Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "And when will that be? Brett, don't you realize that every day that passes may make things more difficult? What happens when her brother comes looking for her? Or have you detained him, too?"

  Brett shook his head as he gazed abstractedly out the window.

  "There, you see? The man is bound to come around, asking questions. Think of the scandal if he chooses not to be discreet!"

  "Enough!" Brett whirled from the window to face her; his eyes held a mixture of rage and frustration. "I don't wish to discuss it further. Perhaps I shall divorce her. I won't say it hasn't crossed my mind. But, until I decide what's to be done, I'll brook no more arguments from you. Is that clear?"

  Margaret rose from the velvet settee and gave him a long look. "Perfectly. Now, if you do not mind, Your Grace, I've had a long, tiring afternoon, and I am no longer a young woman. I fear you will have to endure my presence in your house, like it or not. I shall take the green room. Please ring for Higgins to make it ready for me."

  "You intend to stay, then?"

  "Is it not what I have just said? Fortunately, I've brought my abigail. She's waiting with my baggage in the coach without. You will please have her—and it—sent to me." She headed for the double doors.

  Brett watched her cross the room, angry frustration evident in his rigid stance. "Wait," he snapped as she reached the doors. When Margaret turned to him, he continued. "Since you appear determined to stay here, you may as well make yourself useful. Higgins hasn't had as much as an afternoon off in weeks. I've business at Carlton House of the like that takes me away during the day and frequently, far into the night. As long as you plan to be here, I'll want you to... keep an eye on things while I give Higgins the time off that he has earned."

  Margaret's face registered mild shock. "You wish me to be your wife's jailer?" she questioned snidely.

  Brett made a gesture of impatience as he, too, headed for the doors. "Call it what you like. Between you and your abigail, you ought to be able to manage for a few hours at a clip."

  Having opened the doors and passed through them, he headed for the front entrance before pausing a moment and turning back to her. "Oh, Lady Margaret—" his tone was deceptively soft "—I wouldn't be entertaining any enterprising notions if I were you. If my wife is allowed to escape while in your charge, you will pay dearly for it, I promise you. Remember the dowager's cottage. Even with its refurbishing, I shouldn't think you'd enjoy inhabiting it permanently. Moreover, if Ashleigh disappears while under your... care, I shall never seek the divorce you so devoutly crave—never! Tell that to yourself and your darling Elizabeth!"

  This said, he whirled and made for the door.

  * * * * *

  Oliver Higgins was feeling quite pleased with himself as he lurched through the side door of the Three Coachmen pub, which was located at the edge of London's West End. He'd more than doubled the five quid he'd brought with him tonight, having bested Will Barker at four out of five rounds of draughts and then trounced Geordie MacNeil at the dart board—and with six pints of ale in him, too!

  Now he needed relief from all that ale he'd consumed, hence a trip to the narrow alleyway before walking home. Positioning himself to face a wall that, judging by the stench, had endured countless visits by the customers of the Three Coachmen over the years, Higgins reached for the front closure of his breeches when he suddenly felt a hard object jam against his ribs.

  "Make not a move," said a deep voice behind him.

  Higgins froze, a lump of fear closing his throat. Oh, hell! he thought. Now some bloody Dick's going to lighten my pockets of my winnings!

  "Answer my questions satisfactorily," came the voice from somewhere above, as well as behind, him, "and you'll have nothing to fear, understand?"

  "Y-yes," stammered Higgins, wondering why a thief should wish to question him.

  "Is your name Higgins?" asked the voice.

  Beginning to wonder at the cultured tones articulated by a man who ought to sound like a street tough, Higgins nodded.

  "The same Higgins who is employed as valet to the duke of Ravensford?"

  Again, Higgins nodded. Damn, if the voice didn't sound familiar! It had just the barest hint of a drawl to it. Where had he heard it before?

  "Very well, Higgins, answer my next question correctly and you may soon be on your way and safely home. Where is His Grace detaining Her Grace, the duchess?"

  It was the brother, the one who'd lived in America! Oh, he was a big one, he was! But His Grace would have his hide if he—

  "Answer quickly or you'll wish you had!" The object at his rib cage jabbed harder.

  Well, he'd been feeling awfully sorry for the little miss anyway.... "She—she's here in London, sir."

  "At the house on King Street?"

  "Yes, sir," Higgins paused, then thought, Ah, well, in for a pence, in for a pound. "She's locked up in His Grace's chamber there."

  "Thank you, Higgins," said Patrick. "You may turn around, now."

  "Um, ah, sir?" Higgins squirmed.

  "Yes?"

  "Before you came, I was just about to, ah, that is—"

  A snort of amusement met his ears. "Of course. But don't try anything foolish. I've no wish to harm you, and I've a few more things to discuss with you."

  When he'd relieved himself, Higgins turned about to see Patrick standing before him with nothing more than a fashionable walking stick in his hand. Bloody hell! he thought, but then, upon considering the size of the hand, not to mention the man, who held it, he meekly followed Patrick's gesture to accompany him out of the alleyway.

  Twenty minutes later Higgins was sitting opposite Patrick and Megan in their large, hired carriage as it sat outside Patrick's lodgings.

  "You understand what you must do, then?" Patrick questioned him.

  Higgins glanced nervously one final time at the ferocious-looking wolfhound who sat on the floor between them and answered, "It—it doesn't seem too difficult, sir. I'm to be sure the Lady Margaret is sufficiently distracted after you've made off with the little—with Her Grace in the carriage, to give you time to get completely away before her absence is discovered."

  "Good man," said Patrick. "Before that, you need only admit me to see Old Iron Skirts."

  Higgins smiled for the first time since encountering Patrick this evening. He had little love for Iron Skirts, and it pleased him to be putting one over on her. He was beginning to think he might enjoy this after all! It might even compensate for the guilt he'd feel at betraying his employer. Besides, he'd already been feeling guilty for keeping Her Grace confined. And helping the brother and the Irishwoman rescue her was a damned sight preferable to being at the mercy of the big man, or worse, this hellish hound of theirs.

  "The critical thing," Megan was saying, "is to take advantage of any distractions available. You say she insisted you be home tomorrow afternoon because she's expecting someone for tea?"

  "Lady Bunbury, yes," nodded Higgins.

  "Perfect," said Patrick. "We'll time it so that I arrive just as Bunbury is leaving. That way Iron Skirts will already be in the drawing room and I can prevail upon her to offer me a cup of tea. It will give Megan more time."

  "You must listen at the door," instructed Megan, "and when Lady Bunbury rises to depart, go to the other front room—the library, isn't it?—and twitch the draperies at the window two times. We'll be in our carriage outside the courtyard, waiting for your signal... and, Higgins?"

  "Yes, miss?"

  "The beasties will be with us."

  Higgins's eyes flickered to the pig at her feet, and then grew wider as they swung to the great shaggy animal beside her. He swallowed and nodded.

  "Good. We're all set, then," said Patrick. "I'll let you off a bit of a distance from King Street, just to take no chances of anyone seeing you with us, and then, love," he added, looking at Megan, "you and I must make a stop at the dressmaker's."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  While Patrick and Megan were en route to Madame Gautier
's a few blocks away, Brett stood pondering the locked door of Ashleigh's chamber. It had been a hellish three days for him, with the nights the worst of all, and tonight didn't promise to be any better. When he'd first decided to kidnap her and bring her here, there'd been little in his mind but the need to lash out and punish her for what she'd done—for revenge. But now that he had her under his roof and totally at his mercy, he found little satisfaction in it; if anything, he'd learned revenge is a double-edged sword, quite capable of cutting the one who wields it, as well as the one at whom it is aimed.

  He should be enjoying the humiliation of this woman who had attempted to desert him! Why wasn't he? Why, after his government business was done each day, did he find it necessary to inundate himself with brandy and a string of faceless women, before he could bring himself back here at night? Upon awakening each morning, why did he almost run from the sight of her sweetly sleeping face, eager to throw himself into an endless series of meetings and the like, those boring yet time-consuming rounds of duty that he hoped would drain his thoughts of unwanted things, but that never quite managed to do so?

  He'd thought to take his revenge, making her suffer for a few days, then release her and seek the divorce she'd suggested, wiping her out of his mind and his life in the process. But his mind would not be quit of her... nor the yearnings of his body, he reminded himself sardonically. And now, here was Margaret, arriving with her urgings to seek the severance he himself should have instigated by now, reminding him of what he knew only too well: he'd been putting it off because he wasn't sure he really wanted it. Divorcing a woman he'd erased from his mind would have been easy; divorcing one who hovered in his thoughts every waking moment, her presence stronger than ever, was impossible.

  Well, tonight he'd forgone the trips to clubs and gambling halls following his last session at Carlton House. Tonight he'd taken a light supper in his chamber—God forbid he should join Lady Margaret in the dining room! He'd bathed, changed his clothes, and then waited until he heard Higgins depart from Ashleigh's chamber with her bathwater before stepping across the hall to stand here before her door. It was time he made a decision.

  Ashleigh sat in a chair before one of the open windows in her chamber; it had turned hot earlier in the day, and nightfall had brought no promise of cooling the city of its closely held heat, so she had come here to catch what breeze she could, to dry her hair after washing it in the bath. Wrapped around her body, from armpit to ankle, was the ever-present sheet she'd clothed herself in for the past three days. She was beginning to grow accustomed to it!

  She smiled, recalling Patrick's descriptions of islands he'd visited in his seafaring days, where he said the women wore little more than this as their daily garb. But her smile quickly vanished as thoughts of her brother reminded her of how much she missed him and of her dwindling hope that she might see him again soon.

  A sound at the door plunged her into the present. Setting down the hairbrush Higgins had found for her, she straightened in the chair just as the lock turned and Brett stepped into the chamber.

  He was dressed informally, in pale gray breeches with black and gold Hessians and a white shirt that was open at the throat, minus stock, waistcoat or jacket. His hair was still damp, indicating he'd recently bathed; it curled casually about his ears and over his forehead, adding to the informality of his appearance, but more than this, it gave him the effect of being more youthful, even boyish. He was oh-so-handsome, and Ashleigh's stomach did a little flip-flop when she saw him.

  Aware she was looking at him, Brett took a moment to observe her in return. She sat very still in the chair before the window, and a soft breeze caught her long, midnight curls, ruffling them about her face and bare, silken shoulders. The chair was upholstered in deep blue velvet; against it, her small, slender body, wrapped as it was in the white sheet, stood out in relief, accentuating her lithe curves. Her eyes as they met his had never seemed bluer, and they sparkled, catching the candlelight that also bathed her skin in a warm, mellow glow, making it appear sensuous beyond reckoning. He felt an instant's urge to rush to her and pull her against him, that he might feel that powder-soft skin and the countless other textures of the ripe body he'd come to know so well: the whisper softness of her eyelids; those silken strands of hair; the satin curve of her lips when she smiled...

  Gritting his teeth, he put aside this inclination, knowing they must talk if he was to reach any decision at all.

  "I see you've adapted to your surroundings quite well," he said, indicating her placement of the chair before the open window.

  "To my prison, you mean," she corrected.

  "As you wish." His reply was noncommittal.

  "But you must know I do not wish it! Brett, can you not tell me what you intend to do with me? I—I must tell you, it has been very difficult for me. If such was your intent—to make me suffer—it has been successful, but—oh, please! Won't you let me go?"

  Brett took a few steps toward her. "And to what end, Your Grace? If I should release you—now, this very night—where would you go? Would you run to your brother, to the very man who, only last week, threatened to kill me if I did not make you my wife? Would you merely pick up where you left off three days ago, and go blithely on your way to some solicitor's offices to seek your freedom? Is that all these three days have bought me? By God, I'll not have it! Not until I have some answers at least!"

  Ashleigh heard the growing anger in his voice and was dismayed. She had, upon seeing him at first, hoped he'd come to discuss the situation without rancor. It was the first time since their encounter the evening he'd come upon her in her bath, that he'd seemed willing to talk, and she'd been hopeful they might come to an understanding, that he might even be ready to release her. But now she saw that the bitterness was still there, feeding the anger, and she realized she'd better try to head it off; she might never have this opportunity again.

  Rising from the chair, she met his gaze, saying in as calm a voice as she could summon, "I agree, Brett. We must both have some answers."

  "Then we'll begin with the only real question I have." As he said this his face held no expression, but his eyes telegraphed a host of emotions—rage, bewilderment, pain, they were all there. "Why? Why did you run from me, Ashleigh? Was one night in my lawful bed so repugnant to you that you could not bear the thought of repeating it? Did you find marriage to me so distasteful, you could not wait to set it aside?"

  Ashleigh began shaking her head at this questioning, slowly at first, then ever more wildly as tears started to spill down her cheeks. Oh, she loved him! She was sure of it now, especially when she saw the raw emotion that was choking him inside, releasing itself in anger instead of some terrible pain he couldn't seem to acknowledge.

  "Brett, no! It wasn't any of that, I swear to you! Please! You must believe me! Oh, I know now I was wrong to leave without talking to you first, but I—"

  "So the only thing you'd have done differently was that you'd have talked to me first? 'Oh, Brett, I'm terribly sorry,'" he mimicked, "'but I've just had a change of heart.' Is that it? No further explanations? Nothing? Did that brief time together mean so little to you?"

  Ashleigh had opened her mouth to try to tell him he was wrong, that she wished to give him some sort of explanation—having to do at least with Elizabeth's words to her, if not her own fears that came of the vulnerability she felt at loving him—but then his last question hit her with an impact that wiped all else from her mind.

  "No, Brett," she said, her words barely a whisper. "It meant everything to me."

  Brett stopped and stared at her for a moment, stunned by her words. Then, with a hoarse, animal cry, he reached out and pulled her to him in a fierce embrace, bending to bury his face in her hair as he held her.

  Locked in his arms, Ashleigh felt the powerful trembling of his body; she moved her own arms upward about his neck without thinking, for she was beyond thought now, answering only to a compulsion deep within her. It said: This is the man you w
ant, the man you need, the man you love. This is Brett, your husband. Love him, love him, just love him!

  Brett's lips found her temple, her brow, her eyes, wet with the salt of tears. Again and again, they passed over her face while he held her tightly to him. "Ashleigh," he murmured. "Ah, Ashleigh, I can't ever let you go! You've become some kind of desperate fire inside me... consuming me...."

  His arms loosened and he began to move his hands over her slender frame as he spoke in hoarse, hushed whispers, his voice shaking with emotion. "I've never needed a woman before, love... not in the way I've found I need you... not like this, never like this..."

  Gently, he loosened the sheet about her body until it drifted in soft folds to the floor. Then he withdrew a pace, holding her at arm's length, and his eyes swept hungrily over her body before coming to rest on her face.

  "Ashleigh...?" he questioned.

  She raised her eyes to meet his, then gasped at what she saw there. Of course, she had expected desire, and it was clearly evident, a raw hunger so powerful her knees threatened to buckle with its impact; but going far beyond this was something that touched her to the core: his eyes held a look so vulnerable, she thought at first she might be imagining it, but then she knew it was real. Here, for the first time, was Brett with his defenses stripped away. Gone was the taunting mockery, the anger, the worldly sophistication, all the things she'd felt were a barrier between them; in their place was a naked plea that said: I am showing you my soul. I am baring my pain. Take it, and do not throw it away. It is all I know how to give you right now, but it is everything I have....

  Ashleigh's breath caught as she understood. He might not love her—at least, not yet—but he was giving her far more than he had ever given before. For now, it was enough. Her breath came out in a rush as she threw herself into his arms with a small cry. "Oh, Brett, I'm so sorry! Forgive me, darling, forgive me! I—"

  "No need now, love," he rasped. "Just stay with me... be with me...."