The need to find out what was in her betrothal papers was superseded by worry over the plan that emerged. Scaling rooftops, climbing walls, picking locks—Maxwell would get himself killed or hanged. What if his leg gave out at the wrong moment and he plummeted to his death? Her stomach crawled up her throat.
The men departed, and she laid in wait for him to return from seeing them off. The moment he stepped into the study, she pounced. “What the devil are you thinking, Drake? You can’t climb a brick wall. Your leg will give out and you’ll fall.”
“Then I fall.” His tone dispassionate, he moved to the desk to sort through a stack of papers.
“And leave me—” Alone. She didn’t say it. Neither could she articulate why the thought was unbearable. “What if there’s a babe?”
His head whipped up. The smoldering fire in his hazel eyes banished the cold dispassion. “I’ll be as careful as possible, but I have to bury this part of my past.”
“What does it matter what he bequeathed to you? You don’t need the money. Let it be.” A begging note crept into her voice, and she laid a hand on his arm, needing to feel the warm life in his body.
“Do you have any idea what it was like growing up and seeing MacShane driving through Cragian in his fancy carriage doing nothing but splashing more muck onto me. Onto Mother. He never acknowledged me, never offered a ha’penny to help feed or clothe me. It got so bad after Mother got sick we nearly starved to death. I could have rotted in that hovel for all he cared.”
The bitter vehemence in his voice made her tighten her hold on him.
“I want to know he had regrets. I want to know if he had to do it over, he would have—not acknowledged me perhaps—but showed a human level of decency and kept us from suffering. I was his son. The only thing that kept us alive were the baskets.”
Bryn’s hand drew into a fist around the wool of his jacket. He knew. He knew she was the one. His penetrating gaze laid her heart bare.
“Maxwell, I—”
“Wait. Have I been blind? Did MacShane send the baskets?”
Bryn choked out something between a sob and laugh. She shook his arm. “Please don’t get yourself killed for a man who’s already dead.”
Agitation drained from his body, and he half sat on the edge of the desk, covering her hand with his. “Is it only for the babe that you care what happens to me, lass?” His voice had taken on the velvety texture he used when talking to his stock.
She was no better than a horse, because she swayed toward him and clutched at his lapel. “Of course not, you stubborn, demented man.”
“Then why? What have I done except ruin you and nearly get you killed?”
“I bear the responsibility for my decisions.” But she would also claim the pleasure. Too much wanted to pour out of her. The past. The present. And even though the future was obscured by a dark curtain of uncertainty, she held hope close. Instead of revealing the maelstrom, she popped to her toes and kissed him.
He stilled, his lips soft against hers but unmoving. What had she done? Mortification stripped away the pent-up need and worry that had prompted the impetuous action.
She pulled away, but with his breath still warm on her cheek, he sprang to life, banding his arms around her and holding her close. Yet he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he nuzzled her neck.
Unable to examine the affection in his actions while she was in his arms, she loosened her clutch on his jacket and skimmed her hands up his chest to wrap tightly around his neck. He trailed his lips across her cheek.
The wait for his lips to touch hers was excruciating, and her breathing shallowed. After an eternity, he kissed her. Not with the rough carnality of their one night together but with a gentleness even more devastating.
Her body awakened, memories of their joining searing away her questions and doubts until all that was left was the moment. Her knees wobbled, but the solid strength of his arms anchored her to his body.
He was her sun, keeping her in orbit and restoring gravity. And her sun was scorching, burning her fears to embers until all that was left was need and desire. Wrong or right, she wanted more.
He rotated them, scooped his hands under her buttocks, and lifted to sit her on the edge of the desk. Their tongues sparred. Papers fluttered to the floor around his feet. She parted her legs and cradled his hips. The pleasure he wreaked on her body was profound, but ecstasy lay further down the path they tread together. She was no longer an innocent.
He didn’t rip her clothes off this time. His kiss calmed, and their stormy passion ebbed until she was left trembling on the shore. Yet he didn’t release her or push her away. He ran his hands up and down her back and tangled his fingers in tendrils of hair that had escaped, the tug sending prickles of sensation through her body.
“I like your new dress and your hair.” His rumbling, velvety brogue was like a physical touch as pleasurable as the kisses he trailed over her jaw.
“Do you? Better than my breeches?”
“While your arse is undeniably tempting in breeches, I don’t like to think about other men appreciating you as I do.”
“Do you appreciate me as much in a dress up to my neck?”
“It’s a different sort of appreciation, imagining what’s hidden under this lovely gown.”
“You don’t have to imagine.” The inviting, pleading tone of her voice should have summoned embarrassment, but it didn’t. All she could focus on was her desperation.
“I’m the only man who knows that what’s underneath is more beautiful than the fine new trappings.” He slid a hand from her ribcage to her breast. His thumb glanced over her nipple, and he captured her lips once more.
She ignited into a mass of nerve endings.
“Gracious me!” Edith Winslow stood framed in the study door.
As if a bucket of icy water had been poured over her head, she weakly pushed at his chest. Maxwell took a stuttering step backward and left her to lean against the edge of the desk and shake her skirts. Mary would have taken great pleasure in humiliating her and locking her away. What would Mrs. Winslow’s punishment be for acting a wanton?
Bryn didn’t wait to find out. She bolted past the woman and up the stairs to her room to hide.
Chapter Fifteen
Maxwell stared at the papers on his desk. He had work to finish and appointments to prepare for. The reckless enterprise to obtain his sire’s last will and testament loomed. Yet his thoughts circled Bryn like carrion. If he didn’t die from an unfortunate fall that evening, the sexual tension pushing and pulling at the two of them would kill him forthwith.
Did she recall their one night together every single time she closed her eyes? Did she have to fight the urge to sneak into his room? Would he have lifted her skirts and taken her on the desk if they hadn’t been interrupted?
He pulled at his hair. Where was his honor? Was he no better than his father? The temptation she presented was torture. Bryn was under his care. No matter what had transpired to bring them to this point, she was an innocent. Too naïve and trusting.
Nothing would get accomplished until he burned off the frustration and aggression tightening his muscles. A hard ride wasn’t possible in the city. But there was another place he could go. A pugilist salon on Waring Street. Maxwell grabbed his hat and cloak and set off on foot in the crisp, winter air.
Each stinging lungful of air regulated his heartbeat. He exhaled and concentrated on the white whirls. Cutting down a long narrow alley, he slowed as his ardor cooled and his leg twinged.
Boots clacked behind him, echoing off the stone walls eerily. The hairs on the back of his neck vibrated. Two steps later, a rough-hewn man wearing a tweed cap and coat entered the alley in front of him. Coincidence? Perhaps, but Maxwell’s gut told him he wasn’t going need the pugilist salon after all.
The approaching man was a stranger—short, lean, and with the look of an old tomcat who’d survived on the streets. The footsteps behind him made steady progress. Taking a peek would erod
e Maxwell’s one advantage—surprise. He forced a smile as the capped man drew closer.
Maxwell was no stranger to hand-to-hand fighting. His time as an exploring officer for Wellington had been fraught with danger. Although he was sorely out of practice, the instincts that had kept him alive heightened as if he were back in the war. The intent in the man’s eyes gleamed a heartbeat before his lunge. Maxwell met him with a jab across the bridge of his nose. A burst of red splattered down the man’s chin. He staggered backward, hands cupped over his face.
Maxwell swung around. The second man was cut from similar cloth. Both were past the bloom of youth, grimy, and lit with desperation. The man’s gaze darted between Maxwell and the other man. He stopped less than six feet away and crouched, pulling a knife from his boot and brandishing it as he inched forward.
With a grimacing smile, Maxwell slid a dagger from his boot as well and gestured him forward. The man slashed the knife toward Maxwell’s midsection. Maxwell jumped to the side, and the man’s momentum sent him stumbling forward, his shoulder bumping the brick wall.
Maxwell circled and took stock. His heart pumped hard and filled his ears with noise. Blood trickled out of the first man’s nose, and he was doubled over, occupied by his own pain.
Maxwell concentrated on the man with the knife. He lowered his shoulder and slammed into the man’s chest. The man’s lungs emptied, and he went to his knees. Maxwell pressed his advantage, kicking him in the stomach and driving him to his back.
Maxwell trapped the man’s wrist under a boot and pressed until his hand opened and the knife fell to the cobblestones. Maxwell kicked it away.
The first man staggered toward them, a penknife flashing in his hand. Before Maxwell could evade him or go on the attack, he careened into Maxwell and knocked him backward into the wall. The blade caught him on his left flank. The sharp edge cut through his clothes to flesh.
Maxwell jabbed an elbow into the man’s throat and then again on his already battered face. The man fell to his knees. The second man scrambled up and ran, his foot strikes echoing. Did he sense defeat, or would he return with reinforcements? Time was short.
Maxwell crouched over the man on his knees, his side stinging. “Who hired you?”
“Bugger off.”
Maxwell shoved him to the cobblestones, put his boot at the man’s throat, and pressed. The man arched and his legs kicked. Maxwell pressed harder. “Let’s try again. Who hired you?”
“The apprentice gang.” The man’s voice veered high from lack of air and fear.
The gang roamed the city, usually at night, robbing and beating lone, typically well-to-do gentlemen. They were generally discontented youth with no prospects. How in the world had Maxwell garnered their attention after a scant three days in town?
“Why me?”
“Dunno. Orders were to kill or maim you. Told us you were a cripple, for Christ’s sake.”
At the word “cripple,” Maxwell ground his boot, inciting an airless groan and continued writhing. “I’m hardly a cripple. Now, I want a name.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t talk.” Maxwell forced a casualness he didn’t feel into his voice and ran a finger down the blade of his dagger for show. He’d seen enough death to last a lifetime and didn’t relish taking a life.
“If I answer, you’ll let me go?”
Maxwell eased the pressure on the man’s throat. “If it’s a truthful one, yes.”
“Danny McAfee.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s naught but twenty and leads the whole gang.” More than a hint of acrimony colored the man’s voice.
Had the youthful uprising of out-of-work apprentices unbalanced the natural order of things in the underbelly of Edinburgh? “Who does McAfee answer to?”
“No one.”
Maxwell narrowed his eyes. It was unlikely that McAfee rose to the top of the heap on his own. Still, the information should be easily obtained. Maxwell removed his foot. The man rubbed at his throat with both hands and took heaving breaths.
“I would recommend that you take a moment to gather yourself and exit at the opposite end of the alley. I’ll not be so forgiving if you follow me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, sir. I’ll not follow you, sir.” The man’s nod was comically emphatic. Maxwell believed him. For now. Given another chance and more money, he would return.
Maxwell backed away, keeping his eyes on his adversary. The man sat up but otherwise didn’t move. After putting a fair distance between them, Maxwell turned and forced an even gait. Out of danger and with the excitement ebbing, his side throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He pulled off a glove and pressed a shaky hand against the wound. His fingers came away bloody.
* * * * *
Expecting a shaming, Bryn joined Mrs. Winslow for tea. After all, Mrs. Winslow was her chaperone, and Bryn deserved a dressing down considering what she’d done with Maxwell and even more so considering what she’d wanted to do with him. Not that she planned to admit as much to Mrs. Winslow.
Bryn’s nerves had her squirming on the settee, waiting for the tray of tea and preparing for the other woman’s condemnation.
What Bryn endured was almost worse.
“—a footman, he was. Of course, I noticed the lad as he hauled my trunk up the stairs. All those bulging muscles. In fact, before he left the room, I noticed something else bulging and gave him—”
Maxwell threw the door open into the drawing room and leaned on the jamb. Bryn shot up, her tea sloshing, hopeful never to learn what Mrs. Winslow had given her brawny footman. The heat prickling her neck eased, and a smile born of relief came naturally.
Something was amiss. Maxwell’s mouth and eyes were tight, and a gray pall marred his tanned complexion. Her smile wiped away, she took his arm. “What’s happened?”
His eyes flared as they stared at one another. His gaze fell away, and he swallowed hard. “I was accosted. A wound on my side needs attention, but at the moment, I would very much appreciate a drink.” His tone was so calm and polite he could have been discussing the weather.
Too much had passed between them, and too much simmered under the surface for her to be fooled. Not caring their chaperone perched on the settee with wide eyes, Bryn took his hand. Blood stained his trembling fingers. She guided him to sit.
“I’ll gather supplies. Mrs. Winslow, could you fetch a tot of brandy?” Bloody linen peeked from a rip in his jacket under his left arm, but she was unable to tell how long or deep it was.
“Have you experience stitching cuts, lass?” His question set her own fingers trembling.
“None, and according to Mary, I’ve a useless hand at embroidery. I’ll send for a physician.”
“No. You do it.”
“Maxwell, no, I—”
“Yes.” He wrapped his hand around her nape and pulled her closer. “We’re likely being watched. I don’t want anyone to witness a physician visiting. You must do it. You birthed a breech babe. Stitching me will be simple. I have faith.”
She feared his faith was misplaced. His hand fell to lie on the cushion, the blood in stark contrast to the cream upholstery. Mrs. Winslow held out a glass with brandy lipping the rim.
“A bit more of a tot, isn’t it, Mrs. Winslow?” The amusement in Maxwell’s voice steadied Bryn’s knees. A mortal injury would surely stymy his bleak humor.
“Being accosted deserves more than a mere tot, Mr. Drake,” Mrs. Winslow said.
“Mayhap you’re correct.”
He took a swallow and heaved a sigh. By the time Bryn had torn a clean sheet into strips and the hot water arrived, the glass was empty. The tightness around his mouth had eased, and his eyes were glassy.
Now that the moment was upon her, Bryn clutched the strips. “Show me the wound.”
Maxwell’s face creased as he struggled with his jacket. Bryn slipped her hands under the jacket, sliding it over his shoulders and off.
“
Let me.” She slid the disks free on his waistcoat and performed the same maneuver.
He picked at the torn fabric of his shirt and tried to see the wound. “How could you tell I was hurt?”
“Your eyes, your mouth, the way you moved,” she whispered as her hands gently tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches.
“Oh my. I can’t… the blood.” A handkerchief muffled Mrs. Winslow’s voice. Pale, she sidled out of the room but left the door cracked open a foot.
Bryn pushed his shirt upward and eased it off. For a moment the sight of his bare chest held her arrested, his soiled, torn shirt clutched in her hands. But then her attention fixed on his wound, and she felt as sick as Mrs. Winslow had looked but for a different reason. Maxwell might have died.
The gash along his side was long. A little deeper or longer or closer to a vital organ, and they might be calling the undertaker. Blood oozed and trickled down his side in narrow rivulets of bright red. Pressing a folded piece of cloth against the gash, she touched her fingers against his heart. It beat solid and strong. Tears flooded her eyes.
He covered her hand with his and pressed it flat. “You’re going to fix me, aren’t you, lass?”
His skin was warm, the muscles underneath her hand hard and strong. He was counting on her. A shuddery, deep breath gained her a semblance of control, and she nodded.
Cleaning his wound was an arduous process. A multitude of fabric threads were stuck in the dried blood around and inside the wound, and as gentle as she tried to be, he flinched. Carefully extracting everything she could see, she poured a small amount of brandy over the top for good measure. He hissed. The worst was yet to come. She filled his glass again and waited until he’d drank a good portion down.
“Do it. I’ve been through worse with my leg.”
The needle wavered in her fingers. She held her next breath, pinched the skin, and took her first stitch. He groaned through his teeth.
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