Chapter Fifteen

Maxwell stared at the papers on his desk. He had work to finish and appointments to prepare for. The reckless enterprise to obtain his sire’s last will and testament loomed. Yet his thoughts circled Bryn like carrion. If he didn’t die from an unfortunate fall that evening, the sexual tension pushing and pulling at the two of them would kill him forthwith.

Did she recall their one night together every single time she closed her eyes? Did she have to fight the urge to sneak into his room? Would he have lifted her skirts and taken her on the desk if they hadn’t been interrupted?

He pulled at his hair. Where was his honor? Was he no better than his father? The temptation she presented was torture. Bryn was under his care. No matter what had transpired to bring them to this point, she was an innocent. Too naïve and trusting.

Nothing would get accomplished until he burned off the frustration and aggression tightening his muscles. A hard ride wasn’t possible in the city. But there was another place he could go. A pugilist salon on Waring Street. Maxwell grabbed his hat and cloak and set off on foot in the crisp, winter air.

Each stinging lungful of air regulated his heartbeat. He exhaled and concentrated on the white whirls. Cutting down a long narrow alley, he slowed as his ardor cooled and his leg twinged.

Boots clacked behind him, echoing off the stone walls eerily. The hairs on the back of his neck vibrated. Two steps later, a rough-hewn man wearing a tweed cap and coat entered the alley in front of him. Coincidence? Perhaps, but Maxwell’s gut told him he wasn’t going need the pugilist salon after all.

The approaching man was a stranger—short, lean, and with the look of an old tomcat who’d survived on the streets. The footsteps behind him made steady progress. Taking a peek would erode Maxwell’s one advantage—surprise. He forced a smile as the capped man drew closer.

Maxwell was no stranger to hand-to-hand fighting. His time as an exploring officer for Wellington had been fraught with danger. Although he was sorely out of practice, the instincts that had kept him alive heightened as if he were back in the war. The intent in the man’s eyes gleamed a heartbeat before his lunge. Maxwell met him with a jab across the bridge of his nose. A burst of red splattered down the man’s chin. He staggered backward, hands cupped over his face.

Maxwell swung around. The second man was cut from similar cloth. Both were past the bloom of youth, grimy, and lit with desperation. The man’s gaze darted between Maxwell and the other man. He stopped less than six feet away and crouched, pulling a knife from his boot and brandishing it as he inched forward.

With a grimacing smile, Maxwell slid a dagger from his boot as well and gestured him forward. The man slashed the knife toward Maxwell’s midsection. Maxwell jumped to the side, and the man’s momentum sent him stumbling forward, his shoulder bumping the brick wall.

Maxwell circled and took stock. His heart pumped hard and filled his ears with noise. Blood trickled out of the first man’s nose, and he was doubled over, occupied by his own pain.

Maxwell concentrated on the man with the knife. He lowered his shoulder and slammed into the man’s chest. The man’s lungs emptied, and he went to his knees. Maxwell pressed his advantage, kicking him in the stomach and driving him to his back.

Maxwell trapped the man’s wrist under a boot and pressed until his hand opened and the knife fell to the cobblestones. Maxwell kicked it away.

The first man staggered toward them, a penknife flashing in his hand. Before Maxwell could evade him or go on the attack, he careened into Maxwell and knocked him backward into the wall. The blade caught him on his left flank. The sharp edge cut through his clothes to flesh.

Maxwell jabbed an elbow into the man’s throat and then again on his already battered face. The man fell to his knees. The second man scrambled up and ran, his foot strikes echoing. Did he sense defeat, or would he return with reinforcements? Time was short.

Maxwell crouched over the man on his knees, his side stinging. “Who hired you?”

“Bugger off.”

Maxwell shoved him to the cobblestones, put his boot at the man’s throat, and pressed. The man arched and his legs kicked. Maxwell pressed harder. “Let’s try again. Who hired you?”

“The apprentice gang.” The man’s voice veered high from lack of air and fear.

The gang roamed the city, usually at night, robbing and beating lone, typically well-to-do gentlemen. They were generally discontented youth with no prospects. How in the world had Maxwell garnered their attention after a scant three days in town?

“Why me?”

“Dunno. Orders were to kill or maim you. Told us you were a cripple, for Christ’s sake.”

At the word “cripple,” Maxwell ground his boot, inciting an airless groan and continued writhing. “I’m hardly a cripple. Now, I want a name.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t talk.” Maxwell forced a casualness he didn’t feel into his voice and ran a finger down the blade of his dagger for show. He’d seen enough death to last a lifetime and didn’t relish taking a life.

“If I answer, you’ll let me go?”

Maxwell eased the pressure on the man’s throat. “If it’s a truthful one, yes.”

“Danny McAfee.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He’s naught but twenty and leads the whole gang.” More than a hint of acrimony colored the man’s voice.

Had the youthful uprising of out-of-work apprentices unbalanced the natural order of things in the underbelly of Edinburgh? “Who does McAfee answer to?”

“No one.”

Maxwell narrowed his eyes. It was unlikely that McAfee rose to the top of the heap on his own. Still, the information should be easily obtained. Maxwell removed his foot. The man rubbed at his throat with both hands and took heaving breaths.

“I would recommend that you take a moment to gather yourself and exit at the opposite end of the alley. I’ll not be so forgiving if you follow me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, sir. I’ll not follow you, sir.” The man’s nod was comically emphatic. Maxwell believed him. For now. Given another chance and more money, he would return.

Maxwell backed away, keeping his eyes on his adversary. The man sat up but otherwise didn’t move. After putting a fair distance between them, Maxwell turned and forced an even gait. Out of danger and with the excitement ebbing, his side throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He pulled off a glove and pressed a shaky hand against the wound. His fingers came away bloody.

* * * * *

Expecting a shaming, Bryn joined Mrs. Winslow for tea. After all, Mrs. Winslow was her chaperone, and Bryn deserved a dressing down considering what she’d done with Maxwell and even more so considering what she’d wanted to do with him. Not that she planned to admit as much to Mrs. Winslow.

Bryn’s nerves had her squirming on the settee, waiting for the tray of tea and preparing for the other woman’s condemnation.

What Bryn endured was almost worse.

“—a footman, he was. Of course, I noticed the lad as he hauled my trunk up the stairs. All those bulging muscles. In fact, before he left the room, I noticed something else bulging and gave him—”

Maxwell threw the door open into the drawing room and leaned on the jamb. Bryn shot up, her tea sloshing, hopeful never to learn what Mrs. Winslow had given her brawny footman. The heat prickling her neck eased, and a smile born of relief came naturally.

Something was amiss. Maxwell’s mouth and eyes were tight, and a gray pall marred his tanned complexion. Her smile wiped away, she took his arm. “What’s happened?”

His eyes flared as they stared at one another. His gaze fell away, and he swallowed hard. “I was accosted. A wound on my side needs attention, but at the moment, I would very much appreciate a drink.” His tone was so calm and polite he could have been discussing the weather.

Too much had passed between them, and too much simmered under the surface for her to be fooled. Not caring their chaperone perched on the settee with wide eyes, Bryn took his hand. Blood stained his trembling fingers. She guided him to sit.

“I’ll gather supplies. Mrs. Winslow, could you fetch a tot of brandy?” Bloody linen peeked from a rip in his jacket under his left arm, but she was unable to tell how long or deep it was.

“Have you experience stitching cuts, lass?” His question set her own fingers trembling.

“None, and according to Mary, I’ve a useless hand at embroidery. I’ll send for a physician.”

“No. You do it.”

“Maxwell, no, I—”

“Yes.” He wrapped his hand around her nape and pulled her closer. “We’re likely being watched. I don’t want anyone to witness a physician visiting. You must do it. You birthed a breech babe. Stitching me will be simple. I have faith.”

She feared his faith was misplaced. His hand fell to lie on the cushion, the blood in stark contrast to the cream upholstery. Mrs. Winslow held out a glass with brandy lipping the rim.

“A bit more of a tot, isn’t it, Mrs. Winslow?” The amusement in Maxwell’s voice steadied Bryn’s knees. A mortal injury would surely stymy his bleak humor.

“Being accosted deserves more than a mere tot, Mr. Drake,” Mrs. Winslow said.

“Mayhap you’re correct.”

He took a swallow and heaved a sigh. By the time Bryn had torn a clean sheet into strips and the hot water arrived, the glass was empty. The tightness around his mouth had eased, and his eyes were glassy.

Now that the moment was upon her, Bryn clutched the strips. “Show me the wound.”

Maxwell’s face creased as he struggled with his jacket. Bryn slipped her hands under the jacket, sliding it over his shoulders and off.

“Let me.” She slid the disks free on his waistcoat and performed the same maneuver.

He picked at the torn fabric of his shirt and tried to see the wound. “How could you tell I was hurt?”

“Your eyes, your mouth, the way you moved,” she whispered as her hands gently tugged his shirt from the waistband of his breeches.

“Oh my. I can’t… the blood.” A handkerchief muffled Mrs. Winslow’s voice. Pale, she sidled out of the room but left the door cracked open a foot.

Bryn pushed his shirt upward and eased it off. For a moment the sight of his bare chest held her arrested, his soiled, torn shirt clutched in her hands. But then her attention fixed on his wound, and she felt as sick as Mrs. Winslow had looked but for a different reason. Maxwell might have died.

The gash along his side was long. A little deeper or longer or closer to a vital organ, and they might be calling the undertaker. Blood oozed and trickled down his side in narrow rivulets of bright red. Pressing a folded piece of cloth against the gash, she touched her fingers against his heart. It beat solid and strong. Tears flooded her eyes.

He covered her hand with his and pressed it flat. “You’re going to fix me, aren’t you, lass?”

His skin was warm, the muscles underneath her hand hard and strong. He was counting on her. A shuddery, deep breath gained her a semblance of control, and she nodded.

Cleaning his wound was an arduous process. A multitude of fabric threads were stuck in the dried blood around and inside the wound, and as gentle as she tried to be, he flinched. Carefully extracting everything she could see, she poured a small amount of brandy over the top for good measure. He hissed. The worst was yet to come. She filled his glass again and waited until he’d drank a good portion down.

“Do it. I’ve been through worse with my leg.”

The needle wavered in her fingers. She held her next breath, pinched the skin, and took her first stitch. He groaned through his teeth.

Seeing him in distress only increased the tremble in her hands. Maxwell emptied the glass and laid his head back with a dark chuckle. “I’ve gone soft. I had to stitch myself up a time or two.”

“I wouldn’t say you’ve gone soft.” Bryn touched a thin white scar along his ribs. He shifted, the muscles flexing.

Maxwell’s head lolled back on the settee, and Bryn snuck glances at him as she continued her work, but the brandy seemed to have done its job.

As she took the last stitch, he asked, “Do you think about that night in Cragian?”

Bryn froze before coming to her senses and tying off the thread. “Sometimes.”

A lie. She thought of their night together so often she worried she’d embellished the memory.

Maxwell gave a mirthless laugh. “‘Sometimes,’ she says, ‘Sometimes.’ That night haunts me.”

Her heart spurred, and her face flushed. “The brandy has gone to your head.”

“Perhaps.” His voice was dreamy and faraway, his eyes barely open. “You told everyone that you’re no great beauty. Balderdash. Why wouldn’t that cretin Armstrong kill to have you in his bed? I might consider it if our positions were reversed.” He listed farther over onto the settee, his head pillowed on a throw.

The daft man couldn’t hold his liquor worth a quid. She touched her hair, the bane of youth. A ball of warm feelings in her chest muted the varied and numerous insults her sister had unleashed so many times they’d scored her heart.

His chest rose and fell with deep breaths. The shot of fear at how close he’d come to death was tempered by relief. He would have to bow out of the night’s foolish errand with his injury. Perhaps the attack was a blessing in disguise. She pressed a clean linen bandage on the wound and worked long strips around his waist to keep it in place.

“Why can’t you see your beauty, Bryn?”

His voice startled her. A fixed intensity banished the faraway look in his hazel eyes.

“No one noticed me in Mary’s shadow. All the lads thought the sun rose and set with her—even you.”

“I was a fool.” No small amount of regret lurked in his voice. “Mary’s beauty fades as yours blooms.”

Could he be right? Was that why Mary had never given her a proper introduction into Society? This time when Maxwell’s eyes closed, they stayed closed. A snuffling snore soon followed.

Bryn covered him with a blanket but stayed on her knees at his side. She allowed her fingers to play in his hair and trace his bottom lip. She had used him poorly in Cragian, too innocent to predict the events she would spin into motion. Yet it was difficult to summon the proper regret when he kissed her or talked of her as if he considered her worth fighting for.

She laid a hand over her belly. What would happen if she wasn’t carrying his babe? Her heart wept. Leaving him would break it. Somewhere along the road to Edinburgh, she had fallen from childhood infatuation into love with him.