Chapter Twenty-two

Maxwell stepped into the billiard room, a tingle setting his nerves on edge. Albert MacShane leaned against the window sash in the far corner, looking out into the dark. His late entrance and early exit had raised alarms. But the final piece to the puzzle had been his slight limp.

As soon as the brandy had been passed around, Maxwell wasted no time in approaching Albert. The man snipped the end of a cigar.

“Lord MacShane, I was hoping to join you, but I’m afraid I’m fresh out.” Maxwell projected what he hoped was an open, honest air while MacShane rifled his jacket for another cigar.

“Certainly. My pleasure.” MacShane fumbled the handoff and apologized profusely.

Maxwell ran it under his nose and sniffed. Mild, expensive, familiar. “An excellent cigar.”

“Mother detests the habit, but smoking helps settle my nerves.”

“Are you nervous now, my lord?” Maxwell said blandly.

“No, of course not. Why would I be?” The tremble in his hands as he lit a match belied his words.

“The officers in my unit would smoke this same type of cigar before battles.” Maxwell made no move to light the cigar. “The smell brings back memories.”

“Good or bad ones?”

“Like most of life, some of both. Tell me, Lord MacShane, how did you hurt your leg? Did you fall off the side of a building perchance?”

The man swayed and grabbed the back of the nearest chair. “What are you going to do? Have me arrested? K-kill me? It was foolish, but mother insisted. Oh Christ—”

“Calm yourself, MacShane. I’m not plotting revenge against you.” Maxwell interrupted when heads swiveled in their direction.

“For what it’s worth, the night I sh-shot at you, I didn’t even mean to hit you. I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. I was a nervous wreck.”

Was that news supposed to console him? “Is what’s in our father’s will worth killing me over?”

“I don’t know,” Albert said heavily.

“What?” Stupefaction sailed Maxwell’s voice higher. “Are you telling me you haven’t read it either?”

“Mother’s kept it under lock and key. Told me not to worry, that I was heir to the house and fortune. I didn’t think anything of it, to be honest, until you came calling. She went around the bend after you and Miss McCann left.”

“Did you follow us that day and ambush us in the forest?”

“No, of course not.” Horror-tinged surprise was written large on his face, even though he himself had shot at Maxwell the night before.

Although it would have tied things up neatly, Albert’s amateurish attempt on his life didn’t align with the ferocious attack in the forest.

It seemed Albert was after the same thing he was. Information. “Did you locate the will in Pickett’s office?”

“I pulled all the files out of the cabinets, checked his desk drawers. Nothing.”

“Did you check on top of his desk?” Maxwell asked drily.

“Mother had warned him you might come calling. Why would he leave it out for anyone to see?”

Maxwell barked a humorless laugh. “A quick tip: don’t leave your estate to start a career as a thief or assassin.”

“Bloody hell, I won’t, Mr. Drake. You have my word. The past few weeks have taken a decade off my life. All I want is to go home and study my plants. I have some interesting experiments going on in my greenhouse that need attention.”

“That’s for the best, I’d say.”

“I plan to get my hands on Father’s will one way or another.” Albert chewed on the inside of his mouth and cast him a look from under his lashes. “If you would like, I’ll make notes of the pertinent parts and send them on to you.”

“Why would you do that for me?” Although Maxwell didn’t consider Albert a threat to his life, neither was he ready to bestow his trust.

“You’re my brother.” The simple statement skewered Maxwell.

For years he’d secretly wished for MacShane the elder to acknowledge him. He’d wanted a family. He’d wanted a brother. But he’d given up on such foolish dreams during sleepless, hungry nights in their cottage. He opened his mouth, but words failed him.

Albert had no such misgivings. “Miss McCann sung your praises at dinner tonight, minus a rather ominous threat as to your abilities to maim a man. I fear I’ve judged you based on Mother’s opinion, and I’m coming to understand she’s unable to be objective where you’re concerned.”

“What exactly did Miss McCann say about me?” The words were out before Maxwell could stop them. Albert’s eyebrows rose in a mirror image of his own, and Maxwell’s breath caught painfully.

Albert only smiled. “I appreciate your forgiveness and understanding, Mr. Drake.”

“Call me Maxwell.”

“And I’m Albert.” They shook hands. “I’ll take my leave now. I have a feeling I might get my first decent night’s sleep in an age.”

Could they perhaps become friends? The odd turn of events tipped Maxwell off-balance and made him fear their plans wouldn’t withstand the unexpected.

Maxwell maneuvered to the earl and Mr. Masterson, who were at the mantle in discussion.

“Drake. Did you make a new friend?” The earl swirled the brandy in his glass, his eyes twinkling.

“Mayhap I did. Although the blighter did try to kill me.”

“Lord MacShane was the mysterious pistol-wielding man in the alley?”

“None other. And he was the intrepid burglar that mucked up Pickett’s office. He claims the shenanigans were all his mother’s doing, and I tend to believe him. All poor old Albert wants to do is go home to his greenhouse.”

Mr. Masterson asked, “What about the will? Did he clue you in to its contents?”

“He hasn’t read it either, if you can believe it.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” the earl said.

“His dear mama has kept it under lock and key. He’s promised to obtain a copy and send me the pertinent parts, but I’m not sure he’s strong enough to wrest it from her hands.”

“Dear Lord, I worry for the future with the number of milksops running around.” The earl’s mouth tightened with real annoyance.

“Let’s look at the bright side. One faction out to kill me has been eliminated.”

Raucous laughter and a fist pounding on a nearby table drew their attention. Sutherland sat in an armchair flanked by Craddock and a local magistrate. Armstrong and a handful of others formed a semicircle around them.

“But what about the vote? Men will decide at the polls.”

Sutherland flicked a hand. “I’ll help the men decide. Most of them don’t care as long as their families stay fed and warm through the winter. Craddock has Dumfries well in hand, and I own Edinburgh,” he said with such relish that Maxwell imagined him with a conquering army. “And if we can clear up a little matter soon, we’ll control even more.”

The slight glance between Sutherland and Dugan Armstrong hit Maxwell like a gunshot.

Sutherland rose gracefully and announced, “I believe it’s time to rejoin the lovely ladies in the drawing room, gentlemen.”

* * * * *

Bryn stood in the corner of the drawing room and wished she could call for the carriage and go home. But tonight wasn’t about her comfort. She had to keep her eyes and ears open. The trouble was Mary had given her the cut direct, which had emboldened the ladies of Edinburgh to do the same. Not that Bryn blamed the ladies for following Mary’s lead. Any woman who treated her with a modicum of kindness would be subjected to Mary’s sharp tongue.

Mrs. Winslow, who had circulated in Edinburgh for several weeks now, was still included in conversations, but it was stilted. The women gathered on settees or at card tables, laughing and talking, and were doing such a good job ignoring her that Bryn felt invisible. She was a child again, on the outside looking in.

But was being invisible so bad? She could slip out with everyone none the wiser and perhaps discover what Mary and Craddock had promised Dugan. If she could unravel the betrothal, she’d be free.

She meandered to the door and out. The plans Penny had drawn up had been thorough and clear. She bypassed the staircase and tiptoed down a dim hallway to the last door on the left. Pressing her ear against the cool wood, she heard nothing and cracked it open. Sutherland’s study was empty.

First, learning from Albert’s mistake, she riffled through the papers out on the desk. Nothing pertaining to her and Dugan’s marriage, but she did find a list of names she recognized with a number associated with each man. All the men listed were either peers or political appointees. A few were crossed through with a thin black line. Bryn hesitated and then folded the paper and tucked it down her bodice, well into her stays.

All but one of the drawers of his desk were locked, and the one that wasn’t contained nothing of interest. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a handful of pictures. There had to be a hiding place somewhere. She spun, examining the space. Her eye caught on a vibrant oil painting of a woman in dishabille. It was lovely and tasteful but stood out because it was so different from the rather mundane watercolors.

On instinct, she ran her fingers along the edge of the frame. A small lever clicked, and the picture swung open on well-oiled hinges. A wooden box was built into the wall with an elaborate locking mechanism. Her heart accelerated. She hadn’t expected to get this far. Now what?

Footsteps in the hall rippled panic through her like thrown pebbles in a puddle. She secured the picture and darted to a full-length corner wardrobe. Taking a deep breath, she pushed inside and closed it as the study door opened.

Whoever had entered was being very quiet. Was it Maxwell? Or Penny? She pressed her eye to the narrow crack where the hinges attached, but it was well jointed. So much so, very little light seeped into the darkness.

What if the door jammed? Would she suffocate and die? Was this to be her coffin? Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths and imagined herself in the Cragian stable under the hay.

Noises penetrated her spiraling terror. Men’s voices, muffled but growing louder. The doors to the wardrobe opened, and a big body pressed in. She lashed out, catching the man on the shoulder. A whispered epitaph stilled her.

She breathed his name, “Maxwell.”

He shushed her.

Several men poured into the room. Only a few planks of wood separated them from a fate she didn’t want to contemplate.

Maxwell slipped an arm around her waist and aligned himself behind her. It was a tight fit. Clothing hung behind and around them, and the corner of a shelf poked into her leg. If this were to be her coffin, at least she shared it with the man she loved.

“…and Brynmore McCann.”

At her name, her attention turned outward. Had that been Dugan’s voice? Or Craddock’s?

“How difficult is it to kill one man?” Sutherland’s voice was no longer charming and hospitable, but sharp and intimidating.

“He decimated the two men you hired. One thought he’d managed to slip a knife in his ribs, but the blackguard looked healthy enough tonight.” Definitely Dugan, and he’d moved closer. A bang shook the side of the wardrobe, and she stifled a gasp with her hand.

“Let’s approach the situation from a different angle. If we can’t dispose of Drake, we take the girl instead.” Sutherland again.

“You’ve got a vicar in attendance, don’t you?” A zealot’s excitement colored Dugan’s voice. “If I can get her upstairs, would he perform the ceremony?”

“Of a certainty. I’ve his bollocks on my desk.” That elicited a laugh among the men. How many? At least four, including Sutherland and Dugan. “But you’re impatient, Armstrong. That’s your weakness. She has protectors tonight. Would she come quietly?”

“Not likely,” Dugan said.

Sutherland spoke again. “Let her go home tonight and settle back into her routine. Surely she goes shopping or visiting with that dotty chaperone. What do you say, McAfee? Can your boys handle a snatching?”

Maxwell tensed behind her as a rough voice answered, “Aye, they can, sir. What’re the rules? Can they have a taste before handing her over?”

“No fucking her. But she deserves some punishment for letting Drake take her, don’t you think?” Dugan’s words made her head swim, and she clutched at the arm circling her waist. Of course she’d known he was cruel, but she hadn’t guessed the extent of his depravity.

“It might even make her grateful to be handed over to you. You can ride in and save her from McAfee’s boys. You’ll have her on her knees in thanks.” Sutherland’s voice contained a salaciousness that made her feel dirty.

“Drake doesn’t seem the type to sit idle waiting for a ransom note. You’ll need to get her wedded and bedded with haste.” Sutherland was on the move, his voice not as close. “Gentleman, please stay to finish your drinks. McAfee, I expect you two can find your way out discreetly after you’ve finished. Come with me, Dugan.”

With Sutherland and Dugan gone, the discussion lost its seriousness and veered into horse racing and the possibility of a game of whist later. The tension ebbed out of her body. They only needed to wait until the men moved on. With Maxwell with her, her fears stayed manageable.

The feel of Maxwell pressed against her from shoulders to knees edged out the blur of conversation. The darkness was no longer menacing but enveloped her like a protective cloak.

Tactile awareness mounted—Maxwell’s breath stirring the hair at her temple, warm and tickling, the slight stubble of his jaw rasping erotically against her cheek, and the strength of his forearm around her waist.

His thighs flexed against her as he slid a foot between her own. Awareness of the hardness pressing into her buttocks came with a sudden clarity. He wanted her despite the peril. Or perhaps because of it?

Danger rubbed her senses raw, every stimulus dancing the edge of pleasure and pain. She arched her back and wiggled her bottom. His arm turned to stone around her waist. He tilted her forward and traced his fingertips along the delicate line of her collarbone.

Desire blossomed like a moonflower, showing its beauty in the darkness. His lips fell to her cheekbone, and a sizzle streaked along the path he trekked to the delicacy of her ear. A moan welled up. He circled his hand around her throat to silence her.

Madness. Utter and complete madness. Men who would be happy to rip Maxwell limb from limb and were planning on abducting and defiling her sat mere feet away. Yet passion flared. He roved his hands from her throat to her collarbone to the swells of her breasts. With each pass, he delved farther inside her bodice, until his finger grazed over a budded nipple, and she quivered.

She slipped a hand between their bodies to glance over his erection. His sharp intake of breath and the buck of his hips grew her confidence. One of his hands stayed to tease her nipple, squeezing gently, while the other gathered the fabric of her skirts.

The sensation of the fabric brushing her skin made her squirm. His hand branded her thigh. She turned her head and nuzzled his jaw. He took her mouth in a kiss that stripped away reality. The wardrobe fell away. They could have been standing on a heather-covered hillock with a star-filled night sky that stretched to forever.

His hand didn’t stay idle. Wantonly, she slipped her legs farther apart and prayed he’d find the slit of her drawers. He did. His touch was light. She needed more and compressed her lips to keep from begging. Still grasping his erection, she squeezed him. Like prodding a horse, he jerked, and his finger slipped through wet heat. He bucked his hips into her hand and buried his face in her neck.

But he gave her want she demanded. He rubbed her sensitive bundle of nerves with his thumb as a finger pressed inside of her. The rhythm he set was slow and decadent. A tiny part of her brain was attuned to the men outside the wardrobe, but they had grown quiet. No, not just quiet but silent. She and Maxwell were alone. She surrendered.

She covered his hand with her own and pressed him deeper as her body clenched and pleasure spiked. She clutched at his erection, wanting it to replace his fingers more than she’d ever wanted anything. Too much cloth stood in her way.

Even though the men had left, the two of them stayed pressed together in the wardrobe. He played along her slick, aroused folds before removing his hand. Her skirts fell to the floor as her body clenched around nothing, unsatisfied.

The unwelcome voice of reality intruded from outside the wardrobe. “Drake?”