A Reckless Redemption

by Laura Trentham

  “If you want to avoid bloodshed, I would recommend letting us walk away unscathed,” Maxwell said.

  “You seem a decent fighter, guv. Why don’t you give over your purse and let’s all be friends.”

  “Not likely.” Maxwell clenched his teeth and prepared for the fight of his life. But more importantly, for Bryn’s life.

  If Maxwell could get the man on his back, he might have a chance. The lad holding the lantern raised it higher, throwing Black Crag’s face in full relief. It was fearsome.

  Before Maxwell could go on the offensive, Bryn launched herself at the giant. Her hat fell to the stones, and her hair cascaded to her shoulders, sparking in the light of the lantern. Maxwell reached out, his fingertips brushing her jacket but unable to grab hold.

  “Thomas Kennedy! I thought that was you.”

  The mountain of a man caught Bryn in his arms and twirled her about, laughing. At least Maxwell assumed the grinding, chesty noise was laughter.

  “Brynmore McCann. Why in the devil are you skulking about in an alley in Edinburgh dressed like a gent?” Thomas set her down and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you with a beard.”

  “It’s good to see you, lass. How’s Ma and the kids?”

  Did the terrifying man just ask about his… mother? The shift from threatening to dismember Maxwell to jovial unbalanced him.

  “All’s well. Your brother will be as tall as you soon.”

  Thomas glanced at the knot of men at the mouth of the alley. “Off with you then. You’ll not be robbing my friends tonight. And take Dirk here.” The men picked up the dead man and scattered like roaches.

  “Who’s this?” Thomas turned to face Maxwell. A pair of blue, twinkling eyes lined with laughter peered from under his dark brows.

  Bryn moved next to Maxwell. “Maxwell Drake, Thomas Kennedy. Maxwell grew up in Cragian, too, if you recall.”

  Thomas stroked a hand down his beard. “I remember. Seems as you’ve done well for yourself, and if our little Brynmore vouches for you, you’re good in my book.”

  Maxwell’s near clobbering seemed to be water under the bridge. The big man rubbed his hands together, a look of pure mischief lighting his eyes. “Are you up for a little adventure?”

  “The evening has proved adventurous enough. We should head home, Bryn.” Maxwell could only imagine what Thomas “Black Crag” Armstrong considered an adventure. Although the Armstrong family was well known in Cragian, Maxwell could only recall a pack of black-haired siblings, all big and rawboned, even the girls.

  “You two will be safe enough with me. It’s not far.” Thomas’s voice turned singsong. “I’ll see you both home safely after the dancing.”

  “Dancing? I love a good reel.” Bryn grabbed Maxwell’s hand and said, “We’ll be safer on the streets with Thomas.”

  Maxwell allowed her to tug him out of the alley and into the unknown with more than a little trepidation.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bryn followed Thomas through a maze of alleys and streets. Maxwell’s profile was stern, and she was surprised he’d ceded control without an argument. The night stretched and took on a magical quality as if they’d been spirited away by the fey.

  Pipes, tin whistles, and strings lilted through the dark night and quickened her feet. A two-story wooden house stood at the next crossroads. It leaned to the right and appeared to be shaking from the inside out. A group of four men gathered outside, holding steaming cups of drink to ward off the cold.

  Maxwell stopped them at the steps. “This is Molly’s.”

  “Have you been here before?” Bryn asked.

  Maxwell sputtered, “Of course not,” over Thomas’s chesty laughter.

  “Molly’s is a house of business on occasion. Tonight, though, it’s playing host for the neighborhood. Quite reputable gentlemen and ladies attend, and if the men happen to take notice of the wares and come back later in the week to sample them? Well, Molly’s a bright one, she is.”

  “It’s improper. Bryn, we should—”

  “Ach. You worry too much.” Thomas aimed a sly smile at Maxwell. “Methinks it’s not the wolves beyond the door that are the danger to Miss Bryn.”

  “What the devil are you implying?” Maxwell squared off with Thomas with an echo of the aggression from the alley. Bryn glanced back and forth at the two men, wondering at the undercurrents.

  “You can’t fool Black Crag, Mr. Drake.” Thomas pushed through the front door. A cry of greeting went up for Thomas.

  A house of ill repute. If the ladies had the evening off, Bryn couldn’t tell it. They sashayed around the room, serving ale, in dresses that exposed their ankles and were so low-cut she was sure there would be an accident if there hadn’t been already. She was torn between being scandalized and curious.

  Self-conscious in her mannish clothes, she tugged her hat off and tried to tame her hair. A lost cause. She could never compete with the whores in experience or womanly attributes.

  Mostly men populated the room. Not as well-heeled or well-behaved as the gentlemen and ladies Mary and Craddock invited to their social functions but patrons with money nonetheless.

  A three-piece band—pipes, fiddle, and tin whistle—was positioned on the second-floor balcony. The music floated around the room, visceral and tickling her senses as if she could see and touch the music as well as hear it. Bryn soaked the notes up.

  Thomas was at the bar, giving a pretty blond-haired woman a buss on the cheek and a squeeze of her bottom. Her blue dress was modest and pretty, but she had a way about her that was compelling and a little dangerous. Thomas whispered in her ear, and the woman’s sharp gaze clashed with Bryn’s.

  The woman closed the distance, and Bryn stood transfixed. She was a bit older than she looked from afar, perhaps thirty, but her beauty would last well into old age.

  “Tommy tells me you’re friends from home.” The lady’s country accent didn’t match the picture of elegance she projected.

  “We are all from Cragian, yes. This is Maxwell Drake, and I’m Brynmore McCann. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Standing in the middle of a whorehouse, Mary’s lessons in deportment chose to bubble up, and Bryn bobbed a curtsy.

  A blush rose, and feeling foolish, Bryn looked away. At the closest table, a woman was sitting on a man’s lap, twirling her fingers in his hair while his hands roved.

  “Jane.” The woman clapped twice and shook her head. “Not tonight, dear.”

  With maximum contact, Jane peeled herself off the man and whirled away, her skirts exposing a good amount of leg. It seemed both natural and orchestrated.

  “I’m Molly Duncan. The owner and operator of Molly’s.” The woman’s voice contained both pride and hesitation as if she was used to being cut.

  Bryn had watched too many women suffer through poverty or suffer a husband who beat them. Molly had taken her life into her own hands and ran a successful business. Who was Bryn to judge, considering what she herself had done to escape a marriage?

  “You’ve built an impressive trade here,” Bryn said simply.

  Molly’s smile widened and exposed laugh lines at her eyes. “I’m proud of it, I won’t deny. I take care of my girls. Make sure they’re kept clean and healthy, and if a man uses them ill, then he’s no longer welcome.”

  “That’s admirable, I’m sure.” The conversation had taken on a surreal bent. “Are you and Thomas… friends then?”

  Molly laughed. “We’re getting married.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’ve known Thomas for many years.”

  “He’s mentioned your kindness with the—”

  “Will you stay here then?” Bryn snuck a glance at Maxwell, but he seemed more concerned about a nonexistent attack from within.

  The Kennedy family was poorer than most around Cragian, although they’d scrabbled together an existence until Thomas’s father had died. That’s when Bryn began dropping off baskets for the family. One slip o
f the tongue would give her away to Maxwell.

  “Aye. I’m well established, but tonight was the last night Tommy will do Sutherland’s dirty work.”

  * * * * *

  The mention of Sutherland swung Maxwell’s full attention to Molly. “Sutherland is behind the apprentice gangs? Why? Unless he’s hiding his debts, he’s richer than anyone in Edinburgh.”

  “Not so loud, Mr. Drake. Sutherland has eyes and ears everywhere.” Molly’s gaze darted around the room even though she didn’t move her head. “Everyone has something to hide, and I’d say Sutherland’s secrets are deep and plentiful.”

  “But to organize gangs?”

  “Sutherland has convinced the men tasked with keeping the peace to look elsewhere while the lads terrorize the city. It’s appalling.”

  “He must be getting something in return.”

  “You can be sure he is, but I don’t know what.” Darkness crossed Molly’s face before it cleared, although her bright tone seemed forced. “You must dance with your lady, Mr. Drake. Her toes have been tapping since she walked in.”

  Molly tinkled a laugh at odds with her no-nonsense, tough-as-nails demeanor and left them to play hostess. Molly Duncan was not a woman to cross.

  “Will you dance with me?” Bryn’s face was lit with a childlike expectancy.

  “I’m not spry enough to dance.” The excuse rolled out with practiced ease. He’d used his injury to avoid dancing for years, but this was the first time he regretted it. Dancing with Bryn meant he could touch her without justifications.

  Before Maxwell had a chance to change his mind, Thomas grabbed Bryn’s hand and pulled her onto the floor. Her throaty laughter cut him as Thomas whirled her about him.

  Not hampered by skirts, Bryn’s footwork was on display. As were her long legs and hips and the curves of her breasts. The night’s danger had stripped away his carefully constructed ruse of indifference. The distance he’d put between them was a sham.

  He wanted to sift his fingers through the silken mass of her hair while she lay under him or feel it tickle his cheeks as she rode him to oblivion or perhaps bury his face in it while he took her from behind like a rutting beast. As if she cast a spell over him, he moved closer to the dance floor, the torment heightened.

  Her dance was all primitive beauty, as old as the pipes themselves, and he was transported to a time when their ancestors must have done the same around druid stones. She commanded the room with a confidence that Mary had tried to pulverize.

  She stripped off her jacket and flung it to the side to the cheers of both men and women, leaving her in a white shirt and waistcoat. Her back was to him, and his attention was on her beautifully rounded arse. He’d dreamed about that arse—and other assorted body parts—since the night at the inn. The dreams were a reality within his grasp. The space between them crackled with lust and need. And he needed—badly.

  He crossed his arms and braced his legs apart, holding himself back even though his gaze never left her. The look she arrowed over her shoulder struck him in the heart. Once their eyes caught, they held, neither able to look away from the other. She turned, her body still in the throes of the music.

  She was woman incarnate. Her gaze brushed down his chest to linger at the juncture of his legs. Maxwell could well imagine what she saw, his cock in heavy, full arousal. Lightning sizzled in the air, and he expected to hear thunder rumbling in the distance at any moment. One song ended and another began, the frenzy building like climbing a mountain of longing.

  Did she understand her danger? Most likely she was still too innocent. One night and a few kisses and caresses in his study did not add up to experience. If she moved within reach, it would be over for them both. His strength of will had been demolished.

  * * * * *

  Everyone in Bryn’s periphery blurred. Only Maxwell mattered. Energy thrummed and drew her to him. She danced close enough to touch him yet didn’t. She spun away, confident his gaze remained on her. The music and the want in his eyes granted her a bravery she’d longed for all her life.

  Like they were tethered, she returned. This time she laid her hands on his shoulders, soft like the brush of a bird’s wing. He didn’t push her away, and her confidence blossomed with knowledge he’d imparted to her.

  She ran her hands from his shoulders to his biceps. The muscles tensed under her clutching fingers. Standing immobile on the edge of the floor, he had looked so strong, almost as if he had been cast from marble, but he was indeed flesh and blood and man.

  As if her hands worked ancient alchemy, releasing him from his stone imprisonment, he darted an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Flesh and blood, indeed. His erection pressed along her hip bone. A blush raced through her body, the heat stoking her desire higher.

  No liquor clouded his eyes or his judgment tonight. Yet he still wanted her. He smoothed his hands over her buttocks. She nearly incinerated. But he wasn’t done. Pressing her higher, he fit himself against her lower belly and rocked against her. A different sort of dance.

  “Maxwell, what—”

  His mouth descended on hers like an invading army, no quarter given. Hard and unyielding. His teeth nipped her lips. Dominated in every way, Bryn surrendered. Or maybe Maxwell was the one who’d given in. Whatever had changed, he took what she was only too willing to give.

  The roaring in her ears drowned out the crowd and music, her heart moving her blood faster and faster. She looped her arms around his neck, the same time he scooped his hands under her.

  “Wrap those long, sweet legs around me, lass.” His velvety brogue was undeniable—as if she would deny him anything in this moment.

  He carried her, his leg not seeming to bother him in the least. The catcalls and whoops of the occupants of the crowded room penetrated her daze, and she buried her face in his neck. Her embarrassment wasn’t enough to tell Maxwell to stop. Up the stairs they went.

  At the top, in the shadows of the hallway, Maxwell nudged her face up to his and captured her lips in another carnal assault. He cracked open the first door. A barrage of curses and a high-pitched shriek had him backing away with a rumbly laugh and moving to the next.

  The room was blessedly empty. He kicked the door shut. The hinges rattled. The rickety wood planks got no rest. He turned and pressed her against the door. Like an uncaged beast held too long away from food, he devoured her.

  Instead of fright, his elemental response drove her own primitive urges. She bit his neck, running her tongue along the skin she’d caught between her teeth. He tilted his head on a groan. Frenzied music filled the air and made words unnecessary. Her senses were overwhelmed, leaving no room for doubts or horror.

  The rough wood at her back contrasted with the silky skin she stroked through the collar of his shirt. As he kept her a welcome prisoner, he roamed his hands over her body and rocked against her. The same fluttering pleasure she’d experienced in his bed in Cragian took flight, and she chased it, knowing where it led. The throb between her legs grew more intense.

  Peeling his torso away, he cupped her breasts and squeezed. The layers of fabric did a poor job hiding her response. Her nipples were hard and aching, and as if he understood, he pinched them. Sparks erupted and arced from her breasts to between her legs.

  He unhooked her ankles and took a step back. Her knees had forgotten how to perform their duties, and she leaned against the door, her breaths coming in pants. His gaze skimmed down her body.

  He fingered the lapels of her waistcoat. Slowly he drew his hands into fists around the fabric, the tug against her sensitive breasts unbearably arousing. Instinctively her back arched, begging for his touch without words. His sudden jerk left her gasping. In a blink, he’d torn her waistcoat and shirt to her waist. Two buttons hung by loosened thread, but the rest were gone. Her shirt’s jagged edges would be impossible to mend. Tendrils of chill air caressed her skin.

  Shock held her still as he peeled the sides apart, exposing her. His mouth had gone slack, his eyes
glassy as if he’d imbibed, yet she knew different. She risked a glance down. Her breasts were plump, her nipples pebbled.

  “You’re lovely, Bryn. So lovely.” His mouth closed over one breast, pulling her nipple into his hot mouth. His hair tickled her skin, and she thread her fingers through it, the thick waves curling over her skin in a caress of its own.

  He scraped his teeth over her nipple. A gasping moan escaped. Wetness had gathered in preparation for taking him. This time there was no fear or embarrassment. She wasn’t an inexperienced maiden, and she knew what she wanted.

  Leaving her shirt to frame her bare breasts, he fumbled with the buttons of her fall. “I would never have imagined myself so anxious to get into a pair of breeches.”

  The shot of levity lessened the intensity of the moment and brought with it tenderness. As his hands continued to fumble with her breeches, he took her lips, this time slowly, devastatingly, and she clutched at his jacket.

  The buttons of her fall slipped free, and Bryn could feel cool air against her hip. He urged her toward the bed. She planned to undress him and kiss every inch of his chest and lower. All the way to his…

  Her plans were for naught. He spun her, pressed her face into the quilt, and jerked her breeches down to pool at the tops of her boots, her buttocks exposed.

  “Beautiful. Perfect.” His words were like a brand on her skin.

  Could he see how wet and ready she was for him? Could he tell how much she wanted him? The imagining made her even more desperate for him to claim her. She shuffled her feet farther apart and popped up on her toes.

  “You’re tempting me beyond all reason, lass.” Finally he touched her, kneading and squeezing her buttocks.

  Bryn fisted the quilt on the bed, muffled her groan, and writhed under his hands. “Maxwell, please.”

  “I told you I’d punish you if you wore breeches again, didn’t I?”