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Saying I Do To The Scoundrel
Liz Tyner
A scoundrel among the Ton…Her knight in shining armour?Katherine Wilder will do anything to escape her forced marriage—even ask Brandt Radcliffe to kidnap her! Only she doesn’t expect a man so disreputable to say no! With her father now desperate to marry her off to line his own pockets, widower Brandt has become her reluctant protector—and it seems the only way he can do that is to marry her himself…!


A scoundrel of the ton...
Her knight in shining armor?
Katherine Wilder will do anything to escape her forced marriage, even ask Brandt Radcliffe to kidnap her! Only she doesn’t expect a man so disreputable to say no! With her father now desperate to marry her off to line his own pockets, widower Brandt has become her reluctant protector—and it seems the only way he can do that is to marry her himself...!
“The rigid rules of the Regency period is always the perfect backdrop for Tyner’s mischievous, rule-bending characters.”
—RT Book Reviews on Redeeming the Roguish Rake
“A headstrong heroine, a determined hero, secrets, family squabbles and a large dose of pride propel this plotline...a fast, enjoyable read.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Wallflower Duchess
LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com (http://www.liztyner.com).
Also by Liz Tyner (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
The Notorious Countess
The Runaway Governess
The Wallflower Duchess
Redeeming the Roguish Rake
English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses miniseries
Safe in the Earl’s Arms
A Captain and a Rogue
Forbidden to the Duke
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Saying I Do to the Scoundrel
Liz Tyner


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07394-3
SAYING I DO TO THE SCOUNDREL
© 2018 Elizabeth Tyner
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedicated to my generous, thoughtful
and always encouraging friend, Charlotte Schrahl.
Contents
Cover (#u55e2393e-b51a-50ae-a2d9-49253f5b5906)
Back Cover Text (#u70e5e310-f3e8-5937-a888-62b69bf9607c)
About the Author (#u9df14cda-b235-5fa2-a790-7cb6ab69ddc9)
Booklist (#ub312fe6b-0309-52ab-90a3-c50a437a8c8f)
Title Page (#u928ac1d9-7e31-596d-b161-fc5e46a4d38e)
Copyright (#u2e46b141-4eb6-5aa8-9bd9-446a34ed1e39)
Dedication (#ua226a15c-bd4a-5293-8578-fccd856bff7a)
Chapter One (#u56dfefac-7a4c-5f0e-a23d-824f53be9089)
Chapter Two (#ud292bc86-b7b5-5658-afba-4949d86c2291)
Chapter Three (#u7fef674d-35d8-5c5d-b5fd-355249bd8dd4)
Chapter Four (#u8cf3a757-915d-5e15-b642-f74f8665211a)
Chapter Five (#u625d610e-fbfd-5f97-993b-7218d339701c)
Chapter Six (#u7c7c0b54-6231-5379-aedb-fea965de505e)
Chapter Seven (#u57b32162-44e1-543f-b263-9229a7edd288)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
The knocking on his door pounded like hooves against Brandt’s head, bringing him from ravaged dreams into the summer-baked room. He didn’t care where the hands on the clock might be—the hour was too early for him to awaken. He needed another bottle of brandy to cleanse his mouth. He called out to his valet, ‘Enter.
‘Enter,’ he commanded again when he heard no footsteps.
The door swung open.
‘Heathen.’ The word screeched into his ears as if attached to flying glass. A woman wearing a bonnet the size of a parasol stood beneath the transom. For a moment, he thought he dreamed of a butterfly, the dress fluttered so and bead trim sparkled. A pale face, with dark eyes rimmed in lashes any siren could be envious of, stared at him.
The drunken haze confused him. This was a boarding house—not his home. For a moment, he had forgotten.
Memories returned, anger flooding his body.
He rolled on to his side, and propped himself on his elbow, re-orienting himself, and feeling a breeze waft over his body. Completely over his body.
Everything came back to him. Or enough of it did. He’d shed his clothing when he’d returned from the tavern. He felt beside him for a covering. Nothing touched his fingers but a mattress so thin he could feel the ropes beneath.
‘Why did you call for the door to open?’ The woman at the door had her hand over her eyes—and her cheeks were flushed. The one behind her seemed to be taking measurements.
‘I was dreaming of—’ He could not tell her he dreamed of Mary. Of a world of servants and health and sobriety. ‘I dreamt of a swarm of annoying bees and I called for the door to be open so they might fly out,’ he said. ‘Instead one rushed in.’
How had he wronged the woman at the door? He couldn’t recall her face, and she didn’t look at all the kind he consorted with. She had the look of an outraged wife on her face, but she wasn’t his outraged wife.
He took a breath to calm himself and wished the night hadn’t been so warm he’d shed his clothing, his covers and the last threads of his dignity.
The female at the threshold looked as if she’d been snatched from Sunday services and plopped in the middle of a brothel.
But no devil had forced her to open his door.
He reached to the side of his bed, ignored his small clothes and went straight for his trousers.
With his body turned away, he pulled his clothing over his legs.
‘Perhaps you could introduce yourself.’ He spoke calmly to the daft one even as the second woman tiptoed to examine him. He was at a blasted soirée and he had not accepted the invitation. ‘You are under the impression we are acquainted. And I am under the impression we are not.’
She sputtered.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, finishing the last button and turning. He would have preferred to have on his small clothes, but then he would have preferred to have drunk a lot more and fallen asleep at the tavern.
The drink had finally destroyed him, but not in the way he had expected.
‘Cover yourself,’ the young woman commanded. ‘You heathen.’
‘You can take your hand from your eyes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got my trousers buttoned.’
Eyes, which reminded him of sunlight shining through sparkling glass, took a quick look at him. ‘A shirt?’
‘Oh, let’s save that until after we’ve been properly introduced.’
‘We will never be properly introduced.’
She wouldn’t be in a tavern, or on the darkened streets. And she shouldn’t be in his room. He paid little care to the society folks with their haughty stares. They didn’t interest him at all. Never had—even when he’d lived the other life.
‘Your shirt.’ She waved a finger, pointing at a direction beyond his back, and her eyes appeared to be fixed on his torn window curtain.
He looked around. The peg where he usually put his shirt stood empty. He picked up his waistcoat and slipped an arm into it, then the other. ‘Since you’ve seen me from top to bottom, this will have to do, Love.’ He fastened one button as a kindness.
‘Save your words for the lightskirts,’ Miss Butterfly Bonnet said.
Calling her love had snapped her out of her embarrassment.
‘So you are not of that business,’ he muttered. ‘Pity.’
Her eyes turned to slits. ‘Until I opened the door, I was quite innocent. Now I’m tainted for ever by what I’ve seen.’
He sat on the bed. ‘Think how it is for me. To wake up with a shrieking shrew at the door I can’t for the life of me remember how I’ve wronged.’
‘Oh, I envy you,’ she bit out the words. ‘Would that my life was so pleasant.’
They stared at each other.
‘You might tell me the nature of your visit.’ He examined his mind for a reason for this woman to search him out. ‘I truly don’t know you or know why you’re here.’ He yawned. ‘Come in.’ He waved an arm to indicate the two wooden chairs by the uneven table.
The older woman, peering into the room, gave the girl a push. ‘Quick before someone recognises you.’ Then the older woman pulled the door shut.
The young one’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise with a tightening of her jaw and squared shoulders.
She took a tiny step inside his room, but she stayed within an arm’s reach of the door.
‘Sit.’ He straightened his shoulders and adopted the look of a coddled peer. ‘I will ring the butler for tea.’ He let his eyes look thoughtful. ‘Oh, goodness, I fear it is his half-day off. We will have to make do with brandy.’
He noticed the overturned glass on the table and looked around for a bottle. He reached down to the edge of the bed and found one still standing with about three swallows left in it—for a small person.
He picked it up, held the bottle in her direction and raised his eyebrows.
Her chin moved, but she didn’t open her mouth.
‘Speak your business quickly,’ he commanded. ‘Your bonnet is giving me a headache.’
He relaxed his arm, still holding the bottle. None of this would have happened if his wife had lived. The thought of her stabbed at his chest, and he wished he didn’t breathe in the blackness with every breath.
Just the touch of Mary’s finger at his cheek had given him more pleasure than he could ever find in a bottle.
He finished the liquid, then flipped the bottle into the corner, enjoying the clunk.
The lady with the overgrown bonnet watched him and her face condemned him. Her nose wrinkled and the corners of her lips turned down.
‘Makes two of us.’ His eyes swept over her.
Her gaze narrowed as she tried to guess his meaning. He enlightened her. ‘I’m not pleased with the sight of you, either, Love.’
The words were true. But, not completely. Something about her stirred his memories. Reminding him of a time when a woman’s beauty could touch him.
She wore a matronly fichu tucked into the bodice. Surely she had a body somewhere underneath, but he couldn’t be certain. He wagered she double-knotted her corset and wouldn’t walk past a mirror unless she had her laces done to her neck.
‘I had heard...’ She paused, seemingly entranced by the torn curtain. ‘I had heard,’ she repeated, rushing the words, ‘you might be a man of a somewhat, perhaps only slightly, disreputable nature.’ When she said disreputable nature, she looked at the floor, then at his eyes. Her hand clasped into a fist. ‘That might have been an error. Your nature is less—’
‘If gambling and drinking and spending my time in a tavern constitutes, then I suppose my nature could be under question,’ he interrupted. Who was this little dash of condemnation, he wondered, to be appearing on his doorstep, discussing his life?
‘You, miss—’ he speared her with his glance ‘—seem to be a woman who frequents places where no decent woman would be found and you appear to be looking for a man of impure habits.’ He paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘Which makes you...’
She stared at him. ‘Determined.’
He couldn’t believe it. She stepped a bit closer, her hand tight at her side. ‘If a bear prowled about me and the only trap I had near was rusty, covered in the stench of ale and might not be able to snap closed fast enough to catch a turtle, I’d use it. If only to sling the weapon at the bear’s head.’
He sniffed his arm. ‘Ale would be better than the smell of me.’
She tensed her body, near snarling the words into the room. ‘Are all men beasts? I had not expected a man such as yourself to have had a father, but I am surprised you have never had a mother either as no one has taught you manners.’
‘Ah, milady,’ he said with a sweeping bow. He gave her his darkest glare. ‘I must retire and you know where you can put your manners. Or lack thereof. Leave your calling card with the butler.’
* * *
Katherine tried to take her mind from the sight she had just seen on the bed. The man had been unclothed.
She bit the inside of her lip. She had stepped into a world of wickedness unlike anything she could have ever expected. And the wicked one on the bed—she had chosen him to save her virtue. She had made an error. An error of magnificent proportions. But she couldn’t think of another choice and she had so little time left.
‘I would like to speak with you as if we are two respectable people,’ Katherine said.
‘That beetle has already left the dung heap,’ he said.
‘When you were born,’ Katherine said, although she wasn’t sure she spoke the entire truth. The rumours said he had fallen from a life of prosperity straight on to the floor of a tavern.
He didn’t look as though he spent his life sotted.
The form he had might take some getting used to. His shape had covered most of the bed and his feet had reached past the end.
He wasn’t overgrown with hair on his body either, until she looked above his shoulders. She couldn’t have described much of him to a magistrate, except for his eyes. They were shadowed into a dark, soulless stare.
His face showed through locks of straight hair, which hung to his shoulders and mixed with a healthy scattering of whiskers.
This would have been a man she wouldn’t have stopped near on the street.
He would have to be harnessed to do her bidding and to save her. But she wasn’t quite sure she shouldn’t slam the door and run back to her home. His room spoke of his desperate circumstances though, so surely he could be hired to do her bidding?
Only the memory of Fillmore kept her standing firm.
Katherine couldn’t let him send her away. Her eyes darted around the room. In the morning light, shadows cloaked the furnishings. The bed was small and the covers fallen on the floor were rough, and worn. The clothing hung on pegs and he had few pegs. The stove stood in the centre of the room, its black chimney crookedly going to the roof. The table was made with the minimum of wood and had two chairs, one missing a rung in the back. Her servants would refuse such a room.
‘Don’t waste my time.’ He planted his feet firmly and opened the door. ‘I’ve got business to get back to.’ His smiled crooked at the side. ‘My pillow.’
‘Wait.’ She raised her hand to stop him from closing the door and somehow, she wasn’t quite sure how, her gloved fingers alighted on his muscled skin just above his elbow.
All words fled her thoughts. She could feel his strength, almost touch the anger in his eyes. And she could feel the blood in her veins and it moved with such speed it took her breath.
His eyes locked on hers as if she were a blackguard trying to ravish him. His jaw tensed and scornful eyes seared into her.
She jerked her hand back. ‘I got carried away in my quest. I shouldn’t, as I’ve heard you might also be considered somewhat honest.’
She had to take the burning anger from his eyes—or she would be lost. Her stepfather would have won, as he always did. He always won—even choosing the dress her mother was buried in. A dress her mother had hated.
She controlled her voice, softening it. ‘You’ve been described as a decent sort. With clear speech,’ she added, hoping to appease him. In fact, he’d been noticed because he spoke with society’s tones.
He was a man with an unknown past and the voice of a lord. He’d lived in a fine house, that was certain. And now he was no longer a part of it. People wondered whether he was a wastrel second son, a thief or the bastard child of a wealthy man, and some decided on all three.
‘And a kindness to children,’ she added softly, her eyes wide to pacify him.
She couldn’t remember any other good qualities about him without risking he might realise who’d spoken to her concerning his ways.
‘You’re good to small animals,’ she added, having no idea, but hoping.
He raised an eyebrow, lips firm. ‘Continue.’
‘You’re an excellent judge of horseflesh.’ She’d never heard of a man yet who wouldn’t agree to the statement.
He tilted his chin down a bit and she thought humour flashed across his eyes. ‘Yes...’
The silence was a bit too long and she searched her mind for things men prided themselves on. ‘You’re good with your fists.’
A barely perceptible nod of his head and he leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for her to continue listing his virtues. She suddenly lost patience.
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘You’re a saint. A man of uncommon purity and a sterling reputation about you. Statues should be erected in your honour and placed on every street corner.’
In an instant the veneer of his patience fled and the muscles in his face tightened.
‘And you—’ His face moved so close she could get foxed from the brandy on his breath and, while his body moved, his head remained close to hers. ‘You’re a miss who would never leave an embroidery stitch unfinished. You write poetry proclaiming the injustice of a world which ignores its orphans, and on Sunday you say a prayer for those less fortunate who do not have fashionable bonnets, or new cravats.’
‘I see we have an astounding awareness of each other.’ She pushed her voice to match the strength of his. ‘So before we both swoon in awe of each other’s presence, might I discuss a matter of a small bit of importance to me?’
‘Who sent you to me?’ he asked, tone soft but with an underlying bite.
‘My sister’s governess’s sister’s husband has a friend who knows you from the tavern.’ She forced herself not to step back from those eyes. ‘The friend did think you might have honour, though.’
‘Yes.’ He used both hands to tug at the hem of his waistcoat and disdain pushed his chin even higher. His voice softened, but not his face. ‘They would think I’m honourable. I’ve never stolen a mug yet from the tavern.’
She stepped closer, almost to his nose, and put confidence into her quiet words. ‘You can rest assured that is all they said you had to recommend you.’
‘Wise of them.’ He crossed his arms, increased the distance between them and leaned on the doorway. ‘And, what sort of bear do you wish to trap?’ he asked, surprised he found her lips appealing. He didn’t know why he even noticed her lips. They weren’t overly ripe. Nor thin. They were merely pleasant. But lips? Why would he notice that body part when there were so many others to peruse?
She wasn’t sturdy, as Mary had been. She wasn’t quiet, as Mary had been and he preferred, but that kind seemed to have disappeared before Eve. Once Eve had started talking, the world had gone downhill quickly. Adam should have made peace with the asp and stayed in the garden.
‘I wondered...’ she took her time with her words ‘...if you might consider a business dealing which might be considered to be against the law—although some of it isn’t. And it truly isn’t unlawful to the conscience.’
He wondered what she wanted him to do. Bad enough she’d woken him suddenly.
‘You compliment me to suggest I’ve got a conscience. But I dare say you should look somewhere else for that.’
He walked to the door, opened it and the woman outside took one look at his face and stepped back.
He paused, stared back at the young wench, pointed to the door and said, ‘Find someone who doesn’t mind being awoken before dusk.’
The miss stood nearly a head shorter than he and had more bluff in her face than any card player he’d ever seen, but none of the bravado reached the end of the reticule hanging from her wrist. The beads at the end of the tie were bobbing like—he pushed that image from his mind.
‘And what might you be wanting me for?’ He spoke before he could stop himself. ‘The chore which might interest a magistrate?’
Her lips parted slightly, but she closed them again.
Her lips. When he realised where his mind wandered, he gave a disgusted grunt. His mind had rotted just as he’d wanted, but he wished it had waited one more day.
Her eyes widened as she stared at his face. She tightened her shoulders.
‘I can’t state my exact needs,’ she interrupted his thoughts, ‘until I know you’ll take on the task.’ She waved her hand to the doorway. ‘I am a respectable woman, with a chaperon, and it is intensely important that I be able to sneak back into my house soon. I would never seek out a person...’ and here she floundered a bit for words ‘...such as yourself, if I had another choice.’
‘I am pleased you’re so virtuous.’ He lessened the space between them. The soft scent of her touched him—not perfume—but plain soap. The miss nearly reeked with her purity. Forget putting statues of him on corners. This one should have convents erected in her honour. ‘You realise your virtue means you might not offer as much as another woman might.’
The narrowing of her eyes pleased him. She should never wake a rusty trap unless she expected to see its teeth.
She stared at him and he could see thoughts flittering behind her eyes. The beads on the reticule clicked together.
‘You’ll be paid,’ she grumbled. ‘Then you can buy...’ she paused ‘...whatever services you need.’
He wouldn’t need any services if Mary had lived.
And as the darkness closed tightly around him, he didn’t care to do what she wanted, but he doubted he would be able to go back to sleep in such heat and he had nothing else to do. ‘I could be interested in whatever business you might bring to me.’ His voice mocked her with a false sweetness. ‘Tell me what you have in mind.’
She leaned in so close he could almost taste her soap. Something inside of him froze and then began to unfurl warmth in his body. He bit it back.
‘You must kidnap someone.’ Her voice vibrated with excitement.
This Miss, untouched as newly fallen snow, wanted him to kidnap someone? He gaped at her. ‘I’m guessing it would be someone you find annoying.’
‘Not really,’ she muttered.
‘My skin has an aversion to rope burns—’ he touched his neck ‘—so even though I am honoured to be selected, I decline.’ He clasped the door, knowing he would have to send her on her way quickly and not really wanting to.
He just needed to be left alone. ‘Out.’
‘You must listen.’ She held up both palms.
He shook his head and reached for her arm. The simple touch of her brought back the memories he lived with, blurring his vision. He had to get the woman out of his life. Now. He backed away, not wanting to stir any memories of a woman’s softness. Those memories had taunted him, wrapping their dark, nettled cloak around him, until he discovered they would not sting so much if he appeased them with drink.
He stepped around her and touched the door.
‘You would get away with it, I’m sure,’ her voice pleaded.
He stilled. Before he could stop anything, the soap aroma tangled around him. His throat contracted and, for a second, he couldn’t speak.
‘Get out and don’t come back.’ His voice returned with force.
Her eyes widened and he pushed the thought of her fear away.
‘Leave,’ he snarled, snapping his teeth together on the word. ‘You.’ His voice spoke with the authority of a hammer on an anvil. ‘Must leave.’ His arm slashed in the direction of the door. ‘Go.’
She stared at him and he realised her cheeks had no colour.
‘You must do this.’ Her eyes begged. ‘I’ll die if you don’t.’
Chapter Two (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
She meant the words. He could tell by her widened eyes. But just because she meant them, it didn’t mean they were true.
‘Well.’ She drew in a breath and crossed her arms, stilling that ridiculous purse with glass beads. ‘I understand if you might be too weak to help an innocent lady.’ The bravado in her voice ended on a tremble. She pulled in a deep breath. ‘After all, you near reek of spirits and I do suppose you could do with a bit of a wash and a shave, and for that matter a good haircut, but might you suggest someone who will do my errand as I have spent a good morning pursuing you and I do not have much time to waste finding someone else.’
‘You do not have time to waste, yet you are appearing on my doorstep?’ he asked, quietly. ‘Perhaps you should be at—your home—not wasting time there?’ he said.
Her shoulders rose and her chin jutted, but her eyes didn’t follow through on the confidence. ‘I am here to offer you employment.’
‘Do I look as though I want employment?’ His lips turned up.
‘I have set myself on a course and I will see it to the end. Goodness knows it cannot get any worse.’ She adjusted her bonnet.
‘Whatever that end may be.’ He forced the words through his teeth. ‘I must compliment you on the bonnet. No one would ever notice you about in such inconspicuous wear.’
She eyed him as if he were untouchable. ‘This bonnet was made by Annabel Pierce and is of the finest quality in the world.’
‘La-de-doodle.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you think she might make one for me?’
‘She would not let you step foot in her fine establishment.’ She tightened her shoulders ever closer. ‘Are you considering the plan?’
He might as well let her have her say. He’d not fall back asleep easily when she left and he’d be lying, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about her, and wondering what she’d wanted.
‘How much money is to be made?’ Soft words from hard lips.
She appraised him, then she moved to the chair, sitting as if she prepared for a portrait.
He slid into his seat, then gave a twist, making the legs scrape slightly against the floor.
‘What’s your name, Love?’ he asked the woman as she sat across from him.
She slowly blinked and looked at him. ‘You’ll find out if—if—I decide to hire you.’ Her chin dropped. She placed her palms flat on the table, and leaned forward. ‘And do not call me love.’
‘Well.’ He clasped his hands behind his head and pushed back. ‘You kind of look like a Nigel to me. So you can keep your name secret for ever, for all I care. I’ll just think of you as Nigel and, if the magistrate catches me risking my neck for you, I’ll be able to say I owe it all to Nigel.’
‘Do not call me that.’
‘You know my name, do you not? Surely you found out while you were asking questions.’ He looked at her and she averted her eyes and a hint of blush stained her cheeks. He grinned.
Her words were stronger. ‘Brandt is all I know of your name.’
He looked down, dismissing her, and let the front legs of his chair thump to the floor.
‘Do you want to listen or not?’ The voice rose at the end, a note of panic in it.
He shrugged, put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand.
She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘It’s simple really. You’ll do the kidnapping in the morning. The footman should be no problem. Try not to kill the older man—very important as he will pay the ransom. You’ll handle a ransom note. Collect the blunt. Take a thousand pounds of it, give me nineteen thousand pounds and be on your way.’
‘Kidnapping. I could work in a quick nab as I walked to the tavern. Nothing to it.’ He smiled, leaning towards her, his eyes shining. ‘Aren’t you being overly generous?’ he asked, pretending puzzlement. ‘And—’ he raised his head high and put his palms flat on the table ‘—how greedy I feel. For a woman such as you, a man should risk his life for no coin. A simple kidnapping. How much effort can such a thing take?’
She raised her chin, tilted her head sideways a bit and took in a breath, then looked to the reticule. ‘I have the details worked out exactly.’ She spread the ties and lifted a folded piece of paper. Then she looked at his eyes and flinched. She lowered her hand, slipping the note away. ‘You’ll just have to follow my guide. I believe I have the mind of a master criminal.’
‘And what crimes have you committed in the past, Nigel?’ he asked, his voice softening. She didn’t raise her eyes.
‘Surely you are jesting.’ He stood and walked to the bed, knelt on one knee. He felt under the bed and pulled out a shirt, or what was once a shirt, and tossed it into the corner.
He pushed himself back to his feet and frowned, then he leaned down, tossed another garment aside and found an extra bottle, thankful he’d remembered to bring home some breakfast.
He held the liquid towards her, raising his brows. She grimaced and he popped the cork and put the neck to his lips.
He caught her eyes as he lowered the drink, his gaze flickering across a shelf decorated with empty bottles. And another peg with a new coat. He’d forgotten about that coat.
She spoke, her eyes on the wall. ‘I’m sincere about this kidnapping. It has to be done. It will be done.’ She shrugged. ‘There is no alternative.’ She pulled at her bonnet.
‘Look, Nigel.’ He held the cork in one hand and the bottle comfortably in the other one. ‘No blackguard worth hiring is going to do all the work and let you have more than half the bounty. You’d be lucky to get a pound. Who are you going to complain to if you don’t get a penny?’
‘I’ll report them to the magistrate,’ she challenged him with her voice.
‘They hang women as well.’ He put the bottle on the table in front of her, keeping his fingers around it. ‘Breaks up the monotony.’
* * *
Katherine could not marry Fillmore. As her stepfather blocked her escapes, Fillmore’s long fingers kept inching closer to her.
She had called the one in front of her a beast. But she feared marriage to Fillmore would uncover the true meaning of the words.
Her stepfather had plans for the banns to be read for her marriage—even though she hadn’t accepted his nephew. She couldn’t imagine any woman desperate enough to marry Fillmore without force.
Fillmore wore the tight buff pantaloons—very tight buff pantaloons—and on occasion those breeches concealed little more than what she’d glimpsed on the heathen’s bed. He would sit across from her and sprawl his legs longer, tightening the fabric. And then he’d snicker, and she’d want to leave, and Augustine would make her stay and listen to him talk.
The thought of Fillmore’s rolling flesh pressing against her body and his grasping fingers reaching for her, and she never again having the right to move aside...
She’d seen the flash of pleasure in Fillmore’s face when she’d stepped away to excuse herself and he’d somehow always managed to be between her and the door. It was a dance of sorts then. He’d grasp her hand to raise it, pulling it near his lips to brush a kiss above, but it wasn’t the kiss she avoided—it was the trousers. They always brushed against her skirts. Always. His smile sickened her.
Fillmore would not have turned his back if she’d walked in on him without clothes on. Never.
She’d seen the irritation in this man’s face and that had convinced her he was safer than Fillmore. Her jittery stomach calmed and she appraised him.
He didn’t know how much she needed him and she didn’t think he cared. He kept looking at her as if he had the secrets of the universe and she had nothing but pretty parasols—of course, she did have pretty parasols, but he had no right to sneer at her so because of it.
The man was a scoundrel—but she inspected the fingers clenching the bottle. Normal, sturdy fingers. Clean and trim.
She looked at him and smiled, and she knew, if she had one bit of perfection about her, it rested in the pleasantness she could emit with the evenness of her teeth and the upturn of her lips.
‘They don’t hang well-born women.’ She let her words fall to little more than a murmur. ‘We are not smart enough to think of unseemly acts. All our days are spent thinking of ways to beautify ourselves so we may please a man.’
She raised a hand as if she’d just set her tea cup on the tray to be removed by the maid. Her words flowed into the room. ‘You would not double-cross me. And, if you did, my tear-stained face as I huddled in the magistrate’s office, pouring out my heart—’ Her voice hardened. ‘I assure you if the money were gone, my emotions would be truly distraught—I would be able to convince anyone of my innocence while I pointed a delicate finger right at you.’
‘We can’t talk without an agreement on equal shares,’ he spoke. ‘I can’t think why you would go to the rot of kidnapping anyone for a sum as small as that. It’s foolish to risk your neck for so little.’
He frowned. The chair was askew from the table and he straightened it and sat, showing no more interest than if he were sitting at the tavern to discuss whatever men discussed when they had nothing to talk about.
‘I’m not greedy.’ She put both gloved hands on the table. ‘And, this is a personal matter as well as a kidnapping.’
When she said personal, his gaze bounced to the ceiling and back. She gave him another of her haughtiest glares.
‘Half-share for me, at least. Assuming we agree.’ He scratched at his whiskers, his eyes never leaving her face. Even as he bargained, his eyelids drifted down as if he wanted to fall back asleep.
She blinked several times.
He scratched again.
She gave a silent sigh and a condemning glance at his beard.
‘Half-shares,’ he repeated.
She reached out and delicately tapped the brandy bottle on the table. ‘You may raise the ransom another five thousand pounds for yourself. I know you need funds to finance your efforts to keep the tavern owners from starvation.’ Her eyes settled on his chin. ‘And you do fear wearing out a razor strop so I suppose your coin doesn’t stretch for ever.’ She waved the words away, letting him know the money wasn’t worth a squabble. ‘I would hate to see you perish for lack of liquid,’ she grumbled.
‘My dear well-bred miss.’ His eyes half-closed. ‘You must learn to snort with your mouth shut. It’s more becoming a lady.’
‘Perfectly acceptable for a Nigel, though.’ She gave a toss of her head.
‘And don’t worry about me running out of good liquor.’ He let his eyelids drop again. ‘Or bad.’ He looked at the shelf. Various shapes. Ready to be taken back to the tavern to be refilled. ‘My hand is never far from a bottle. Or a barrel.’
He didn’t plan to kidnap anyone. For one thing, among many others, he didn’t see her being able to keep her mouth closed. He could see her at an event, leaning to another flowery sort and whispering, ‘Did you happen to read about the kidnapping in TheTimes? Let me tell you, I have quite the criminal mind and I’m such a good judge of character I had no trouble finding a disreputable kidnapper. Would you like his name in case you have need of him?’
He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he didn’t want her running the streets searching out someone who would actually agree with her plan and somehow separate her from her chaperon and abuse her. Apparently the drink hadn’t clouded his mind as much as he’d thought.
‘You know you will have to tell me the particulars.’ He rubbed his hand across his eyes, wishing he were rested. He thought it ironic he would always feel exhausted and still have to fight to sleep.
‘Are we in agreement?’ She stretched her arm out and for a moment he expected her to touch his hand. He tensed. He wanted no closeness with her. Something inside himself warned him not to let her touch him.
‘Surely it’s not someone of aristocratic birth you would want kidnapped?’
And for the first time, she looked guilty.
‘That’s frowned upon, you know.’ He could not believe he was having this conversation. Only his curiosity kept him speaking to her. He’d never abducted anyone. He’d spent too many years keeping his distance from people. The last thing he’d do was capture another person whom he might have to feed and water occasionally.
She nodded. ‘I said I had a personal reason and I assure you it’s a just one.’
‘Someone in the royal family?’ he asked, eyebrows lifted.
‘Do not jest. Anyone could have listened to what I’ve said and figured out who I wanted kidnapped.’ She interlaced her fingers, letting them rest on the table.
He paused, scowling. In this strange dream he was having he must have slept through one of the important parts.
She touched her chest and leaned towards him. ‘Me.’ She spoke softly. ‘I need you to kidnap me.’
Chapter Three (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
He moved his head sideways, but his eyes remained on her. He stated, ‘You’re kidnapping yourself for the money?’
He saw the prim set of her shoulders. The clothing she wore, too much warmth for the weather, hadn’t been cobbled together by a person saving on expense. The ridiculous lace around the edge of her cloak and her ribbons didn’t come without a price.
‘Yes. It’s only a pittance of what I should have. My stepfather’s taken it all.’
‘You believe he’ll pay the ransom?’ He was more than curious. He was interested.
‘Yes. He wants me to marry his nephew, Fillmore.’ She leaned closer. ‘My stepfather does just as his nephew says. They are closer than a father and a son.’ She waved her gloved hand.
She shook her head. ‘Fillmore believes I should be his bride. I cannot take a step when he is in the house without watching for him and he is getting more and more determined every day. Rooms are being painted for him and furniture reupholstered. When that is finished next month, he is planning to move into the house—as my husband. I must be gone before then.’
He eyed the chit. ‘All I need to do is kidnap you—but you will be willingly kidnapped. Secure the ransom. Take my half and we part friends.’
Her eyes flickered when he said half.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
She backed away. ‘I am old enough.’
‘You’re on the shelf.’ He saw the quick dart of her eyes and the firming of her lips. She adjusted her gloves.
‘I have accepted one marriage proposal—’ She frowned at him. ‘I accepted a proposal which enraged my stepfather. I met a man when visiting my cousin. I thought the man a bit forward when he indicated he wanted to marry me the second time we’d spoken. But he was of decent family and excellent reputation. Bookish. A bit older than I had hoped for, but I saw no reason to decline.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘I thought him sweet.’
She shrugged. ‘My stepfather wouldn’t listen. He refused the match. Refused to let me call on anyone for a year or more. Had a load of manure delivered to the man’s door. He only lets me go about now because he’s encouraged by his efforts with Fillmore.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘This morning I’m buying hair ribbons so Fillmore might be impressed.’ She gave her bonnet a flick.
Bending forward towards Brandt, she moved the bottle aside with the back of her hand. ‘My stepfather is not a kind man. Do not forget. If you have to hit him—’
‘It makes me no difference.’ Brandt put the bottle back in place.
‘It would if you were in my shoes. He expects gratitude on my part for his extreme kindness in allowing me to marry Fillmore. Stepfather says to be Fillmore’s wife is the most noble of goals and Fillmore is the best that can be found. I’m sure he’s not the best, even when comparing him with slimy things found under rocks.’
‘I don’t care if Fillmore is a snake or a saint.’ He didn’t. What she did with her life, or who walked through her memories later was not his concern.
‘Nor do I care as long as Fillmore’s far away from me. At first, when my stepfather sent a maid to summon me to see Fillmore, I would find him in the shadows outside my room waiting. Now Fillmore summons me himself and he barely knocks before the door opens into my bedchamber. He looks at me and my skin feels tainted.’
Katherine watched as the scoundrel paused, then took a swallow and he didn’t speak.
He moved the chair back a bit to stretch his legs and she noticed he was careful not to touch her. She thought he sorted the plan in his mind.
He stood and she looked up at him and placed her hands in her lap. His size overpowered her. Her heart skipped a beat. But, that was why she had chosen him. She needed a man who could threaten with his presence. Who looked capable of violence.
This man appeared suited to danger. The darkness about him didn’t stop with his clothes or his face. It seeped from the air he breathed. She couldn’t really examine him as she would have liked. If she tried, something tickled in her throat and she felt warmth in her chest, then she had to turn away.
‘I would need one more thing, of course, to agree.’ He stopped and gave a smile even a mother wouldn’t believe.
She waited.
‘I would need to know the lady’s name.’
‘My name is Miss Katherine Wilder.’ She aligned her bonnet. ‘Miss Katherine Louisa May Wilder.’ She waited, the room silent.
‘As the one risking so much, on merely a lady’s word, you understand if I cannot agree to the methods used in our business, I will respectfully decline and never see or hear you again.’
She made a clucking noise. ‘I agree as I do not see how you will be able to fault me in any way. I assure you, I have read many novels and have learned much about crime. I did not lie when I claimed I have the mind of a master criminal. This will be as easy as picking an apple from a tree.’
‘I believe a lady named Eve said something similar once.’
‘Yes.’ Katherine regarded him patiently. ‘Since I do want to be tossed out, you’ve nothing to complain about.’
‘No. No complaints at all.’ He crossed his bare arms in front of his chest.
She averted her eyes again. The man should put on his shirt.
‘Tell me more.’ Brandt tapped his fingertips of his right hand against the muscles of his left arm.
She dropped her eyes.
‘Continue.’ He kept tapping.
She tugged her cloak around herself.
‘Are you chilled?’ he asked, his voice holding the innocence of a rector in church. ‘Wearing a cloak on such a warm day?’
She didn’t answer immediately, but pulled at the edge of her glove. ‘I wish,’ she continued, ‘to be abducted from in front of Almack’s on Sunday morning.’
She heard a strange noise from his lips and glared at him. She was certain he tittered. Men were not meant to titter.
‘Surely Tuesday or Wednesday night would be better. I can’t remember which night the lovelies race to Almack’s.’
‘It would be my preference as well.’ She kept her chin high and used the same distance she used when scolding a maid. ‘But the carriages swarm the street. They’d block the way as we left.’ She leaned a bit towards Brandt and lowered her voice. ‘To have a successful plan one must anticipate all possibilities.’ Then she stood and her voice regained its command. ‘I am only about with my stepfather on Sunday morning. He insists we attend services as a show of our perfection. Besides, it’s the only time he doesn’t have a weapon at hand.’
‘A weapon?’ His brows furrowed. ‘That’s something I might need to take into consideration.’
‘I did for you.’ She made a fist. ‘I want him to be frightened as well. I want him to think that, in one moment, a blackguard could take him away.’
‘Why didn’t you choose to have him robbed and killed?’
‘They don’t hang well-born women,’ she spoke with a bit of a sniff. ‘But I wouldn’t wish to be the first and, while I don’t love the man, I can’t be responsible for his murder.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘If you wish to throw in a few punches his way, I would not suggest more than six. He’s spindly.’ She held up one finger. ‘But absolutely no blood. Our laundress has no time for frivolities.’
‘How many punches would be the exact number you prefer?’
‘Let me see your fists.’
He held up a hand, fingers closed.
She examined his knuckles. ‘Perhaps you should not punch him. He’s thin, old and, well, I don’t know if he could survive.’
‘What if he decides to protect you and I must throttle him?’ Brandt lifted his eyebrows.
‘He will not.’ She gently shook her head. She tried not to let her face show Brandt how inept he was in the ways of crime. ‘Simply follow the plan. Don’t worry about anything else. I will be carried away by you and you will not deviate from my instructions.’
He shut his eyes, waited a few seconds and then opened them.
‘This is life or death,’ she snapped out the words.
He shook his head and moved back to the chair. He again propped an elbow on the table and rested his cheek on it. ‘Continue. I’m listening.’
The raptness in his face didn’t fool her. He already overacted. She lowered her eyes and used one finger to touch the table and moved as if following the path of the carriage. ‘I’ll pretend illness to get my stepfather to stop the carriage. You’ll be waiting by the bookseller’s with a gig—out of sight.’ She indicated an intersection, touching the table. ‘When the carriage stops, you’ll wrench open the door and pull me out.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘My carriage is not attended by anyone foolhardy enough to risk the plan by attacking you, but you may bring a discharged weapon to make sure of our success.’
‘I must have a gig and a weapon.’ He held out an open palm.
She shook her head. ‘You may reimburse yourself from the ransom money. If—’ she leaned closer ‘—you purchase the necessary tools instead of stealing them.’
‘I must have blunt.’ He waved an arm around the room. ‘You see nothing to sell. And I’ll not steal a pistol or a horse.’ He again put his palm out. ‘No one would have a bit of trouble fashioning a rope necklace for me.’
She leaned back and reached inside her cloak. She took a purse from the depth of her clothing, but paused before handing it to him. ‘It’s taken me four years to get this much.’ She raked her eyes over him. ‘Don’t squander it.’
He took the leather, used a finger to loosen the ties and looked inside. He frowned and raised his eyes. ‘I suppose this will buy a knife and a saddle.’
‘You’ll have to manage.’
‘I can cut back on my own costs.’ His eyes had an exaggerated mournfulness. ‘But the poor lightskirts will have hungry children.’
She reached to snatch the purse from his hands, but he moved the leather pouch aside quickly. She lowered her hand.
‘I will contact you soon to give you an exact date and make sure you’ve purchased the supplies.’ She said each word carefully. ‘Please be home in the mornings as it is the only time I can easily move from my house without any suspicion.’
‘You don’t ask much.’ He spoke so quietly he almost mouthed the words to himself.
‘I will need to be housed somewhere as I await the ransom.’ She looked around and shook her head at the same time. ‘You’ll need to find other quarters and you must always act as a gentleman in my presence.’
He raised his brows and gave one long blink at her.
‘I will expect you to be thinking of how best to collect the funds, although I see no great difficulty.’ She looked at him, checking to see if he would disagree. ‘You’ll need to suggest a place not easily ambushed. I’m thinking you could watch my stepfather after he receives the ransom request and relieve him of the purse as soon as he has it and before he expects contact.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Be prepared to repeat your plans to me when I return as I want to make sure we both are in complete understanding.’
‘Perhaps you should write this down for me.’ He raised his chin, his eyes bland.
‘Perhaps you should pay attention.’
She barely took a breath before she continued. ‘By Sunday, I will bring—’ she dropped her eyes ‘—a few personal items I will be needing and that will not be missed and I will expect them to be stored—safely—’ she glared at him ‘—in your residence until I am kidnapped and the ransom is procured and I can leave. Of course, you will need to spirit me away once we have our funds.’
Then she looked at him. She smiled and her lips parted, and she could already feel the success of her plan. She would not let him ruin it.
‘If you should even think of double crossing...’ She indicated the door with a nod. ‘The woman outside will turn you in to the magistrate.’
‘Are you sure the men in your life would not assist you to leave?’
She clasped her gloved hands in front of her and spoke, stepping back. ‘Thank you for your time and I will send someone around with a parcel of soap as a memento of our conversation.’
He picked up the bottle and blew across the opening to make the low, whistling sound.
Miss Wilder captured his attention again as she brushed at her sleeve without thinking, and spoke. ‘Sir, I hope after we complete our business you use the money to find an honest endeavour.’
With those words, she rose as if leaving her subjects. He didn’t even stand as a courtesy.
The door closed softly when she left. Brandt walked to the door, took the key from the wall and locked the latch. That would teach him to come home with enough drink in him to splash up to his ears.
He refused to get bathing water, or his razor.
He settled back in his chair and put his elbow on the table, and made a fist but extended two fingers and put his forehead against them.
Miss Wilder solicited him for a crime, the likes of which he had never even contemplated before, and then chided him to find honest work.
And she made him feel something—something different than a peaceful drunkenness or the black crevasse of desolation. He preferred their companionship.
He took another swallow. Then, he pressed back, again raising the front legs of his chair off the floor, trying to recapture a moment of sitting unconcerned and relaxed. But the image of the woman standing at the door, condemnation in her eyes, would not go away. Anger rolled throughout his body and he could almost hear emotion rumbling in his ears.
He moved, letting the front legs of his chair jar the floor, and stood. Grabbing his hat from the peg, he pulled it on so it covered much of his head. ‘Not as much sense as a tavern wench,’ he muttered, not knowing if he talked of himself or her. He clutched his frock coat and slipped it over his bare arms. He unlocked the door and buttoned the coat as he hurried, hoping he could still catch sight of the bonnet. He wanted to know where she lived.
He wouldn’t let Miss Wilder fashion a noose for him. He’d at least select his own rope for the hangman.
Chapter Four (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
As soon as Katherine turned the corner and knew she was away from the windows of his home, she grabbed the arm of the older woman and pulled her to a stop. She gulped in breaths of air, concentrating on the movement of her lungs. ‘You must steady me as my knees are trembling.’
Mrs Caudle put a hand on Katherine’s arm, and squeezed. ‘All of you is trembling.’
Katherine closed her eyes, straightened her back and then looked into Mrs Caudle’s face. ‘I will not let Augustine destroy me. I will use him to grow stronger and then I’ll use that strength against him.’
‘You are as wilful as he is.’
Katherine shrugged away the talk of her stubbornness and they crossed the street, moving towards the cared-for shops.
The older woman kicked at a dried pod of horse dung. ‘You’ve got to move from your stepfather soon or Fillmore will have you in his grasp.’
A carriage rumbled past, drowning the words.
‘I know,’ Katherine spoke. ‘And he is determined that Gussie be sent to a madhouse. As soon as I get the ransom, the very next time he tells you to take her away, do so. I will have a house for the three of us.’
She shook her head. ‘Gussie’s his own blood and he wants her put away.’
‘He thinks she’s damaged because she doesn’t speak and hides from him,’ Mrs Caudle said. ‘But since she first toddled about, he would throw something at her or shout when she got in his way. She’s much better when he’s away, and he refuses to let her leave the house. I don’t know if it’s because he’s afraid someone will see her and think his blood tainted.’
‘Or because he thinks I will run away with her.’ Katherine nodded, stepping faster to hurry them past the windows. ‘We must separate her from Augustine. Otherwise, he’ll likely put her in St. Mary’s and she’ll be locked away.’
‘The sooner she gets away, the better,’ the governess said. ‘Another footman left the house this week because Augustine threw a dish at him.
‘If that wastrel doesn’t do this...’ Katherine tugged at her bonnet ties ‘... I will handle the kidnapping on my own. I just need someone who looks like a rogue and he does. I’ll prop him up if I have to. Augustine has to believe it is true.’
Katherine pushed back a strand of hair which had escaped from her bonnet. She slowed and tried to catch her reflection in the windows as she walked. She wanted no hint showing of where she’d been.
The old woman laughed. ‘You have to admit he doesn’t wish to kidnap anyone. That speaks highly of him.’
‘Yes, but we...’ She groaned, increased her speed, and put a hand to her hip. ‘I will just have to do it myself. I can, I’m sure.’
‘You need ransom money and a place to hide. And Fillmore has to believe it. The only way your stepfather will pay anything to have you returned is if his nephew says he must.’
‘We have to have someone Augustine doesn’t know,’ Katherine agreed, searching for a hackney. ‘That scruff of a man can do it.’
‘I wouldn’t call him a scruff. If you’re going down an ill-got path, he’d be the place to begin.’
‘I don’t want to go down any paths. I want to hide. Peacefully. In the country. With you and Gussie.’
A donkey and cart awaited them, a young man with obsidian hair holding the reins of the donkey.
Few people were on the street and she didn’t want any of Augustine’s friends happening upon her. She’d known better than to request the carriage. Augustine would have needed it for some reason or other. Or worse, he might have insisted he would go along. When they were trapped in a carriage, he complained or chastised with every turn of the wheels.
‘Child. The lad will kidnap you,’ the old woman insisted, helping Katherine into the cart. ‘He’s got the sight of you and he won’t be able to walk away. Remember, when you find yourself alone with him—don’t breathe the same air as he does. Men put off an elixir or something. I’ve thought on it for years and can’t get it figured for sure. I think it’s the way they breathe and it blinds us. Blinds us. Pulls our senses right out of our body. Makes us forget about all else, but having our way with them.’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to be wasting your virtue.’ She raised her voice. ‘And do not breathe in when he’s close enough to sniff.’
The old woman jumped into the cart with the same spry step as the youth and called to the donkey to move.
She mopped her brow with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. ‘Lad’s rather sturdier looking than I expected.’ She mumbled something else, turning her head sideways so Katherine couldn’t hear her over the hooves.
Katherine thought back to the man. ‘I’d like to see him cleaned up a bit.’
‘Ho. Ho. Take my word for it. This one would clean up sparkly as a new guinea. You’d best be hoping he don’t clean up none around you, child.’ She nudged Katherine’s foot with her booted one. ‘I’ve not seen many like him in my life. You be keeping your toes on your hem when he’s about or your skirt might be flying over your head on its own.’
Katherine raised her chin. ‘I’m not a jade.’
‘Don’t matter. He’s full of elixir. I could tell that the moment I laid eyes on him.’
* * *
The house welcomed Katherine, but only from the outside. At the front, filigree bowers for ivy stood almost six feet tall on either side of the door. When her father lived, servants kept the ivy trimmed enough so that visitors could see the metal underneath. But now no one could read the inset of her mother and father’s initials in the filigree.
Katherine hurried into the house through the servants’ entrance, avoiding the butler, Weddle. He reported Katherine’s every move to her stepfather.
Her stepfather must believe the kidnapping.
Witnesses. They would need good witnesses.
Katherine thought of sending a discreet note to TheTimes so an engraver could be present. She would simply curl up her toes and swoon to have the kidnapping on the front of TheTimes.
Her dagger’s blade barely stretched longer than her hand, and she wondered if she should take it with her. The knife rested against the base of her bed’s headboard so a maid wouldn’t see it—although she doubted any would care. Her thoughts caught on Brandt’s face. She should have told him not to get near a razor or soap for the next few days. Surely he’d not decide to clean up for the occasion—but one never could be certain what a foxed man would decide if left on his own.
Katherine certainly hoped to savour her adventure. She would be kidnapped in front of Almack’s. This was a waltz no one would ever forget. She would scream or screech or whatever was needed to call attention to the deed. Then, she would be overcome with the terror of the moment.
‘Where have you been?’ The words pounded at her the moment she left the stairs.
Her stepfather glared as if he knew she plotted against him.
The old man had seemed pleasant enough when he’d courted her mother. He hadn’t changed the day after, or the week after, but within a year, she knew the man who she’d first met was a sham.
‘We were shopping for the ribbons I mentioned last night,’ Katherine answered. ‘I do want to look presentable.’ She tilted her head down, but kept her eyes on him. She didn’t want him suspecting anything but obedience. ‘I’m to have a suitor tonight.’
‘You’d best give him the right answer when he asks you the question.’ Her stepfather’s brows creased. ‘Fillmore’s a good lad and I don’t want him disappointed. You can’t do any better than him for a husband anyway.’
‘He does have an adequate nose.’ She moved on to the stairs to go past her stepfather. He reached out his hand, gripping her arm.
She couldn’t move.
‘You’d best not be criticising your future husband.’ Her stepfather’s gaze pierced her. ‘I only tell you this for your own good. He will not take it well to have a disobedient wife.’
His fingers pressed harder into her skin.
‘I understand,’ she said, head down.
He flung her arm aside.
* * *
That evening, she mostly kept her eyes on her food as Fillmore stared across the table at her.
Fillmore’s fork stopped midway to his mouth, then he plopped his food between his lips, gulped and spoke. ‘I’m pleased to be able to sit and gaze at you.’ She could swear his nose hairs quivered with anticipation of their union.
Then he reached up and scratched his head. He was always scratching his head and sometimes other places. She shut her eyes and put a hand over her stomach, telling herself to be calm.
Fillmore clinked his fork against his plate. The noise captured Katherine’s attention and she realised the clatter had been on purpose so she would look his way.
‘Thank you.’ She spoke quietly, unable to look at his glistening eyes.
Her stepfather stood, a servant sliding his chair back. ‘I think I’ll retire early.’ Augustine waggled a finger at Fillmore. ‘Why don’t you two spend some time in the library after the meal? I’m sure you have much to talk about.’
Augustine turned his eyes to her, threat in his face, and walked by without speaking, leaving the scent of a trunk full of mouse nests in his wake.
She sat proud, kept her face serene, as her mother had taught her. Her mother had been her closest friend. Katherine still ached when she walked by the bare room where her mother had rested while she was sick.
Fillmore smiled across at Katherine, a pink flush on his cheeks and a brief lift of his eyebrows. She glanced away. He moved, standing beside her. A footman pulled out her chair so she could rise and Fillmore offered his arm. She took it and forced a pleasant look on her face as they walked to the study. Her jaw began to ache.
‘You’re looking extraordinarily beautiful today, Sweeting.’ Fillmore pushed the door closed behind them.
‘Thank you,’ she answered, ignoring the whiff of medicinal which lingered in the room.
Fillmore led her to the sofa and she saw his tongue slide across his upper lip.
She extricated her arm and moved to a high-backed chair near the wall, unable to keep herself from putting as much distance as possible between them.
‘Would you sit by me?’ he asked, moving to the sofa and patting the blue velvet, then running his fingers along the fabric in a way to make her want to cast up her accounts.
‘This chair eases my back.’
He laughed. ‘Time enough for that later, I suppose.’ His eyes ran down her body. ‘I would not want your back hurting.’
She averted her eyes from him. His grey waistcoat strained its buttons so much she didn’t see how he could be comfortable and again he wore breeches which revealed more than anyone ever wanted to know.
He stood and closed the distance between them. She looked up at him, feeling an unease. He took her hand in his, the skin of his touch soft, but the bones beneath pinching her hand close. She tried not to think of his ragged fingernails which he loved to savour between meals.
‘I’ve wanted to ask you to become my wife for a long time, but now I can wait no longer.’ He spoke each word with precision. ‘You should be married and it is time for me to begin a family. I will be thirty-five on the fifteenth of next month and the banns will be read Sunday.’
She fought past the dryness in her mouth. ‘Waiting a bit longer might be best.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He held firm, squeezing her hand. ‘You have everything I need in a wife.’
‘What would that be?’ she asked, truly wondering if he could think of anything to say.
‘You’re lovely,’ he spoke. ‘Every night would be a pleasure.’
His words surrounded her like smoke from a clogged chimney.
‘Every night?’ she asked. She had only thought how repugnant it would be to have him touch her once. To think of him touching her each night was beyond imaginable.
He could not be her husband.
‘Certainly,’ he said the word in such a way she could see the lust pooling in his eyes and his lips glistened with it. ‘I’ve wanted you since you were younger, but I have had other interests. Before you get too old, I want children. And a duke’s granddaugher will do.’
When she opened her mouth to tell him no, his eyes shone as if he anticipated exactly what she wanted to say and could hardly wait for the refusal—not because he would be crushed, but because he could crush her.
‘Thank you very much. I’ll consider your proposal.’ She couldn’t refuse. He had to have a reason to push his uncle to pay the ransom.
But when she looked at Fillmore’s eyes, and saw past them into the darkness beyond, if she had had any doubts about throwing her lot in with the brandy-fogged, unshaven, sadly clothed—but surprisingly well-formed—man, Fillmore’s stare cured her reticence.
Fillmore had standing in society—his mother had married some cousin to Wellington and his uncle was married to a distant relation to the King, but she wouldn’t have cared if he wore the crown himself.
Brandt, who travelled the ill-got path and covered himself in rags, had more appeal than Fillmore.
Fillmore called her attention back to him. He turned her palm up and rubbed her hand, holding so firm she couldn’t pull away, while he caressed the softest part of her palm.
His eyes met hers. ‘Our wedding night will be something you never, ever forget.’ His other hand now held her wrist and she couldn’t pull away. He bent as if to kiss her hand and his tongue snaked out, and she saw the pinkish thing unroll and slide across her palm. A trail of moisture stayed behind.
She turned her face away from him, trying to conquer the bile in her throat, and control her churning stomach.
She pushed her eyes back to him and kept her expression calm. If the filthy drunken kidnapper doesn’t kidnap me, she thought, I’ll put a dress on him and he can marry Fillmore in my stead.
‘I must think about this.’ She stood, putting some distance between them. ‘I really must.’
She grabbed a lamp and scurried away before he could fully grasp that she was escaping, and she rushed into the small room where Gussie slept.
* * *
Gussie lay asleep on the bed, the puffed sleeves of her gown visible in the candlelight and her cloth doll lying in the floor beside her.
‘Sleep well, Gussie,’ Katherine whispered, picking the doll from the floor and putting it at the foot of the bed.
Katherine held out the lamp, watching Gussie. She didn’t know what it was about the sleeping child that made her so angelic. The chubby cheeks? Innocence in her face? No one with a soul could ever want to hurt a child like Gussie. She could not go to the asylum. The poor child had trouble just being in a room with Augustine.
Gussie rarely spoke more than a word or two, but Katherine knew her sister could think.
Gussie had replaced the purgative in the medicine bottle with water. And she had to have pulled a chair around to reach it. The clear liquid had alerted them when they’d poured some in the glass for her. A remedy the physician had sworn would help her speak, but Gussie hadn’t liked it.
And she didn’t like wearing shoes, either, and her half-boots had disappeared and had yet to be found.
But it didn’t matter what went on in Gussie’s thoughts. She couldn’t be in a place without her governess or Katherine to watch over her.
Katherine had to get funds. Not only for herself, but for her sister’s sake. She needed to be able to give Gussie a safe haven and she would find them a home hidden so far away they could never be found.
Chapter Five (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
Brandt walked to the Hare’s Breath, stepping under the placard with the painted rabbit puffing into the wind. Some men avoided the tavern, he supposed, because it was almost as particular as Almack’s. The patronesses were a grizzled sort at the establishment, but you knew by the lift of an eyebrow, the foot easing out to trip you, or the ale being accidentally drizzled down your back if you’d lost your voucher. And if you didn’t heed the gentle warnings, you’d lose teeth, or part of an ear, or maybe even the ability to straighten your fingers.
He never thought he’d feel welcome in a place which smelled like dirty feet and bad tobacco, but he did.
A moth flew in front of his face and he swatted it away, then moved to get a mug from the tavern owner, Mashburn. Mashburn never stopped the conversation he had with the gamblers while he got Brandt’s drink. Then the owner walked around the table and each man flicked his wrist, tucking the faces of the cards against the table. When the proprietor reached his brother’s chair, he leaned forward, squinting. He then reached over his brother’s back and tapped two cards. ‘Best hand you’ve ever had,’ the tavern owner murmured.
The men laughed, each knowing that his words were a game of their own.
One swallow and something tickled Brandt’s lip. He reached up and brushed at it, then looked at his fingers. A hair. Short. Straight. Probably from the dog lying in the corner. He dropped the hair to the floor. The creature could get it on the way out if he wished it back.
He took one more swallow of the ale, but then put it aside. The place was packed for such a night. Four men played cards. The usual group. Another table held the solicitor who received free ale because the tavern owner loved to hear the stories he told when he couldn’t remember to keep his silence and a skinny lad sat beside him who was a cousin to a cousin of someone somewhere and now he stopped at the tavern most nights, trying to grow into his trousers.
The moth—or perhaps it was some kind of beetle—returned. He swatted again.
He wished he could swat away the memories of Miss Wilder, with her overgrown bonnet and the smudges under her eyes. He’d followed her to a house that reminded him of the last true home he’d lived in. She’d walked right up to the front door and then she’d paused, and the older woman had spoken and they’d moved inside.
Her face looked pleasant enough, he supposed, but it was hard to see for the bonnet. He’d thought she was trying to disguise herself in case someone she knew was on the street, but now he wondered if she was trying to hide her womanliness.
Her skin glowed with sweetness. He wanted to run his hand the length of her body, reclined beside him. The thought lodged in his mind and he tried to drink it away. But there wasn’t enough drink in the tavern.
The skinny lad was speaking too loudly. Brandt gave the boy the one-sided glare that was to tell him to watch his words. The boy ignored it.
‘He’s tied to his mother’s bonnet strings,’ the skinny lad made a jest of the solicitor. Everyone laughed, but the solicitor. Solicitors didn’t find much amusing.
The solicitor swung a fist and Brandt jumped into the fray to separate them.
The insulted man’s gold-tipped cane flew towards Brandt’s jaw and the man with the jest ran for the door.
The solicitor swung his cane again and Brandt caught it, twisting it and slinging the man on to a gaming table. The table broke and cards flew. Men jumped from the table and when they stood, all had fists. Brandt stepped back, dropping the cane.
The tavern owner and his brother tossed the solicitor out the door and Brandt grabbed the gold-tipped cane and stepped outside.
He held out the cane to the owner. The man took the cane and he couldn’t speak plain for the liquid in him. Brandt asked the man if he remembered where he lived. It took him a while to understand, but he helped him find his way back to his mother’s house. Brandt didn’t know why he’d done the kindness, but the man thanked him. Thumped him on the back and told him he was a good friend. Brandt told the man if he saw him at the tavern again, he’d buy the fellow enough ale so neither could walk.
The man laughed, offering his services if Brandt ever needed a solicitor. Brandt didn’t like the sound of that, but he gave the man a jostle to show he accepted the friendship and they parted at the man’s door, but not before Brandt asked the man if he might have some old clothing for sale.
The solicitor had charged twice their worth and reminded Brandt again that he’d be available should Brandt need more assistance.
Brandt didn’t want to go back to his room. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he walked in the cool air, ignoring the scent of coal fires.
He also ignored the scent of the perfumery shop as he walked by it, but then he stopped, turned back and walked inside, the bundle of worn clothing under his arm.
The shop-owner heard the door, raised his head and peered at Brandt, then he recognised him.
‘Gardenia,’ Brandt said and he stared at the man. The shop owner didn’t speak. The older man took two steps to the left and pulled a scent bottle from a case and set it on the counter top.
Brandt walked to the man, took a coin out of his pocket, picked up the bottle and placed the coin in the exact same spot.
Brandt turned, put the bottle in his waistcoat pocket and left.
He stepped outside and for a second his feet refused movement. But he took a breath and strode towards his room.
Then, he stopped again. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached into the pocket, pulled out his purchase, wrestled the clothing under his arm so that he could remove the bottle stopper and took in a savouring breath. Mary’s scent.
He wondered what Mary would have advised about the big-bonneted woman. He’d never seen eyes widen so when she first saw him.
He wagered she’d not get that picture from her mind easily. Not from the look on her face. His lips turned up. He didn’t think he’d ever shocked a woman so. Well, she shouldn’t have opened his door. Not before the sun set anyway.
That was his life now. Nights of drinking. Days of sleeping.
He felt the familiar ache. Felt the anger, the sorrow and the unfairness. Putting the stopper back in the bottle was easier than putting it on memories.
He didn’t like the early hours, but couldn’t pace the streets at night. Even in the morning, the fog could make his footsteps haphazard.
He’d walked the streets so many mornings until he could collapse into sleep that it had become a routine. Many of the merchants watched for him now, particularly when they needed help lifting something. At first they’d offered to pay him, and occasionally he took payment in goods, and he’d pass them along to someone at the tavern. But everyone knew not to talk with him much.
When the day began to warm and his feet hurt, he turned to his lodgings and let himself inside.
Brandt looked at the wall. He realised he didn’t know what day it was and he was not even sure of the month. He had lived like this for—how long exactly he didn’t know, but years. He had felt no life in him for such a long time.
And now some haughty high-born near-spinster wanted him to kidnap her from her father so she could take money from the man.
He didn’t know why he thought about her. She had a ridiculous criminal mind. Indelicate snorts. An uppity little nose. Layers of skirts which fluffed when she walked. Garments not weighted down with street crust. Probably smelled of sunshine from drying in the breeze.
He needed not to think about a spoiled heiress headfirst on her way to ruin.
And if he didn’t help her, she would gather speed on her downhill roll. Another man hired to kidnap her might not respect her upbringing.
He let out a deep breath, shut his eyes tightly and rolled his head back, cursing. Rage bubbled in him.
She should not have sought him out. She had no right to ask such a thing of him. Of anyone.
Then he remembered the fear in her eyes and the pause before she stepped inside her house. As if she had to force herself. He picked up a brandy bottle, drank from it deeply, but slammed the bottom on to the tabletop. He could not drink himself into oblivion and he couldn’t ignore someone who hated to walk inside such a house.
He stood and the fingers of each hand stretched out of their own volition, almost clawing, and he noticed the twitch.
The drink. No food. No sleep. His memories. He could not care for himself any longer and now this woman plagued him—wanting him to rescue her. How could he help another when he could not help himself?
Never in his life had he felt so trapped. Those damn lost eyes of hers kept appearing in front of his face.
He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe calmly. Blackness surrounded him and he didn’t think he could live much longer as he had, yet he had no wish to change his life. None.
But then he thought of his wife, Mary, and how he’d not been able to save her, and the rest of it.
A few shovels of dirt and life was to go on.
They’d shared their youth, their innocence, and he’d known he had to marry her. Fought hard to marry her. And what had it got her? A few shovels of dirt. And no life to go on. He would have traded places with her. Begged in the night hours to trade places with her, because without her, he was dead. At least one of them could live.
Helping Miss Wilder wouldn’t ease his loss.
But he might end with a rope around his neck, he realised, and pictured himself at his own hanging. He almost laughed. A rope would burn, surely, just as the brandy did at first. But he’d got used to the drink quickly. He supposed in the time it took to look at the sky, he could grow used to the bite of the rope, then he wouldn’t feel the caverns in his heart any more.
He’d not done much but traverse back and forth from bottle to bottle in the last few years. He’d heard his share of rude songs, and crude jokes and vulgar tales. They would still be there tomorrow. The day after tomorrow and the day after that.
The comfort of the tavern rested in its sameness. Even if the tavern closed, two more would take its place. He’d always have a bottle to hold him.
He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it up. He grabbed it from the air, slapping it on to the back of his hand, covering it with his palm. Heads, he’d kidnap her. Tails, he’d change his lodgings and forget he’d ever viewed her treacherous—innocent face.
He remembered her with such clarity it seized his thoughts. When her lashes flickered, it was as if feathery fans fluttered above her eyes.
He wondered how she looked when she laughed. If her chin quivered? If she tilted her head, or blushed?
But most of all, he wanted to see the hair she hid under a mountainous hat from a crazed milliner.
It was not right to think so. Not right to think of another woman besides Mary.
He stood there, hand covering the coin.
He slowly moved his palm away and squinted. Tails. Was it tails to take her, or tails to leave her be? He took the coin in his right fist and with his left, backhanded the empty brandy bottle hard enough so the glass smashed into the wall.
He took a breath and then flipped the coin again.
Chapter Six (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
Brandt wore dark clothing and, as dusk fell, he took both horses and went to the woman’s house. He’d noticed the sky clouding. He wasn’t waiting until Sunday morning at half past eight and fifteen steps beyond the street corner and half a bottle past the refuse in the road. The woman wanted to leave her stepfather. That he could take care of. She could save her blasted instructions for her next kidnapper.
Nor did he want to be hanged if something went wrong. He really was picky about things like that. Tavern floor, fine. Noose, tight. He’d never even tied a cravat tightly. Things went smoother in the darkness. Fewer eyes watched. Usually the people who were about at such hours would go to great lengths to avoid notice and tried to avoid anything which might bring questions their way.
Looking up, windows on the first floor flickered with candlelight and silhouettes of figures moved beyond the curtains. He could take her away. He could hide her. He had the perfect place—waiting, but not for him. She could step over the threshold there. He couldn’t, but she could.
He tied the horses near the back of the house. He’d tried to hitch them as if they belonged to a house because if someone nicked them, he was going to be in a bind. Horses irked him. Heiresses irked him.
He noted the dim light from an upstairs window and then the corner ones. He knew the end room was more likely the master’s chambers because it received window light from both sides and had the ability to open more windows if the room became stifling. Then, when he saw the curtains being closed, he saw the shape of a valet, not a maid.
He moved to get sight of the other side window and could see only the dimmest of lights behind it. Miss Wilder’s room. Earlier he’d stayed long enough to see the outline of her bonnet as she’d removed it. And he’d watched a footman slink out another door, then rush away, possibly going to a meeting with a sweetheart or to finish an errand he’d neglected earlier. In just moments he’d known where to get into the house and where to find the woman when he returned.
Now, he stared up at the house darkened except for shadows near the front entrance.
He went to the back entrance with a bar he had brought along to pry open the door and, when he reached out, the latch was locked.
He put pry marks into the wood, separating the metal from wood, working to get the lock free.
Earlier in the day when the footman had left, Brandt had pretended to ask directions. Then he’d discovered Katherine Wilder was the niece of a duke.
He paused. He had to take care. He knew why she hadn’t turned to her uncle. A self-righteous man who refused to let his servants turn their backs on him or raise their eyes when he spoke with them. He doubted Miss Wilder could ever get on well with the man.
Lifting the bar, he slipped inside. He walked the hall until he found a stairway and quickly got to the upper floors. Even if someone heard him, he’d be undetected unless they saw him. Footsteps would be attributed to a servant, or to Miss Wilder herself, or to the master of the house. It would be assumed someone moving about was answering a bell pull.
He found a doorway which he thought paralleled the window he’d watched.
The door opened easily, with only a small click. The first thing he noticed was the flounces. No man could sleep in a room decorated like a petticoat.
He took five paces and stood beside the bed.
His breath caught.
She lay so still. Beautiful. Innocent. And still as death.
Memories flooded back, choking him. He turned to the window, stepped closer, and pushed back the curtain until it stood wide. He felt the burning in his eyes.
He was locked inside his own past.
The covers rustled as she turned away in her sleep.
She’d caused the flood of thoughts. The strength of them. She needed to wake and he didn’t want to touch her. But he wanted to shake her, rail at her and curse her. She wasn’t Mary and she’d brought the pain back to his mind, and he didn’t have drink enough to cover it because he had to be here, with her, instead of sitting at the tavern.
Afraid of what memories would stir if he touched her, Brandt picked up a book from her bedside table. He nudged her arm with the volume. She didn’t move.
‘Wake.’ He spoke insistently and this time the book was forceful.
She sat up, slapping at him before her eyes were open. He watched as she tried to see in the darkness.
When he saw the mussed look of her hair and the innocence of the white clothing she wore, he clenched his empty hand into a fist. He slammed the book on to the table, uncaring about the noise.
‘Come on. Get up. Your chariot is waiting. Her name is Apple.’ He reached for Miss Wilder’s arm and pulled her to a sitting position.
She jerked her arm away and her eyes flooded with recognition.
‘You are trespassing.’ The whisper hissed into the room. ‘You’re in my bedchamber, and I am not some person who might appreciate a man’s night-time attentions.’
As easily as lifting a child, he grasped her arms and pulled her from the bed and to her feet. He stepped back.
He moved away, giving her a graceful bow and pointing to the door.
‘It is not tonight, you fool. I have not packed yet. There are no witnesses,’ The whisper ended on a hiss. ‘He will merely think I have run away.’
Fool, she had called him.
How well she knew. He hadn’t controlled his world enough to keep this one out of it with the reminders of another life she forced into his head.
This had been a mistake. He’d thought years passing would give him strength. Would have made him able to face what he was about to do. No.
He’d hoped, like a fool, he had strength to look at his past without dunking his head in a bottle.
He wanted to swim to the bottom of a pool of brandy and not return to the surface. He embraced the murky depths and they held him. That would be the only touch he would ever again need. And he’d had to forgo it to keep a clear head so he could keep his feet clear on the direction to her house.
The Miss stood glaring at him.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She kept her voice low. ‘This kidnapping is not so important to you that you’re able to put aside the drink for one night and attend to it. You are not following my direction, either. Now leave my bedchamber.’ She pointed a finger just as he had done, directing him away. ‘This is not how I wish to be kidnapped.’ Her whisper hardly sounded, but he could hear her well.
‘I could be in a warm tavern.’ He gritted his teeth and fought to ignore the soft purity of her skin. She bombarded his senses with the air of womanliness which swept from her to cover him. ‘You’re not staying in your warm bed.’
Brandt reached for the satchel and pulled out the trousers and shirt. He handed them to her. She had to look like a young man. That would be his salvation.
She stared at him, her arms crossed over the cotton clothing at her chest.
‘You simply cannot follow orders, can you?’ she whispered. ‘And how did you find me?’
She acted as if unaware she was standing in front of a man in her bedclothes. He wasn’t. Without the bonnet and the cloak, she seemed half the size she’d been before. Or maybe it wasn’t that she was smaller, just that being so close to her caused something inside his chest to feel stronger. His heart beat faster and not because he was scared.
He needed to concentrate on the task, not the woman.
He moved his nose closer to hers and muttered. ‘I merely asked people direction to the lady’s house who wears disgustingly big bonnets.’
‘My bonnet was of no particular size.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Now, leave or I will scream. You’ll be hanged.’
She tried to stare him down.
‘You may be right,’ he said softly, and grabbed the shirt from the floor. ‘But I am here and we are both leaving. A kidnapping in the daylight is too risky.’
He saw the mouth open and knew her next words would be raised.
He covered her mouth with his hand. A sharp intake of breath and she stumbled back, sitting on the bed.
‘Don’t draw attention to us yet,’ he rasped in her ear. ‘Or I’ll have to return these clothes to the dead man they were taken from.’ He slowly took his hand away.
‘Vile,’ she muttered and slung the shirt at his shoulders, keeping one sleeve in her hand.
He reached to pull it from her, but she scooted back on the bed.
‘You’re going to wear the shirt,’ he said. She tried to wrestle it from his hands.
He moved to hover over her and tried to secure her hands to keep her from slapping his face again with the shirt.
Both her wrists were locked in his hands.
‘Do you wish to be kidnapped?’ He put his nose nearly against hers and kept his words low. He released her hands and moved back, sitting beside her.
She glared. ‘I’m considering it.’
‘I’ll leave if you wish me to. I’m sick of this house and I’m sick of you.’ He released the shirt. ‘Your choice. It’s now, or someone else. If I leave tonight without you, I want a promise you will never, ever seek me out again.’
‘I’ll go.’ She held the wadded shirt. ‘But you’d best hurry. I do not want to be with you another minute more than I have to be.’
She moved, raising an arm to put it in the sleeve of the garment. And her elbow connected with his shirt and bumped the gun he had hidden in his waistband. She paused, uncertain. ‘Do you have a weapon?’
‘It seemed prudent.’
‘Well, I have a knife. I’ll show you.’
‘A knife?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘You think—Why do you have a knife?’
She leaned even closer, bringing the scent of a woman’s soft bedclothes closer to him. ‘Because I couldn’t get a gun without raising suspicion.’
He stopped. Either she had lost her mind, or she was afraid.
‘You don’t think Fillmore would come in your room?’
‘I’ve woken when the doorknob rattled.’ She moved closer, whispering, ‘But I sneaked into my stepfather’s study and took the key when he was asleep. He doesn’t know I have it.’
‘We’ll go. Just keep your silence.’
‘I want to be married, just not to Fillmore. Anyone but that beast.’ She reached up with her left hand and put a palm to his chest. His breath was knocked from him. His entire body warmed. He moved her hand away, but his fingers tightened on her wrist. Neither moved.
He needed out of this mess. He would go out the door and get on his horse and ride far enough away she could never find him and he’d never see her again. But his feet wouldn’t move.
Brandt leaned so close to her face he could feel her breath touching his cheek and he mouthed an oath when he felt his body respond. She’d trapped him.
She moved so close he couldn’t breathe and her arm brushed him as she tried to reach under the mattress. ‘I’ve tucked it here. The knife. I’ll show you.’
He leaned back when she held the blade between them.
His mind registered the knife she had in her hand, but his body registered the woman standing so close without layers of fabric between them, only the softness of the clothes she wore next to her body. He pried the blade from her fingers and stood away from the bed—taking two steps backwards so she couldn’t touch him.
He dragged in air through his nostrils. The woman, no sturdier than a stair rail, slept with a knife for her protection. She solicited a governess and a stranger to get her away from the house she lived in. She was either spoiled beyond repair—or afraid.
She righted herself on the bed, and stepped on to the rug beside him, the skirt of her nightrail tumbling to her calves. In one second, he was in a different world, thinking of things he couldn’t blame himself for.
She put her hand on his. Fingers over his knuckles clasping the weapon. Warmth on the outside of his hand, the coldness on the inside.
‘That is my knife,’ she said, ‘and I would like it back. I cannot trust you to follow simple directions and I may need it.’
He flipped the knife into the wall across the room. The blade vibrated and so did his body.
Chapter Seven (#u55217e6c-c35f-540e-9d60-aac153df2186)
Katherine moved closer and Brandt took a step back. ‘Don’t toss the weapon away. It’s all I have to protect myself.’
‘Not any more.’
‘I cannot tolerate you in any way, yet you don’t make me wish to cast up my accounts as Fillmore does.’ Her words were quiet, but forceful. ‘Do you understand how despicable that makes him?’

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