Chapter Ten

Bryn was ashen-faced, her freckles standing out against her pale, smooth skin. And she looked at him like a shelter from the storm. Part of him wanted to run from her, from the responsibility, but another part of him wanted to snatch her against him and bury his face in her hair. He felt like a hunted hare, not sure which way to turn until the decision was taken out of his hands. She fell into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her to keep her upright.

Her trembles cascaded through him, and he pulled back. Was she crying? Her face had splotched, and prickles of sweat dotted her forehead, but no tears. She pulled at the neck of her gown, her eyes unfocused.

He swept her into a cradle hold and sat in an oversize, leather armchair with her on his lap. He pushed her hands away and unbuttoned the neck of her gown. Her shudders diminished with each heaving breath. Not knowing what else to do, he took his handkerchief and wiped her face.

Her color evened. She fingered the floppy edges of her gown and shimmied to rise. Her voice was creaky, not quite back under her control yet. “I’m so sorry. Let me—”

“No, don’t move.”

Her squirms ceased, and she leaned back into his arms with a sigh. “I’m not sick. My attacks have come less frequently over the years. I can usually tame them on my own.”

“Attacks?”

Her breathing was still too rapid, as if she’d run across the moors. “Mary calls them nervous attacks. It’s one reason she’s never taken me to circulate in Edinburgh. She’s afraid I’ll cause a scene because I’m so weak. Plus my looks.”

Nothing in her explanation made any sense. His gaze coasted over her hair and face. Her silky hair begged for his fingers. Her beautifully full lips called to his own without a word being spoken. And her lithe body… well, it didn’t bear discussion what part of him answered that call. He could hardly admit any of it to her, but he could dispel Mary’s other argument.

Weak? Hardly.

“Let’s review the day, shall we? You blustered your way into Lady MacShane’s drawing room, leaped off your horse to save me from a man—or men—with evil designs, and single-handedly delivered a breech babe. Sweetheart, you are the furthest thing from weak.”

“But I panicked—”

“A completely normal reaction. I’ve never seen anyone as cool under pressure as you were with Meredith. She drew on your strength.” It was the truth. Even in the midst of war, he’d rarely come across a man as collected as Bryn had been directing them in the birthing room.

Her head lolled on his shoulder, and she grabbed his biceps, pulling his arm around her. He didn’t hesitate and gave in to his desire, burrowing his face in the hair at her neck. Her body turned lax, and she heaved a sigh, her breathing slowing.

Too soon she rolled off his lap and stood. He let her go with an embarrassing amount of reluctance. When he’d held the babe, a sense of marvel crashed into his terror, resulting in confusion. In a scant few months, he might be holding his own babe. His and Bryn’s babe.

A roil of emotion he’d assumed long dead left him rattled. He clenched his hands around his thighs to keep from reaching for her. Now he was the one close to panic. The throb in his leg and head reared higher, and his stomach knotted. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Wispy touches across his forehead registered through the pain. He opened his eyes. She was close, her eyes warm and soothing like a thick plaid.

“Let me see to your wounds,” she whispered.

“I don’t need your help.” He harshened his voice, making an effort to distance himself from her, already feeling too vulnerable. It had no effect on her.

“I know you don’t need my help, but you’re getting it anyway. Slip off your jacket and shirt.”

Beyond arguing, he obeyed, unbuttoning his waistcoat and pulling his torn, bloody shirt over his head. He sat back, and she moved between his spread legs, putting him eye level with her bosom. The brown wool gaped and afforded him a shadowed view of her breasts. A white chemise concealed her curves. But he remembered too well how her nipples had hardened with just the brush of his gaze. He shifted in the chair.

Her hands moved like butterflies over his skin, cleaning the cuts on his neck and forehead and washing off the dried blood. She leaned over to examine the bullet crease on his neck. Her hair swept forward to tickle his shoulder. He wanted to nuzzle into the cleft of her breasts and run his hands along her hips. He clenched the arms of the chair to control the compulsion.

His desire ran deeper and wider than the physical, and therein lay the problem. In two short days, Brynmore McCann had somehow managed to worm her way past his defenses and into his rusty, unused heart. Her problems and pain and worries were his.

How had he allowed it to happen? After Mary rejected him, he’d guarded himself well. More than one lover had accused him of heartlessness. His intention was not callousness, but he’d never allowed himself to care about a woman beyond simple pleasure.

She straightened and set her hands on her hips. His gaze wandered up to her face. A wrinkle appeared between her eyes. “Your pain must be considerable.”

“My leg and head ache, but I’ll live.”

“You look as if you might rip the arms straight off the poor chair.”

His fingers were white against the dark leather. He forced pliability into his hands, although tension stiffened his shoulders. “It’s been a rather trying day.”

“Forever the master of understatement.” She fiddled with the open neck of her gown, her eyes veiled but examining him. His stomach muscles jumped as if she’d grazed him with her fingertips. “Do you have another shirt? I’m afraid this one is ruined.”

“In my satchel by the door.”

Once she was out of sight, he heaved in two great breaths and filled the cracks in his armor. She was back too soon, shaking out a clean, white shirt. When she tried to help him put it on like a child, he snatched it out of her hands and finished the task himself.

Water splashed. “I’m going to wash Meredith and the babe.”

Wearing a happy, dazed expression, Reese shuffled out of the little room, straight to a shelf on the wall and pulled out a dusty bottle. “A present from my father-in-law. I don’t imbibe often. Would you like a glass?”

“God, yes,” Maxwell said with more feeling than he’d intended. The numbing effect of alcohol would be welcome.

Maxwell made to rise, but Reese waved him back into the armchair and pulled up a sturdy, straight-back kitchen chair. “Your wife is bloody amazing, if you don’t mind me saying. She saved Meredith and the baby. If I’d lost them—”

Reese and Maxwell looked in opposite directions. Bryn wasn’t even officially his betrothed, yet the thought of losing her made him toss down half his glass in one swallow. The burn cauterized the ache in his chest.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Reese said in a roughened voice. “Meredith is grateful for the company. She grew up in a vicarage in Edinburgh, you see, around scads of other ladies. The farm is so isolated she’s had a hard time, especially since her confinement.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid Bryn and I are in a bit of trouble. We were accosted on the road, which is how we ended up seeking shelter with you, and I got this.” Maxwell gestured to his head before emptying his glass.

“Robbers?”

“Of a sort. Whoever it is may come looking for us. We don’t want to put your family in danger.”

Reese leaned forward and poured another finger of liquor in Maxwell’s glass. “I’m a handy man to have around in a fight.”

“I’d not ask it of you. You have Meredith and a new babe. The best thing we can do is leave in the morning. I don’t want to travel on the main road to Edinburgh though. Is there another route?”

“Aye. Longer but less traveled.”

Maxwell tipped up his glass and glanced toward the door shielding Bryn. “Tell me how to find it. We need safe.”

* * * * *

Bryn wrapped the sweet-smelling, pink-skinned baby in a soft blanket and handed her off to Meredith. Dirty sheets were piled on the floor, and both mother and babe were clean.

“Have you settled on a name?” Bryn asked.

“What think you of Elizabeth Brynmore Douglas?”

Bryn stared at the little girl sleeping in her mother’s arms. A girl who would bear her name. “I would be honored, but it’s not a usual sort of name, so don’t feel you have to—”

“I have the feeling after coming into the world the way she did, she’s not going to be the usual sort of girl.” Meredith’s smile was tired. “I’d like you to be her godmother.”

Tears burned behind Bryn’s eyes, and she dropped her gaze to the basin to finish washing her hands. “I’m not sure we could attend the christening. You see, Maxwell and I are in a spot of trouble.”

“I wondered. Your husband appeared rather beat up.”

“We were attacked on the road.”

“Reese and I will help you. Do you need money?”

“Kind of you to offer, but we don’t need money.” But as the words left her mouth, a ping of awareness shot through her. Wasn’t the root of all evil money?

After Meredith and the babe were settled, Bryn gathered the soiled sheets and retreated. Reese joined his wife, closing the door behind him. Meredith wasn’t the only one exhausted. Bryn dumped the sheets in a corner. Maxwell was sprawled in the leather armchair, sipping on a glass of amber liquid and staring at the fire.

“The baby’s name is Elizabeth Brynmore,” she said.

Maxwell’s eyebrows quirked. “A fine and righteous name. You saved both their lives tonight.”

With Maxwell occupying the armchair, that left her a stiff-backed wooded chair or the floor to sleep on. In her state of exhaustion, the woven rug in front of the hearth looked heavenly. She stutter-stepped to the hearth and dropped to her knees.

“What the devil are you doing?” Maxwell asked.

She had no strength of will to deal with grumpy, gruff men. “Going to sleep.”

“Not on the floor.” He grabbed her wrist, tugged her toward him, and maneuvered her into his lap. He pressed his glass into her hands. “Drink the rest.”

She swirled the liquid. Firelight striated the whisky into golds and browns. Tipping it up, she drank it in two gulping swallows. The burn stung her nose, but as the warmth spread, the tension in her body dissipated. Whatever had been holding her together dissolved.

Panicked tears, sad tears, worried tears, and mad tears came in a silent storm, and she turned her face into Maxwell’s shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He brushed his hand along her cheek and pushed her hair back. A hiccup escaped. Two errant thoughts ran through her head. The first was regret that he was going to see her face turn splotchy, and the second was that she’d never seen a man look as terrified in her life as he did in that moment.

“Why are you crying so? We’re safe. Everyone will live.”

“It’s been a harrowing day, and crying makes me feel b-better.” Her tears slowed, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Sometimes life called for a good cry, a way to clean away all the ugliness, Cadell used to say.

“Feel better?” He sounded horrified at the notion. “You must stop immediately.”

In contrast to his harsh command, he gathered her close and nuzzled his bristly cheek against hers. He smelled of winter’s pine and leather and whisky. She closed her eyes.

“Stop,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. He kissed her temple and skimmed his lips along her jaw. “Please stop.”

His mouth found hers, his lips soft. She nipped his bottom lip and sucked it into her mouth. He tightened his arm around her and cupped her nape, bringing her even closer. Her lips parted, and he took the invitation to sweep his tongue against hers.

The kiss went on and on, their tongues playing and teasing, their lips grazing and pressing. Her body thrummed with an energy she’d thought lost after the day’s trials. Her breathing grew shallower and faster until she had to pull away to catch a lungful of air.

He dropped his forehead to her collarbone, his hair tickling her chin. With his weight holding her still and the warmth from the fire and from his body, contentment tempered her arousal.