A Reckless Redemption

by Laura Trentham

  “No, he hasn’t done anything. Not really.” He had turned Bryn’s childhood infatuation into love, but he didn’t love her back. If he had, he would have admitted it last night. It was hardly his fault though. No woman would have been immune to him. “I love him, but… but…”

  Molly took Bryn’s hand. “My dear girl, do you find yourself with child?”

  Thomas slammed a fist on the table, rattling the teacups the kitchen maid had set in front of Bryn and Molly. “Bloody hell, I’ll have him here within the hour by his bollocks to marry you, Brynmore. I promise you that.”

  “I’m not with child, but Maxwell planned to marry me anyway. That’s why I left.”

  “I’ll—what?” Thomas deflated. “I don’t understand. Drake wants to marry you, but you determined you’re not with child, so you ran away? You said you loved him.”

  “I do. I love him so much.” Bryn pressed a hand over her chest where her heart should be. She was empty inside. “He doesn’t love me.”

  “I understand,” Molly whispered. In Molly’s eyes, the same pain Bryn faced was reflected. The fact Molly had found happiness with Thomas slivered a needlelike feeling of hope into Bryn.

  “I’m glad one of us does,” Thomas said darkly. “You sure I don’t need to go smash some heads?”

  “Miss Bryn would be quite distressed if you smashed poor Mr. Drake’s head.” Molly poured the tea and dropped a lump of sugar in each cup. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. Thomas and I will make sure no one bothers you.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but I discovered I have a grandmother in Kinross. Do you have a horse I could borrow or know of a supply cart headed in that direction? My grandmother will be able to pay on my arrival.” Bryn hoped she spoke the truth. She’d posted her letter with the vague promise to visit only a day before.

  Thomas squatted down on his haunches so he could look her in the eye. “Brynmore McCann, after what you did for my family, it would be a small favor to ask and one gladly given on my part.”

  Tears welled behind her smile. “Thank you.”

  “Have your tea, then go lie down for a bit while I get everything fixed for your journey,” he said roughly.

  After sharing tea, Molly led her to a dark little room in the back. “No one will bother you here. Rest for a bit if you can. It will be a long trip to Kinross.”

  Molly tucked her under a quilt and smoothed her hair back like a big sister. The late night and early morning caught up with her quickly, and she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As Penny stomped to the door of Molly’s brothel, he told himself this was it. He would insist on heading south as soon as this debacle was cleared up. He missed Wintermarsh and the way his boring days taking care of his flowers flowed into weeks and months without a single wall to scale or document to steal or murderer to avoid. By God, if that little garden whelp Lily had hired in his stead had let his roses die, there would be hell to pay.

  He’d found enough dead bodies for a dozen lifetimes. He wanted to relax, read some poetry, tend to the garden. He didn’t want to be chasing runaway women to a bloody brothel in the middle of a blustery Scottish winter.

  An old lady with a hairy mole answered his knock, and Penny prayed she wasn’t one of the working women.

  “Whatcha want?”

  “I’m looking for a young lady—”

  “Yer here too early fo’ that, sir. They’re all still abed.” She waved him off and tried to shut the door, but he toed his boot in the crack.

  Penny looked heavenward, seeking a measure of patience from the almighty. “Let me state that another way. Did a young lady with reddish hair find her way to you this morning?”

  A deep voice from inside rumbled. “Let him in, Easterly.”

  Easterly opened the door and gestured him inside with an ironic flourish. A man stood at the bar—a worthy adversary by the looks of him. Penny had learned to recognize the loose-limbed stance of an experienced fighter. Hands held to the side to grab a weapon from under a coat or from a boot. Not to mention the man was as big and hairy as a bear.

  “What can we do for you this early morn, sir?” the bear asked.

  “I’m looking for a young lass with red-gold hair that may have made her way to your door this morning.”

  “Who’s lookin’ exactly?”

  “I’m here on behalf of Mr. Maxwell Drake.”

  “Why didn’t he come himself?” A woman carrying a stack of tinkling glasses appeared from around the corner and walked behind the bar. She was pretty and carried herself with confidence. She met his eyes with a boldness that spoke of a rare intelligence in these parts.

  How much should he divulge? He wasn’t dealing with French spies—true—but the desperation in Drake’s eyes that morning had been of the life-or-death variety. “Mr. Drake has been detained on business.”

  “More important business than Miss Bryn?” The bear raised his bushy black brows and set his feet a little farther apart, a protectiveness obvious in the man’s voice. The man was ready to champion Brynmore McCann if necessary.

  “He’s occupied with the magistrate.” Curiosity flashed over both their faces. They’d hear soon enough. The news would fly from house to house through the servants’ quarters. “Sutherland and Dugan Armstrong are dead.”

  The big man plopped down on a barstool. “Dead? Bloody hell. Did Drake…” He waved his hand around suggestively.

  “Ah, no. It appears they did each other in. After he discovered Miss Bryn missing this morning, Drake suspected the worst and went to Sutherland’s looking for her but instead discovered a rather grisly scene.”

  The silence lengthened until the woman broke it in a cheerful voice. “This news deserves a celebratory drink.” She pulled a bottle of brandy and three cups from behind the bar. “Nothing quite so warming as some coffee and brandy. Would you care to join us, Mr.… I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

  “Pendleton. But everyone calls me Penny. And I would love some.”

  “I’m Molly, and this is Thomas, my husband.”

  After she poured brandy-laced coffee for the three of them, Molly raised her cup. “A toast. To the death of the most depraved bugger in all Edinburgh. May he rot in hell.”

  “Here, here,” Thomas seconded as he took Molly’s hand.

  Penny took a sip of the bracing coffee, secrets swirling around them. He wasn’t here to discover Molly’s past but to determine Mr. Drake’s future. “Drake sent me to make sure Miss Bryn is well and safe.”

  “She’s quite safe,” Thomas said, a protective frown back.

  Molly’s half smile was more circumspect. “I realize you may not be at liberty to discuss such matters about your employer—”

  “I don’t work for Drake. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” Penny said drolly.

  “In that case, your friend should know that Miss Bryn is under the impression he doesn’t hold tender feelings for her. Based on his willingness to take on Sutherland, I’m wondering if Mr. Drake might indeed care for Miss Bryn very much.” Molly leaned over the bar on her elbows and waited.

  “Mr. Drake keeps his feelings close to the chest.” He met Molly’s eyes. “But I would venture to say he cares for her very much indeed.”

  Molly looked over at Thomas. “What should we do, love? Mr. Drake will come here for her eventually. Should we send her on or keep her?”

  “Where is she going?” Penny asked.

  Thomas ran a meaty finger over his lips. “To her grandmother in Kinross.”

  “Perhaps we should send her on. Mr. Drake needs a good kick in the pants. Will he go after her?” Molly asked.

  “If he does, he’ll have to admit the depth of his feelings,” Penny said. “And if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t deserve her, and she’ll be better off with family than waiting around here for him to swallow his pride.”

  The three of them nodded and clinked their cups together once more to bind the
ir pact. He thanked Molly and Thomas and took his leave, curious to see Maxwell Drake’s reaction at his news. Penny hoped the man was smart enough to follow his heart.

  * * * * *

  It was early afternoon before the magistrate released Maxwell. Penny was in the entry, leaning against a side table and flirting with a maid who was absently dusting and giggling.

  “Did you find her?” Maxwell wasn’t up to any polite preliminaries.

  “Yes.”

  “Where in bloody hell is she?”

  “At Molly’s, as you suspected. Tuckered out and upset by the sound of it. Thomas wouldn’t let me see her, said she was sleeping, but he and Molly assured me they would take care of her.”

  Anger climbed the mountain of his distress. “You left her? In a brothel? I meant for you to bring her back to me.”

  Maxwell wanted to punch the placid expression off Penny’s face. “Those weren’t your instructions. Miss Bryn is a grown woman with an uncommon amount of pluck. I’m not getting paid enough—or at all, for that matter—to kidnap her and deposit her on your doorstep. Sir.”

  His last word was imbued with such withering sarcasm, shame flooded Maxwell. Was he any better than Armstrong or Mary or Sutherland?

  “Bloody, bloody hell!” Maxwell’s voice echoed through the entry. He ran his hands through his hair and laced them at the nape as he paced. “She doesn’t want to come back to me?”

  “As I said, I wasn’t allowed to speak with her, but by now she’s well on her way to Kinross.”

  “Perhaps that’s for the best.” Maxwell would retreat to his town house and rebuild something resembling a life without her. He’d offered her everything and still she’d rejected him. Through his own pain, something Penny had said niggled. “Wait. She was upset? What about?”

  “You, of course,” Penny said mildly.

  Maxwell pivoted to face Penny. “Me? What did I do? We left things quite satisfactorily last evening, and then I woke to find her up and gone. Christ, I don’t understand women.”

  “What man does? But I believe it’s perhaps what you didn’t do rather than what you did do that was so upsetting to Miss Bryn.”

  A feeling of foreboding washed over Maxwell. “What didn’t I do?”

  Penny cleared his throat and looked heavenward a moment before meeting his eyes again. “The lass is under the impression you don’t hold tender feelings for her.”

  Maxwell rocked back on his heels. Bryn believed he didn’t love her. After whispering her sweet confession over and over, he hadn’t had the courage to tell her what was in his heart. But he’d planned to. He had. Yet he didn’t. And now it was too late.

  Or was it? He’d been desperate for her love but hadn’t understood she might feel the same for his. Maxwell strode toward the door.

  “What are your plans, Drake?” Penny asked idly.

  “I’m going back to the town house to pack. Then I’ll go after the bloody infuriating woman.” Maxwell only caught a glimpse of the smile that crested Penny’s face before he was gone.

  * * * * *

  Complications arose when Maxwell arrived back at his town house. All he wanted was to ride like hell for Kinross and beg Bryn to come back to where she belonged—in his arms and by his side—but waiting in his study was his brother. Under the exhaustion writ large on Albert’s face was pride.

  Maxwell pasted a smile on his face. Their burgeoning friendship was a fragile thing. “This is a surprise. I expected you’d be on the road back to Cragian this morn.”

  “I realized who Lord MacShane is this morning. Me, not my mother. I roused Pickett and demanded to see my father’s will. I have it right here.” Albert patted his breast pocket.

  Maxwell sank down behind his desk. “What’s it say then?”

  Albert’s smile faltered. “I attempted to plow through it, but it was full of legal folderol. Couldn’t make out what everything meant. Give me a tome on plants, and I’ll devour it, but this”—he pulled out a sheaf of papers and dropped them in front of Maxwell with a flourish—“was Greek to me. No, actually, I understand Greek quite well… It was Arabic to me,” he finished with a chuckle.

  Given time, Maxwell decided he could come to enjoy Albert. Maxwell smoothed the papers out on the desk and scanned them for the pertinent information.

  “Old MacShane did indeed leave you with the money and estate.” Maxwell flipped through several more pages before a name caught his attention.

  Eden Drake. He read through the paragraph twice, unable to speak. His heart and stomach initiated a fistfight.

  “What is it? Is it bad? My father could be an arse. Lord knows, there were times—”

  “No, it’s… Here. You read it.”

  Albert cleared his throat and read aloud. “I acknowledge I begat a son onto an innocent maid at Riverwalk. I wished to set the girl up as a mistress and take care of the child, but my lady wife forbade such actions, instead forcing me to cast her out. It is my greatest shame. I sent money through the vicar to buy the boy a commission, with the understanding he was never to know it was from me. As death stalks close, I confess my sins and bequeath to Maxwell Drake, my natural son, a parcel of land that includes the cottage in which he was raised and a yearly stipend from my estate. I hope this token of penitence will gain his forgiveness.”

  Maxwell contemplated their father’s words from the grave. Forgiveness? Not yet but perhaps one day.

  “I wish I had done more,” Albert said haltingly.

  “You were a child. Please don’t carry a guilt that is not yours. And the commission our father bought me changed my life. Got me out of Cragian and into the world where anything was possible.”

  “That’s some prime land he left you, Drake. Good for sheep, if you’re so inclined. Or you can croft it out. The cottage is quite nice,” Albert said.

  Maxwell barked a laugh. “That cottage was falling down around my ears even as an adolescent. The thatch had more holes than a sieve.”

  “Not anymore. Miss McCann had it repaired for your mother. Didn’t you know?”

  Maxwell stared at Albert. “Where did she get the money?”

  Albert looked down at his father’s will. “The vicar would know for certain, but my guess is it was from our father.”

  Maxwell could foresee a trip back to Cragian sooner than he’d planned—which had been never.

  After seeing Albert out the door, he ordered hot water and climbed the stairs, the memory of Bryn drawing him into her room. He averted his gaze from her bed and opened her wardrobe. The beautiful blue gown she’d worn the night before had been hung back up. He fingered the delicate fabric and brought it to his face, searching for her scent and warmth but finding little solace.

  “She’s gone then?”

  Maxwell dropped the dress as if it was on fire. Mrs. Winslow meandered into the room. Maxwell had dismissed her as a distracted, ineffectual chaperone, but her gaze was dagger-sharp and threatened a slow, painful evisceration.

  “Aye, she’s gone,” he said solemnly.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “You must go after her. You’re bloody well in love with her.” She propped her hands on her hips.

  Why was it everyone else could see so clearly while he was stuck looking through frosted glass? He sputtered a few choice words before saying, “It’s none of your business—”

  “She’s my charge, isn’t she? I’ve come to care for her and admire her spirit. Come now, Drake. She loves you so. You mustn’t let her escape.”

  Maxwell cleared the lump from his throat. “She’s left for Kinross and her grandmother.”

  “See that you don’t tarry too long before you claim her.” She ran her fingers over all the dresses Maxwell had commissioned for Bryn. “Since you no longer require a chaperone, I’m going back to the earl and Lionel. Should I direct Gertie to pack up Miss Bryn’s dresses and send them on?”

  “No,” Maxwell said forcefully. He was being selfish. She deserved fine thi
ngs even if she chose never to see him again. “Yes. That would be kind of you, Mrs. Winslow. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  Mrs. Winslow cocked her head and gave a slight nod. “Of course, my dear boy. We’ve all become very fond of you and Miss Bryn. Will you write and let us know how you got on?”

  Her offer felt almost like… friendship. How the last months had changed his life.

  Maxwell ran his hands over his face. His love for Bryn surpassed his fears. The hot water arrived, and he bathed and dressed in riding clothes, self-consciously tugging at his waistcoat and examining himself in the looking glass. A shot of optimism quickened his movements. His first stop would be Molly’s. Transportation to Kinross would be hard to come by in the winter. Could she still be there? Was there time to right his foolishness?

  He was too serious and dour for a sprite like Bryn, but babe or no babe, he loved her and meant to make her his. Forever, if she’d have him.

  * * * * *

  He rapped sharply on the door to Molly’s. An old crone with thin gray hair and a bitter, downturned mouth cracked the door open.

  “Whatcha want?”

  “I’m looking for a young lady—”

  “It’s a bit early, ain’t it?” She looked him up and down but waved him inside. “What color hair are you interested in?”

  Maxwell nearly choked on his tongue. “I believe you misunderstand me. I’m looking for a particular young lady who made her way here this morning with red-gold hair.”

  “She’s gone. Can I not find another girl that might satisfy you?”

  Maxwell’s stomach dropped to hang at his knees. “Is Thomas or Molly available?”

  “Wait here.” The lady shuffled off, which left Maxwell pacing the floor like a trapped wolf.

  Both Molly and Thomas followed the old woman back into the room, and Maxwell approached them warily, not sure if they were friend or foe in his quest.

  “Mr. Drake, how lovely to see you again.” Molly’s voice was friendly and welcoming, but behind her, Thomas’s bared teeth counteracted any hope they would help.