Chapter Twenty

Maxwell was furious. This was the second time they’d been shot at, not to mention the incident in the alley. Him dying was one thing, but he wouldn’t allow Bryn to be hurt. His move to the stone wall was swift and silent. The clash of boots in retreat reverberated out of the nearest alley. He edged along the wall in darkness untouched by moonlight.

Based on the report and where both bullets hit, one next to the door buried in the stone and one grazing his arm, his would-be assassin had lain in wait across the street and retreated down the alley.

He slowed and took a quick look around. Deserted. A glow on the ground to his right drew his eye. He dropped to his haunches. A half-smoked cigar. The stubs of two others had been discarded close by. He sniffed. He had never enjoyed cigars, but several of the officers and his comrades partook to pass the idle hours or to calm their nerves before battle.

Sniffing again, he closed his eyes. This brand was favored by the officers, mild and expensive. Interesting. After stubbing out the cigar and slipping it into his pocket, he followed the alley and stopped at the mouth, a wider street stretching to either side.

He cocked his head, listening. The man was close. Now to flush him out. Maxwell picked up a rock and pelted it across the street. It hit a shutter, the clang echoing. His prey got spooked.

Movement blurred on his left. Maxwell pursued as quickly as his damnable leg would allow. The man moved fast, and the distance between them grew, a greatcoat concealing his build. They moved inexorably toward the richest part of the city. Finally the man outpaced him, and Maxwell stopped giving chase, winded but satisfied.

He’d gathered valuable information. The man was well-off. He wore quality garments and smoked fine cigars. Subterfuge did not come naturally to him. When scared, the man had headed toward home, which was not Thomas’s neck of the woods. Also, although not as prominent or inhibiting as Maxwell’s, the man had a limp, suggesting he was the man who’d ransacked Pickett’s office.

Maxwell meandered back to the alley and recreated the shots. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the door to the town house, as good as drawing a bull’s-eye. Either the man missed on purpose, he didn’t have the stomach for killing, or he was an abysmal shot. That alley was no more than twenty feet from their front door.

As he limped across the street, the door swung open, framing Bryn. She would have made a terrible spy. Emotions flit across her face and reflected in her body language. Artifice was her sister’s strength; Bryn’s was honesty.

And right now she was mad as hell.

As he gained the entrance, she launched herself at him, punching him on his grazed arm and again in the belly.

“What the devil, woman?”

“Don’t you ever. Do. That. Again!” She punctuated each word with a slap or jab.

They scuffled a moment in the entry until Maxwell corralled her wrists in one of his hands. Rousing the household would lead to awkward questions.

Frog marching her into the study, he closed the door with his foot and pinned her against it. It seemed incongruous that not even an hour ago, they had been in a similar position under entirely different circumstances.

“You are a total and complete dolt. Why did you run after an armed man? You could have been killed.” At least she had the good sense to keep her voice down.

“For the love… Stop kicking me. You’re hurting my leg.”

She stopped kicking but twisted and bucked against him. Her lithe body aroused a physical response. One he was sure would earn him a knee in a very sensitive area. He let her go and stepped away.

“I wasn’t in any real danger.” While ultimately true, that fact had been less clear when he’d set off after the man. “The man had fired twice, and odds were he didn’t have any shots left. Anyway, he made his escape before I gave chase.”

The man’s noisy retreat added to the mounting evidence pointing to a layman. An experienced criminal would have been quieter and more careful not to leave anything behind.

“What if he’d had friends waiting and led you into a trap? What if he’d skewered you as you came out of the alley?” The tremulous quality of her voice told him more of her worries than her words.

“You have a bloodthirsty imagination.” He rubbed a piece of her hair between his fingers and was gratified she didn’t pull away. “I’m fine.”

“I can see you’re not fine, Drake.” She touched his elbow.

Between the cold and the energy that had pumped through him at the first gunshot, he’d forgotten about his arm. Now that she’d reminded him, it throbbed in punishment. Not only his arm but his leg as well. He’d pushed himself beyond his limits this evening. Before his injury, he would have caught his would-be assassin. It was frustrating.

“I would appreciate some help cleaning my wound.” When she crossed her arms in response, he added, “Please? I’ll make a muck of it.”

Her eyes softened even though her stance remained rigid. “I suppose I can’t let you die of fever. Go pour yourself a tot of liquor.”

She left, and he did as he was told. After downing his more-than-a-tot of brandy in two swallows, he pulled off his shirt, wincing at the sting on his arm. Another shirt ruined. A few more attempts on his life and a shirt order from the tailor would be required. He laughed softly to himself, a sure sign the brandy was taking effect.

Time passed. Bryn returned with a basin of water and clean linens and knelt at his feet.

“Are you still mad at me, lass?” All he needed was an angry, impassioned woman with her hands on his wound.

“Yes,” she said shortly.

But he needn’t have worried. She was gentle, her ministrations almost soothing.

“It’s shallow and clean. No need for stitches.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at him.

The brandy had warmed him from the inside. His hand, disconnected from any conscious thought, caressed her cheek, and her lashes dropped as she leaned into his touch. The same hand made a trek to her hair, sifting through the silk.

He stretched his bad leg out straight, muffling a groan.

She tilted her head. “Your leg pains you.”

It was a statement and not a question, so he didn’t feel obliged to answer. He closed his eyes, wanting to ask—beg was more like—her to ease the pain, but he was unable to get the words out. Asking for help exposed his weakness.

But it seemed she was a mind reader. She kneaded his leg around the old wound. He watched through barely open eyes. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth as she concentrated on healing him. Her hands were magic. She was magic.

No, if tonight proved anything, she was flesh and blood. He’d taken her like a man possessed in the whorehouse. She should have been furious with him. And she had been. But not about the act itself. It had been his bumbling, pompousness afterward. His insistence on marriage.

Now that pain wasn’t his companion, a wave of exhaustion swamped him. Why didn’t she want to bear his name and children? Was he not good enough? The question circled his head, finding no answer, until he drifted to sleep.

* * * * *

The next day dawned gray and ominous. After the long, harrowing night, Bryn didn’t awake until early afternoon. The gloom kept her abed. The old Bryn would have never lolled in bed so late. Of course, the old Bryn would have never done many of the things she’d done over the past weeks.

Preparations for Sutherland’s dinner party would begin in earnest in a few hours. Part of her wanted to seek out Maxwell, wondering how deep his regrets had grown after their passionate encounter. But there was no use trying to ferret out his feelings. He buried them so deeply she wasn’t even sure he understood them.

So she avoided him and concentrated on writing a letter to her grandmother, worrying over every word. How much should she reveal to a woman she didn’t know? Bryn wanted to believe the best of her grandmother, but recent events had taught her to question everyone’s motivations.

Moreover, she didn’t want to increase any guilt her grandmother carried. What could Bryn say about her mother and father? Her father had been detached but not cruel. Her mother had seemed content with her lot, although what did a five-year-old understand about marital contentment?

As she sealed the envelope with wax, Mrs. Winslow gave a perfunctory knock and strolled through her door, Gertie on her heels.

“It’s time to get dressed and coiffed, my dear.”

“Already?” Their departure for Sutherland’s was a good two hours away.

“There’s much work to be done.” Mrs. Winslow eyed her critically.

Her eyes wide with questions, Gertie whispered, “Elspeth?”

Bryn shook her head. “No news yet, but Mr. Pendleton is aware.”

Gertie seemed satisfied, even though Bryn questioned whether she should or could do more.

There was no time to plan. Gertie laced Bryn’s stays tight and plucked her eyebrows. An attempt was even made to curl her hair. It went poorly. Finally Mrs. Winslow declared it a lost cause, and Bryn heaved a huge sigh of relief as Gertie laid the hot tongs aside.

“Curls may be in fashion, but your beauty is timeless.” Mrs. Winslow paced around her, looking this way and that, then finally snapping her fingers in triumph. “Braids. Here and here, and then wind them together and pin here.”

Bryn endured the painful tugging, hoping the result would be something more sophisticated than usual. She wanted to do Maxwell proud.

Gertie held out the midnight-blue dress, and Bryn stepped in. It only took a few adjustments before she was taped and tied. Mrs. Winslow twirled her finger in the air, and Bryn dutifully spun for a final examination.

“My dear, Mr. Drake will be stunned by your beauty.”

Bryn stepped closer to the looking glass. The transformation wasn’t magic. She still looked like herself but a different version. A prettier version.

The braids highlighted the varied hues of her hair, and pinning them up exposed her neck. The blue color complemented her skin tone and hair. Bryn skimmed her hand over the swells of her breasts. Never had she worn a dress that exposed so much.

The sleeves hugged the curve of her shoulders, leaving the rest of her chest bare. The back scooped to the bottom of her shoulder blades, and for some reason when she turned around to examine herself, it was almost as shocking as the front.

New silk stockings with pretty garters and matching kid slippers completed her ensemble. The tactile sensations of her silken legs rubbing and the rustle of the flowing gossamer dress reminded her of intimacies with Maxwell. For the first time she understood the power Mary wielded. Some of that power surged through Bryn. The dress was a talisman.

She pulled on elbow-length gloves and made her way to the drawing room. The murmur of male voices drifted out. Nerves bundled like kindling in her stomach.

She glided to the doorway, hoping to slip in without any fuss, but the conversation stopped and the gentlemen rose in unison, greeting her in silence. Maxwell cut a strikingly masculine figure. His dark hair was combed back and tamed with a touch of pomade, his aristocratic features on display. He was dressed in all black and white with a simple cravat. The coat emphasized his broad shoulders, and his breeches were cut close, his muscular thighs apparent.

The continued silence made her doubt what she’d seen in the looking glass. Had she grown spotty?

“Come now, I don’t look that different, do I?”

* * * * *

The uncertainty in her voice prompted Maxwell to offer a compliment, but he was frozen, only able to swallow weakly.

Did she look different? Yes, but not better, because nothing was as tempting as Bryn in her breeches, but… different. She was a woman in the gown, and as he’d surmised, the color was exquisite on her. The gauzy overlay sparkled in the candlelight. Her hair was up in braids, and his gaze traveled the long distance of her neck to explore the curves and shadows of her bosom.

His conclusion was unarguable. Her breasts were perfect, beautifully pale and quivering slightly on each indrawn breath. Torture was knowing that her concealed dusky nipples were just as perfect.

Lionel bestowed compliments, and the earl stepped forward to press a kiss on her gloved hand. Instead of gallantry, Maxwell wanted to throw her over his shoulder and repeat the madness that had infected him at Molly’s.

But he’d promised himself he would not allow another transgression of the sort—unless they were wed. He clenched the back of the chair to keep himself from pouncing.

Like a clodpoll, he only managed to choke out, “You look nice,” in a rusty, harsh voice.

Disappointment and hurt flashed over her face, and he had the urge to drop to his knees and apologize, but he stood, lips compressed, doing his best to dam his emotions.

Mrs. Winslow entered the room in a flourish of red velvet, dissipating the awkwardness. Her dress was cut scandalously low, and the earl looked as stunned as Maxwell felt, but in contrast, he almost tripped over his feet to press a kiss on the merry widow’s hand.

“You look ravishing this evening, Edie.”

“Why, thank you, David. You look rather ravishing yourself.” The earl blinked a few times and then burst out laughing, his eyes twinkling.

He offered Edie his arm, which she took graciously, and said, “Shall we? We have much to accomplish this evening.”

Bryn’s chin was up and her shoulders back. The only chink in her confidence was the way her gloved fingers twisted together. Lionel cleared his throat. Maxwell stared at Bryn.

Lionel muttered, “Good Lord, Drake,” before stepping forward and offering Bryn his arm. She took it with a smile and a slicing glance in his direction.

He was an idiot, and he’d better figure out where his brains were hiding before they arrived at Sutherland’s, or his life—and maybe Bryn’s—would be forfeit. The thought was sobering enough to move his feet toward the carriages.

* * * * *

Disappointment wilted Bryn like a flower. Whatever power she had felt reflected back at her in the looking glass had been false. It was all so confusing. How could Maxwell be frosty and distant one moment, then explode with a heated passion the next?

Mr. Masterson patted her hand and whispered, “You’ve got poor Mr. Drake in knots, my dear.”

Startled, she glanced over to see his gray eyes twinkling merrily. “I believe you’re very much mistaken, Mr. Masterson.”

“He was stunned. Some men are not good at expressing themselves, but never doubt that such a man feels as keenly as the most verbose poet.”

Mr. Masterson handed her into the second carriage to join Mrs. Winslow. The men entered the other.

“I was sorry to miss your entrance, dear. What did our Mr. Drake have to say?” Mrs. Winslow smoothed her gloves and fiddled with her curls.

“He said—and let me make sure I quote him exactly—‘you look nice.’”

Mrs. Winslow’s eyes widened. “Oh my. He is smitten.”

“He seemed completely unaffected, I assure you.”

“Seemed being the key word. Look at you. For goodness’ sake, you are beyond nice. He was too in awe to think of a more appropriate compliment. He’s stingy with his words in the easiest of contexts. Imagine if he’s flummoxed.”

First Mr. Masterson and now Mrs. Winslow. Were they right? She had little time to mull over the issue. The carriage rumbled to a halt in front of a majestic house. Lanterns lit the walkway and up to the door. Sutherland’s residence mimicked a neoclassical Greek style. Columns flanked the entry topped by intricate scrollwork.

She picked apart the plan. So many things could go wrong. Mrs. Winslow’s job was to distract Sutherland after dinner. Maxwell and Penny were to obtain the marriage contract. Lionel would then meet them in the gardens to decipher the fine legal points of the document. Then they would all make an escape, and Penny would return the contract.

Apparently, Bryn was expected to hold up a wall while everyone else exposed themselves to danger on her behalf. After the foolishness of her nighttime foray, she hadn’t protested her exclusion, yet the unfairness settled like an ugly stain she couldn’t quite rub out.

A footman handed Bryn out of the carriage. The modernity of the sprawling town house made the manor house in Cragian seem medieval. She squinted to make out the details of an elaborately etched fanlight. A strong hand took hers and guided it to a hard arm.

Maxwell glared stoically ahead, fairly stomping into the entry where a staid, dignified butler waited. Maxwell slipped her cloak off, his hands lingering a heartbeat longer than was proper on her collarbones. Her breath caught, and she held still, but he only handed off her cloak and divested himself of his outerwear.

Waiting for the butler to announce them, he leaned to whisper, “You look bloody gorgeous, and I want to peel that dress off you inch by inch.”

It was a wickedly delicious thing to say. And unexpected. Her ears buzzed, and heat bloomed through her body, accompanied by a surge of satisfaction and desire.

The large drawing room was understated in its elegance. Soft greens and blues made the space feel both masculine and feminine. Clean lines dominated—no flounces or ruffles in sight.

At the announcement of their names, everyone turned to examine them. Bryn’s gaze flit from one face to another. Strangers. Had the scandal that had brought her and Maxwell together filtered from Cragian to Edinburgh?

A lean, dark-haired gentleman of average height swung a glass of champagne with a grace that matched his saunter. Yet a crackling energy emanated like a racehorse at rest.

The man’s lazy, drawling speech was at odds with his calculating black eyes. “I’m Charles Sutherland. I’ve been most anxious to meet you, Mr. Drake.” He raised his brows, took a sip, and pitched his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “It’s an odd world we live in that a poor, sniveling bastard can rise to such heights, isn’t it? I’m sure you never imagined yourself in such a place.”

The calm, confident manner in which Sutherland delivered his insults demolished any semblance of politeness. Bryn tensed, ready to go on the defensive. Maxwell squeezed her elbow and answered drily, “It hardly compares with the Duke of Bellingham’s, but for Edinburgh, it will do.”

Sutherland’s eyes widened and his mouth tensed. The champagne glass was no longer swinging idly but straining under Sutherland’s clenched hand.

Maxwell continued with a confidence that matched Sutherland. “Nevertheless, I am most grateful for the invitation. With winter upon us, Miss McCann has been bored in town with only her chaperone for company.”

Sutherland turned his gaze on her. She wished he hadn’t. His blatant perusal of her bosom made her want to hunch her shoulders.

“Miss McCann.” He performed a perfunctory bow but didn’t reach for her hand. Good thing too, as her free hand had a death hold on her skirts. She didn’t want to touch him. “Mary led me to believe you were a homely chit. Perhaps Craddock needs to get his wife fitted with spectacles. You’re quite a vision.”

Sutherland turned his head but never broke his gaze from hers. “Lady Mary, Craddock. Come see who has joined my little soiree.”

Rocks tumbled in Bryn’s stomach. The crowd parted for her sister and brother-in-law. Although Mary wore a smile, her color was high and her movements were stiff.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lord and Lady Craddock. I very much enjoyed our visit in Cragian,” Maxwell said with a smoothness that was belied by how tense his arm had turned under her hand.

Mary perused Maxwell like he was a buffet she planned to sample. “Maxwell, my, you’re looking quite fetching this evening. We need to find an alcove and reminisce about old times.” Mary traced the low neckline of her gown with the tip of her fan.

Red burnished Maxwell’s cheekbones. The arrowed glance Mary aimed at Bryn was contemptuous and triumphant. A few weeks ago, Bryn might have yielded the battlefield and planted herself in a corner for the rest of the evening.

A wellspring of anger bubbled up. She raised her chin and forced a half smile. “I find I’ve quite enjoyed Edinburgh, Mary. A shame you never thought to present me. We are accompanied by Earl Windor, lately arrived from London. Have you been introduced?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Mary’s smile qualified more as a grimace.

“Perhaps I can perform introductions. Or not. He’s a busy man, and you and Craddock are barely country nobility.” Although Mary was the master at wielding words as weapons, Bryn had studied Mary’s weaknesses for years and her aim was true. Her longing to climb to the highest reaches of Society was a huge chink in her armor.

“I can’t believe you would deign to show your face in public, my dear, considering your current status.” Venom injected Mary’s voice. She brushed Bryn’s skirt with her fan. “And blue? I would have thought a nice brown would have suited you better. You look like wilted heather.”

Mary’s insults missed their mark. Before she could respond in kind, Maxwell said, “Bryn is the loveliest woman in the room. Every man’s eye is upon her. Including your husband’s.”

Craddock was indeed watching them from a dozen feet away where he’d been waylaid in conversation by a thin, white-haired gentleman. Whether he was actually looking at Bryn wasn’t clear, but the seed Maxwell planted sprouted, and Mary stalked off.

“That was quite untrue. But appreciated.” Bryn gave his arm a squeeze.

Maxwell huffed. “It was the absolute truth.”

The two of them moved farther into the room. Maxwell was acquainted with several gentlemen through his investment venture, and the gentlemen and their wives greeted her warmly as he performed introductions.

During the mindless chitchat, she mulled over the possibility of Mary and Craddock complicating their plans.

“Mr. Dugan Armstrong.” The butler’s announcement wrapped a cold fist around her heart. The sip of champagne in her mouth soured.

The lady beside her leaned in as if imparting a secret. “Ah, Mr. Armstrong. Are you acquainted with him? The poor man was thrown over the day before his wedding. He was to marry some poor country chit out of the goodness of his heart, and she ran off. Lady Craddock’s half sister. Can you imagine? The girl must be mad.”

“Perhaps not mad,” Bryn said, “just angry.”

“I can’t imagine it. Mr. Armstrong is so handsome and genial.”

Making her excuses to the woman who thought her mad, she sidled over to Maxwell, seeking his strength and protection instinctively. He had become her stable in times of need. A glance at her face had him scanning the room for the cause.

Armstrong weaved through the drawing room, his destination clear. Bryn tucked herself close to Maxwell and braced for the confrontation.