A Reckless Redemption

by Laura Trentham

  “I did, son, but by the time your letter arrived, Miss Bryn had already erected your mother’s marker. I used your money to purchase books for the children. I thought you would approve.”

  “Miss Bryn…” The name lit a faint path through his memory.

  “Brynmore McCann. A fine lass. She and your mother became fast friends after you left. Bryn took good care of Eden in her last years, Maxwell. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Your mother often told me how proud she was that you had escaped the legacy of your birth.”

  Dammit. Maxwell looked to the slate-gray sky and beat the burning sensation back down his throat. “Brynmore McCann was a child when I left.”

  “Not so young. Ten and five, perhaps?” He clapped Maxwell on the back. “Come inside and visit awhile. I’m freezing my arse off out here. The dead may not mind, but I do.”

  Maxwell ducked under the low door and entered a room untouched by time or a duster. Motes hung like smoke in the air, tickling his nose. As a child, he hadn’t noticed how cramped the rooms were. He’d just remembered them being a safe haven.

  “Sit while I fetch some tea.” The vicar bustled out, leaving Maxwell to choose between a sagging settee and a lumpy chair. He fingered a leaflet of puritanical essays lying on the table and sank into the settee’s cushions.

  The vicar backed into the room with a tray laden with two cups, a teapot, and a handful of dry, crumbling biscuits. “You’ve acquired a limp, I noticed. Were you injured on the Continent?” Anticipation colored the question. No doubt, there weren’t many visitors through Cragian to liven up his days.

  “Yes, sir. I was wounded while running coded messages in Spain. A musket ball hit me above the knee.”

  “Were you captured? Did you manage to deliver your dispatches?”

  “I wasn’t captured. My horse saved my hide actually. I never forgot what old Cadell taught me. I took care of my horse, and when the time came, he returned the favor. Got me back to a regiment of British soldiers, and they sent the dispatches on. The physician traveling with them patched me up, sent me back to England, and I sold my commission.”

  The vicar spooned copious amounts of sugar into his steaming cup of tea. “Fascinating.”

  “Vicar. My commission. Is it you I need to repay?”

  The vicar rubbed over his jaw and averted his gaze. “Not me. No.”

  The day the vicar had pressed the papers detailing his commission into his hand, Maxwell had known. The vicar’s eyes had begged him not to ask the question. Pride had urged him to throw the papers in Ian MacShane’s face. Common sense had told him to take the papers and run. He’d chosen the latter.

  His mother would have had him believe fairy folk dropped him in her lap. But as he grew older, the taunts from the village boys and men became more pointed and cruel, and he came to understand what he was—a bastard.

  “MacShane?”

  “Dead not three months past. Isn’t that what brought you home?” The vicar tilted his head and pursed his lips.

  Maxwell was sure his eyes reflected back an equal amount of confusion. “I had no idea. Why would his death bring me back?”

  “For your inheritance, of course.”

  “My what?” Maxwell asked on a harsh exhale.

  “Didn’t Lady MacShane or that pompous Edinburgh lawyer contact you?” The vicar shifted and stirred his tea.

  “I’ve been in London the past three years. No one has been in contact with me. Tell me everything, Vicar Mitchell. No more lies or half-truths. I’m a man grown.” Maxwell’s voice dropped in timbre, the revelations shearing away any soft edge.

  The vicar flushed and set his teacup on the tray with a betraying rattle. “It would be a sin, for it was a deathbed confession between MacShane and me. I can’t countenance my indiscretion.”

  “Sir, you’ve already mentioned it. What harm would it do?” Maxwell forced gentleness back into his voice, as if he were coaxing a horse. “I’d rather not find out from Lady MacShane.”

  The vicar swallowed hard, but nodded. “He’s gone now, and Lord knows, you have a right to know. He told me his one regret in life was not taking care of you and your mother. He bought your commission so you’d have the chance at something else. After you left, he dropped in occasionally to ask if I’d received a letter from you. I believe he was truly remorseful.”

  “He showed no remorse when he threw Mama out, penniless and round with his babe.”

  “I think Lady MacShane bears the brunt of the blame. Nevertheless, he didn’t contradict her orders when it mattered. He vowed to leave you a bequest. That’s really all I know. I assume he followed through with his intentions.”

  “I came to hate the man. Sitting in his fine house while Mama and I near starved to death.” Maxwell took a deep breath to stem an old bitterness that felt fresh. “Vicar, did you discover who left us the baskets? I’d like to thank him, if I can.”

  The vicar’s cup rattled against the saucer. Hot tea sloshed, and he leaped up, brushing at his breeches. “How clumsy of me. Pardon me while I change.”

  The vicar knew. Whether Maxwell could ferret out all his secrets over one pot of tea was debatable. And did it really matter now?

  Restless and armed with new, significant information, Maxwell paced from the sitting room into the chapel through a narrow, connecting hall. He hadn’t attended services since he’d left Cragian, but he found comfort in the familiar stone chapel.

  Swaths of white silk draped the pews and columns, and orchids drooped their white petals in every window. Against the old stonework and colorful tapestries, the decorations made a pretty picture. It was no tenant farmer getting married. Hothouse orchids, indeed.

  Vicar Mitchell joined Maxwell in the chapel in a different pair of worn, patched breeches. “When’s the wedding?” Maxwell asked.

  “On the morrow,” the vicar said as if he were being asked to perform burial rites instead of binding a man and woman in blessed matrimony.

  “I take it you disapprove?”

  “It’s hardly a love match.”

  “Who’s the unfortunate pair?”

  “The bride is Brynmore McCann. The groom is Dugan Armstrong. He’s from the neighboring valley.”

  “As I recall, he enjoyed strutting through town and throwing his weight around.” Maxwell traced a finger over his bottom lip, a picture coming to mind—a ham-fisted bully joining in with the local lads to hurl epitaphs at him. That sort of thing had stopped bothering him long before that particular incident.

  “Sounds about right. It’s unchristian, I know, but I don’t like the man.” The vicar sounded mutinous. “Not nearly good enough for our Bryn.”

  “She should have told him no when he asked for her hand.” Maxwell was unable to muster much sympathy. His own worries burdened him.

  “I’m not sure she was given a choice. That sister of hers has kept her close since the announcement. Mary Craddock is a damn menace.”

  A blade that had been in place for nearly ten years twisted. Something on his face must have reflected his inner disquiet.

  “I’m sorry, son. I remember you and Lady Mary—”

  “It was years ago, sir. She threw me over quite handily in favor of Craddock. And why wouldn’t she? I was destitute with the merest wisp of prospects. Status and money were more important.” Drawing from the cold wind whistling past the windows, ice dripped from his words. “Is it truly any different for this sister of hers?”

  The vicar huffed a laugh, surprising Maxwell. “You must not recall Brynmore.”

  Vague recollections of Mary’s half sister hovered on the edges of his consciousness like shadows. His only vivid memory had been at Cadell’s funeral. The sight of the weeping girl had swelled his heart. He had been reluctant to interrupt her grief to pay his own respects to the man. Instead of embarrassment over her tears, she had welcomed him and offered comfort in return. The skinny girl’s tight hug had imparted a measure of solace he hadn’t expected. Then, like a wraith, she’d disap
peared into the fog.

  She had been bundled up with a mannish hat low over her brow, but he recalled being taken aback by her warm, brown eyes. So different from Mary’s duplicitous green ones.

  Big, luminous, chocolaty eyes that reminded him of…

  The world tipped, his hangover coming back to call. His heart pounded his head with a mallet. “What color hair does Brynmore McCann have?” The question clawed its way out of his throat.

  “An unusual shade. Not really red but not golden either. Somewhere in between. And such lovely brown eyes. She’s a bit freckly, but I’ve always thought it added to her charm.”

  Why in bloody hell would highborn Brynmore McCann wait in his bed and pretend to be a whore mere days before she was due to wed? Did she think he wouldn’t discover her little charade? Or wouldn’t care if she tried to pass his babe off as another’s? She had taken him for a fool.

  His life was growing more complicated by the minute. His plan upon leaving London had been to pay his respects to his mother, make sure she had a proper headstone, repay the vicar for his kindness, and put the village firmly in his past, never to return.

  Now he had a possible inheritance from a father who had never acknowledged him, and he’d ruined the sister of his first love. A woman who even now might be carrying his bastard babe. If he hadn’t been in a house of the Lord, he would have unleashed a curse-filled tirade sure to call forth a deadly lightning strike.

  There was nothing for it. If Brynmore McCann was to marry on the morrow, Dugan Armstrong wouldn’t be the bridegroom.

  * * * * *

  Bryn sat on her bed, biting her thumbnail. There’s too much riding on your marriage to Dugan. There were factors at play she didn’t understand. Factors that made Mary and Craddock desperate for the marriage to go forward. As desperate as she felt to stop it.

  She didn’t even know what was in the blasted marriage settlement. Every time she’d asked to read it, Craddock had put her off with excuses. Mary’s latest ambitions had to do with getting Craddock elected to Parliament. Her tastes had grown too sophisticated for provincial little Cragian. London called. But how did Bryn’s marriage to Dugan help move Mary closer to her goal of shaking Scotland’s dirt off her feet?

  Would Vicar Mitchell bless the vows if she stood silent at the altar? He might not have a choice, considering Mary’s threat of withholding much-needed funds from the church. Bryn refused to force him into a moral dilemma.

  She faced two options she’d hoped to avoid. Accept her fate and marry Dugan or escape the match and grapple with an unknown, dangerous future.

  Her decision made, she stripped off her woolen dress and pulled her buckskin breeches and boots out of the back of the wardrobe. They were snugger than the last time she’d worn them. The cloth strained across her backside and hugged her thighs.

  A simple white shirt and study brown waistcoat came out of hiding as well. The waistcoat was especially tight, and she had to leave the top two buttons undone. No matter, her coat would cover her well enough.

  Her only items of any worth had been her mother’s—a pair of gem-encrusted combs, a gilded looking glass, and a few pieces of jewelry containing semiprecious stones. Bryn would hate to part with them, but she would if necessary. She wrapped them in a length of plaid and put them into the bottom of her small satchel.

  She added her brown woolen gown still warm from her body to the pack along with stockings, underthings, and gloves. Her life packed away in one small satchel. The room barely bore a mark of her existence. Blinking back a fog of tears, she pulled her beaten, brimmed hat down on her head. She needed to be far away by the time Mary came to check on her. Time was her enemy.

  She rattled the door, hoping the lock was rusty enough to give way, but it held fast. Her gaze fell on the window. Climbing down would be foolish and dangerous, but it was her only choice. If she broke her neck? Well, she would be out of this mess one way or another.

  She tied her sheets together in a makeshift rope. The rock face was rough and would supply footholds. While her immediate destination was in question, Edinburgh was her ultimate goal. It was her best chance of escaping Mary’s plans. Plus Bryn wasn’t without friends there even if they were the common sort.

  Bryn opened the sash and shivered as the brisk wind invaded her now defenseless room. Her window faced the gardens, but the weather was keeping the guests inside. The heavy gray clouds portended a snowfall before the day was over. Sunny blue skies would have been a better omen.

  She secured one end of her sheet rope to her heavy, ornate bedpost and threw the rest over the sill, checking the length. The wind whipped it around, making it difficult to gauge how close to the ground it would get her.

  She heaved a deep, nervous breath, hitched her satchel over one shoulder, and scanned the gardens. It wouldn’t do to have anyone alert Mary before she even made it to solid ground. She threw a leg over the sill, held tightly to the sheet, and glanced down. The ground seemed infinitely farther away than it had at her first check. Heaving in a shuddery breath, she said a little prayer and went over the edge.

  Chapter Five

  After promising to visit Vicar Mitchell before he left for Edinburgh, Maxwell jammed his hat on his head and weaved his way through the gravestones. Of course, he would see the vicar again—to bind him in holy matrimony to a woman he knew in only the most carnal sense. The gray snow clouds that loomed overhead matched his mood.

  Marriage. He had never been bothered with a compulsion to tie himself to one woman. Certainly there were women he admired, like Lady Minerva Bellingham. Lady Drummond, he supposed, now she’d married the brawny, scarred Lord Drummond. But Maxwell had never desired her, no matter that his brain recognized her physical beauty.

  And he had nothing in common with London’s young debutantes whose eyes shone with unabashed enthusiasm and innocence. Between his childhood and his time in the army, Maxwell had never been carefree. He felt ancient with his aching, crippled leg and jaded soul.

  Maxwell entered the inn’s stables and whistled for Primrose. Her answering whinny came from the farthest stall. He’d bought the mare, a hardy crossbreed, in London. She wasn’t much to look at, but her rough, warm coat and thick forelegs made her well suited for cold weather and long rides. The sweet-tempered mare had earned her name.

  He took his time saddling her, and when he was done, he rested his forehead against her neck. The musky smell of her coarse mane offered a bit of comfort. The weight of an anvil pressed on his chest at the thought of seeing Mary McCann after so many years and in these circumstances.

  Despite his attempts to score away his first love and heartbreak, he’d never been able to forget the lass. Foolish. He was foolish. As much as he denied he had a heart, it beat against his ribs, too fast and fearful. He couldn’t afford to acknowledge its existence.

  Maxwell guided his horse over the familiar terrain. He had trod these paths more times than he could count, finding steady work in the spring and summer with the manor house’s gardener.

  A heated anticipation of catching a glimpse of Mary had filled those hours. The lass had flitted through the garden nearly every day to flirt and tease. He’d stolen ardently returned kisses beyond the arbor. It had never occurred to him to push his physical suit any further. Mary was a proper young maiden bound for marriage.

  The house and grounds had a prosperous feel to them, and expensive carriages were aligned on the path to the stables. Maxwell left Primrose in the hands of a harried-looking groom with instructions to keep her saddled.

  He dragged his feet as if his execution were nigh. With his hand on the heavy brass knocker in the shape of an ugly little cherub, a woman’s cry carried on the chill wind along with the sound of something large colliding with the pavers. An intuition that had saved his hide more than once on the Peninsula stilled his hand before the knocker made contact.

  Crouching low, Maxwell skulked around the side of the house, ignoring the scream of his bad leg. He stopped short at t
he corner and unfolded his body. Hanging from a sheet with her feet wedged onto the second-floor cornice was the woman he sought. Her hair was loose and blowing wildly around her face. A well-worn, shabby hat lay on the ground.

  Making as little noise as possible so as not to distract her, he positioned himself directly beneath her. A call of warning might startle her and cause her to fall. His hands shook as she found purchase on the rough stone, inexorably moving toward the ground. Twice her boots slipped from their hold, and she dangled for a moment before she regained her footing. The woman was either daft or desperate. Maybe both.

  As she got closer, the tension scrunching his shoulders to his ears faded, and his singular focus on her feet moved upward. Breeches emphasized the slenderness and length of her legs—legs that had been wrapped around him a few scant hours ago. Her attire was absolutely scandalous and ridiculously enticing.

  Ten feet from the ground, she came to the end of the sheet. Mutterings that might have been prayers or curses were carried on the wind.

  He shifted in the gravel and braced himself. “Let go. I’ll catch you.”

  His voice startled her. Her boot slid down the rough wall, and her hands slipped off the sheet. Her screaming yelp was abruptly cut off when she made contact with him. The collision knocked the air out of him on a grunt.

  One of his hands landed on her buttocks, and he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist. She clutched his neck. To any outside observer it might appear a lover’s embrace and not a rescue.

  Her body trembled. The memory of her trembling under him in her climax as her hands and legs pulled him closer had him squeezing her taut, rounded buttock. Her breasts were almost bursting out of the waistcoat she wore over a white lawn shirt. Christ in heaven, she couldn’t even button the thing properly.

  She pushed against his shoulders, and for an instant he tightened his arms around her. What the devil was he doing? He released her but kept a firm hold of her arm to keep her from bolting. Beneath the layers of fabric, her arm was thin yet strong.