The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1)

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Romayne had forgotten in the few hours they had spent in the hut how viciously the cold burned her face with its icy caress. Hunching her shoulders, she hesitated as spurts of wind strove to knock her off her feet. She ignored Grange’s injunction to hurry as she waited for James and his sergeant to come out of the stone building.

  “Thatcher!” she called, straining to be heard over the bare branches rubbing against one another.

  The groom appeared out of the whirling grayness as if released from a bottle of champagne. Nodding to her orders, he slipped his arm around James to help Cameron get him to the horses. James glanced at her, but she could not read his expression. Whether he appreciated the help or despised it, she did not care. She wanted to get out of the storm and did not wish to be delayed by James’s show of worthless bravery.

  Snow sifted into Romayne’s slippers and clung to her toes, threatening to freeze them. She longed for the sparse comfort of her stockings, but said nothing. Grange would be furious if she learned that Romayne had bound James’s arm with such intimate garments. In Grange’s opinion, even an emergency did not change the strictures of behavior.

  When Thatcher had tossed her up on her horse, Romayne held the reins lightly, keeping her arms as close to her body as she could. The wind slipped beneath her cloak, pulling it to flap behind her. The horse stirred nervously, exciting a cry of dismay from Grange.

  Muttering under his breath, James lurched across the drifting snow. He grabbed the hem of her cloak and tucked it around Romayne as if she was still in her infancy. “Sit on it,” he ordered. “I have no need for Miss Grange to be deaving me.”

  “What?”

  He smiled before shouting over his shoulder as he went to the horse next to the one Thatcher had mounted. “Deaving. Make me hard of hearing.”

  Romayne took a deep breath and released it slowly through her clenched teeth. She should have guessed that James would be no more gracious with the dawn than he had been during the night. His impertinent remarks were sure to make a hard day even more difficult.

  Romayne heard her abigail’s gasp of dismay and understood it as the path turned so she could see, through the snow that was falling steadily again, what waited in the valley ahead of them. Set between two rolling hills, the village could not have contained more than a dozen houses. Hints of a ruined castle or abbey were set higher on one of the hills. Snow blanketed the roofs, so she could not discern if they were thatched or shingled, but the walls were as rough as the hut where she and James had sought shelter.

  “Struthcoille,” James said with a trace of pride and an arch of his snow-dusted eyebrows as if he dared Romayne to voice her thoughts.

  It was the first time he had spoken to her since they left the byre. No one had said anything, but the rigid line of Grange’s back had warned Romayne that she was due a scold when they reached their destination. She wanted to protest that having James ride at her side was not her doing.

  “Thank goodness,” she answered in a clipped voice. “I fear that I am nearly zneesy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Romayne simply smiled as Cameron led the way down the narrow path toward the village. If James did not recognize the word which meant no more than the fact that she was suffering from the cold, it was all to the good. He might come to understand her bafflement when he spoke his Scottish gibberish.

  Nobody was on the town’s single street. Curtains pulled back at windows, and Romayne knew their passage was not going unnoted. She guessed few visitors came to this small village, which was miles from the border with England.

  Cameron stopped in front of a cottage that seemed no different from the others. Light glowed from its windows, and a dog barked a greeting. As they dismounted, stiff from the cold, James went to the door. It opened before he could put his hand on the latch.

  “Jamie?” A wide-eyed young woman with hair that was a more fiery red than his looked past him, and she choked again, “Jamie? What are you doing back so soon? I thought you were going to be gone for a fortnight.”

  “Ellen, step aside and let us in before Lady Romayne and her party think we are the rudest of hosts.”

  The freckled girl nodded as she stood in a corner of the cramped foyer to watch strangers invade her home. As she wiped her hands on a soiled, muslin apron, her eyes were large in her face. Romayne could think of many words to reassure Ellen, but they refused to flow from her exhausted brain to her lips.

  “Get some water on to heat,” James ordered. “We are weary with the cold.”

  “Aye,” Ellen whispered, backing away, as if she could not bear to take her eyes away from the strangers.

  “In there,” he continued, pointing to a door opening off the entry.

  As Thatcher and Cameron excused themselves to tend to the horses, Romayne put her arm around James to help him into the other room. Grange’s furious eyes pierced her back, but Romayne knew she owed James the duty of helping him after he had saved her life. When he settled his uninjured arm on her shoulder, his fingers slipped beneath the blankets to stroke her shoulder. She looked up at him, finding his face as close as it had been when she had slept in his arms.

  A slow smile spread across his lips and climbed to glitter in his eyes. The voices around them evaporated in the sudden warmth that billowed over her. She did not know if the others had left or if she was deafened by the sound of her heart throbbing inside her. It did not matter; all that mattered was losing herself in the emerald depths of his eyes.

  “Girl, help Lady Romayne!”

  Grange’s sharp command brought Romayne back to her senses. With a shudder, she pulled her gaze from James’s. The sound of his low laugh reverberated through her, and she stiffened. He had every right to laugh when she was being a complete block.

  With Ellen’s help, Romayne steered James into the room beyond the door. The chamber was small and cramped. James’s head nearly brushed the low rafters. A sitting room, she decided, for it contained a settee and several chairs around the wide hearth. Dusk clung to the corners. Rushes covered the stone floor, and they crunched with a shrill sound which hurt her aching head.

  The furniture was simply made and the window covered only by the thinnest material, but the house was better than she had dared to hope. Narrow stairs climbed one wall. Several more rooms must open off this main chamber, for doors flanked the hearth and another was opposite the window.

  “Gardyloo,” James muttered as she helped him to the settee.

  “Would you speak English?”

  “You’re in Scotland now, my dear lady. You should learn that gardyloo means ‘take care.’ Mayhap if you had learned to take care, you wouldn’t be in this predicament now.”

  He smiled, and she turned away. Their situation was abominable enough without his atrocious sense of humor. Shrugging off the blankets, she folded them over a chair as Grange lowered herself to a chair next to the hearth.

  A door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room. Her auburn hair did not match the wrinkles weaving life’s pattern in her face. Brown eyes widened, then narrowed as she stared at the snow melting on the floor.

  “Jamie!” she gasped. “What has happened to you?”

  “A bit of an accident,” he replied with a nonchalance that his pain-tightened lips belied.

  “Ellen, send Fergus for the doctor.” When Ellen ran out of the room, the tall woman continued serenely, “I see you have brought us guests. This is indeed a surprise.”

  “My aunt Dora Dunbar,” James said. “Ellen is her daughter. Dora, this is Lady Romayne Smithfield and her abigail Grange. Her man Thatcher is out at the stables with Cameron. I fear they are quite stuck here.”

  He saw Romayne’s frown. He did not care a rap if she was distressed by his informality. He had saved the chit’s life while he muddled up his best chance to stop the traitor.

  Not giving them time to greet each other, he said, “As for me, I would appreciate a dram of mountain-dew.”

  Dora clapped her hands
and motioned to a serving lass who had followed her into the room and was listening eagerly to the conversation. As the girl scurried away to get the whiskey, Dora said, “You are welcome to stay here until the storm is past.”

  Pulling off her gloves, Grange retorted coolly, “We may be dependent upon your hospitality for a while longer than that. Lady Romayne cannot return to England in shame. It is my belief that your nephew has an obligation to marry her.”

  “Marry her?”

  James struggled not to smile when he heard the shock in Dora’s voice. Seeing outrage blossoming on Miss Grange’s face, he suspected Romayne’s servant could not understand why he would not be delighted with the chance to wed an English duke’s wayward granddaughter. Not that it would be difficult to take such a lovely woman to his bed.

  He treated himself to a leisurely view of Lady Romayne Smithfield. Her cheeks were chapped to the same warm shade of her lips, but he paid them scant attention as he watched her draw off her coat. The gentle curves he had enjoyed against him last night were outlined by the fine white muslin of her gown. Braiding across the bodice drew his eyes to the enticing line of her bosom. She possessed a golden beauty that brought to mind a passionate nymph rather than an angel, but her charms were not for him, even if he had time to dally with her.

  He said nothing as Romayne rose and clasped her hands in front of her. “I can assure you, Mrs. Dunbar, that I have tried to disabuse Grange of her misapprehensions with scant success. I have no interest in marrying anyone here while I am in mourning for my betrothed.”

  Dora looked to him for the key to her confusion, and he said, “Lady Romayne’s carriage was overrun by caterans last night,” he explained. “We fear for the life of her betrothed.”

  “Oh my!” This was, undoubtedly, the closest he had ever heard Dora come to speechlessness. Slowly she sat and stared at the hearth. “Artair and his lads?”

  “Who else?”

  “If you could have me shown to where I may rest,” Romayne said, “I would appreciate it greatly.”

  “Why do you expect Jamie to marry your lady?” Aunt Dora asked as if Romayne had remained silent.

  Grange smiled with satisfaction. James did not have to hear her thoughts. They were emblazoned on her face. Finally Grange had found someone who would turn a sympathetic ear to how the Duke of Westhampton could not have his granddaughter’s reputation questioned. “His Grace is of an age at which one should abstain from offering him too much agitation. To learn that his granddaughter was discovered in a dubious situation might damage his heart beyond repair.”

  “I understand,” said Aunt Dora with a nod.

  Some message passed between the two women, but James was not privy to it. He could not argue this alone, not when his head was reeling with pain. Surging to his feet, he stormed across the room to where Romayne was ignoring the conversation as she peered up the stairs. The selfish lass! She could think only of her comfort while his aunt and her abigail were plotting to foul up his work and his life.

  “Romayne?”

  “James,” she asked, turning to him, “please can you have someone take me some place where I can rest? I want to crawl under a pile of comforters and not come out until I’m warm again.”

  “You would be wise to think of something other than seeking your bed right now.” His hand curved along her cheek as he tilted her face up toward his. “If you don’t do something to silence Grange, I suspect you and I shall soon find ourselves going to bed … together.”

  Chapter Five

  Romayne stared at James’s cold smile. He was crazy if he thought she would welcome him in her bed. Last night had been bad enough … No, came the small voice that insisted on the truth, being in his arms last night had been wonderful. She had never felt so safe. As her eyes rose to meet his, she knew safe was something she would never feel again if she was want-witted enough to let him draw her into his arms.

  “I would appreciate it,” he continued in a low voice that could not hide his vexation, “if you would halt Grange’s rattling tongue. Even if I was anxious to wed you—which I assure you is far from the truth—her caustic voice irritates my head.”

  “Your aunt is goading her on,” Romayne argued, but softly, for her head ached also. The loss of two nights’ sleep weighed heavily on her shoulders and threatened to seal her eyes closed until she could sleep her fill. “Can you halt your aunt?”

  A reluctant smile stole the lines of pain from his face. “I could sooner halt the wind from blowing along the hills. She has been intrigued with the idea of me settling down since I arrived here. Whom better to tack together with than a duke’s granddaughter?” He glanced across the room. “Is it going to take that lass all day to bring me a bit of whiskey?”

  “’Tis barely noon. Do you usually drink at this hour?” asked Romayne before her exhausted mind could silence the question.

  “By gravy, I am grateful that I have no true interest in wedding you. You chide like a shrew when I am interested only deadening the pain in this arm.” His smile returned, but it was as icy as his green eyes. “You look as if you could use a drop or two yourself, Romayne. I have seen more color in the face of a corpse.”

  “Pray don’t,” she whispered.

  His voice became kinder. “Forgive me. I did not mean to remind you of your betrothed. Blame the anguish in my arm for the lack of thought in my head.”

  “Bradley may not be dead.”

  “Maybe not,” he answered too quickly. “Once the weather clears, we can make inquiries into that.”

  “I only heard the shots. I saw nothing.”

  “Duffie cannot afford to waste gunpowder when it costs so dear.”

  “Pray don’t,” she whispered as she had before. When she started to turn away, he took her by the elbow. She kept her eyes lowered, for she did not want him to see her confusion as warmth slid along her from his fingers. How could she find his touch so splendid when she remained unsure if Bradley was dead or alive?

  Before he was able to speak the dangerous thoughts glowing in his eyes, the front door opened to reveal a lanky man.

  The dim light off the snow glittered on the man’s pale hair, and Romayne whispered, “Bradley?”

  James’s fingers bit into her arm, but loosened when his cousin called, “Dr. Wollaston, come in. Jamie is right here.”

  “He may still be alive,” James whispered as the doctor bustled into the room.

  “I hope you are right and my fears are wrong.” Closing her eyes, Romayne sighed. She walked away from where the doctor was urging James to sit. Her wishes were cockle-brained, but her heart refused to believe that Bradley was dead. Surely then she would feel more than this unending emptiness.

  A slender hand settled on her arm. She turned, expecting to see Grange. Instead Ellen Dunbar stood next to her, the young woman’s warm eyes filled with sorrow.

  “Please, Lady Romayne, sit here by the fire. You must be hungry and tired.”

  James answered before Romayne could. “We dined with St. Giles and the Earl of Murray last night, Ellen.”

  “An earl?” asked Grange, baffled. “Here in this desolation?”

  He laughed, then winced as the doctor examined his arm.

  Ellen hurried to explain, “He means he and Lady Romayne had nothing on their table.” She dimpled. “You should not heed Jamie. He is always jesting.”

  “Is there a bit of something tasty about for me and Romayne?” He raised the mug the serving lass had handed him and took a sip. “I’d like to wash down this fine whiskey with something other than thoughts of food.”

  “Let me find you something to eat while Dr. Wollaston tends to you, Jamie.” Ellen clapped her hands and giggled again. “Oh, ’tis so wonderful to have you home! What fun we all shall have while we enjoy the company of our guests!”

  Romayne glanced involuntarily at James. Her gaze locked with his, and she saw her disquiet reflected in his eyes. He found nothing wonderful about this whole situation. She began to wo
nder where this disaster would end.

  Morning dawned with a crystalline sparkle. James rose with the sun as he had made his habit, dressed with Cameron’s help, and ignored his sergeant’s constant attempts to guard against bumping the bandaged arm. Dr. Wollaston had announced it nothing worse than a bad sprain, and a week of rest had helped ease the worst of the pain. Nothing had eased his frustration at failing to stop the traitor.

  “It’s time, Cameron,” he said without preamble.

  “For what, sir?” Cameron asked, keeping his voice low as he sat on a chest at the base of the rope bed.

  “To start this blasted hunt over.” James bent so he could see in the glass to adjust his cravat. With the slanting roof of the house, there were few places on the upper floor where he could stand straight. “The blackguard must come out of hiding to meet his contact. While the weather closed the hills, I doubt he emerged from the comfort of his hearth. However, the sun has returned, and it’s time to complete our task.”

  Cameron nodded as he looked at the window where icicles dripped slowly. “But if the information is passed to the Frogs before we can halt it—”

  “I prefer not to think of that.” That was a lie. James thought of it all too often, although he was unable to do anything until he could mount his horse without Cameron’s assistance. “Cameron, how would you like to take a bit of a ride about the countryside?”

  The sergeant’s round face brightened with a smile. “My pleasure, sir.”

  “You know what to look for.”

  “Aye, anything unusual.” Patting his full stomach, he rose. Then he hesitated. “I hate to be leaving you with two women who are determined to see you wed to Lady Romayne.”

  James sat on a bench by the room’s sole window. Resting his arm on the back, he grinned. Grange’s determination to see her charge salvage her reputation had not changed a whit during the past week. “Do you think I will succumb at this point to the pressure from two old hens who are clucking about as if Romayne was the sole chick between them?”