A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  “You’ve been there? I’ve never travelled outside of England.”

  “That’s a shame. You’d enjoy it. Language and even food can vary from country to country, sometimes region to region.”

  “I’m abysmal with languages. I tried to learn French, I truly did, but my tutor eventually threw his hands up in despair at my ineptitude. It was my only failure.” She abandoned the bird for the potatoes.

  “Beauty, a sharp mind, charm…you can’t be perfect. Allow the rest of us to acknowledge you exhibit some human frailty.”

  Her head shot up. He stared at her, a slight smile curling his lips even as he took a sip of wine. Her blush spread like wildfire. “Th-thank you.”

  “I’ve embarrassed you? I wasn’t sure you were capable.” His mocking tone was not lost on her.

  “I’m a woman, like any other, Rafe Drummond,” she said tartly.

  The smile over his wine glass grew, and his eyes twinkled with puckish charm. “I beg to differ, but we won’t argue the point. Did you come across any of my novels?”

  “One of Austen’s books was in your room. When I cleaned it,” she returned in the same mocking tone.

  Her barb hit the mark. Rafe shifted, and Minerva smiled.

  “She’s vastly amusing. You would enjoy her sarcastic take on society. I’ll send my copy to you. What else did you find?”

  “I skimmed through a book about Egypt and the tombs of the pharaohs. Do you think it’s all true? Even the part about the ghosts?”

  “Ghosts? I should think not. If ghosts were real, I’d have a battalion following me.” Real pain hid behind his lighthearted jest. The urge to reach out and touch him was strong. Instead, she fisted the napkin in her lap at a loss for words.

  Dessert arrived, and they ate the small tart in silence. The clanking of silverware against the plates filled the ponderous silence. Stuffing the last too-large bite in her mouth just to have it finished, she rose.

  He followed suit, leaving his tart almost intact. “Would you like to take a turn around the gardens?” The words tripped out of him as if he were nervous. If her damnable mouth hadn’t been full, she would have declined with a hasty excuse, but all she could do was chew furiously and nod.

  They strolled outside, the setting sun streaking the sky with color. A chill edged into the space the sun had abandoned, making her wish for a shawl. Rafe didn’t offer an arm and kept a satisfactory distance between them. Unlike the silences at dinner, this one felt more companionable.

  “Your brother held up well today. I was proud of him. Soon, I’ll teach him about estate management from a more cerebral approach.”

  “There’s hope for him then? I wasn’t sure last night.”

  “There’s always hope for redemption.” He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, and his face tipped to the darkening sky. Did he seek redemption? Before she could pursue the line of questioning, he said, “The fresh flowers in the house are lovely.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.” His lilting voice was melodious.

  “That’s lovely. Did you write it?”

  “Me?” He blocked the middle of the path, crossed his arms over his chest and pursed his lips in mock disappointment. “Tell me you jest. The finest English wordsmith in history wrote that. William Shakespeare.”

  His feigned outrage at her ignorance made her laugh. “Shakespeare was not on our docket, but I’m well-versed in the mating habits of the African rhino, if you have any questions.” His smile, genuine and wide, reached his eyes. Her breathing quickened. “Anyway, not so farfetched. Your poems are beautiful.”

  His smile crumpled, and his brows drew low, shadowing his eyes. “What?” he croaked as if his throat had collapsed as well.

  Her tart wanted to make a hasty reappearance. “I found your poems this afternoon.”

  “You read them? All of them?”

  She tried to make herself say no but couldn’t lie. “Yes. They were lovely. You have no reason to be embarrassed.”

  “Those were personal, Lady Minerva.” He didn’t yell, but his words, cold and impersonal, sliced her nonetheless. She had been a fool to read his work and an imbecile to admit it. It seemed their new, unacrimonious relationship would be brief.

  His jaw worked as if it was a dam against a flow of words. Gone in a blink, he left her, full of shame, in the beautiful garden.

  Chapter Nine

  Two weeks had passed since Simon’s debacle in town and Minerva’s debacle in the garden. After the hellish day Simon had spent in atonement with Rafe clearing the trees, he had stopped complaining and looked to Rafe with a newfound respect and admiration. They worked side by side during the day and even took dinner together in the study, playing chess or delving into estate business well into the evening.

  Her exclusion chaffed. How much of it was Rafe’s attempt to untether Simon from her apron strings, and how much was a punishment for reading his personal writings? During the day, she continued her work in the study, cleaning and cataloguing the books. She lingered well into the afternoon, hoping to intercept them, but something always called her away.

  Feeling slightly pathetic and sick of waiting, she offered her services to Mrs. Potts, who sent her to pick apples for turnovers. The apple grove sat well beyond the stables, and she walked along, swinging an empty basket. The light breeze carried a hint of burning wood and turning leaves made a fiery blaze on the horizon. She rounded the corner of the stable, and her feet seemed to plant themselves deep in mire.

  Simon and Rafe grappled and punched, obviously trying to kill each other. They broke apart to circle warily, both crouched low, looking ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

  “Come on, whelp. My sister hits harder than that. Are you sure you have a pair of bollocks down there?” Rafe taunted.

  Simon looked grim and determined, but a red welt stained his jaw. He leapt at Rafe, who dropped low and let Simon’s momentum carry him forward, using the motion to flip Simon onto his back. Her brother gasped and flopped on the dirt floor like a fish out of water.

  “Ha. Nice try, but too hasty.” Rafe nudged Simon with a boot. Once recovered, Simon scrambled to his feet and pulled a knife from his boot, ready to attack again.

  Rafe made a rude hand gesture. Simon swung the knife on a short arc, trying to slice open Rafe’s belly. Her leaden feet wouldn’t obey the screaming commands in her head. She was beyond terrified.

  In a blur of motion, Rafe grabbed Simon’s wrist and twisted. Maneuvering Simon around, he snaked one arm around her brother’s neck. His other hand clamped around Simon’s wrist and, in slow motion, forced the knife tip toward Simon’s belly. Simon shook, straining to push Rafe’s arm away, but the blade continued its slow trek.

  Simon slipped a foot around Rafe’s leg, pulling him off-balance. Her brother wiggled free and elbowed Rafe in the sternum. Rafe grunted and released his wrist. Simon laughed and circled Rafe again. Rafe would kill Simon for that. She’d seen what the man was capable of in the alleyway.

  She flew at Rafe, grabbing at his biceps and pulling. “Stop! For, God’s sake, stop it!”

  Rafe didn’t budge, only straightened out of his crouch. He didn’t look the least bit angry. In fact, he was smiling. But she remembered the delight he’d seemed to take in annihilating the men in the alley.

  She quit pulling at him but kept her hands around his arm, trying a different tact. “Please, Rafe, you’re too strong. You’ll kill him.” She stared into his blue-grey eyes, not sure what she saw. His smile fell not into a frown, but into something more complicated.

  Simon’s laughter penetrated her singular focus on Rafe. “Min, you dolt. Drummond’s teaching me how to fight. This knife could barely slice through butter. Although, come to
think of it, I’m rather hurt by your poor assessment of my abilities.” Her brother sniffed in mock self-pity.

  “You’re not trying to kill each other?”

  “Honestly, Minerva, did you think Drummond would try to actually hurt me?”

  One of Rafe’s eyebrows quirked up as he waited for her answer. Because of course, she’d thought that very thing—more than once.

  “I am a dolt.” She took a step back, lifted her skirts and ran like a coward. First, she’d read his personal writings, and now she’d accused him of attempting to murder her brother.

  Lost in her sea of humiliation, she startled when a warm hand circled her arm. Rafe held out her basket, a sheepish expression on his face.

  “Minerva—”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Ladies, first,” he said.

  “The two of you were fighting, and it looked so real. I was afraid…” Minerva looked to the cloudless sky. “And can I apologize again for reading your personal writing? I knew I shouldn’t, but they were so lovely, I couldn’t stop.”

  “Those writings…I don’t reveal that sort of thing to…well, to anyone. They’re hardly lovely. They’re bleak and dark and wretched.”

  “There’s beauty in the darkness. You just have to look a bit harder.”

  A beat of silence passed. “Minerva, your brother is doing well. Things are better. I promise.”

  “I know they are. He’s different. You’re different.” Perhaps he’d changed from the gruff, intimidating man that had met them at the front door that fateful night, or perhaps it was her assumptions about him that had undergone a transformation. Either way, things were different between them.

  A flash of something passed between them, but like the searing, brief energy of lightning, the feeling was gone before she could classify it. Swallowing, she took the basket and headed to the orchard again. He fell into step beside her.

  “He talks about you as if you’re a hero, you know. I can’t tell you how much of a burden you’ve lifted off my shoulders,” she said.

  “A hero? I’m anything but.” Surprise colored his tone. He nodded toward their destination and the empty basket dangling from her hand. “Apple picking, I presume.”

  “Mrs. Potts promised turnovers for tonight’s dessert if I gather some. I’ve never picked apples before. I’m quite looking forward to it.”

  “Never picked apples? Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never climbed a tree.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Rafe halted, and she turned to look at him. “You’ve never climbed a tree? Never read Shakespeare? What kind of bleak childhood did you have?”

  “I’m coming to understand it was… Well, not bleak perhaps, but not much fun either.”

  Compassion softened his eyes. “Today is as good a day as any to remedy such a deficiency in experience, wouldn’t you say? Blue skies, warm sun, trees all around.” He gestured about them expansively.

  “Did you climb trees when you were young?”

  “Thousands. I would pretend I was on a great sailing ship, climbing the rigging to look for land or sea monsters or, my personal favorite, sirens in the deep blue sea.”

  “You had a happy childhood then, even with your mother gone?”

  “I did for the most part. It was difficult after Mother left us, but mostly because of Father.”

  This very spring, Rafe and Lily had learned an obsessed, spurned suitor, Lord Penhaven, had killed Victoria Drummond. They had spent their lives thinking she had abandoned them and run off with a lover.

  “Lily was too young to remember much, thank God. The earl was unhappy. It was a relief when he was called away on Crown business. When he was gone, Lionel and Betsy Masterson acted as our guardians, and better ones you couldn’t find.” He paused, scanning the treetops. “Even though on the surface I was heir to a title and house and fortune, I spent many hours secretly jealous of Gray. He had something even more precious to me. A real family.”

  The pain in his voice spoke directly to her heart, and, without thinking, she brushed a finger over the back of his hand. She snatched her hand to the handle of the basket, and he thankfully didn’t acknowledge the errant touch. They continued their stroll toward the apple orchard.

  “How old were you when your parents were killed?” he asked.

  “Simon was five and I was seven. Highwaymen waylaid them on the road. Mother refused to give up her jewels and a struggle ensued. They were killed and then robbed. The irony was her jewels were paste.”

  “Who took care of you after that?”

  “The estate was put into trust. We had a tutor.” Even she could hear the dread in the simple statement.

  “Yes, Simon mentioned your tutor. He sounded charming.” The sarcasm in his voice settled her sudden uneasiness.

  “Our solicitor was an old family friend and managed things until I took over. Well, technically, I convinced him to hire Drake, who is a progressive sort of fellow. Simon will take over at twenty-one. It’s honestly terrifying.”

  “Why not keep your Mr. Drake on as an advisor to Simon?”

  Minerva sighed. “They dislike each other intensely. Drake makes no effort to hide his disrespect. Simon’s first order of business will be to fire him.”

  “Would Simon allow you to guide him?”

  “I don’t know. He has a need to prove himself, I think. What will I do when he takes over? What’s left for me?” She kept her gaze on the ankle high grass.

  “You could marry and have children. Catch yourself a title and live your life in contentment. Stonewell would be amenable to such an arrangement, I’m sure.” A hint of derision soured his voice.

  Minerva barked with laughter. “And do what? Embroider? Play the pianoforte? Paint watercolors? I’m atrocious at all three endeavors.”

  “Perfect. You obviously need the practice. The world is crying for more witty samplers.” His wry voice made her huff a laugh.

  On reaching the orchard, Minerva drew in a deep, satisfying breath of rich, pungent air. Fallen apples covered the ground. Right now, she didn’t want to think about what would happen past this afternoon.

  He shook the lower branches of the closest tree. “You’ll have to climb for the apples anyway. I would offer, but I learned the hard way that those branches aren’t sturdy enough for a man like me.”

  “No, I can see that wouldn’t work a’tall.” Her flirty side-eyed glance and tone had come naturally, unlike her practiced, faked repartee in London’s ballrooms. Red burnished his cheeks, and she smiled. “Why, Rafe Drummond, I’ve embarrassed you? I had no idea you were capable.”

  “I’m a man, just like any other, aren’t I?” He threw her words back at her.

  Her mouth parched, any retort crumbling into sand. She was suddenly and acutely aware of his potent masculinity—from the strong column of his throat to his hair-covered forearms flexing with his movements, to his thick, muscular thighs.

  “Are you ready? You’ll be everyone’s heroine tonight as we enjoy Mrs. Potts’s apple turnovers. You’ll need to tuck your skirts up so you can climb.”

  She twisted her skirts up, revealing a good bit of her lower leg. No doubt, he’d seen his fair number of bare female limbs. She tamped down her sudden modesty and turned to the nearest tree. The lowest branch was still too high for her to get a foothold on.

  “How in the world do I begin?”

  “Allow me.” Rafe cupped his hand much like a groom helping her mount a horse. “I’ll toss you up.”

  “Toss me?” Her nerves jangled, but she had trouble pinpointing the exact cause.

  “Trust me?” His half-smile was taunting and set her heart racing. Nodding, she placed a booted foot in his hand. She grabbed his shoulders for balance and admired the hard, bunched muscles with her fingers.

  Shooting upward, she reached for the lowest b
ranch. With his help, she turned and sat using neighboring branches for support and balance. Gingerly pulling herself to standing, she felt like a little red squirrel hiding in the leaves. Rafe grinned up at her from the ground, his hands on his hips.

  “How do you feel?”

  She took a deep, sweet breath. “Free,” she said on the exhale.

  “Well, go on, find us some apples. Drop them down, and I’ll gather.”

  Minerva climbed up a few more branches. She rained apples down on Rafe. Giggling, she aimed for his head while he snatched them out of the air, making a game of it.

  “The basket’s full. Are you ready to climb down?”

  “I’m going to go up a bit farther.” Pulling herself up another two branches, her head poked through the canopy. The sky seemed bigger and the stables smaller. The ground looked a long way down, but her stomach turned with excitement, not fear.

  “I could stay all afternoon,” she called out breathlessly.

  “I wouldn’t advise it. I tried to sleep up a tree one night, and it was dammed uncomfortable after a couple of hours, let me tell you.”

  Minerva laughed. “I suppose I’ll defer to your obvious expertise.”

  “Be careful, coming down is always trickier than going up.” The worry in his voice gave her pause. Her skirts came untucked and tangled around her legs, making the descent that much more difficult.

  She was only two branches from the ground when she made the mistake of glancing down. He stood directly underneath her, a concerned expression aimed in her direction. Looking at him instead of the next branch, she put her weight on a thin offshoot instead of the main branch. It gave way. She hit her bottom hard on a branch and flailed for a handhold, finding none.

  Closing her eyes, she expected to hit the ground. Except she didn’t, she fell onto Rafe and drove them both down. Sprawled over him, she caught her breath and rubbed at a stinging scratch on her neck. He wasn’t moving.

  “No, no, no. Wake up.” She straddled his stomach and shook his shoulders, making his head bob. She ran her fingers through his hair, probing for bumps, or, heaven forbid, blood. There was nothing. His long lashes cast shadowy crescents on his cheekbones.