Chapter Twenty-four

Having Bryn out of his sight and his protection settled like an itch he couldn’t scratch. This evening had revealed how precarious their situation was. His desperation after discovering her absence had been terrifying in more ways than one. He’d felt like he’d lost an arm or a leg or a… heart.

Maxwell turned to the vicar. “For obvious reasons, Bryn and I told your daughter we were married as we traveled together. Quite out of necessity, I might add. We were accosted on the road by Sutherland’s lackeys, which is how we ended up begging shelter that fateful night.”

“Goodness, he wants the lass badly.” A flash of fear showed in the vicar’s eyes before he stood up straighter. “What can I do?”

Maxwell stumbled over his next words. “I… Well, I’m hoping you’ll indeed perform a marriage ceremony. Tomorrow. I need it legal and binding, sir.”

“What about this betrothal contract? Does it exist?”

“Aye, unfortunately, it does, but with the mounting evidence that Armstrong means Bryn harm, surely we can circumvent it—in court if necessary.”

“An English court perhaps but not one in Edinburgh. I’m not sure you realize how far Sutherland’s arms reach into this city. I’ll most likely pay dearly for this display of mutiny,” the vicar said. “You as well, Mr. Drake.”

“Perhaps a visit to your daughter is in order until it blows over.”

The vicar smiled. “Yes, a fine idea. I’ll leave tomorrow after I make your union official.”

“Thank you, sir.” The two men shook hands.

A moment of doubt assailed Maxwell. Would Bryn agree or stare at him as if he’d grown devil horns? She might not like it, but she would marry him on the morrow. For her safety and his sanity.

“Lord Craddock and Mr. Armstrong look ready to do battle, Mr. Drake.” The vicar took sidestepped toward the door.

Maxwell glanced over his shoulder to see Craddock and Armstrong descending the stairs like two bulls. “Go on, Vicar. Until the morning.”

The vicar moved faster than his spindly legs and belly would suggest.

“Where is it?” Armstrong bit out with no prelude.

“Where’s what?” Maxwell blanked his expression. Lessons from bluffing his way through checkpoints during his days as an exploring officer were at his fingertips.

“You bloody well know what we want—the betrothal papers. I’ll sue for breach of contract.” Armstrong raised his clenched hands, and Maxwell readied himself in case a punch came.

“You’re welcome to try, but any magistrate will find your little machinations to have me murdered quite interesting. At the very least, I’ll ensure your name is dragged through muck, and your schemes will be for naught.” Even though his voice was calm, serene even, Maxwell had the urge to pull the knife from his inside pocket, slit Armstrong’s throat, and watch him bleed out in the middle of Sutherland’s marbled entry hall.

“You’ll not have another peaceful night, Drake.” Armstrong jabbed a finger an inch from Maxwell’s face. Maxwell didn’t so much as flinch. What bullies like Armstrong wanted above all else was people to fear him.

People to fear him. The words went on repeat in his head. But who? He would certainly gain Bryn’s inheritance on marriage, which would widen his reach over a handful of tenants and their sheep. There must be more.

He sketched a bow and retreated. Let them think he was scared and running. The night air cooled the bloodlust singing through his veins. Bryn, the earl, and Mr. Masterson huddled in the cold next to the carriage as Penny’s muttering snaked from underneath.

She looked small and slight next to the two gentlemen. Weak even, if he didn’t know any better. Nothing—not abductions or attacks—had dented the essence of her spirit. Yet if Armstrong and Sutherland and Mary had succeeded in their machinations, would Bryn’s spirit have survived?

A well of emotion rose. He turned away so she wouldn’t glimpse his face and guess at the depth of his feelings. It was bad enough he’d let his guard down in the study trapped in that blasted cabinet. Suppressing this consuming need for her was exhausting.

Penny scooched out from under the carriage, wiping his hands on a rag. “Should get you home safely, but I’d have your stable master examine it on the morrow.”

“Edie is staying warm in my carriage, Drake. Do I need to get her?” The earl’s brows rose.

“No. Propriety is not as important as Bryn’s safety. Let’s leave this place.”

The earl and Mr. Masterson climbed into their carriage. Bryn took her place, and Maxwell sat on the edge of the seat across from her. Flicking open the drapes, he scanned the road and kept his hand on a loaded pistol. No one bothered them, but he could feel the shadowy menaces stalking them. He would defend Bryn. With his life, if necessary.

They gathered in Maxwell’s study on their arrival to peruse the contract. Lionel read out the pertinent parts. Bryn was indeed an heiress. A manor house, twenty thousand pounds, and a good bit of land were hers. Dugan would assume control on their marriage. Perhaps he would petition for a knighthood or barony to solidify his standing.

Yet a piece of the puzzle was missing.

Maxwell dropped into his chair and propped his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling. “Murder, kidnapping… Is this all about Bryn’s inheritance?”

“Money and greed can turn a man’s soul to evil. I’ve seen it. I’ve used the fact to my advantage,” the earl said.

“Maybe so.”

“Wait. I took something from Sutherland’s study.” She presented her back and wiggled and shimmied as she dug around in her bodice. “Here it is.”

She handed over a piece of parchment. Maxwell spread it open on the desk, and all of them bent over to examine it.

“Those are elected officials all through Scotland,” Maxwell said.

“What are the numbers?” Bryn asked. “Bribes?”

Lionel pushed away from the desk and paced, slow and deliberate. “Not bribes. Votes. Each number represents votes. My guess is the ones struck through are politicians they’ve bought. Armstrong wants Bryn’s inheritance not only for the money but the land and votes. He wants standing and respect.”

Maxwell banged his fist on the desk. “Yes. And Sutherland wants to control Scotland from his seat in Edinburgh. He wants the power of a king, the ability to steer the country. He’s just amoral, intelligent, and brash enough to do it. He’s already succeeded in Edinburgh.”

“What’s next?” the earl asked contemplatively rubbing his lip.

Maxwell flicked a glance toward Bryn. “Things will be clearer in the morning, I think.”

Lionel cleared his throat. “Perhaps so. It’s late and cold, and my bones are crying for bed.”

Bryn retreated up the stairs with a backward glance full of secrets. He stared until she faded into the shadows.

The earl trotted down the front steps, but Lionel hesitated. “What are your plans regarding Miss McCann?”

“Bryn and I have an appointment with the vicar tomorrow morning.”

“She’s amenable?”

“I don’t care. She’s marrying me, and that’s the end of it.” His voice was harsh and more than a little desperate.

Lionel’s eyes were kind, and the pat he gave Maxwell on the arm was fatherly. What would life have been like with a man like Lionel in his life? Old regrets and longings pressed and made it difficult to take a breath.

“A word of advice, Drake? Use a bit more tact with Miss Bryn. I was married for many years, quite happily because Betsy’s feelings and opinions were important to me. I didn’t trample them.” Lionel tilted his head. “She loves you, you know.”

Maxwell swallowed. Did he know? Neither of them had spoken of love. She had used him, altered the path of his life. But his new path was sweeter and fuller than the barren road he’d traveled alone.

“And whether you’ve admitted it to yourself or not, you love her.”

“I… I…”

Lionel’s smile was as kind and understanding as his eyes. “You’re a good man, Drake. Be the man that Miss McCann deserves.”

Lionel ducked into the carriage after giving him one long, last look. Maxwell wished he had the experience to interpret everything Lionel seemed to want to impart, but he didn’t.

Stalking back to his study, Maxwell tore his cravat and collar off and braced his hands on his desk, the silence crypt-like. The craving to mark her as his was overwhelming. If not with his babe or a wedding ring, then in some more intangible way. It wasn’t a want but a need. He needed her. He loved her, dammit.

He wasn’t happy about it though. Since leaving Cragian, he’d entombed his heart. Brynmore had snuck into his room at the inn, slipped past his defenses, and breathed life into him.

One careless word or action from her would destroy him. If she understood the power she held over him, she could manipulate and torment him the rest of his days. He wanted to capture her heart and hold it under a knife in retaliation for stealing his away.

He moved up the stairs and stopped in front of the door he had stood in front of so many nights. This time he would enter. He reached for the handle as if his hand belonged to someone else.

Welcome enveloped him on his first step over the threshold. Candles cast a warm glow, and a fire crackled. Bryn rose from a chair by the hearth, wearing a virginal white nightgown made almost translucent by the light behind her. Tied loosely, the gown hung off one shoulder, her red-gold hair licking the delicate white curve of skin like flames. She had never looked more ethereal and otherworldly, her face in shadow, her body lit from within.

Charming, blithe words couldn’t force themselves past the lump in his throat. He didn’t feel charming and blithe. He was vulnerable and fearful and fought the urge to fall to his knees at her feet in surrender.

* * * * *

The fire and the candles aglow around the room highlighted Maxwell’s face. It was almost as if he were scared of her, ready to bolt if she took so much as a step toward him. She held out a hand.

He approached as if he were a wounded animal seeking a balm, stopping within reach yet not touching her. Tentatively, she stroked down his arm, took his hand, and linked their fingers. A squeeze was the reward for her patience. She trailed her other hand up his chest. He’d removed his collar and cravat already, and she curled her hand around his neck, pulling him down to her.

As soon as their lips touched, he came to life, wrapping his arms around her, his grip almost painful. He needed something from her, although she wasn’t sure what. He clutched at her hips, her buttocks, her back, as if trying to pull her inside him. In contrast, she ran her fingers through his hair and down his face, softly, soothingly, calming his fervor.

She shushed him as his mouth careened down her bare shoulder, nipping her and then licking in atonement. Her nightgown rose, the edge tickling past her thighs reminiscent of their interlude in the cabinet, but he didn’t stop. Cloth obscured her sight for a moment, then drifted to the floor in a white heap. His hands were once again frantic on her bare skin.

Her naked body pressed against his fully clothed one in a crazily erotic buffet of sensations. The rasp of the fabric rubbed against her sensitive skin, and buttons bit against her breasts and belly.

Her world tilted and spun as he picked her up and laid her on the bed. He stood looking down on her. His silence, in combination with the intensity of his demeanor, unnerved her. Even after all that had passed between them, she felt naïve and unable to speak her heart.

He attacked the buttons of his waistcoat, peeling it off and letting it fall. His shirt followed. She propped herself up on her elbows. The flickering fire highlighted the play of muscles along his shoulders and arms as he wrestled with boots and breeches. He was beautiful and perfect, and she loved him.

Naked, he stood before her aroused but defiant, looking grim.

Bryn’s eyes pricked with tears. She blinked. Maxwell had stood alone, apart, untrusting for most his life. Painful lessons imparted by Mary had only reinforced his attitude. Would he ever accept he didn’t have to keep himself apart from her?

Bryn reached for him, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He fell on top of her, settling himself between her legs. She tensed, ready and willing, but he didn’t take her.

Instead, he kissed her. No, he claimed and dominated her, but he wouldn’t hurt her. She understood it like she understood the sun would rise every morning. He reached out to close the drapes around the bed, but she brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips.

“No. I want to see you.”

His hand drew into a fist around the velvety fabric. She waited for him to decide. Darkness or light.

He grabbed her hand in his, pressed it into the bed, and buried his face in her neck. “My God, Brynmore, please.” His voice was strangled, almost tortured. Nothing like the smooth, velvety brogue she’d grown used to.

She cupped his cheek and forced him to look at her. His eyes were sad and wet with tears. Forlorn and heartbroken.

“I love you. Maxwell, I love you. Don’t you know that?” she whispered the words over and over. The moment they settled on him, his expression morphed into something primal.

Still holding her gaze, he entered her with a hiss, his lids settling low. This was what she’d been craving all night. His pace was slow and decadent, his hips rolling with each thrust. Her eyes closed, her pleasure dancing along the edge of a climax.

“No, look at me,” he growled.

She popped her eyes open. His eyes reflected the firelight, and his magic carried her away. The voice calling his name and her love for him over and over was hers. She writhed under him as he released inside her.

He collapsed on top of her with his face buried in the pillow, still inside her and unmoving. She gloried in the press of his weight and traced his spine with her fingers.

He rolled to her side, pulled her close, and fluttered kisses along her jaw until he found her mouth in a gentle, sweet kiss. The storm that had consumed him had passed.

“How could you love me?” His voice was hesitant.

“How could I not?” Listing the many and varied reasons she loved him would only expose her vulnerabilities.

“We’re going to marry in the morning.” Although his voice retained a gentleness from their lovemaking, a familiar, implacable tone had invaded.

“We don’t know if I’m with child or not.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. You’re in danger. The only way to stop Armstrong is to take marriage off the table.”

She didn’t understand him. He was now willing to marry her just to protect her from a threat that may never materialize? Not a single word about love or even lust. Nothing about admiration or respect. She loved him, aye, but she wouldn’t spend her life wondering if he secretly resented her.

Grabbing at the cover and pulling the edge over her body, she propped herself up on an elbow and put space between them. “You’re willing to sacrifice your freedom to protect me?”

* * * * *

Was the woman daft? Sacrifice his freedom? Maxwell would give up everything to keep her safe. He would bloody well lay down his life for her. Did she not understand that?

The frisson that had passed through his body with her declaration of love had nearly undone him. He wouldn’t have to capture her heart after all. She’d given it to him freely, and by God, he vowed to keep it safe.

Doubt crept in even with her words still singing through his blood. “Do you not want to marry me because I grew up a poor bastard?”

“This has nothing to do with your birth. You see judgment in everyone’s eyes where there is none. The earl, Mr. Masterson, the men and women entrusting you with their money. None of them hold your birth over your head. Neither do I.”

“Then marry me, dammit.” Desperation turned him autocratic.

She turned her face away from him, neither refusing nor agreeing. There was one way he could declare himself. One place his heart and mind and body didn’t war against one another.

He pushed her on her back and propped his head up on his hand. She had covered herself with a corner of the sheet, the curve of her hip and one long leg exposed. Like a little owl, she watched him with wide eyes, suspicious and missing nothing.

He quelled his impulse to tug the sheet away and instead brushed her hair back from her face, letting his fingers dance along her sharp cheekbones and soft mouth. “You’re beautiful, lass.”

She tried to pull away but didn’t get far in the fluffy pillows. “No.”

“Yes. Beautiful. Inside and out.” He kissed her in an effort to convince her of the truth, but as her lips moved against his, he got lost in the sensation. Her hands circled his neck and tugged at his hair.

She gave herself freely and without artifice. Her love was almost tangible and knitted together years of fissures on his heart.

He whispered her name against her lips before moving over her. She opened for him without hesitation. His heart stuttered, and he took a bite of her soft neck to keep from speaking his heart aloud.

Moving lower, he lavished attention on her nipples until her hips bumped against him. He spread his hand over her belly, still taut and flat. It didn’t matter anymore. Satisfaction rushed through him. She would be his wife on the morrow, but tonight she would be his in a more primal way.

Farther down he slid, pushing her legs apart and using his tongue to drive her as mad and wild as she made him feel. Their tastes mingled and drove the primitive beat of his heart against his ribs. Mine.

“Wait.” She sat up and pulled his hair hard enough to sting. “My turn.”

“What? No. I want to feel you come against my mouth.”

She scrambled to her knees. “Lay back.”

He obeyed as much out of surprise at the power in her voice as his curiosity. Lying back on the pillows, he waited, his body tensed in anticipation for her touch.

She ran a finger up his hard cock, swirling the fluid around the tip. “In the wardrobe, I would have given anything to have you bare in my hand as you touched me.”

Her words made his cock jump, and he fought to keep his hips still. Her touch was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced.

She leaned over him, her hair spilling forward to brush his belly and thigh. Her tongue rasped over the head of his cock. He was wrong. This was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced.

She engulfed the tip in her hot mouth. He closed his eyes, and his hips rose instinctively toward the pleasure she offered. She moaned with her mouth full of his cock, and the vibration spiraled him into another world where nothing mattered but her.

She sucked him deep before releasing him with a pop. Her breathing was fast and shallow. He raised his head. She looked up at him while brushing kisses over his cock. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her lips puffy and reddened. Without breaking eye contact, the temptress opened her mouth and welcomed him deep inside once more. He fisted his hands in the bedclothes to keep from spending.

“Not like this,” he muttered.

Scooping her up, he guided her to straddle him, a physical manifestation of the emotional power she held over him.

“What do I do?”

“Use me. Seek your pleasure.”

She took a sharp breath and didn’t move for a moment. Bracing her hands on his chest, she circled her hips and rubbed her wetness over his cock. He grasped her thighs and helped her establish a rhythm against him.

She tossed her head back and rose up. He fit himself at her opening, and she took him in a swift stroke, her nails digging into his chest as she climaxed around him. Grabbing her hips, he slammed her up and down until he followed.

She collapsed over him, her body boneless. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple, and settled her into his side. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would get on his knees and declare his love before reality intruded.