A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  “Are you sure you’re well?” She rubbed sleep from her eyes like the innocent she was.

  “There’s nothing wrong that you can help with. You’d best hurry to your room.”

  With one last look, she slipped through the door, her white night clothes a flash in the fading darkness. As soon as the door closed, Rafe rolled onto his stomach, buried his head in his pillows and fisted the sheets.

  He burned for her. It had been so long since he had lain with a woman. After the stress of his missions and the trauma of his injuries, maybe he needed a woman—any woman. It just so happened Minerva Bellingham was attractive and convenient.

  Perhaps this was simple lust. There was an establishment not far where he could find a woman to slake his desire. Pride be damned, he would pay to lessen the consuming need he felt around her.

  Unfortunately, he needed to alleviate his immediate problem by taking matters into his own hand. Images of Minerva danced behind his closed eyes. He imagined her trailing her hand between his legs and spent in record time. Certainly nothing to brag about. He laughed into his pillow. He would visit a whore and soon. Until then, he would avoid Minerva like the plague.

  Chapter Eleven

  It became painfully obvious Rafe was avoiding her. She had already suspected it, but when he actually turned around and ducked into his study on her approach, it was a foregone conclusion. On the one hand, he kept Simon busy from sunup until sundown. Her brother was working hard and staying out of trouble. Wasn’t that exactly what she had wanted from this affair?

  Affair? Her stomach swooped. On the other hand, she was unaccountably hurt. She’d hoped they’d reached a turning point. Clearly, she was wrong.

  Still, she needed to keep track of what her brother was learning, didn’t she? That’s the only reason she found herself passing by the study a dozen times over the past few days. All she wanted was to be included in their discussions. That’s all it was. It had nothing to do with an irrational desire to stand close and breathe him in like a smitten dunderhead.

  Finally, by the fourth afternoon, she went looking for Simon. Simon, not Rafe Drummond. If she’d spent a few extra minutes on her toilette and had Jenny help her into a pretty yellow gown, it had nothing to do with possibly seeing Rafe. The thought was utterly ridiculous.

  She marched straight to the study. Checking the combs in her hair and taking a deep breath, she knocked and opened the door with a flourish. The room was empty. She barely controlled the urge to stomp her feet in a fit of pique. Cuthbertson came into the entryway humming and carrying a vase of flowers. In spite of her frustration, she smiled at the white-haired butler. He had embraced her changes.

  “Cuthbertson, do you happen to know where my brother might be?”

  “Well, as to that, my lady, the gentlemen are occupied.” Bertie didn’t meet her eyes and spent an inordinate amount of time arranging the flowers.

  “Occupied? What does that mean?”

  “It’s nothing a lady should be concerned with, I’m sure.” Bertie made the mistake of peeping at her, and she pinned him with the stare that had withered her most ardent suitors.

  “I believe you should tell me,” she said in a steely voice.

  “They’re fencing behind the stables.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, and guilt niggled at Minerva for cowing the man.

  “Thank you, Cuthbertson.” Gracing him with her sweetest smile, she laid a hand on his arm in atonement before walking to the door.

  “It really is no place for a lady,” he called.

  Waving a hand above her head, she skipped down the steps. Shouts and curses carried on the breeze, and she followed the noise. A group of men had gathered on the far side of the stables in a grassy common area. A wall of male backs obstructed her view.

  The clang of steel and grunts of effort rose in the air. Jabbing her elbow into a set of ribs, she inserted herself between two brawny laborers. Both Simon and Rafe had stripped to shirts and breeches, and sweat showed through the white linen, even though the weather had turned chillier. Rafe was surprisingly graceful and agile for such a large man. Muscles rippled under his shirt, recalling a knee-weakening image of his bare chest.

  “Ah-ha,” Simon exclaimed as his blade almost broke through Rafe’s defenses.

  They sparred a few minutes longer, the tide shifting back and forth between them. Her feet shuffled with theirs, and she held a hand over her mouth, willing herself not to call encouragement to Simon…and then to Rafe.

  Circling one another and catching their breaths, they taunted each other until her ears burned. She looked her brother over. He stood straight and tall with one hand on his hip, swinging the blade by his leg. A man with muscle and brawn had replaced the skinny boy who’d arrived at Wintermarsh. The metamorphosis was astonishing. Moreover, he was skilled enough with a blade to offset Rafe’s obvious advantage in size and strength.

  She nudged the man to her right and whispered, “How long have they been at it, sir?”

  He startled to see a woman in their midst. “A half hour at least. No one’s drawn blood yet, but the blond one’s gettin’ tired,” he whispered in return.

  Blood? Minerva looked closer at their untipped blades. Were they complete idiots? A wrong slip and one of them could be accidently run through.

  Simon launched an attack, driving Rafe backward with its ferocity and speed. What was Rafe doing allowing her brother to advance so aggressively? Although outwardly calm, he had taken a dozen steps back in a defensive posture. She darted around the men to follow the action. Coming to the end of the row, she wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed.

  Rafe’s head swiveled as if pulled by a puppet master, and his gaze locked on her as if they were the only two people in the courtyard. Had she actually called out? In that second of distraction, Simon’s blade whizzed past his defenses and grazed his upper arm.

  Rafe’s plan had been to let Simon expend the last of his energy, certain he could outlast the onslaught, and then go on the offensive himself. Until a blaze of yellow flashed in his peripheral vision. The hairs on his neck rose, attuned to her presence. He had to look, even knowing it was foolhardy. Sure enough, she stood amidst the men like a daffodil in spring, her blue eyes wide and her hand clutched around her neck in—Worry? Dismay? Disgust?

  Sweat trickled into his cut and stung almost as badly as the loss. He and Simon dropped their arms, blades to the ground, both breathing hard. Minerva ducked behind the group of men, but her dress betrayed her. She’d better hide, the minx.

  “Well done, Simon.” Rafe barred his teeth in something resembling a smile and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back. “Not many have gotten the better of me.”

  “I never thought I’d best you,” Simon said, wide-eyed and with the beginnings of a bemused smile.

  “No need to dwell on my defeat.” No yellow showed behind the men anymore. Where the devil had she gotten off to? “Let’s get cleaned up and meet back in the study to continue where we left off, shall we?”

  “Yes, certainly, but you’re bleeding. Should I fetch Mrs. Devlin?”

  “’Tis only a scratch. I’ll take care of it.” Yellow flashed in the corner of his eye close to the stable door. He followed it like a beacon. The gauntlet of good-natured ribbing from the men added to his annoyance.

  Minerva stood outside of Sparrow’s stall, stroking her hand down the horse’s nose. The grey mare nudged against her shoulder looking for treats. She flipped her blonde hair over a shoulder, making it dance down her back. Her yellow dress scooped low in the front, drawing his eyes to the swell of breast exposed.

  The dress was hardly scandalous, it was even modest compared to what the ladies of the ton donned in London, but to Rafe it was like water to a parched man. He wanted to rip it off her and run his tongue over the swells and dips, discover the color of her nipples. He wanted to wrap his hands in her hai
r and force her to accept his kiss. God, the very reason he had avoided her all week. Her very presence tormented him.

  “It’s not proper for a lady to observe such proceedings.” His bleeding arm and throbbing cock fanned his anger. He blamed her for both painful situations.

  “Not proper—” She went taut and turned to confront him.

  She flipped her hair once more and the strands fell in a waterfall of silken threads. One more time and he’d press her against the stall door and lift her skirts. He’d make her beg for his touch. Promises, be damned.

  “I have the right to take a walk, do I not? How was I to know the two of you were involved in some flagrant display of masculine aggression? Like two rhinos establishing territory. You don’t see ladies fighting each other, do you?”

  “No? I would say women are infinitely worse, because they don’t fight openly. At least you know where a man stands when he exhibits his masculine aggression. Women strut like peacocks flashing their pretty feathers as a distraction before they peck your eyes out with their sharp little beaks. I’d much rather face a man with a blade than a predatory female in a ballroom any day.”

  “Well I can’t deny that the fairer sex can be quite ruthless.” She stepped closer and skimmed her fingertips above the thin red gash on his biceps. “Why in heaven’s name weren’t you using tips? One of you could have been seriously injured. This looks painful enough.”

  “I’ve never trained with anything but a real blade. Believe me, you learn a sight faster when your reality is an actual wound,” he said dryly.

  “Why did you allow Simon to put you on the defensive? You could have easily beaten him back.”

  Rafe’s eyes flared at both her chiding tone and backhanded compliment. He cocked his head. Jenny Mitchell’s exuberant chattering carried through the doorway. Minerva launched into an unexplained flurry of action. Opening Sparrow’s stall, she pushed at his arm. “Go, get in. Hurry, before they see us.”

  He allowed her to maneuver him in, and she followed, crouching low and peering over the door. Sparrow nudged her, and she absently stroked the mare’s mane. Rafe had no idea why they spied on young Jenny but moved behind her.

  “I’m too damn old for you, Miss Jenny. I’ve told you before.” Tom Donahue’s voice held a note of desperation.

  “Yes, sir, I see you’re practically on your deathbed. My plan all along has been to marry an old man who’ll die off and leave me a merry widow.” Jenny’s voice teased. “Goodness, you’re no more than thirty if you’re a day, Tom. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Miss Jenny, war has made me old. What I lack in years, I more than make up for in experience, believe me.” His voice held a note of regret and sadness only too familiar to Rafe. “We’re nothing alike. All the lads here would love to court you, surely you know that.”

  “I don’t want any of those lads. I don’t dream about kissing them. Surely you know that,” Jenny replied with a hint of exasperation as if this was an argument they’d had before.

  “Sweet Jesus, Jenny, I—”

  Rafe could guess what cut Tom’s words off. He kept his voice to a whisper. “We shouldn’t be eavesdropping. It’s private.”

  “Yes, yes. Private.” She parroted him in a vague tone.

  Standing behind her and being so much taller had its advantages. He could see straight into her bodice. He could press her up against the wooden wall, dip his hands inside and cup the two swells. Then, he could turn her and explore them with his mouth for hours. A groan almost escaped. His head swam dizzily from the willpower it took to still his hands.

  Murmurs moved away and out the stable. “Blast. Why is Tom being so obstinate?” Minerva asked.

  He was in no state to theorize on his stable master’s courting habits. Opening the door, she brushed against him and walked out. A guttural protest was the only answer he could offer. She whirled, her skirts swishing prettily, revealing a flash of ankle.

  “What in the world is wrong with you?” She played with a tendril of hair that had fallen over her breast while her little tongue glanced over her bottom lip. Her intent was not seduction, at least he assumed not. Nevertheless, her artful play snatched the remainder of his control.

  His voice rasped. “I need to take care of…my arm.” He pushed past her and left at a near run.

  * * * * *

  Later that afternoon, after yet another chilly swim in the pond and bandaging his arm, Rafe sat behind his desk explaining rates of return to Simon. He was determined to put beautiful, maddening Minerva out of his mind. He was failing miserably.

  “Tea, gentlemen,” the object of his obsession announced with a merry lilt. She balanced a laden tray, glided to his desk and set the tray down on a pile of papers.

  What was she playing at? The woman had never inserted herself in Simon’s lessons before. Why today, when his self-control was in tatters?

  In high spirits from his victory, Simon launched into a description of their match. She acted surprised, which had Rafe slumping in his chair and rolling his eyes. After pouring their tea, she settled in a chair across the desk as if she were roosting for the foreseeable future. Downing his tea in one swallow, he eyed the brandy decanter on the sideboard.

  Simon explained what he had learned under Rafe’s tutelage. He talked excitedly about Rafe’s plans for the southeast quadrant of Wintermarsh, where a new crop rotation schedule and irrigation system would be implemented by spring planting.

  After he was finished, Minerva patted his knee and ducked her head to try to hide eyes shiny with tears. “Simon, I am so proud of you. You are going to be the best Duke of Bellingham in centuries.” He puffed up at her words of praise, red tingeing his cheekbones. It had probably been years since Simon had heard something other than scolding and pestering from her.

  It was going to cost Minerva dearly to give up her role in his life. She had spent years acting as his caretaker and the proxy duke. Seeing her brother take up the mantle was sure to be bittersweet.

  She rubbed her forehead and raised her chin, eyes dry, her composure restored. “Lord Drummond, could you show me specifications on the shipping venture you’re invested in?”

  Rafe inclined his head and pulled a file from underneath a huge pile on the corner of his desk.

  Minerva tutted and shook her head. “How in the world do you manage your estate and investments living in a total state of disorganization?”

  “Nothing gets lost.”

  She didn’t heed the warning in his brusque voice but sashayed around the desk to stand at his elbow. “Your desk is worse than your bedroom, and that’s certainly bad enough.”

  “Bedroom? How would you know what Lord Drummond’s bedroom looks like?” Simon shifted on his seat and crossed his arms.

  “Good Lord, Simon, close your mouth. It was nothing scandalous.” She gave a harrumphing laugh. “Well, not in the way you’re thinking. I tidied Lord Drummond’s room my first morning here. Now, the portfolio, please, Lord Drummond.” Her fingers snapped a few inches from his nose.

  Snap her fingers? At him? Rafe was in awe of the woman, if he were honest. Had she been born a man, she would have made an outstanding prime minister. Before he could offer a response of any sort, she plucked the file out of his hands and opened it on the desk. Leaning over, she scanned the first page and emitted small humming sounds.

  Her soft breast brushed his biceps. Her hair swept forward and several tendrils bounced along his forearm and hand. Knowing it was a mistake, like in the fencing match, he turned to look anyway. Her glorious breasts were at eyelevel and only a few inches away from his mouth. Her slightly gaping bodice offered a tantalizing, distressing view.

  He took a deep, calming breath, which only made matters worse because the floral soap she had used on her hair seduced him. He turned his hand over and fingered a swath of hair that had been teasing him. If she had an inkling
of the things he wanted to do to her, she would run screaming in horror from the room.

  “Is that right?” She poked his arm.

  “Is what right?”

  “Have you been listening to a thing we’ve been saying?” She straightened and propped a hand on her hip.

  “No.”

  “Well, good grief. Simon asked how often the ships made the trip to the Far East, and I said once every four months or so. Is that right?”

  “Something like that.” He could barely remember his name much less how often the ships sailed. He had to escape, and not just the study. “I’m heading to London in the morning to settle some business. Bellingham, you’re in charge of the estate. I expect you to handle any issues that arise.”

  Simon squared his shoulders and tugged on his jacket lapels. “I’ll not disappoint you.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Minerva asked.

  “A few days…a week perhaps.” As long as it took to slake his lust with some doxy. “I’m leaving at first light.” Rafe rose and backed toward the door, not attempting any social niceties.

  At the very least, the trip would get him away from her. Once he put some distance between them, it should be easy enough to forget about her. He only regretted it was too late to start for London that evening.

  * * * * *

  Minerva moped around the drawing room. She picked up the book she had found riveting the night before but threw it down after reading the same page twice. Simon had retired, telling her he needed to be on top of his game the next day. Minerva had barely suppressed her eye roll. As if he would have to deal with anything more than an irate tenant or two.

  She was not in a charitable mood, and she blamed Rafe Drummond and his spontaneous trip. No one from Mrs. Devlin to Cuthbertson had even had an inkling he planned to leave, and he had been acting odd all day. Was this a drastic measure to ignore her? Had the fact she’d witnessed one of his nightmares drawn a permanent wedge between them?