Chapter Twelve

Maxwell closed his eyes, his body rocking naturally with the motion of the horse. A tortuous mimicry of sex. Her bottom shifted back into him again. Even separated by his breeches, her dress, and both their cloaks, he had no trouble picturing her naked rounded backside pressed against his cock.

He imagined bending her over in front of a looking glass so they could both see and pushing inside her. He’d not been drunk enough to forget the feel of her, tight and hot and wet.

“—an inn. Our attackers have given up.”

“What are you blathering on about?” After the night they’d spent in an embrace in the farmer’s barn, he convinced himself his predicament was her fault. If she hadn’t up and seduced him, he would have been in Edinburgh, safe in his rented rooms with his new life begun. Alone. There would be no half brother or jilted fiancé out for his bollocks, no uncomfortable nights on piles of hay, no constant thrum of need and want.

“We’ve seen no one who wishes us harm on the road. Can we take a room in an inn tonight?” She favored him with a sunny smile in spite of gray clouds overhead.

His insides twisted like a wrung-out rag. A bed and a fire and Bryn waiting in a chemise. Or less. “No, we bloody well can’t.”

She turned away, taking her smile with her. He wished she’d whine and complain like a normal woman. Instead, her smiles and laughter warmed him in unexpected places. Places he’d thought locked, the key misplaced.

“They’ll be no need of an inn tonight. We’ll be in Edinburgh by afternoon.” He tempered his voice in weak apology.

Once in Edinburgh, he needn’t spend time with her. Or even see her. It would be a waiting game. If she carried his child, they would marry by special license or over the anvil, if necessary. If not… He didn’t want to consider the alternative.

He tugged her into his chest and breathed into her hair. She smelled like fresh hay and a crisp winter’s wind.

“When are your courses due?”

Bryn started. “Ah, I’m not exactly sure but not yet.”

A shot of satisfaction, relief, and resentment coursed through him. The emotional stew had too many ingredients and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

After hours of silence, Edinburgh materialized through the fog. Ornate spires clawed into the clouds as if trying to sneak into heaven. The castle loomed on the hill, nearly swallowed in white. Ancient cobblestones echoed underfoot. The fog muffled and distorted sound. Hawkers called out their wares, but they were indistinct, crowding into an opposite street.

Maxwell had come to Edinburgh before joining his regiment as a newly minted lieutenant, and he’d known in his bones he’d be back someday as man or ghost to roam the streets with long-dead clansmen and lairds.

With the castle still in sight, he guided Primrose onto a quiet street lined with town houses. Primrose’s clops echoed off the stone. A handful of people were out, scurrying with cloaks pulled tightly around faces.

A fission of energy had him sitting straighter. Success and autonomy were in his grasp. His plan was to offer the same sort of services he had to the Bellinghams but on a nonexclusive basis. He would act as steward or advisor for several property owners instead of one and take a cut of their profits instead of a salary. And he would turn a profit or that he had no doubt.

“Here we are. Eighteen Barrow Road.” Maxwell dismounted in front of a town house with green shutters. Knobby, brown stone fit with the rest of the ancient city, but Maxwell knew it to be a façade. The house was only a decade old, if that. It was a newly prosperous area of Edinburgh, perfect for reaching out to landed aristocrats and wealthy gentry. While the ghosts of the city beckoned, he desired to live like a modern man.

He helped Bryn down. She clutched his forearms, digging her fingers into his muscle. A tiny moan escaped. The memory of her moans and pleas their night together in Cragian ignited an ember in his belly, no matter how road worn and weary he was. Would he ever be able to forget?

Damn his hands. They circled her waist to support her more fully.

The front door opened and cut them apart. A middle-aged lady with salt-strewn black hair stood in the doorway. Candlelight wavered behind her, but the diffused light of the afternoon lit her expression. Shock? Disapproval? Or merely surprise?

Maxwell tackled the steps as best he could with his stiff, sore leg, his limp more pronounced than usual. “I’m Mr. Drake. May I assume you are my housekeeper, Mrs. Soames?”

The lines creasing her forehead smoothed, and in a heavily accented brogue, she said, “Indeed, I am, and pleased to finally make your acquaintance, sir. We were growing concerned. We expected you nigh on two days ago.” Mrs. Soames glanced at Bryn with shiny, dark eyes, but her discretion did her proud.

“I was delayed by the weather. And I acquired a guest. My betrothed, Miss McCann, will require lodging. Could you ready a chamber for her?”

“Indeed, Mr. Drake. And I’ll send young Seamus around to see to your horse.” She gestured them into the town house, tutting about the cold and damp.

The dim, characterless entry made it difficult to get a lay of the land. A young man in a natty blue uniform barreled out of a side corridor, smoothing his coat with one hand and his hair with the other.

“This is Henry. Your footman and man of all work. Henry, send young Seamus to tend to the horse, and tell Isla to ready another chamber for the young lady. Will there be anyone else arriving, Mr. Drake? A chaperone, perhaps?”

Bloody hell, the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He hummed. “Yes, we’re expecting her any moment.”

Bryn’s swift breath was audible, but he didn’t dare look over at her.

“Is this the drawing room, mayhap?” He cupped Bryn’s elbow and opened the door on their right. Warm greens and browns lent a welcoming, charming feel. Although it wasn’t lit, fuel was stacked next to the hearth. This was more to his liking. “We’ll both require baths at your earliest convenience, Mrs. Soames, but first some tea and whatever the kitchen has available, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” She backed away and disappeared into the shadows. The jangle of keys grew faint until they disappeared.

Bryn stood in the middle of the room, still in her cloak and chafing her arms. If he was tired, she must be close to collapse. Although his last years in London had been comfortable, years spent surviving first Cragian and then the war had hardened him.

He squat in front of the hearth and got a fire crackling. The glow and warmth spread. He stared into the hypnotizing flames.

“We made it.” She had come up next to him without his notice. Color flooded her cheeks, and her hair sparked in the firelight.

“Aye.” His throat was dry. Where was the blasted tea?

“Are we safe?”

If only troubles were so easily left behind. His father’s will and her betrothal agreement loomed like harbingers. “Perhaps, but most likely not.”

“Always the optimist.” She side-eyed him with a half smile.

Mrs. Soames reentered and deposited a laden tray on a low table in front of a settee. “The lady’s bath is filling now, sir.”

Bryn took a piece of dark bread, slathered it with butter, and took a bite, expelling a sigh.

“Thank you, Mrs. Soames.” Maxwell followed the housekeeper into the entry.

“Should we expect the lady’s chaperone this evening, sir?”

Darkness had fallen. Mrs. Soames’s candle cast long shadows along the walls. “Miss Bryn’s chaperone might be detained a day or two. There is to be no gossip, is that understood?”

Mrs. Soames seemed to grow taller. “Certainly not, sir. I realize we have only corresponded through letters, but I’ve run houses twice this size with efficiency. I do not tolerate gossip.”

As he had little choice, he would have to trust the woman. “Did you get my trunks?”

“The books are unpacked and on the shelves in your office, and your clothes are in your room.” She gestured across the entry to the closed door. “You’ve received correspondence over the past week, sir. I’ve stacked the missives on your desk.”

“Very good, Mrs. Soames.”

“Should I be expecting a trunk with the lady’s things, sir?”

Damnation. “We met with some misfortune on the road. Thieves. She’ll require a new wardrobe. Is there a dressmaker you could commission?”

A look of sympathy softened the stern lines of her face. “Indeed there is.”

“Could you ask her to come around with samples at her earliest convenience? It will consist of a large order.”

“I’ll send a note in the morning, sir.”

Henry, the butler/footman, clomped down the steps, slowing as he caught sight of Mrs. Soames. “The lady’s bath is ready. The kitchen is heating water for the master’s now.”

“Thank you, Henry,” Mrs. Soames said. “Shall I escort the lady to her chamber?”

Maxwell nodded. Bryn stumbled out of the room like a sleepwalker and swept up the stairs in Mrs. Soames’s wake. He finished every scrap of food left on the tray and drank tea until he was called for his own bath.

Henry led the way to his room. It was at the far end of the upstairs corridor. Candlelight flickered at the bottom of door halfway down the hall. Bryn was likely naked in a steaming, fragrant bath, her skin pink and flushed, much as it had been after—

He quashed his thoughts. A single candle and small fire lit his chamber. The door closed with a snick. Finally he was alone.

He stripped out of his road-worn clothes and slipped into the bath, the heat loosening his muscles and easing the pain in his leg. The state of being alone wasn’t unusual. In fact, silence had been a boon companion for as long as he could recall.

The past days with Bryn should have been grating. It hadn’t been. She understood the beauty of silence and didn’t fill it with inanities.

Only when the water cooled did he heave himself out, his leg’s protests muffled. The air nipped at his damp body, and he pulled on small clothes and wrapped himself in a plaid folded on the end of the bed.

He hesitated between bed and door. Muttering a curse, he padded barefoot into the hall. Light shone through the cracks in Bryn’s door. He rapped. Nothing. Had she fallen asleep in the bath?

He pushed the handle, and the door swung open with a long creak. The bath was empty. The bed was not.

She was curled in a tight ball on the coverlet, a pillow clutched to her chest, the gold in her damp hair muted. The night rail she wore was reminiscent of the one she’d seduced him in—thick and covering her from neck to feet. She’d even tucked her toes under the hemline. The lass was likely to freeze to death.

His already chaotic emotions tumbled. He rolled her and peeled back the covers. A few throaty noises later, she was covered. Between the blankets and the fire, she would be warm enough without him. It was only concern for his possible babe.

Yet he didn’t move. He tucked a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheekbone behind her ear. The skin of her jaw was soft under his fingertips. In his memories, the rest of her body was just as tempting. He forced himself to take a step back, his hand drawing into a fist.

He was an addict, and she was his drug. He’d hoped the brief touch would satisfy his craving, lest it overwhelm him and he find himself at her bedroom door every night begging entrance. One touch had only fed his craving.

He would distance himself from her until time revealed his path forward. But if she was carrying his child, they would marry, and he would keep their marriage bed warm indeed.

* * * * *

Bryn had been ambushed.

Maxwell had set the trap, and Mrs. Soames had sprung it. And now she found herself a dressmaker’s doll in the drawing room, arms out while Mrs. Wilson pinned a set of sleeves onto a forest-green dress.

Maxwell performed a perfunctory knock and cracked the drawing room door open. “May I enter?”

“Yes, sir. She’s decent enough,” Mrs. Wilson said through a mouthful of pin.

Maxwell closed the door behind him and paced around her as if surveying a battlefield, his hands behind his back, a solemn expression on his face. “Is your client behaving?”

“Aye, sir. Although she’s been trying to convince me she needs less, just as you predicted. Also, she’s fighting me on the colors. Insists on brown or gray.” Mrs. Wilson removed the pins and blew a piece of hair off her forehead.

“I’m standing right here, and my ears are in perfect working order.” Bryn couldn’t keep the tartness from her voice, even as she realized Maxwell was doing something nice and necessary, considering breeches were her only other option.

Nevertheless, she didn’t like the idea of being indebted to him. A riding habit, a ball gown, five warm winter woolen dresses, and five summer frocks were being commissioned. She would end up with more clothes than she had left behind at the manor house. Just how much money did the man have? What would happen if her courses came? What would she do out on the streets in a ball gown?

Maxwell wandered over to the fabric samples laid across the back of the settee.

“Two serviceable gowns are sufficient, Drake.” The thought of how much the dresses would cost made heat rush through her. She took slow, deep breaths.

“I’ll not have you dressing like a servant.” The delicate fabric was incongruous against the blunt roughness of his hands.

They were big hands, the backs tanned. She couldn’t see the calluses on his fingers, but the memory of them brushing against her skin heated her in other more intimate ways. The night had been lonely and cold. Had he felt her absence as keenly as she’d felt his?

A silky midnight-blue fabric pooled to the floor like a waterfall. He draped it over her shoulder, covering the green wool. The fabric caressed her neck, cool and silky. It was sensuous and not at all practical. “This one, Mrs. Wilson.”

Mrs. Wilson cocked her head. “You have a good eye, Mr. Drake. A blue cools the heat of her unusual coloring. Quite a stunning choice for the ball gown.”

He pushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingertips glancing over her collarbone. Was the touch accidental or intentional? “Stunning, indeed.”

Shivers erupted. Stunning? Maxwell stood close enough for his scent to envelop her. It was the same soap she’d used in the bath, but on him it was earthier and drew her like a cinder girl to the hearth.

He whirled away with such suddenness she flinched. Moving with an economy that spoke of impatience, he pulled a dark blue broadcloth and instructed Mrs. Wilson to make a riding habit and a silvery gray that was a far sight from the drab color she was used to for another day dress.

“And this green? The color is lovely on her. Don’t you agree, Mr. Drake?” Mrs. Wilson tucked and rustled the green dress around her. Maxwell’s slow perusal down her body brought to mind a sheep auction.

“The neckline is too high. Can you notch a vee in the front?”

Mrs. Wilson nodded. “Would you be wanting her to wear stays?”

Bryn only managed a huffing protest.

“With her lithesome figure, she hardly needs them in her everyday gowns, but I want the ball gown cut low. Not scandalous, but Miss McCann’s assets”—Maxwell waved his hand in the air—“should be highlighted, don’t you agree?”

“Aye, her bosom is very fine. She’ll be a pleasure to dress, sir.”

Bryn covered her bosom with a hand, her tongue thick in her mouth. She’d never been so flustered in her life. They were discussing her as if she were livestock.

With the ghost of a bow, Maxwell quit the room, leaving behind a thick fog of silence. A ticking clock on the mantle was like the hammer to an anvil. Bryn closed her eyes. Did Mrs. Wilson think Bryn was Maxwell’s mistress? And wasn’t she, of a sort? Explaining their complicated situation would only make matters worse.

“Goodness, lass, he’s quite taken with you.” No condemnation, only curiosity threaded her voice.

Bryn looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Wilson, who was pinning the back of the dress, a smile on her face. “What? No. What makes you say so?”

“What man takes such an interest in his lady’s clothes if he isn’t? And the way he looked at you. I needed a fan. He’ll want to marry with haste.”

“Marry?”

“You’re betrothed, are you not?” Mrs. Wilson raised an eyebrow.

“He’s— We’re—” Bryn blew out an exasperated sigh. What could she do but agree? “We are betrothed.”

Pins in her mouth, Mrs. Wilson hummed as if the secrets of the universe had been revealed. As the dressmaker continued to poke and prod and measure, Bryn wished she could acquire some of that knowledge to help with her confusion.