Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5

by Ayers, Kathleen

  “This is all for the best, dearest. Your dowry already sits in Simon’s bank account and the papers have gone to our solicitors. You will be married at the beginning of September. Lady Pendleton and I have agreed.”

  Petra’s hands automatically clasped in her lap. She was going to faint. “Father promised me.”

  “I’m exhausted with your missish behavior, Petra. You will thank me one day for looking out for your future.”

  She’d drastically underestimated her mother. “You lied to me. I never had a choice.”

  “You aren’t capable of making good, sound choices, Petra.”

  “You’ve never allowed me to make any choices, Mother.” Petra stood abruptly, nearly upending the tea tray. “How would you know whether I’m capable or not?”

  Agnes, Mother’s lap dog of a lady’s maid, popped into the room. She’d probably been hovering just outside the door. “Is anything the matter, Lady Marsh?”

  Petra turned away not willing for Agnes to see her in a near state of tears.

  “No, Agnes. Nothing at all. Would you mind going downstairs for a fresh pot of tea? This one has gone tepid.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid shut the door and scurried away.

  “Sit,” her mother commanded. “Stop being dramatic. We’ll have some hot tea and discuss your wedding gown.”

  “I’m not sure I can ever forgive you,” Petra choked as she made for the door.

  “Darling.” A frustrated puff. “Please sit.” She reached out a hand. “I only want what is best for you. Let us not be at odds during the happiest time of your life.”

  Petra looked down at her mother’s plump, bejeweled hand and curled her lip. “No, you want what is best for you, Mother. I don’t care for Simon. And just now, I don’t care for you either.”

  Panic, large and dark, was blossoming inside Petra. She had to get out of here. Away.

  Ignoring her mother’s gasp of surprise, Petra walked out of the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

  25

  Petra wiped furiously at the tears running down her cheeks. Darting down the hall to her own room, she quickly donned her oldest dress and a pair of half boots. She was determined to get as far away from all of them as possible. Simon. Mother. Lady Pendleton.

  Her father had promised she was to have a choice.

  But an earl’s daughter didn’t get to have choices. She was merely a pawn to her parent’s ambitions. They would have her wed, miserably, rather than allow her to make her own decision about her future. Worse, her own father had lied to her about allowing Petra a choice. Her mother’s treachery was devastating. How was she ever to look at either of her parents again?

  Petra set out across the moors, headed in the direction she and Simon had taken for their ride earlier in the week. Small birds flitted through the heather, scattering before her as she strode angrily, crushing the grass beneath her boot heel. She was so bloody furious, so distraught at the turn of events, she paid no attention to her direction. When the rocks she stepped over became larger and eventually turned into boulders, Petra realized she’d gone in the wrong direction.

  Would serve Mother bloody well if I disappeared like Morwick’s father out here.

  Climbing up one large rock Petra turned in a circle, reassured somewhat to see Brushbriar in the distance, though she had no intention of returning anytime soon.

  The boulder was at the edge of an outcropping with a wonderful view of the surrounding woods and hills. Taking a deep breath, Petra inhaled the scent of the moors and told herself to remain calm. Her brief rebellion had come to an abrupt halt. The upper hand had always belonged to her mother. Father may have had good intentions, but he always deferred to Mother.

  The betrothal is signed. My dowry sits in Simon’s bank. No wonder he’d had no inclination to spend time with her or continue to court her. There was no need to. She already belonged to him, like one of his stupid spaniels. What a fool she was. Priding herself on changing and becoming more assertive. Defying her mother. In the end, she was still the dressmaker’s dummy, ready to be hoisted about at Mother’s whim, as she had for her entire life. Her fingers flew to her throat, the suffocating feeling so real Petra nearly choked.

  Brendan.

  For a moment it hurt to breathe.

  Petra put her head in her hands and looked out across the moors, wondering just what the bloody hell she should do.

  I can’t marry Simon.

  Unfortunately, unless she did something scandalous or Simon changed his mind, there was little Petra could do to change her impending marriage. She absolutely refused to go to Brendan for help, especially since he’d accused her once before of being a damsel in distress to attract his attention. Besides, despite what happened between them last night, Brendan had a very skewed opinion of what loving someone did to a person. He’d told her no different last night, only trying to make her understand. Should she go to her brother for help? If nothing else, Arabella would take great pleasure in defying her mother. Besides, Arabella owed Petra a favor. Her anxiety eased somewhat. She just had to get to London first.

  Her stomach grumbled. Loudly. How long had she been here? Surely she’d missed the noon meal, and Petra now regretted not taking a scone or piece of toast from her mother’s breakfast tray before storming out. She was hungry. Starving, actually, recalling she’d left the ballroom before the buffet had been served.

  Standing up, she stretched, hearing the popping of her neck and spine. When she hopped off the boulder a sharp tearing sound met her ears.

  “Dear God.” She tugged to free her skirt which had managed to wedge itself into a tiny crack in the rock. “I have ruined half my wardrobe on this journey. Nearly every dress I own has a tear in the skirt.” Petra took a deep breath as the panic returned. What was she going to do? Deflated, she flopped back on the boulder, her appetite gone.

  “You bastard.” A male grunt followed the words. “I’ve got hold of you now.”

  Petra turned her head in both directions but saw no one. The moors before her were empty. Her distress was making her hear things. She stood again and wiped her hands against her skirts, resolving to go back to Brushbriar.

  “Blasted bitch.”

  Petra jumped at the curse, assuming for a moment it was directed at her. She stepped off the boulder. The echo of pebbles and rock being dislodged met her ears along with the sound of heavy breathing.

  Could an animal be trapped somewhere nearby?

  Yes, of course. The area is known for cursing goats.

  Another grunt. “Damn you.” More rock pinging about.

  Petra followed the sounds, stepping cautiously until she found herself at the edge of a narrow crevice which split through the field of gritstone.

  “Bloody, fuc—”

  “Morwick?” She interrupted his disparagement of the crevice and peered over the edge. “Are you down there?”

  A large hand appeared just below her feet, and Petra stepped back. The hand was followed by another, then a mass of unruly ebony hair and broad shoulders.

  Bare, completely shirtless shoulders.

  Petra’s heart fluttered madly and it was not from absolute certainty Morwick wasn’t padding his coats.

  Powerful muscles, glistening with sweat, twisted and bunched, struggling to lift Brendan’s weight. His forearms strained with effort, fingers digging into the earth.

  Good Lord. Petra paced back and forth. Should she help him? Make a rope out of…she looked down at her torn dress…skirts? “Should I—”

  Another loud grunt interrupted her question, followed by a muttered curse that made her ears pink before Morwick pulled himself up and over the side of the crevice. He was wearing only a worn pair of overly tight leather breeches and a scuffed pair of boots. His battered rucksack hanging from one shoulder. As he crawled over the top, he released the pack and tossed it in Petra’s direction before flopping over on his back, eyes closed.

  Petra had never really seen a man without a
shirt. Her brother once, but that had been when she was little more than a child. Besides, brothers didn’t count. Her gaze ran over the hard planes of his torso, glistening with moisture, the flat stomach and the crease of his hipbones. A dusting of dark hair covered his chest, trickling down to his navel. Muscles rippled up and down with each breath he took.

  A slow burn pulsed beneath Petra’s skin, similar to her feelings of the night before. He was beautiful, a large, rather savage animal sprawled at her feet. She had the urge to kneel and press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. Touch the hair trailing down to his navel. Petra couldn’t look away.

  I’m looking at him as if he were a large, tasty tea cake.

  “Hello, Perfect Petra.” Brendan flashed a grin at her, clearly unconcerned by his appearance.

  The old Petra would have turned, excusing herself at the sight of a half-naked male. But she was no longer that girl and she certainly didn’t miss her. Instead Petra allowed herself the simple pleasure of gazing at the man she loved.

  And she was in love with Brendan. Perhaps from the moment he’d first kissed her at Rowan’s wedding. Or maybe it had happened when he’d climbed the large oak tree to rescue her. He was complicated and often sarcastic. Terrified of caring too deeply for anyone. None of that mattered to her heart. She hoped someday he would love her back.

  The sapphire eyes popped open. “Out walking? Without proper escort? Simon’s not about, is he?” Brendan made a great show of looking around, pretending to be scandalized.

  Petra couldn’t take her eyes away from the play of muscles across his torso. Amazing how he managed to climb with nothing but his hands. She could see the very end of a rope peeking out of the rucksack, unused.

  “I’m quite alone. And I’ve no idea where Simon is. Probably drafting yet another bill to govern something incredibly important.”

  “My sarcasm has rubbed off on you.” A dimple showed in his cheek.

  “However do you do that? Climb in such a way with no rope?” She’d wondered about the callouses on his palms and fingers, thinking them from working outdoors, but the callouses were from climbing. Those capable hands had caressed the inside of her thigh, touched the very core of her. She could still feel the press of his thumb against her flesh. A burn slid down her body just thinking about doing such a thing with him again.

  “Very carefully.” A deep laugh filled the air. “It’s taken me years of practice. I always bring a rope and hook just in case I get myself into a pickle.” His eyes crinkled. “Climbing is good for the soul.”

  “A good walk wouldn’t do?” Petra teased, so happy to see him, she was giddy. His current state of undress was a lovely unexpected surprise. “Nor a stroll through the gardens? Instead you must climb the face of a cliff?”

  “Technically, that is a crack in the gritstone. A crevice, not a cliff. And you shouldn’t be out here alone.” His gaze flicked down to the tear in her skirts. “I see you’ve had another clothing mishap.” He looked back to her face. “It’s unfortunate the entire skirt didn’t come free.”

  “You’re very bad.” Petra’s heart thudded.

  “Exceptionally.” A frown appeared on his lips. “But you really shouldn’t be out here alone. There are holes one can fall through.”

  “I knew he would eventually appear, the Morwick I know so well. Frowning. Usually at me. The pea-wit.” Petra rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t do that.” His look became serious. “I wish to never hear such a thing from you again, Petra.”

  Petra couldn’t resist any longer. The urge to touch him was simply too strong. “Do what?” She came forward and kneeled next to him. The glistening skin of his neck and torso begged for her touch. Possibly her lips.

  “Make yourself to be less than you are.” His voice grew soft and raspy. “It pains me to hear you refer to yourself as such. That I did in a moment of anger was…unforgivable.”

  “I was only teasing you. I know I am not a pea-wit.” Then she reached out and trailed her fingers down the length of his chest.

  * * *

  Damn.

  In spite of the warmth of the day and the exhausting climb, Brendan felt himself stir. After he had left her last night, after she’d come apart in his arms, moaning his name, Brendan hadn’t returned to his room. Instead he’d found a quiet bench in the garden and contemplated just what the hell he was going to do. He was torn between wanting Petra and being terrified of having her, then losing her. But if he did nothing, he would lose her to Simon, which he found completely unacceptable.

  “Petra,” he sat up and grabbed her by the wrist. “Don’t.”

  “Why not? You’re beautiful, Brendan. Like a statue carved from marble.”

  Brendan was well aware of his rough-hewn looks. He’d never lacked for female companionship. But hearing Petra speak her desire out loud to him was different. Despite the exhausting climb, his cock throbbed painfully.

  “Petra, I beg you, these breeches are very unforgiving.”

  “I can see that.” She looked down before meeting his eye.

  His cock twitched. Brendan was sure he’d sell his soul for a glimpse of the gorgeous legs beneath her dress. “You’ve become very brazen in an exceptionally short amount of time. I blame myself.”

  “Have I? I think I’ve slowly been shrugging off my ladylike decorum in small bits over the last few months. Like a snake shedding its skin, although that’s an unwelcome comparison.” She looked down at the tenting of his breeches and giggled. “I could clasp my hands, turn my back to you and implore you to cover yourself. Or perhaps you’d rather I faint at the sight of your near nakedness?” A hand flew to her brow and her lip trembled. “Oh dear, I think I’ll need the smelling salts.”

  “Your imitation of Lady Marsh is quite good.”

  At the mention of her mother, an odd look entered Petra’s eyes. “Years of practice.”

  A strand of hair pulled out of the careful bun at the base of her neck, landing just above her left breast. He could still feel the curve of that breast in his hands. The taste of her nipple in his mouth. His hunger for her came bubbling to the surface. “I want you.” He stated in a gruff tone. “I mean to have you.”

  A wisp of a smile tilted one side of her mouth. “You should put on a shirt lest I am overcome with lust. You do have one, I assume?” Her eyes were soft on him. Warm.

  He stood, groaning at the soreness in his arms and shoulders. Grabbing his pack, he pulled out the shirt he’d discarded earlier. “There are some things we should discuss.” Namely how in God’s name he could allow her to marry Simon.

  Petra wandered over to a small pile of rocks. She stooped and picked up a stone, holding it up, ignoring his request. “Is this anything?”

  A rush of longing for her filled him. She’d no idea how desirable he found her. “No. Just a rock. I thought you’d done some reading on geology. My library is filled with books on the subject.” He shook his head as if disappointed.

  “I only got as far as the mining of lead before we left Somerton. I did take one from Simon’s library, and I’ve been studying fossils. What about this?” A brilliant smile crossed her lips.

  “Gritstone.” Christ, he wanted her. “Nothing special.”

  He turned his back on her as he donned his shirt. “Stop picking up pebbles and such. If the guests at Somerton see you out here traipsing about the rocks with me, your reputation will be in jeopardy.” Her reputation was already destined to be ruined. He was even now contemplating how best to persuade her to refuse Simon. Brendan didn’t think he could spend more than a month at a time in London without losing his mind, but he would do so for her. He’d even cease renting the town house he owned and have it redone to please her. Christ. He’d have to attend a ball or two.

  “Petra, are you listening? We should go back.”

  A scattering of pebbles greeted his words along with an odd, muffled sound. He turned and saw nothing but the rocks and open moors.

  “Petra?”

 
26

  The fall happened so fast Petra had little time to think, let alone yell for help. At one moment, she was picking up a rock she thought might be somewhat interesting, and the next she was coughing up copious amounts of dust.

  Petra lay quietly for a moment on the hard ground, wiggling her fingers and toes. Nothing appeared to be broken. Just bruised. The air around her was filled with dust from her fall, making it difficult to see. A meager beam of sunshine struggled through the small hole in the limestone she’d fallen through.

  I’m in a cave.

  It wasn’t much of a cave, at least not the type Petra had imagined or read about in one of Brendan’s books. Carefully, she came to her feet, blinking and coughing. The sunlight coming through the narrow hole she’d stepped into wasn’t much, but she could make out that the cave was no bigger than her room at Brushbriar. Looking up, Petra could see she hadn’t actually fallen very far at all, maybe fifteen feet. Her fall had been broken by a small bush, struggling in the depths of the cave and growing toward the stream of light.

  She’d have a few bruises and her knee hurt where she’d banged it against the side of the cave coming down, but miraculously, she’d survived. The same could not be said for the bit of shrub that broke her fall. It looked far worse for the wear.

  “Petra!” A panicked Brendan was yelling for her, his voice sounding muffled and far away.

  “I’m,” she choked out, waving away another cloud of dust. “I’m here!” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Morwick! Brendan! I’m down here.”

  Pebbles rained down on her from his footsteps. He was stomping about above her like an enraged bull. “Petra!”

  He can’t see the hole or hear me.

  Petra moved to stand directly in the circle of sunlight. “Sorry,” she said to the broken bit of shrub. “Brendan! There’s a hole. I’ve fallen down a hole.” She wasn’t sure he could hear her. Picking up a rock she tried to toss it up through the hole but was only successful in having more dust rain down on her. She tried again. Maybe he wouldn’t see the rocks, but possibly the dust cloud coming out of the hole.