"There you are, you son of a bitch!" she accused, coming down the hallway after him.
Brock couldn't control the smile that tore at the corners of his mouth. He didn't think a lady like Keely knew how to curse.
"Wipe that simple smile off your face," Keely shouted, shaking a fist.
"Listen, I'm sorry. There's an explanation."
She padded barefoot down the hall, dressed only in a flimsy cotton sleeping gown of the lightest blue. "Explanation! There can be no explanation! They thought you were dead; I was hoping they were right!"
"Keely." He put up his hands in defense. "I'm sorry; it wasn't my fault."
"Not your fault! Then who the hell's fault was it?"
He sighed, trying not to stare at the soft curve of her breasts through the nearly transparent gown. "It's a long story, one that I think can wait until I've bathed." He pulled at the soiled material of his waistcoat as proof of his statement.
"There can be no story good enough to change the fact that two days ago, Brock Forrester Bartholomew, you and I were supposed to be married!"
He ran a bronze palm over his ill-tasting mouth. "You have a right to be angry but—"
The sound of a door swinging open interrupted them as Gwenevere came out of Lloyd's chamber and hurried down the hall. "Brock! Thank God you're safe," she cried out.
Lloyd came out the door just behind her in only a pair of breeches. "Where have you been, boy? We thought the redcoats had got you!" He stood there bare-chested, relief evident on his face.
Brock leaned against the paneled door of his bedchamber. "If you'll just let me bathe and dress, you will have your explanations," he said hotly. "Now, please!"
"Master Brock's home! Master Brock's home!" came Lucy's voice up the front staircase.
Lloyd ducked back into his room as the maid came tearing up the steps. "God's teeth, Master Brock! We thought you were feedin' the fishes in the Delaware. Me and Blackie, we had a bet going, see . . ."
Brock ducked into his room and slammed the door behind himself, turning the key of the lock. Keely wheeled around in a rage and stalked back down the hall toward her bedchamber, passing Gwenevere and Lucy.
"Where's he been?" Lucy asked Gwenevere as Keely slammed her door so hard that one of the ancestral portraits on the wall fell to the floor.
Gwenevere opened the door of her own bedchamber and her two spaniels came bounding out. "We haven't heard yet, Lucy, but it's bound to be a quiz of a story." She knelt to pat the nearest pup. "You better get Ruth on breakfast. Tell her to make it a good one—Master Brock's going to need to fortify himself for what's coming."
"Yes, mistress." Lucy dipped a curtsy and bounded down the steps to tell the other servants what had just transpired.
An hour later, after a hot bath, a shave, and a change of clothes, Brock came down the grand staircase. He'd gone over and over in his mind what he was going to say, yet he couldn't help thinking how ridiculous it all sounded. How could he explain to his betrothed that he missed their wedding because of a practical joke? How could he tell her that he'd gotten drunk at the tavern, passed out, and that Micah had put him on a coach bound for Philadelphia?
In the dining room Brock found Lloyd and Gwenevere and a pot of steaming coffee. "Where's Keely?" he asked, scowling as he poured himself a cup of the rich, dark brew.
Lloyd leaned back in the upholstered chair at the head of the table. "She hasn't come down. Now sit and tell us what this is all about," he said angrily.
Brock gave an exasperated sigh. "No. I owe her an explanation first. Pardon." Setting his cup on the cherry dining table, he left the room.
Going up the stairs, Brock stopped at the first door on the left and rapped on it. He felt bad that all of this had happened, but still, he had no desire to deal with a raging female. All he wanted to do now was get the marriage over with and get back to work. He'd already received most of the dowry from Lloyd, so the wedding had to take place, and soon.
"Go away," came Keely's voice. "I don't want anything."
"That's good because I've brought nothing," Brock responded. "Nothing but an apology."
"I don't want to talk to you, now go away."
Brock turned the knob and swung open the door to find Keely seated at a small writing desk. "How dare you. Get out of here! Get out!" she shouted.
"Not until you've heard my explanation."
Her hazel eyes narrowed venomously. "I told you. It's too late for excuses. The betrothal will have to be broken."
Brock caught Keely by the elbows and lifted her to her feet. He lowered his face within inches of hers as a sudden stroke of genius came to him. "Keely, listen to me." He shook her gently. "I was kidnapped." Not exactly a lie, he thought to himself.
Keely's mouth fell. "What?" she breathed.
"Keely, I didn't make it to the wedding because I couldn't. I was bound like a common criminal and carried off," he told her in a low whisper as he recalled the horror stories told around the campfires of the Delawares.
The anger in Keely's voice had vanished, replaced by genuine concern. She reached up to stroke his bronze cheek. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Who did this to you?"
He shook his head, trying not to smile. He suddenly felt so damned guilty. He hadn't realized she was so gullible. "I don't know, but it was sheer luck that I escaped," he murmured in her ear. His arms went around Keely's shoulders and she lifted her hands as if by magic to rest on the broad expanse of his chest.
"I'm so . . . so sorry," she said softly. "I've been so stupid. Jenna told me what you did was dangerous. I just never imagined!"
"Shhh," he hushed, pulling her against his chest. His eyes drifted shut as the scent of her thick, fiery tresses enveloped him, making him shudder inwardly. What was a little lie, he rationalized as he brushed his lips against her ear, if the lie could turn this snarling she-cat into a soft bundle of female fluff.
Keely lifted her head from Brock's chest, her senses spinning. She was so confused. Why was her body betraying her like this? Why did she wish he would kiss her? "Have you told Uncle Lloyd? These men must be found."
"No, no, we mustn't. It wouldn't be safe."
"Brock, you must stop this insanity! Next time it will be your life . . ."
He pressed his fingers to her lips. "It's too late," he murmured. "Too many lives involved, too many at risk. I could never abandon my country now. This is my home. But we mustn't tell anyone about my being kidnapped, not even Lloyd or my mother."
"But you told them you would explain." Tentatively, she lifted a hand to smooth his lawn shirt. This was a different Brock than the man she knew. This man was soft-spoken and sincere. . . .
"Just tell me you'll marry me, Keely. I'll have the minister here to say the words, today." He smoothed her unruly hair, looking deep into the frightened hazel eyes. Child or no, he suddenly realized just how much he desired this girl. English or no, consequences be damned! He was going to have her, and tonight!
"I don't know," she breathed, mesmerized by his haunting dark eyes. "My logic tells me it could never work. We agree on nothing. You're a traitor to the Crown, for God's sake!"
"We agree on this," he whispered, bending to press his mouth hard against hers. Keely succumbed to him without hesitation, accepting his advance with a breath of startling innocence. She tasted of honey, and unfulfilled dreams, stirring him as no woman had ever done before.
"Who says unrest is not good for a marriage?" Brock reasoned huskily. "Say yes, Keely. You'll not regret it. If you must marry, why not me?"
"All right."
He broke into a grin. "You will?"
She laughed nervously, detaching herself from his arms. "You took my money, we signed the papers. But it will have to be today, before I have a chance to change my mind again."
He nodded. "Done."
"No, he won't tell me a thing, Gwen." Lloyd settled himself in a chair in his bedchamber to roll up his stockings. "All he said was that his explanation for missing the wedding was acceptable
to Keely and that was all that mattered." He waved a burgundy stocking. "Oh, you know how the boy is!"
Gwenevere heaved a sigh, turning back to the mirror that stood on the floor. She was dressed only in her chemise, dusting her face with Italian face powder. "I got much the same and Keely was worse. I don't know what's gotten into her. She's never been secretive with me before."
"Smitten females!" Lloyd chuckled dryly.
Gwenevere scowled in the mirror. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Only that I think we were asking too much of Keely. Of course she's hesitant to marry, what young girl isn't? You spoil her too much, Gwen. You should have just told her she was to marry him and that should have been the end of the discussion. These young people today, I tell you, they have no respect for their elders. In my day . . ."
"You old goat! You were the one that told her she didn't have to marry him." Gwenevere reached for her gown on the bed and pulled it over her head. "You'd have let her marry a two-headed dragon if she'd expressed the desire!"
Lloyd slipped his feet into his shoes and stood up. "Now don't get into a state with me, Gwenevere. Your son is about to be married; you wouldn't want to go downstairs with wrinkles at your mouth." He moved slowly toward the bed to retrieve his waistcoat.
"Now I know why I didn't stay. I never liked you, Lloyd Bartholomew! Never missed you a bit all of these years." She snatched his waistcoat out of his hand and helped him into it.
"No, you may not have missed me but I know what you did miss!" He caught her by the waist, burying his face in the valley between her breasts.
She laughed. "If you think you've been the only one, you're crazier than they say! And don't think you'll be the last either."
"Never missed me, not a bit," he said, his voice muffled.
"Well, maybe occasionally when I was looking for a good fight." She ran her fingers through his snowy hair. "Look at you, you old goat, you've gone so gray you don't need to powder!"
"You're going to miss me, Gwenevere. You're going to miss me when I'm gone," Lloyd warned, releasing her.
Her face grew sober. "I am," she murmured. For a moment there was silence and then she took his hands in hers. "I'm glad I didn't let my pride keep me from coming to you. I've enjoyed this time we've had together. It makes me wonder what we could have had if I hadn't been so stubborn. It makes me regret."
Lloyd reached with one hand to stroke Gwenevere's plump cheek. "What I wouldn't give to be them right now—young, energetic, a whole life in front of them."
"You mean you would have done things differently?" Gwenevere's dark eyes searched her husband's.
"No. I'd probably have made the same mistakes, and you would have too."
She nodded. "You're probably right."
Lloyd smiled tenderly. "Brock says he has no time to take Keely away now. Business to attend to. What would you think of going to visit the Adleys? We could spend the night and come back tomorrow."
"I think it's an excellent idea. Give them a little time to themselves."
"Give us a little time to be by ourselves too, wouldn't it?"
Gwenevere's ribald laugh filled the bedchamber.
"Now," Lloyd said, "give this old goat a kiss and let's go downstairs. We've got a wedding to attend."
Chapter Eight
Keely's laughter mingled with Brock's as they stood at the front door, waving farewell.
"Take care of my pups, Keely, and we'll see you tomorrow!" Gwenevere fluttered a purple handkerchief through the window of the departing carriage.
"They'll be fine," Keely answered. "You and Uncle Lloyd have a good time."
The carriage lurched forward and Brock closed the door, taking Keely's hand. "What's say the first thing we do is put those damned spaniels out on their ears?"
Keely laughed, her clear voice ringing in the front hallway. "What, and let Rupert soil his paws?"
"Worse yet, we could let Annabelle mingle with Lloyd's foxhounds!" Brock offered, his hand still linked in Keely's.
Her nervous laughter died away as her eyes met his. Suddenly she was frightened again. This odd, arrogant man was now her husband, for better or for worse for the rest of her life. What did she have to look forward to? A house of cold stalemates and unfulfilled dreams?
Sensing Keely's sudden apprehension, Brock smiled. "I sent the servants packing, gave everyone the night off. I thought I'd make us something to eat."
"You? I could do it."
"No, no." He led her down the back hall, toward the kitchen. "Let me. You just keep me company while I work."
Releasing Keely's hand as they entered the summer kitchen, Brock shrugged off his coat and waistcoat down to a simple lawn shirt and breeches, rolling up his sleeves. He pulled a high kitchen stool out for her, and before she could get up on it, he lifted her by the waist, setting her gently on the wooden seat. "A kiss is the fee, cousin," he told her playfully, his hands still on her waist.
Tentatively, Keely lifted her hands to rest on his shoulders. "And if the price is too high, cousin?"
"Back on the floor you go."
When Brock made no attempt to collect his compensation, Keely leaned forward, brushing her lips ever so lightly against his. Since she'd never initiated a kiss before, it felt odd, but it sent a tingle of sensation down her spine.
"That was nice." He turned away. "And now for a wedding supper fit for a Lenni Lenape princess maiden."
Keely watched her husband move about the kitchen with confidence, taking notice of the way his back muscles rippled beneath his lawn shirt as he lowered a cast-iron pan from a peg in the rafters. "I didn't know you could cook."
"There's much you don't know about me." Seeing her stiffen, he smiled assuredly. He had vowed to himself that he would be the perfect bridegroom tonight with sweet words and wooing. Once he had the bedding done with and she was carrying his child, then he would let her be. "So you've much to learn." He turned back to a mixing bowl, adding two fresh eggs to the cornmeal mixture. "I'm not much with a leg of lamb but give me a side of venison or a basket of squash and my talents are adequate. I spent time with my father's people when I first returned to the Colonies after the Royal Navy. An old aunt taught me how to cook on an open fire, how to skin a deer, how to clean and dry fish."
Keely folded her hands in the skirts of her emerald damask wedding gown. "Don't do much fish drying, do you?"
He laughed. "No. But at the time it was important to me that I know what kind of life my father led."
Keely looked away thoughtfully. "My father was a wonderful man."
Brock spooned the cornmeal into a square pan, which he pushed into the beehive oven alongside the fireplace. "You remember him?"
"A little. He used to buy me licorice." She slipped her hand beneath the neckline of her gown, retrieving the amulet she wore around her neck. "He gave me this." The instant the words slipped off her tongue, she felt foolish. Only a child treasured such worthless baubles. What would Brock think of such fancies?
"Did he?" To Keely's surprise, he came across the room to lift the delicate chain with his finger.
She shrugged. "It's just a copper tuppence. I should put it away."
A frown creased Brock's handsome brow." 'Twould be bad luck at this point, don't you think?"
Her hazel eyes met his, the barest smile on her face. "What do you mean?"
"How long have you been wearing it?"
"Ten, fifteen years, I don't know."
"If it were my charm, I'd keep it." He gave her a wink, releasing the amulet. "After all, maybe it brought you me!"
Keely's cheeks colored. Somehow, as nervous and frightened as she had been after the wedding, Brock had managed to calm her shattered nerves. He had managed to put her at ease, to make her laugh, to make her enjoy his company. She was fast learning that her new husband was a many-faceted person and that thought was encouraging. Perhaps Aunt Gwen and Uncle Lloyd were right—perhaps they could build a happy life together.
The wedding
feast Brock prepared for Keely was a strange assortment of foreign dishes, but a hearty and delicious feast nonetheless. He prepared succotash—an Indian mixture of corn and beans—hot buttered corn bread, and a spicy meat dish of venison and herbs. They dined in the garden, on the grass, in the fading autumn light . . . laughing and talking, each exploring the other's personality with quiet diligence.
Keely stared into the dregs of her mulled wine then looked up at Brock, who sipped from a teacup. "Are you an abstainer?" she asked impulsively.
Brock set his teacup down and reached for a slice of rosy apple. "Inebriants seem to get me in trouble." A wave of guilt washed over him as he remembered the last time he had succumbed. "My father's people do not seem to be able to tolerate the white man's brew, so I try to stay away from it as much as possible."
Keely nodded. "Rather admirable for a man, I think."
He lifted a dark eyebrow. "Admirable? You think me admirable, cousin?"
"I hate it when you do that." She drained her glass.
"What? Admirable things? I shall try to refrain myself in the future."
"No!" She laughed, looking away. "Call me cousin." She forced herself to meet his gaze.
"But you are."
"I know, but I am also your wife now," she said softly.
For a moment Brock gazed into the depths of her rich, blue-green eyes. A man could lose himself in those limpid pools, he observed thoughtfully. He had to remind himself that theirs was an arranged marriage. He would be expected to provide for her, to give her children, and to protect her, but never to love her. He didn't want to love her, not the way he had loved Elizabeth. Love like that could tear a man in two.
But as he studied Keely's delicate oval face, he felt his heart stir against his will. For the briefest fleeting moment, he allowed himself to contemplate what it would be like to hear those simple words flow from her mouth—I love you.
Breaking from his reveries, Brock took Keely's hand in his. "Come, wife, let's retire." Getting to his feet, he guided her gently upward. "You go upstairs and do what ever it is ladies do before they go to bed and I'll clean this up."
She nodded, with a gulp. Suddenly she realized what was before her. She knew all along that, whatever husband would be chosen for her, she would be expected to allow him to bed her, but Brock? Her breath caught strangely in her throat and she turned from him, hurrying out of the garden and into the house.
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 8