. A limp. A recent injury or an old one? After a short discussion with Jock, he settled at the short bar with his traveling bag at his feet, pulled off his gloves, and signaled for a drink.

  A small glass. Not ale then, liquor. He drank it in one go and clapped the glass on the bar top. A barmaid refilled it.

  Her color high, Sarah weaved through the crowd to Bryn’s hiding spot. “He’s got the chamber at the top of the steps. The most expensive one. He ordered a hot bath, but Jock told him it would be at least an hour with the crowd. Told him they were here for a wedding, but he didn’t look interested or ask questions.”

  “I’ll wait in his room,” Bryn said with sudden decisiveness.

  “What if he turns you away? What then?”

  Her gaze landed on Maxwell’s broad back and bent head. “Then it’s over. I marry Dugan, and everyone gets what they want—except for me.”

  “You’re sure?” Sarah sounded anything but.

  “I’m sure.”

  * * * * *

  Maxwell Drake kept his face averted, only glancing around the crowded common room once. He didn’t look long enough to recognize anyone, and no one recognized him. Even Jock, the old innkeeper, hadn’t batted an eye when he’d signed the register as Capt. Drake. His mother had been in the ground six years, but even when she was alive, most of the villagers had acted as if she were invisible or beneath their notice—a whore.

  After a fourth glass of substandard Scots whisky, Maxwell let his gaze wander from the scarred wood to the crowd once more. This time he sought a pair of impossibly wide brown eyes set in an elfish face. No luck.

  A lass had watched him tend his horse. Her knowing smile had frozen him as if she could see straight into his heart and beyond. The sprite had disappeared before hi
s stiff, sore leg could carry him to the stall door.

  No matter. He didn’t need a complication. Even so, he scanned the room once again. He turned back and tapped his glass on the bar, ready for another. Coming home had damaged his armor, leaving gaping holes, vulnerable for attack. It was a damned uncomfortable feeling.

  He’d spent nearly a decade trying to shake off the dirty village and the starving, grief-stricken boy he’d been. The memories he had quashed after he left Cragian at twenty bubbled up like molten lava burning him with their intensity. The potency should have been diluted by his years serving on the Continent and working in London.

  It wasn’t. Tomorrow he would find his mother’s grave and pay his respects. He would settle his debts so he could move on with a clear conscience and never look back. A hollow, aching pit grew by the minute, and he rubbed a hand over his chest. He supposed it might be his heart—or what was left of it.

  His glass was empty again. How many did that make? He normally didn’t overindulge. Men fell into enough foolishness without the added encouragement, and truth be told, he didn’t hold his liquor well.

  He stumbled twice up the stairs, laughing softly. A bath and then bed. The morning would bring with it a hellish headache, but the temporary blunting of his raw emotions in the present was well worth it. He threw the door open with a flourish and crashed into the doorframe.

  Steam rose from the tub, and a cheery fire burned in the grate. The warmest welcome he’d receive in Cragian, no doubt. He kicked the door closed with his heel, dropped his bag, and peeled off his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Folding them carefully, he stacked them on the narrow dresser. Old army habits were hard to break.

  He grasped a low rafter and stretched his aching muscles, taking weight off his bad leg. A gasp from the bed jerked him around. He blinked. Had the local whisky been tainted? The vision gracing the middle of his bed was surely a mirage.

  A woman with remarkable red-gold hair loose around her shoulders sat in the shadows of the bed hangings. Her demure, long-sleeve chemise glowed white. Her luminous eyes gave her away—the fairy from the stable.

  “Lass, I fear there’s been a mistake. Did you wander into the wrong room?”

  “No. No mistake, sir.” Her voice was husky, and her gaze wandered up and down his chest. Her lips were curled into a bemused smile that sent warmth skittering into his extremities. Arousal followed on its heels.

  “You’re in my bed a-purpose? To what end?” His brain moved at a crawl, the cogs blunted by alcohol.

  “I hope my purpose is obvious. I wish you to bed me. Have your way with me. Debauch me. Tup me. Whatever it is a gentleman calls it,” she said with a fair amount of sass.

  “A gentleman wouldn’t call it anything. Much less consider it with an innocent.”

  “I’m hardly innocent, sir. I’ve done it hundreds of times.” She brushed the fiery curtain of hair behind an ear. Did it feel as silky as it looked?

  “Hundreds?” The corners of his mouth quirked into an unexpected smile, considering the circumstances.

  “Certainly. Only a woman of experience would wait for a man in his bed.”

  Maxwell looked her over again. Although the virginal, practical underclothes were strangely alluring, they didn’t match her declaration of experience. Most likely, she had bedded a handful of local lads and was out to make some coin. Perhaps a tumble was exactly what he needed to help him forget what awaited him in the morning.

  “How much then?” he asked.

  “How much for what?” Confusion reflected in her voice.

  “Your services for the night.”

  After an unintelligible chuff, she said, “I wouldn’t charge you, sir. The first bedding is on the house.” The woman’s shoulders rolled in protectively, filling Maxwell with questions he didn’t want answered. Tonight he could only handle simple. Simple, uncomplicated pleasure.

  “I’ll be gone to Edinburgh on the morrow, never to return. There won’t be a second tumble with me.”

  Serenity wiped imagined troubles off her face. “Tonight will cost you nothing.”

  “That doesn’t seem quite fair.” He pulled out a handful of coins and slapped them on the table by the bed. “Take this when we’re done.”

  The woman’s gaze held on the money. “You’ll bed me then?”

  Concealed to the waist by covers, everything but her face and primly folded hands covered by white fabric, she was the antithesis of a seductress. She spoke in a crisp, light brogue and appeared clean. Warning bells pealed somewhere in the back of his drink-addled mind. But decisions were being made by something lower, situated between his legs, and with an infinitely smaller brain.

  It had been longer than he wanted to admit since he’d lain with a woman. He didn’t relish the emotional entanglements from keeping a mistress. Neither did he normally use whores. The unfair balance of power left him feeling cold, but tonight marked a change in his tightly disciplined habits.

  There was no question he was drawn to her. She’d been haunting him since he’d caught sight of her in the stable, and having her carnally available had made him go hard as a stone. Why not indulge himself—just this once?

  Without answering, he sat to pull off his boots and thick woolen stockings. Regaining his feet, he released the buttons of his fall, his gaze never leaving the woman on the bed. She clutched the sheet to her chest. Her tense body spoke of fear, but her eyes told a different tale. Her hungry gaze flicked over his body, and her little tongue darted to wet her lips. He pushed his breeches and smallclothes to the floor and stepped out of them, completely nude.

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” she whispered. Her attention seemed riveted between his legs, her eyes as big as saucers. A woman bedded hundreds of times had surely seen plenty of cocks. Again, warning bells rang dimly though the fog of lust and alcohol but were ignored as easily as a buzzing gnat.

  She held motionless as if she were prey and he a predator ready to attack. Actually, the image wasn’t far off the mark. Part of him wanted to fall on top of her like a beast. Instead, he bypassed the bed altogether, weaved his way to the tub, and lowered himself into the water with a hiss of satisfaction. His legs dangled over either side of the short tub.

  Nothing except the woman’s head had moved. Her eyes, beautiful and inquisitive, belied the tension freezing her body. Indeed, the heat of her regard singed. Her words and actions, body and eyes were a contradiction. And much to his dismay, he craved her touch more than he cared about the secrets that lurked.

  Chapter Two

  Come wash me, lass.” His rich, deep voice hypnotized her, and she scooted to the edge of the bed with no hesitation.

  This was not proceeding at all how she’d imagined. While she’d waited, she had stripped to her winter chemise, debating whether a village whore would be waiting entirely nude. Probably. But common sense had won out. The heat from the fire hadn’t permeated the room yet.

  Based on her woefully limited knowledge, she’d assumed he would settle himself between her legs, stick his thing inside her, and be done with it. He probably wouldn’t bother to divest her of her underthings anyway.

  Instead, he had removed every stitch of his clothing while she watched, torn between maidenly embarrassment and womanly marvel. She was fairly certain that Maxwell Drake in his natural state had ruined her forever.

  She couldn’t imagine any man matching his physical perfection. His hairy limbs and large feet hanging over the side of the tub did funny things to her stomach, flipping it like a potato cake. The curly black hair over the planes of his chest, leading like an arrow to his groin, made her body heat and pulse in unrecognizable ways.

  The play of muscles across his shoulders and back when he’d stretched had forced her gasp of pure feminine appreciation. And when his breeches dropped to his ankles, his long, hard thing had her clutching the sheet to her chest in protective instinct, yet she couldn’t look away. Her body thrummed with so many conflicting emotions she couldn’t discern whether fear,
trepidation, or fascination would emerge victorious.

  It was easier not to think but to follow his commands. She’d come this far and refused to allow fear to drive her away. Refused to let Mary and Dugan win.

  Closer now, she studied his face in the wavering firelight. He had aged like a fine Scotch whisky. Crinkled lines radiated from his hazel eyes, golden flecks glowing like embers. Did kindness lurk in their depths? She couldn’t say.

  A straight, prominent blade of a nose hinted at his aristocratic heritage even if it had been on the wrong side of the bed. His full bottom lip offset the sternness of his features, and her fingers twitched, desperate to discover if it was as soft and smooth as it looked. Thick black hair—like many a Scotsman—clumped in waves around his tanned face. He was as handsome as he’d been at twenty but in a more rugged, worldly, masculine way.

  Rolling the sleeves of her chemise up to her elbows, she moved behind him, breaking their intense study of one another. “I’ll wash your back and hair first.” She tried to sound as if she washed men on a daily basis, but she worried her breathy voice screamed virgin.

  Maxwell levered himself forward and rested his arms along the sides of the tub, exposing ridges of muscles across his shoulders and back. Timidly at first, she ran the soaped cloth over his back, keeping her touch light. Without his eyes on her, she relaxed and sent her bare hand skimming up his flank. His skin jumped in her fingertips’ wake.

  She kneaded his shoulders, a visible tension dissipating the longer she worked the hard muscles. His purring exhale grew her confidence. An untutored virgin she might be, but she discovered pleasure in touching him, pleasing him.

  An echo of something from her youth—a wild courage—welled in her belly. She dropped the cloth and delved her fingers into his soft black hair, massaging his scalp and tracing his ears. Her attention wrung a rumbling moan from deep in his chest, and his eyelids dropped to catlike slits. Shimmery tendrils of desire bloomed.

  * * * * *

  The lass tilted his head back and rinsed the soap from his hair. Dazed and dreamy, he laid his head on the warm tin edge of the tub. Having never had a woman, except perhaps his mother, wash him, he hadn’t known what to expect. It certainly wasn’t this tender, arousing care. She knelt beside the tub and ran a cloth-covered hand and a bare one over his chest lightly. Too lightly. His lungs filled with air, pushing into her touch.