A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  “Get her away from me. Take her, Simon.”

  Rafe held Hampton erect by his jacket and waited. Leaves and branches rustled their retreat. Once the woods were silent, he shook Hampton until his eyes opened in his lolling head. “Can you hear me, Hampton?”

  Lord Hampton grunted and tried to form words with his battered lips. Finally, Rafe made out what he whispered over and over. “Don…kill…me.”

  “I won’t kill you. You have Lady Minerva to thank for that mercy. But let me issue a warning. If I hear one word of scandal attached to her or her brother, I will hunt you down and take immense pleasure in killing you. I will disembowel you and leave you to die a very slow, painful death. Do I make myself clear?” Hampton tried to nod, his head listing. “If I were you, I would leave the country and never come back. Start fresh somewhere else. Yes?”

  Again, Hampton attempted a nod. Rafe let him go, and he fell to his knees and then over on his side, one hand holding his face and the other pressed against his ribs. In a show of undeserved charity, Rafe fished out a few sovereigns and tossed them at Hampton’s feet.

  Rafe walked out of the woods. Simon, with Minerva across his lap, was on the road to Wintermarsh. What evil had he wrought? He whistled for Aries, mounted and took off at a gallop toward his cabin.

  Minerva allowed Simon to guide her to his horse and lift her to its back. Perhaps Rafe needed some time to let go of the fury he had unleashed on Hampton. God, poor Hampton. Even though he deserved a good beating, the man didn’t deserve to die.

  Her head pounded, and she rubbed at the ache, her fingers coming away trembling and red. “I…I think I hit my head.”

  “You did,” Simon said grimly, speaking for the first time since he’d released her bonds. “How are you feeling?”

  Very faint and nauseous, she leaned into her brother. The motion of the horse wasn’t helping matters. “Not at my best, I’ll have to admit.”

  “Once we’re back to the house, I’ll send for the doctor.” Simon kept the horse to a slow walk.

  “Where’s Rafe? He should have caught us by now.”

  “He rode off in a different direction. Perhaps he’s going to meet us at Wintermarsh.” There was doubt in Simon’s voice. He was pale, with tight lines around his mouth and worried, sad eyes.

  “Simon, are you all right?”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s all my bloody fault.”

  “Your only fault was trusting him. He chose his path and made his decisions. I hope Rafe didn’t kill him. Poor Rafe.”

  “He would have if you hadn’t stopped him. Remind me never to get on his bad side,” Simon said, making a poor attempt at levity.

  “He would never hurt you or me.”

  “Minerva, he threw you off. That’s how you hit your head.”

  “That was an accident. He didn’t hit me. The tree did.”

  “That may well be, but when he saw you on the ground, he looked desolate, sick. He’s probably feeling guilty as hell right now.”

  Her brother was probably correct, but there was nothing to be done at the moment. Tomorrow, however, was another story.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Two days later, Minerva picked over a plate of food in the morning room, her stomach in knots. Rafe still hadn’t come home. The doctor had cleaned her head and told her to eat heartily and rest a day or two. She’d had a difficult time on both counts. Sleep had been elusive, bad dreams troubling her both nights.

  Simon walked in and the grim set to his mouth twisted her stomach further. “Drummond’s in his study, and he’s signed my voucher as paid in full. He released us and ordered his carriage to take us back to London in the morning.” She received the document like an order of execution.

  Three months ago, she would have danced through the village to have this in her hand. She would have thumbed her nose at Rafe Drummond and been happy never to see him again. Now though, her world crumbled at the release. How could she possibly leave him and take up her old life?

  Her eyes brimmed with what seemed her constant companion of late. Kneeling beside her, Simon put an arm around her and pressed his handkerchief into her hands. Sobs threatened to break through her tight throat, and she pressed her cheek into his shoulder.

  “Do you love him?”

  Coherent words not in her grasp, she nodded and clutched at him even harder. Forcing deep breath after deep breath, she reined in her emotions. “What am I to do?”

  “Does he know how you feel?”

  “Not in so many words. No.”

  “Tell him or you’ll regret it the rest of your days.” Simon grabbed her hand. Their blue eyes met, and the years seemed to pass between them in an instant, leaving them on new ground—even ground. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here. I promise.”

  After retrieving the chess set she’d never given him, she found herself staring at the study door, feeling a stranger. She knocked tentatively and pushed the door open. Standing behind his desk, he gathered papers and shoved them into a satchel as if he were packing for a trip.

  “Rafe.” Her voice broke. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “I appreciate you releasing Simon from his debt, but why are you packing us back to London?”

  Rafe spared her a brief glance before returning to his work. “Your brother has more than paid his debt, and our association has run its course. It’s time you returned to London so Simon can transition fully into his ducal role.” His voice was as expressionless as if he were discussing crop yields.

  Minerva clutched the chess set to her chest as if it could keep her on her feet. “I see. Is it that easy for you to send us…send me away? Our association meant so little to you?”

  “It was all a game for me. How could you think otherwise? Quite the coup to take the ice princess’s maidenhead. How jealous all those London dandies would be to know I rode between the legs of the coldest, fiercest woman in the beau monde.” He continued to stack papers, not even bothering to witness his words break her heart.

  Doubt crept insidiously in the cracks. “Do you hate me so much? Was my ruination your plan from the beginning?” Minerva swayed, her world tipping on its axis, and grabbed the back of the armchair.

  “I was in need, and you were convenient. It was certainly no hardship to use your lovely body. That part was unexpectedly delightful, so you can take that knowledge with you.” His voice was rough as if he was forcing the words past a stone barricade.

  “Are you going to boast of your conquest? Are you set on my humiliation?” Her voice sounded tinny and far away, but somehow she was still on her feet, still in Rafe’s study, her heart shattering. “Are you going to tell everyone how wanton I am? How you made me fall in love with you?”

  Rafe’s head whipped up, and he whispered, “Minerva—”

  “Stop. Not another word. No, no…” She shuffled a few steps toward him still clutching the chess set as if it were her anchor. His eyes had gone from frosty to smoldering, and color burnished his cheekbones. His hands fisted in his papers, his knuckles raw and scabbed and a bandage wrapped his forearm.

  Their every encounter scrolled through her head and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe it had all been a lie. He’d nearly killed a man to protect and avenge her.

  “If this has to do with what happened with Hampton, you know I’m fine. I hit a tree. You didn’t hit me. In fact, you saved me.”

  Rafe gave a mirthless laugh. “I saved you. I almost— Go. I want you gone. Find some nice, unassuming gentleman to marry. Stonewell is still available, to my knowledge.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do mean it. I don’t want you,” he bellowed. At the same time his eyes conveyed a contradictory message, Please don’t leave me. But he stayed mute and shuttled more papers into the satchel.

  Anger seeped from the cracks in her heart, and she clutched on to the emotion like a
lifeline. Her muscles trembled from the hold she had on the chess set. Rounding the desk, she shoved it hard at his chest, and his hands took it instinctively.

  “You are a fool, Rafe Drummond. I hope this keeps you warm at night.” Minerva brought her palm around as hard as she could and slapped him across his scarred cheek. He didn’t defend himself or retaliate. She stopped at the door, her hand on the jamb, and took one last look at him before slamming the door. He looked like she felt…stricken.

  * * * * *

  “I know where he is.” Minerva paced back and forth in her room, a hand massaging her temple. Her head still pounded. From the accident or her situation, she couldn’t be sure. Simon leaned against the bedpost. “He has a cabin in the forest where he goes to be alone. Perhaps if I go and talk to him again, he’ll see reason.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise. As you said, he goes there to be alone. He’s probably attempting to pickle himself in brandy and, let’s assume I know a bit more about the male psyche than you do, my guess is he needs some time away from emotional entanglements to figure things out.”

  “What are you suggesting?” She whirled to face him.

  “I’m suggesting we leave for London. He’s a smart man. He’ll straighten things out on his own.” Simon gave her a bracing hug.

  Minerva wasn’t so sure. Rafe’s words swirled in her head, tormenting her. One minute, she fully believed them, and the next she denied them with every fiber of her soul. She was confused and uncertain and irrational. Simon spoke logically. Perhaps it would be better to retreat with her pride mostly intact and wait.

  “Whatever you deem best.” She acquiesced like a child, allowing him to take charge for the first time in their lives together. A seismic shift had occurred.

  They had both changed over their months at Wintermarsh. Simon had found an ingrained sense of honor buried under years of resentment, and she’d found a heart buried under years of responsibility. How odd the way life could turn on its head in such a short amount of time.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Two months later

  It was a miserable, frigid day for travel, and Simon pulled the collar of his greatcoat tighter around his neck to stem the tendrils of icy wind making their way inside. His only bit of luck was the unusual lack of snowfall, although by the looks of the steel-grey clouds materializing from the north, his luck was not likely to hold for long.

  The inn was a welcome sight, his extremities numb and his belly empty. The common room was full of local men escaping the elements and assuaging winter boredom. He wrapped frozen fingers around a steaming cup of hot coffee and took a small sip. The heat seared him from the inside out. Burning peat and the bitter coffee colored the air pleasantly.

  A commotion at the entrance of the inn turned everyone’s head, and a pall fell over the crowd. Simon watched from the bar as he sipped. A heavy-set boorish man who led with his belly examined the common room. “Your two finest rooms, sir. If you have any that qualify as such.”

  Simon couldn’t place the man’s accent, but he wasn’t local. The innkeeper’s agitation was obvious in his jerky movements, but he was a soft-spoken man and his words didn’t carry like the brash foreigner’s. The innkeeper gestured a young man forward to show the family upstairs.

  A woman stood with one arm around a young girl hovering somewhere between adolescence and blossoming womanhood. The girl’s brown hair hung thick and straight to her shoulders, red strands flashing when it swung. She took everything in with bright, curious eyes. Her features were pleasant and open, dominated by a pair of large dark eyes. The woman’s other arm was around a young boy no more than eight or nine. The mother had a cowed look about her, and based on her husband’s blustering, Simon could understand why.

  “Wait here while I assess the quality. I don’t want to sleep with louses,” the man said to his wife.

  A red flush raced up the innkeeper’s neck. The man pounded up the steps, rattling the bucolic watercolors decorating the wall. As soon as the man was out of sight, the daughter shrugged off her mother’s arm and crossed her arms over her chest. She whispered something, which caused a grimace to cross the older woman’s face, accompanied by a small shake of her head.

  The man thumped his way back downstairs. “’Tis decent enough, I suppose. Quit hovering over the boy, Margaret.”

  The man grabbed the young boy’s arm and twisted it. The boy cried out and reached toward his mother. The girl spoke in a low voice to her father, jabbing a finger in the man’s face. She pulled her brother out of their father’s meaty grasp and pushed him behind her. The father’s lip snarled an instant before he smacked the young girl across the cheek. Her head flew to the side. All conversation and movement ceased in the bustling inn.

  When her face turned back to look at the man, her eyes glittered with tears, but not of pain—of fury. A red handprint bloomed on her cheek. She stared the large man in the eye and took a step forward, her chin set. The foolish girl asked for trouble. Nevertheless, Simon couldn’t help but admire her spirit.

  The man was many stones heavier, and Simon hated seeing the strong prey on the weak. He set his coffee cup down and approached the family who seemed as frozen as the rest of the inn’s occupants waiting for the next scene to unfold.

  “That’s no way to treat a young lady.” Simon tried to keep his outward aggression at bay. The last thing he needed was to get involved. He had urgent business at Wintermarsh.

  “That’s a sharp-tongued shrew, sir, and no young lady.” The man swiveled his head to Simon but kept his body angled to the girl.

  “Shrew or not, in these parts, hitting young women is beyond the pale,” Simon said.

  The man’s calculating gaze coasted over Simon’s tailored clothes. An ingratiating smile revealed an enormous amount of large, yellowing teeth. “My name’s Edward Goforth, and we’re on our way to Lipton seeking the Penhaven estate. Do you know of it?”

  “I do. What’s your business there, may I ask?”

  “Here’s the new Lord Penhaven, right here in your midst.”

  “You?” Simon choked out.

  “No, not me, but my son here. Blake Goforth. Lord Penhaven.” He gestured to the boy huddled behind the girl and under his mother’s arm.

  “Blake Tremaine, not Goforth,” the girl said in a clear, strong voice. Her accent matched Goforth’s but lilted more melodiously.

  Mr. Goforth shifted on his feet, hostility once again directed at her. “Well, not officially Goforth, but since I married your mother, I don’t see why you shouldn’t take my name.”

  “Because you’re not our father.” The girl’s eyes spoke of hate, and it was disturbing to see in one so young.

  “You impertinent little twit.” The man raised his hand and stepped into the blow. Her head bobbed backward as if she’d had practice avoiding his hand. Before he could make contact, Simon grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched it to the side.

  “I think not, Mr. Goforth.”

  “And who gives you the authority to stop me, whelp?”

  “I’m the Duke of Bellingham, you arse. You can address me as Your Grace or not at all. If you insist on acting the boor, we’ll call the local magistrate.” Now he was mad, and if a fight was what the bastard wanted, his fists itched to accommodate him. Bracing his legs apart, Simon cracked his knuckles and stretched his neck as he’d seen Rafe do before their sparring sessions.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace. I suppose such things are better handled in private.” He turned on his heel and clomped up the stairs. Halfway up, he barked over his shoulder, “Margaret, come. With the children.”

  Simon clamped his jaw tight. He could do nothing to protect the girl after Goforth dragged her up the stairs. Margaret, her shoulders hunched, pushed a piece of lank hair behind an ear and followed, pulling the boy beside her. She might have been pretty once, but lines of worry marred her
face, and unlike her fiery daughter, she had given up the fight long ago. Or perhaps, the fight had been beaten out of her.

  The girl didn’t follow but stared at Simon as if she wanted to memorize him. He hadn’t done much. In fact, he’d likely made things even worse. He brushed a knuckle over her reddened cheek. “I’m sorry he hit you.”

  “Honestly, I deserved it. I’m awfully impertinent.”

  “No woman deserves to get hit, miss. Don’t ever convince yourself otherwise, please.”

  The girl’s rich brown eyes widened. She nodded, a small smile curling her lips.

  He glanced out the frosted window to see snowflakes floating down. “I’m only sorry I can’t do more. I hope I didn’t make things worse for you later. Unfortunately, I must ride on to attend to some business.”

  “Don’t worry, your duke.”

  Simon smiled but didn’t correct the blunder.

  “I’m a survivor. At least that’s what my nana used to say. It was good to see someone other than me stand up to the lout. You’ve given me a bit of hope. Maybe things will be better here.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jessica Tremaine.”

  “You’re American?” He had finally placed the accent.

  “I grew up in Pennsylvania.”

  Simon took her small hand and bussed the back. “Well, Miss Jessica Tremaine from Pennsylvania, I wish you luck and good fortune here in England.”

  “Thank you. I believe I’ll need all the luck I can get.” She held her fisted hand against her chest and flew up the stairs, disappearing down the darkened hallway.

  With his coffee cooled, he girded himself to face the remainder of his ride. Halfway out the door, he turned around to drop a few coins in the innkeeper’s palm. If things got too out of hand with Mr. Goforth, the innkeeper promised to summon the magistrate. With that final bit of help he could provide Miss Jessica Tremaine, Simon galloped away.