Chapter Five

After promising to visit Vicar Mitchell before he left for Edinburgh, Maxwell jammed his hat on his head and weaved his way through the gravestones. Of course, he would see the vicar again—to bind him in holy matrimony to a woman he knew in only the most carnal sense. The gray snow clouds that loomed overhead matched his mood.

Marriage. He had never been bothered with a compulsion to tie himself to one woman. Certainly there were women he admired, like Lady Minerva Bellingham. Lady Drummond, he supposed, now she’d married the brawny, scarred Lord Drummond. But Maxwell had never desired her, no matter that his brain recognized her physical beauty.

And he had nothing in common with London’s young debutantes whose eyes shone with unabashed enthusiasm and innocence. Between his childhood and his time in the army, Maxwell had never been carefree. He felt ancient with his aching, crippled leg and jaded soul.

Maxwell entered the inn’s stables and whistled for Primrose. Her answering whinny came from the farthest stall. He’d bought the mare, a hardy crossbreed, in London. She wasn’t much to look at, but her rough, warm coat and thick forelegs made her well suited for cold weather and long rides. The sweet-tempered mare had earned her name.

He took his time saddling her, and when he was done, he rested his forehead against her neck. The musky smell of her coarse mane offered a bit of comfort. The weight of an anvil pressed on his chest at the thought of seeing Mary McCann after so many years and in these circumstances.

Despite his attempts to score away his first love and heartbreak, he’d never been able to forget the lass. Foolish. He was foolish. As much as he denied he had a heart, it beat against his ribs, too fast and fearful. He couldn’t afford to acknowledge its existence.

Maxwell guided his horse over the familiar terrain. He had trod these paths more times than he could count, finding steady work in the spring and summer with the manor house’s gardener.

A heated anticipation of catching a glimpse of Mary had filled those hours. The lass had flitted through the garden nearly every day to flirt and tease. He’d stolen ardently returned kisses beyond the arbor. It had never occurred to him to push his physical suit any further. Mary was a proper young maiden bound for marriage.

The house and grounds had a prosperous feel to them, and expensive carriages were aligned on the path to the stables. Maxwell left Primrose in the hands of a harried-looking groom with instructions to keep her saddled.

He dragged his feet as if his execution were nigh. With his hand on the heavy brass knocker in the shape of an ugly little cherub, a woman’s cry carried on the chill wind along with the sound of something large colliding with the pavers. An intuition that had saved his hide more than once on the Peninsula stilled his hand before the knocker made contact.

Crouching low, Maxwell skulked around the side of the house, ignoring the scream of his bad leg. He stopped short at the corner and unfolded his body. Hanging from a sheet with her feet wedged onto the second-floor cornice was the woman he sought. Her hair was loose and blowing wildly around her face. A well-worn, shabby hat lay on the ground.

Making as little noise as possible so as not to distract her, he positioned himself directly beneath her. A call of warning might startle her and cause her to fall. His hands shook as she found purchase on the rough stone, inexorably moving toward the ground. Twice her boots slipped from their hold, and she dangled for a moment before she regained her footing. The woman was either daft or desperate. Maybe both.

As she got closer, the tension scrunching his shoulders to his ears faded, and his singular focus on her feet moved upward. Breeches emphasized the slenderness and length of her legs—legs that had been wrapped around him a few scant hours ago. Her attire was absolutely scandalous and ridiculously enticing.

Ten feet from the ground, she came to the end of the sheet. Mutterings that might have been prayers or curses were carried on the wind.

He shifted in the gravel and braced himself. “Let go. I’ll catch you.”

His voice startled her. Her boot slid down the rough wall, and her hands slipped off the sheet. Her screaming yelp was abruptly cut off when she made contact with him. The collision knocked the air out of him on a grunt.

One of his hands landed on her buttocks, and he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist. She clutched his neck. To any outside observer it might appear a lover’s embrace and not a rescue.

Her body trembled. The memory of her trembling under him in her climax as her hands and legs pulled him closer had him squeezing her taut, rounded buttock. Her breasts were almost bursting out of the waistcoat she wore over a white lawn shirt. Christ in heaven, she couldn’t even button the thing properly.

She pushed against his shoulders, and for an instant he tightened his arms around her. What the devil was he doing? He released her but kept a firm hold of her arm to keep her from bolting. Beneath the layers of fabric, her arm was thin yet strong.

“You,” she whispered as if he were the devil sprung from hell. “What are you doing here?”

“Catching you.” Her discomfiture lent him a sense of dark enjoyment. Why not let her squirm like he had done this morning after her departure?

“You know very well what I meant, Max—Mr. Drake.”

“Mr. Drake, is it now? That’s not what I remember you calling me last night. Brynmore McCann.”

She yanked her arm out of his grip. “I had no intention of you ever discovering my identity, Maxwell… Mr. Drake. Blast it, what should I call you?” Her face was flushed, her sprinkling of freckles emphasized. She looked even younger than she had in the shadows of his bed, but by his calculation, she was well over twenty.

“Considering we’re intimately acquainted, call me Maxwell.” His voice remained harsh.

Silence stretched between them like a prisoner on the rack. She picked up her hat and twirled it in her hands. Even with resentment simmering, he couldn’t deny the mannish clothes were becoming to her lithe frame.

He forced a conversational tone. “May I inquire what you’re doing climbing out your window and nearly breaking your neck a day before your joyous union? The chapel looked lovely, by the by.” A satchel hung on her back. Would she tell him the truth or lie once again?

“Joyous union.” She harrumphed. “I’m running away, of course.”

“Why?”

Some of the defiance leaked out of her as she looked to the ground. “Because my first plan didn’t work.”

“And I was plan number one?”

“I’d hoped Dugan would toss me over once I confessed my ruination.”

He had been chosen to get a job done—nothing more. The hurt that pricked surprised him. Hadn’t he taken his pleasure with her to distract himself from his own worries? He whipped his hat off, ran his fingers through his hair, and jammed it back on.

“Not only are you ruined, but my life is ruined as well. Why in bloody hell did you have to choose me for the honors?”

“I’m asking nothing from you. I made my bed—” She cleared her throat. “I mean, it was my decision. You weren’t ever to find out who I was, so don’t feel you need to ride up and do something honorable.”

“You are a complete ninnyhammer. You surely don’t think after I found blood on myself and the sheets this morning, I would do nothing? I may have been born a bastard, madam, but I wasn’t raised to act as one. Since you were a maiden, perhaps you don’t understand that what occurred between us could lead to a very unwelcome arrival.” He ended on a near yell.

Bryn pulled her hat low, shielding her expression. “If there’s a babe, I’ll take care of it.” Her small, tremulous voice made him feel like an arse—which only fired his resentment higher. She was in the wrong here, not him, dammit. He paced and shot her silent glares on every pass.

“Where would you go? How would you earn money to support yourself and a babe?”

Her shrug wasn’t reassuring in the least.

“I would not have a child grow up the way I did. If there is a babe, it will bear my name and will never be called a bastard. I won’t have you suffer like my mother did. No woman deserves that, no matter their sins. You will be married by the morrow but not to Dugan Armstrong. To me.”

“I never intended for you to sacrifice your life—your freedom—to marry me.” Her brown eyes finally rose to meet his, and the sight did strange things to his insides. “It was only once. We have no idea whether I might be with child.”

“It only takes one time.”

“I’m not completely ignorant.”

“Not anymore,” he muttered back.

Color swept her face again, but she didn’t drop her gaze. “Mary’s trying to force the marriage to Dugan in spite of what occurred between us.”

“Did you tell her I was the man who ruined you?” Maxwell tensed.

“I didn’t lie to you. No one was ever to know whom I chose. But I don’t see why we have to marry. At least not until we know with certainty whether I’m carrying your child. Does it matter if we get married tomorrow or two months from tomorrow?” A hint of desperation threaded her words.

“Even if you aren’t carrying my child, I took your maidenhead. You’re a lady. Marriage is the only honorable course of action. No doubt half the village knows you shared my bed last night, and the other half will find out today.” Another more damning thought occurred to him. “Unless my birth places me below your consideration for marriage.” He tried to temper the searing anger in his voice but was unsuccessful even to his own ears.

“That’s not…” Her head jerked back as if he’d actually struck her. “You don’t want to marry me. You’ll resent me—”

“I already do. Dealing with this debacle was not part of my plans, I assure you.”

“I didn’t know what else to do.” She worried her bottom lip, plumping it and turning it red. The swirling emotion in her eyes drew him in, and a portion of his resentment faded. She’d been desperate. An emotion he was well acquainted with.

“If Mary is willing to force the marriage even knowing you’re ruined, you can’t stay here.” Maxwell rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“My plan is to make my way to Edinburgh.”

“And do what?”

“Hire myself out.”

“As a whore?”

Her color rose to new heights. “Of course not. A companion. Or a governess, perhaps.”

“I ruined you. No one will hire you for either.”

“That is ridiculous. I’m not ruined.” Defiance flashed in her eyes and reflected in the set of her chin. “You didn’t ruin me. In fact, I feel… I feel…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the corners of her lips twitching.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer as if she were indeed fey and had cast a spell over him. He wanted to run his fingers down her face and the long column of her neck. “How do you feel?”

Her eyes popped open. “I enjoyed last night. Didn’t you?”

Her admission contained no guile or manipulation, only honesty. Memories sparked. He’d thought his alcohol-boggled mind had exaggerated her unusual beauty, but his cloudy memories hadn’t done her justice. With innocence and strength and vulnerability in her face and eyes, he couldn’t lie.

“Aye, lass, I enjoyed it.” Something deep inside him stirred. A yearning. But for what?

He gave in to his urges and stroked her cheek with his gloved forefinger. She swayed into his touch. Even though their marriage would be a sham, the marriage bed held a distinct allure. She would be his to explore every night by rights. The thought fired a possessive, primal response in his body. He dropped his head to take her lips. A sampling of what was to come.

“Brynmore!” The screech snapped him out of his strange reverie.

“Lud, it’s Mary,” Bryn whispered, turning to stone.

No longer feeling a man of the world, he turned as a callow youth to face his first love. Nerves and excitement and dread turned his stomach. Light-headed, he blinked furiously, trying to reconcile the eighteen-year-old Mary with the teasing smile against this woman’s ferocious beauty.

Her hair was the same rich sable, wound and curled intricately around her ears. Her flounced, ruffled gown would have been better suited to a younger lass. Rings twinkled on her fingers, and a strand of pearls played peak-a-boo in her décolletage. Although she was still undeniably beautiful, the hatred in her eyes and the cruel twist of her once tempting mouth took him aback. There was no sign of the girl he’d loved.

How many times had he imagined himself riding into Cragian triumphant and successful to show Mary McCann what she had so blithely tossed aside? The image of Mary he had carried for nearly a decade was irrevocably shattered, and he wasn’t sure what new emotion assailed him—grief, relief, shock? He had become preoccupied with the grim sadness he’d toted around since leaving Cragian.

He reached out and found Bryn’s hand clenched into a fist. She relaxed at his touch, and he gave her hand a quick squeeze. Whatever the future held, he and Brynmore were linked in a way he and Mary had never been.

“Your mystery lover, I presume? How sweet. It’s a good thing I caught you, now isn’t it? Dugan is inside waiting for an apology.” Her fury was palpable.

She didn’t recognize him. Or maybe she didn’t remember. An old, familiar pain lashed his heart. His voice was raw with emotion. “Your sister is now my betrothed.”

“I think not. She is already betrothed with signed and sealed papers. Your attentions are no longer welcome, sir. Be on your way and off my land. Do not return.” She waved a bejeweled hand, shooing him away, a threat in her voice.

“And if I won’t be off like a beggared dog?” A curious protectiveness had Maxwell stepping partway in front of Bryn. After working for Minerva Bellingham, he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by autocratic women.

“I’ll give you ten pounds to leave and not speak of this again.”

Maxwell rumbled a mirthless laugh. “Ten pounds, Mary? Is your sister not worth more than that?”

He’d finally gained her full attention. “Who are you to address me so familiarly, sirrah?”

Maxwell whipped his hat off and stepped closer. “It’s no wonder you don’t recognize me. How many years has it been since last we met? Maxwell Drake, at your service.”

A flash of something he recognized crossed Mary’s face. Maybe, just maybe, she did remember. And held regrets.

“The weather has turned damp and frigid, has it not, ladies? A cup of tea would be very welcome. Why don’t we discuss the matter inside?” He forced civility even as his heart tore at his chest.

With a clenched jaw and not another word, Mary turned on her heel and led the way around the corner of the manor house.

Bryn grabbed his arm, her fingers biting. “Don’t let them take me. They’ll lock me away again. Please.”

“I won’t, lass.” The role of knight-errant didn’t settle comfortably on his shoulders, but he could hardly leave her to be devoured by the wolves of Cragian. He was duty bound.

The overabundant use of blue and yellow ruffles in the drawing room jangled. Craddock and Dugan Armstrong shared an early brandy. Whether in celebration or commiseration, he couldn’t guess. The men rose as Mary marched over to Craddock and gestured back to Bryn and Maxwell.

Craddock’s dark hair was a patchwork over his white scalp, and while his clothes were well made, they couldn’t disguise his round belly. The years had not been as kind to Craddock as they had to Mary, and the gulf of years between them seemed even wider. She spoke low to the two men, and Craddock’s gaze shot to Maxwell. Instead of the expected anger, his expression was one of scheming determination. Dugan tossed back his drink. Fury pinched his mouth.

Craddock fired the opening salvo. “The prodigal son returns. Sit and let’s discuss what can be done to remedy the unfortunate situation we find ourselves in.”

The animosity swirling around the room swallowed the weak attempt at social niceness. Disguising his limp as best he could, Maxwell took the unoccupied settee across from Craddock and Mary. He loathed showing any weakness in a situation where the lions circled.

Dugan paced toward Bryn, and she shrank closer to the door and escape. Maxwell had encountered Armstrong’s type in the army. The man relished power and enjoyed using it to subjugate others, but the blatant malevolence seeping from the big man as he stared at Bryn was worrisome.

“Sit, sit. Come, Brynmore, Dugan.” Craddock waved them both over.

Bryn joined Maxwell on the settee, her thigh pressing into his. She was ashen-faced with her hands fisted on her knees. Craddock, Dugan, and Mary, lined up like an opposing army across the table, emphasized how vulnerable Bryn was to their manipulations. She had no one to champion her. It was a wonder she’d resisted their plans at all, and a sliver of admiration surfaced.

Dugan lowered himself into a chair, his hands on the sides as if he was ready to spring up at any time. “Did you return to spoil my marriage?”

Maxwell quirked an eyebrow. “You give yourself far too much credit, Armstrong. You haven’t crossed my mind in nearly a decade. No, my plans did not include Brynmore. Nevertheless, plans change, and Craddock is correct. We must remedy the situation.” No one moved or said a word, so he continued. “I would propose that the wedding take place tomorrow with me substituted as the groom. That way, all Mary’s hard work won’t be for naught.”

Mary shot to her feet. “Absolutely not. Dignitaries are attending. We have the MP of the neighboring district upstairs as we speak. To invite them to witness a marriage between my sister and the poor local bastard who ruined her? It’s a travesty and would completely defeat the purpose.”

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed, but before he delved further, Bryn scooted to the edge of the cushion and pointed at Mary. “You will not speak of Maxwell in such a manner. Just because you weren’t brave enough to claim him doesn’t mean I’m not.” Although her hand visibly trembled, her voice was steady.

Surprise but also indefinable warmth heated his face at her defense.

Mary took a step forward. Bryn popped off the settee, and the two sisters stared each other down with such hostility that blows seemed inevitable. He readied himself to intervene, his muscles bunched.

A timid knock heralded the arrival of a young maid. The tension dissipated, and Bryn and Mary retreated to their seats like prizefighters between rounds. The maid pushed a tea tray, her wide eyes darting around the room. Mary acted the hostess and poured.

Maxwell sipped the hot tea and observed the tableau before him. The act of sharing the civilized rite of tea when the undercurrents of barbaric emotions ran rife tickled his dark humor. The maid backed her way out of the room and closed the door with a soft snick.

Dugan drained his cup in a gulp and set it back on the tray with a clatter. “Brynmore will be my wife tomorrow in spite of her foolishness. She will regret her impetuous action.” His wintry eyes were directed at Bryn, and more than the hint of a threat colored the words. “Anyway, there’s things I’ve been promised from this marriage. Things that—”

“Enough, Dugan.” Craddock cut a hand in the air.

“What sort of things were you promised, Armstrong?” Maxwell kept his voice bland even though his head spun with possibilities.

“That is part of the marriage settlement and none of your concern, Drake,” Craddock said.

Maxwell hummed before taking a small sip of tea. “I suppose you’re correct. You may as well tear it up. I’ll require Bryn to bring nothing to our union. I’m more than able to provide for her. And for a babe, if one has been conceived.”

The coordinated intake of breath from all the occupants of the room made Maxwell’s lips twitch. The words enraged Dugan, and before Maxwell could react, Dugan yanked Bryn up by the arm and shook her. She turned her face away from Armstrong, cowing slightly from the man’s physical dominance.

Anger crackled through Maxwell like fire. He moved behind Bryn and wrapped a hand around Dugan’s wrist like a manacle. He tightened his hand on Dugan’s wrist incrementally, waiting to see how much the bigger man could tolerate.

Although Dugan topped Maxwell in height, Maxwell was stronger. He kept his body honed by boxing, fencing, and riding. He had been in the army too long not to relish the physical activity, and it kept his leg as strong and limber as possible.

Maxwell increased the pressure until Dugan winced, then he tightened it some more. Dugan’s hand opened, and Bryn backed into Maxwell’s chest. He twisted Dugan’s hand into an impossible angle.

“Stop. Let go of me.” Dugan’s voice was shrill and breathy. Maxwell twisted another inch before releasing him. Dugan rubbed his wrist and retreated, his eyes wide and filled with a newfound respect—and utter hatred.

Maxwell had made an enemy, and a dangerous one at that.