Broken Vows, Mended Hearts: A Bouquet of ThistlesPaying the PiperBattle-Torn Bride

by Gail Ranstrom

  “Perhaps I’m greedy.”

  “Ah.” She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “How much are you going to ask for me?”

  “Faraday said to start at five thousand pounds. Do you think your father will pay it?”

  “He is my stepfather, and he is a shrewd negotiator. You may have to settle for very little.”

  “That would be my guess,” he muttered. He smiled down at the top of her head. He had yet to see her face clearly. And she to see his. If she truly didn’t remember him, his scars would not surprise her. Ah, but they would certainly repel her. How long could he put that off?

  “Whatever you are running away from must be loathsome indeed,” he prodded. He felt her quiet gasp beneath his hand around her rib cage. She was not skilled at deceit. How did one get by in the world without wiles? He found it rather endearing that she was so easy to read. Such a refreshing change from dealing with enemy soldiers, generals and politicians.

  “What is your name, sir? Who are you?”

  “Rush.” Since that is what he’d done in this situation—rush in where angels feared to tread.

  “Do you have a first name?”

  He chuckled. “Mr. Rush, if you wish.”

  “It’s a lie, isn’t it, sir.”

  “You can hardly expect me to give my real name. Next you’ll be asking my address. This is not a social occasion, Miss Faraday, but a business arrangement between your brother and me.”

  “By extension, sir, that would make you my employee, as well.”

  “It would not, Miss Faraday. I was quite clear that I’m no lady’s maid. Your brother said you’d earn your keep.”

  By her sputtering, Anthony guessed that George hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Odd, how he’d set Miss Faraday up as a paragon of all things feminine and virtuous, and the reality was far from that. She was imperious and demanding, and he wondered if he’d even like her by the end of day tomorrow. But how the bloody hell would he keep his hands off her?

  The problem was, he hadn’t had physical contact with a woman for two years—since he’d been on leave and danced with Miss Faraday. Meeting her again was bittersweet. Bitter, because she was not what he’d thought. Sweet, because the physical pull was still strong. Too strong.

  A small light coming from a mullioned window cast a faint yellowish glow in the dark, and Chloe made out the form of a thatched cottage in a wooded vale. A paddock to one side contained two cows, a goat and a small chicken coop.

  The gamekeeper stopped at the path to the door and swung down. She was surprised by his groan and pronounced limp. He must have stiffened during the ride. Perhaps he was older than she’d judged by his straight back and unbent frame. And by the strength of his arms supporting and bracing her during their ride. He took her valise and then circled her waist to lift her down.

  “Go inside. I’ll see to the horse and be in presently,” he said as he set her on her feet.

  “You…you are going to stay here?”

  The man walked away from her, laughing and shaking his head. He removed his hooded mask but did not turn back to look at her. What an odd man. His eccentricities must come from living in such an isolated place.

  She retrieved her valise, walked up the flagstone path and opened the door. The plank floors gleamed with an ancient patina and a burgundy rug in the center of the room looked worn but expensive. A brown leather club chair with a matching footstool sat by the banked fire and faced an overstuffed sofa. At the opposite end of the room, there was another fireplace, larger and with compartments for cooking set into the bricks. A worktable, two wooden chairs, a counter with a sink and pump and bins conveniently placed in proximity to one another completed what she assumed was a kitchen. She shivered as she put her valise down, removed her bonnet and shrugged out of her pelisse.

  The door in the far wall would lead to a back garden and a privy, another door near the kitchen fireplace led to what she could only assume would be her private room. A ladder on the opposite side of the fireplace would lead to the loft and the gamekeeper’s quarters.

  She sighed. Alone in a house with a male servant—truly scandalous! This was enough to ruin her reputation. But how silly—she couldn’t picture herself doing anything actually wrong with this man—a gamekeeper, and not a very pleasant one at that.

  She lit a candle from the fireplace and placed it in a candlestick, then pumped water into an empty kettle and put it over the coals to heat. Chloe had never believed she would be grateful for her stepfather’s favorite means of humiliation: forcing her to earn her keep in the kitchen. But now she needed to wash the grime of the road from her hands and face—and at least she knew how to boil water! Then, blissfully clean, she would fall into bed and let slumber overtake her, praying for sweet dreams and a speedy conclusion to her little dilemma.

  When the kettle was boiling, Chloe carried it into the small bedchamber. As she suspected, there was a washstand with a pitcher and bowl and clean towels hanging on the side. She poured the steaming water into the bowl and returned the kettle to the kitchen. This time she took her valise and jacket with her and dropped them on the high featherbed covered in a worn green velvet counterpane. She kicked off her shoes and stripped down to her chemise, then returned to the washstand and splashed her face with warm water, then lathered with a used bar of French-milled soap from a soap dish before she rinsed and buried her face in a soft towel that smelled of spring breezes.

  Anthony was not surprised to find the cottage silent. Miss Faraday had been drooping with fatigue by the time he’d set her on her feet. He glanced at the ladder to the loft. Evidently Miss Faraday had found her way up to the quarters he and Barnes, his manservant, prepared for her. They’d converted the entire loft to a bedroom at one end and a sitting room at the other, thinking she’d have more privacy above than below. Dormered windows on all four sides would give her ample light to read, do needlework or otherwise entertain herself.

  A steaming kettle on the hearth made him smile. She had heated water to wash and left the rest for him. Good. He really wasn’t prepared to deal with her tonight. She was inquisitive, imperious, stubborn—in short, everything George warned she was. And his pride still stung that she hadn’t remembered him, and had dismissed him so summarily. Well, she might refuse to marry him, but she’d damn well remember him this time.

  He threw his jacket over a chair, rolled his shirtsleeves up and washed at the sink. He’d shave tomorrow. Tonight he just wanted a late supper and his bed. He cut a slab of bread along with a wedge of thick yellow cheese and put them on a plate. An apple from the larder completed his dinner and he headed for his room. A copy of Life of Nelson was waiting for him on his bedside table. He longed to rest his throbbing leg.

  He stopped dead in his doorway, speechless by what he found. There, her back to him as she stood at the washstand, was a scantily clad Chloe Faraday. She was wearing a filmy white shift trimmed in narrow lace that veiled her form but did not hide it. Her curves, the delicate tint of her skin, the shapely turn of her calf, were all evident in the most erotic scene Anthony could ever remember.

  As he stood there, motionless, she lifted her arms and pulled the pins from her hair. The dark lengths tumbled in a riot down her back. When she bent slightly to splash water on her face, her shift molded to the sweet curve of her bottom and brought him to instant erection. Good God! He’d dreamed about this every night for the past two years and now he was within arm’s reach of his dreams. The temptation to toss her onto the bed then and there almost got the better of him.

  Merely a physical response, he told himself, but a moment more and… When she straightened again and buried her face in the towel, he pulled himself from his lurid thoughts and cleared his throat. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

  Miss Faraday jumped and spun to face him. Her eyes grew round and she threw her towel at him.

  Anthony responded with instincts honed in the trenches. He dropped his plate and caught the towel, his eyes n
ever leaving her as she seized her discarded dress on the bed and clutched it to her bosom. His plate hit the floor and shattered pottery burst upward, scattering across the planks.

  Miss Faraday’s shrill scream echoed through the vale.

  Chapter Three

  The man in her bedroom doorway was fierce and foreboding. His dark brows lowered over deep brown eyes and a livid scar slashed across his left cheek from cheekbone to jaw. There was a strength and calm determination in his stance that caused her to step back against the washstand. This was a man who could intimidate her with no more than a glance.

  She clutched her dress against her bosom. “Who…what are you doing in my room?”

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Faraday, but this is my room.”

  Good heavens! The gamekeeper! He’d been wearing a mask and she hadn’t seen his face before. “Yours? But this is the only private—”

  “Your room is upstairs, Miss Faraday.”

  “Up the ladder?” she asked incredulously.

  “Is there another way up that I’ve missed?”

  She did not appreciate his attempt at humor, if, indeed, it was humor. “You would know that better than I, Mr. Rush. Could we trade rooms during my stay here?”

  “No, we really couldn’t. Everything has been prepared for you in the loft. And I am certain I needn’t remind you that it would be the best place for you should strangers arrive, or the authorities come looking for you.”

  “Authorities? But this isn’t a real kidnapping.”

  He gave a small smile and the muscles on the left side of his face twitched terrifyingly. “Your stepfather does not know that, Miss Faraday. Do you really believe he will not call for help to find you?”

  “I…I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I would hazard a guess that is not all you have not thought of. Actions have consequences, Miss Faraday. It is called ‘paying the piper.’”

  This echo of George’s words made her uneasy. Oh, there would be consequences, but she’d thought they would all be hers to bear. She did not like to think of her mother’s tears, but if her stepfather had only listened to reason… Sir Anthony Chandler was another matter entirely. He had contracted for a bride and then promptly forgotten all about her until it was convenient for him to remember. He deserved to suffer. She hoped he was worrying.

  “Steppapa is not exactly the doting sort. Do you think the authorities will come?”

  “I’ve taken all possible precautions to insure that they will not find us. No one knows where we are. Not even your brother.”

  Oh, dear! She did not like the sound of that—alone, isolated, and nary a soul to know how to find her. She was surprised that George had agreed to that. When she glanced back at Mr. Rush, he was giving her a speculative look, as if he were trying to measure her reaction.

  “But,” he said after a moment, “if they do come, and if they find you, we shall have to concoct some likely story.”

  “What sort of story?”

  “You will have to lie. Say we are married or something.”

  She looked him up and down. Were it not for his scar, he would have been good-looking, and compared to her London beaux, he cut a more dashing figure. His chestnut hair curled nicely at his nape and behind his ears, and his eyes betrayed a sharp intelligence. But he was a gamekeeper, for heaven’s sake. A common, uneducated ruffian. “I shall be very good at hiding,” she concluded.

  “I imagine you are very good at avoiding whatever you wish to,” he murmured.

  There was an insult in those words but she did not want to examine it too closely. She was still standing in her chemise with her traveling dress pressed to her chest. She glanced at her valise on the bed. “Could you at least take my bag up?”

  His full lips curved in a wicked smile and he was suddenly quite attractive despite his scar. “I am afraid not, Miss Faraday. You will have to manage for yourself.”

  She knew her mouth had dropped open, but she couldn’t think how to reply to his refusal. “But I…”

  “I’ll turn my back, Miss.” And he did.

  Confused, Chloe gathered her belongings and stuffed them in her valise. He turned to keep his back to her as she edged past him through the doorway. She scurried up the ladder, one hand on the rungs and the other dangling her valise behind her while she prayed he was at least gentleman enough not to watch her from below.

  The next morning, Anthony made a pot of strong tea—such a luxury in the trenches in the peninsula that the delicate aroma could still elicit a pang of pleasure. He took two cups, bowls and plates from the cupboard and placed them on the worn plank table. Would he ever grow accustomed to fresh foods again—cream, butter, sugar, vegetables and meats that hadn’t been cured in vats of salt and brine? He certainly wouldn’t take them for granted again.

  Nor would he take deep dreamless sleep for granted again. Last night, in his dreams, Miss Faraday had been most accommodating. Her dark hair had fallen loose down her back and her fiery green eyes had looked straight into his soul. And not shirked. God…she’d been everything he’d dreamed and more than he’d hoped. In his dreams.

  The reality was more harsh. She would need a spot of taming, that was certain. He did not relish the idea of spending the rest of his life with a woman who ordered him about like a servant—likely not her fault, but the result of a strong will. At least he would prefer to think her strong-willed rather than quarrelsome by nature.

  The soft sound of footfalls padding across the loft floor-boards indicated that Miss Faraday had risen. He stirred the porridge pot, ladled the contents into the two bowls and placed them back on the table with the sugar bowl and creamer. He’d picked a handful of violets and lily of the valley on his way back from the privy this morning and put them in a teacup in the center of the table, hoping the little gesture might make Miss Faraday feel more comfortable.

  He turned when he heard the scuffle of a shoe on the rungs. Miss Faraday was descending the ladder, her rounded derriere the most prominent part of her from this angle. Such tempting seductive curves. He longed to caress them, but he had no wish to face the consequences of so reckless an act. Odd, how he’d faced an entire army with less trepidation than facing Miss Faraday. He turned back to his task rather than be caught watching her.

  A moment later she cleared her throat to announce her arrival. He turned and gave her a polite nod.

  “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Rush,” she said.

  Ah, a rebuke. Did she always bite the hand that fed her? “Sleep well, Miss Faraday?”

  “The bed is quite comfortable,” she allowed as she sat at the table. “But I lay awake for half the night.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I regret my impulsiveness. Perhaps this was not a good idea. I mean…we are quite alone. And my mother is, no doubt, overwrought.”

  “No doubt,” he agreed.

  “I should go back.”

  “Too late for a tender conscience now, Miss Faraday. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”

  She lifted her spoon and dipped it in her porridge with a little shudder. “But this is not what I thought it would be.”

  “Did you think it would be a lark? A pleasant way to spend a fortnight whilst you confounded your friends and family?”

  She gave him so dark a frown that he almost felt sorry for her. “It was my betrothed that I sought to confound.”

  “To force him to break the engagement?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat across from her and attacked his porridge with enthusiasm to cover his lack of a response. So, it was him after all. She did not want him. The notion caused him no small amount of anger.

  “He…he is a stranger to me,” she murmured after a moment of silence.

  Was that the best excuse she could manage? “You wouldn’t be the first woman to marry a stranger. Was the contract made without your consent?”

  “N-not exactly.” She looked up from her plate to meet his gaze and a shock w
ent through him. Was it fear he saw in the green depths? Whatever it was, it stirred something primal in him—a need to possess and protect. And he resented her for it.

  “Then what have you to complain of?” he asked.

  She dropped her spoon. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Mr. Rush. There are certain sensibilities that would be foreign to you.”

  That was going a little far. “Because I am a gamekeeper?”

  “Because you are a man,” she corrected.

  A man? He hadn’t known that to be a slur before. “I am wondering, Miss Faraday, what I could have done to warrant your contempt.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Contempt? I haven’t the slightest bit of contempt for you. Why, I scarcely know you. I only meant that, as a man, you couldn’t hope to understand a woman’s misgivings and fears.”

  “Would you understand what your betrothed might feel, bound to a woman he doesn’t know? Perhaps he is regretting his rash offer, but honor demands he follow through. And what do you think he will make of you? Will he think he’s made a good bargain?”

  He pushed his bowl away and went to fetch a piece of paper, a pen and an inkwell. “Let’s have this done,” he said as he placed them on the table and poised the pen above the sheet. “How much should I ask?”

  “I want to go home,” she repeated.

  “Too late. Believe me, I am having my own misgivings, but we are in too deep to back out now. Besides, Faraday said the ransom would be my pay. I’ve gone to considerable trouble to set this up and my future depends upon the outcome. Wouldn’t want to cheat me of my rightful due, would you?”

  “I…I suppose not. Perhaps I could pay you.”

  “Do you have five thousand pounds lying about?”

  “You cannot be serious. That would make this an actual kidnapping.”

  “Not when you’ve set it up, Miss Faraday. If charges are brought, my guess is they would be against you—for fraud. But I think it will take a while for your stepfather to come up with that amount of cash. Which will happen first, I wonder? Will the authorities find us, or will you escape your wedding day?”