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

by Gail Ranstrom

  But tonight he’d have to avoid her. He needed a deep dreamless sleep without lurid unsettling thoughts.

  Chloe crossed her arms over her chest as she looked at the plates of bubble and squeak she’d made with the leftover ham. They were lukewarm at best by now. Mr. Rush had not come in from his chores and she suspected he was trying to avoid her. A minute ago, she’d seen the light of a lantern through the open barn door. This morning he’d been anxious for her to do something to earn her keep, and now he was ignoring her. Of course, she didn’t actually want his company, but she’d gone to considerable trouble to prepare his dinner and she wasn’t about to let him turn it into a congealed mess fit only for swine.

  She untied her apron and dropped it on her chair. Tucking a curl that had escaped her ribbon behind her ear, she marched across the yard to see what was keeping him. She opened her mouth to call to him as she entered the barn but her rebuke died on her lips.

  Mr. Rush was standing at the trough, bare from the waist up. The muscles in his back bunched and smoothed again as he used his shirt to wipe his face. His dark hair was damp and scattered crystalline drops of water into little rivulets down his neck and back. For some unaccountable reason, she found the sight fascinating. The expanse of creamy flesh, taut over straining muscles, was deeply stirring. He shivered and hung his shirt on a peg next to the lantern before splashing the cold water over his chest and arms.

  She wanted to say something, to retreat or to warn him that he was not alone, but she was mesmerized by the sight of him—so natural, so raw and primal. He shivered and reached for his shirt again, half turning as he did. He stopped when he saw her standing in the open doorway and dropped his hands to his sides.

  He stood quietly, studying her face as she stared at his chest. A light matting of dark hair curved in a deep V downward to the waistband of his trousers. Strong square-set shoulders and stronger arms tapered into large hands which were flexing his fingers into fists. He was tense. Was he angry?

  Her attention snapped up to his face, as unreadable as always, but betraying a faint expectation. He was waiting for her to speak, but she couldn’t think what to say. Nor could she move when he came toward her. She thought he would pass her and go to the cottage, but he stopped in front of her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

  “Did you want something, Miss Faraday?”

  Heat swept through her and she looked down to break the hold of his gaze. “I…came to tell you that supper is getting cold.”

  He stepped closer still and planted his hands against the wall planks on each side of her. A bead of water dropped from the dark curl over his forehead and fell against her throat. She shivered as it trickled down between her breasts.

  He said nothing, but his mere presence was so compelling that she looked up again. He was waiting for her, and she had the feeling he’d have waited all night like that. He bent to her and his lips were as soft and pliable as velvet when they brushed against hers. A slow tingling began at the base of her spine and worked its way upward, causing her to catch her breath. She’d been kissed a very few times before, but this was quite beyond anything she could have imagined. He nibbled her lips, urging them open, then his tongue entered to reach inside her, taste her, tease and tantalize her.

  When her knees went watery and she thought she would swoon with the utter deliciousness of it, he stopped, leaning lower to trace the course of that little droplet with his tongue from her throat to the top of her gown. She gasped in shock, completely unprepared for such familiarity.

  Then Mr. Rush straightened and gave her a small smile. “I hope it’s still warm,” he said as he passed her to the door.

  Chapter Five

  Anthony wasn’t surprised when Chloe came into the cottage and went straight to the loft without a word. He couldn’t blame her. When he had turned and seen her standing just inside the barn door, her eyes as large a saucers, he had a sudden pang of what marriage to her would mean—days of finding her at the turn of a corner or the opening of a door, nights with her wrapped in his arms and silenced by his kisses. He had definitely overstepped his boundaries. And now he’d caused another problem. How was he to resist Chloe when he knew she tasted like dark, warm honey? How would he watch her across the table without seeing that droplet of water glistening as it trickled down between her breasts?

  He sat and looked at the bubble and squeak she’d made for supper. It seemed such a homey and ordinary dish for such an exotic creature to make. Almost as if the queen had made porridge. It certainly looked good. He lifted the fork and took a huge bite, anticipating the savory taste of cabbage and onion mixed with ham and potatoes—and almost choked.

  He reached for the teapot and drank from the spout. Good God! Had she used an entire cellar of salt? He should have listened when she warned that she didn’t know how to cook. After he managed to purge the worst of the taste from his tongue, he went to the larder to see if there was something else to eat. Nothing simple. Not even an apple.

  It was late. He was tired. He’d rather go to bed hungry than cook at this hour. He cleared the table and, just as he was about to scrape the contents of Chloe’s plate into a pail for the swine, he had a sudden suspicion. He retrieved his fork and took a cautious bite.

  Delicious! Quite the best bubble and squeak he’d ever had. He turned and looked at the ladder. The minx had gulled him. She’d oversalted his, but not hers. Was she up there now anticipating his reaction? How amusing! He finished the plateful standing up and watching the ladder while he mused over his guest’s sense of humor. He’d have to think of a way to pay her back.

  Not surprisingly, he still wanted his pound of flesh, but he had just decided to go through with the marriage. After seeing her in her nightgown, after sampling her kisses and falling victim to her practical jokes, he could not imagine marrying anyone else.

  Chloe glanced around the kitchen the next morning, wondering what had become of last night’s dinner. Mr. Rush had washed up and put the dishes away. When she found the remains of the bubble and squeak in the slop bucket she had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing aloud. Since there was no breakfast on the table, she set to work. She had heard Mr. Rush leave earlier and had glanced out her window to see him heading for the barn. He was a brave man if he was willing to eat her cooking again.

  She filled a pot with water and hung it over the fire to boil. She found a basket of eggs and brought bread, butter, jam and a wedge of deep yellow cheese from the larder.

  After pouring boiling water into the teapot on the table, she put the pot back on the fire, then sliced the bread and placed it on a rack to toast. She stirred the water in the pot into a swirl and cracked two eggs into the center. When they had set enough to leave alone, she hurried to the door and called across the yard.

  “Mr. Rush! Breakfast is ready.”

  Yes, indeed. The smell of burning toast told her it was done to perfection. She hurried back to the kitchen and used her apron to place the toast on a plate. Grabbing a slotted spoon, she went to stand by the pot until she heard Mr. Rush’s footsteps approach.

  When he came in, all her evil intentions evaporated. The dark hair tumbling over his forehead made him look younger and vulnerable. And, though she tried desperately not to, she couldn’t help but remember the feel of his lips on hers—of the seductive trail of his tongue down her throat to the V of her gown.

  Oh! This would never do. He was a kidnapper! Well, a hired one.

  “Good morning, Miss Faraday.” He went to the table and sat. “I trust you had a good night’s sleep?”

  “I slept like a stone. It must be the country air.” She carried the boiling pot to the table and for one brief moment, she caught a look of panic on his face. Then she dipped the spoon into the water and lifted the eggs. When she put them on his plate, they nearly bounced.

  “Ah, just the way I like them,” he said, lifting his fork.

  What was wrong with him? Coddled eggs were supposed to be soft. Chl
oe sat across from him and eyed him suspiciously. As she was pouring out his tea, he took a piece of toast, scraped off the worst of the burn and applied a thick layer of butter.

  She cut a chunk of cheese and nibbled on it while she watched him eat with something close to appreciation. This wasn’t precisely the way she’d planned it. And when he wiped the remaining yolk up with a piece of black toast and popped it in his mouth, she was incredulous.

  He looked up at her as he sat back with his tea. “Not hungry, Miss Faraday? Try to eat something. You must keep your strength up, you know.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “Why, look at you. You’re barely enough to hold on to. What will your betrothed say?”

  “Nothing.”

  He grinned. “You are not even going to give him the courtesy of a rejection to his face? That’s quite ill-bred of you. Surely he deserves that much.”

  Her conscience tweaked her. “I…I don’t know what I will do. I suppose that once I go home he will be back at his estate. ’Twill be easier to write a letter, if he and Steppapa have not already settled the particulars.”

  “What if he still wants you?”

  “He won’t,” she said with a haughty lift of her chin. “He has political aspirations, and my sullied reputation would be a liability.”

  Mr. Rush studied her for a moment before replying. “I would not count on that, Miss Faraday. I can see why he would not want you if he knew the lengths to which you have gone to avoid him, but he doesn’t. Therefore, it would be rather mean-spirited of him to renounce you in your hour of need.”

  “My hour of need?”

  “When your reputation is being whispered about behind fans and over brandy while all of society speculates on what your dastardly kidnapper must have done to you? Yes, you will be the ton’s favorite gossip.”

  They would think she had…no! “What would you know about the ton?” she lashed out.

  She could have bitten her tongue the moment the thoughtless words escaped. Something hard flickered in his eyes and the words hung between them, cold and unforgiving. Oh, how unkind! How had she come to this? Demeaning those less fortunate?

  His mouth quirked and he placed his cup back in the saucer with care. “Nothing, of course. But, now you mention it, Miss Faraday, I believe you may be right. Your betrothed may well count himself a lucky man to have a second chance to dust his hands of you.”

  Oh, why did he always have to needle her? All the guilt and sorrow she’d felt a moment ago fled. “You didn’t seem to think so last night, Mr. Rush!”

  “A momentary lapse in my usual good judgment,” he said as he stood. “And, by the way, I have already had word from your stepfather regarding ransom.”

  “When?”

  “This morning while you were lolling in bed, I went to the spot we arranged to leave messages and found it there.”

  “Then you shall soon be quit of me.”

  “Alas, no.” He shrugged as he paused in the doorway. “Your stepfather has refused to pay. Not a farthing, he said. He made me a rather generous offer, though. For a mere five hundred pounds, he will take you back. It will take me a while to raise that kind of money.”

  Chloe nibbled on the last little wedge of cheese. She had left the gamekeeper’s cottage at midday when Mr. Rush was busy elsewhere. It was dusk now and the fading light was already playing tricks with her eyes. When the trees shifted in the breeze, the leaves cast menacing shadows across her path. Surely she would see the village lights soon, or hear children playing—something, anything—to tell her civilization was close. It had to be!

  She’d set out in the direction Mr. Rush had taken to post the ransom note and she should have encountered someone by now. Surely her stepfather would take her back. He had to, didn’t he? She fought the lump in her throat. She knew her mother loved her, though.

  She’d sorted through a miscellany of her many sins and, yes, she’d been quite a handful for her poor mother and stepfather to manage. Looking back, she could see that she’d been willful and stubborn. But she’d always meant well. And now it had come down to this—her family wouldn’t even ransom her, and she had to rescue herself because no one else would.

  How deeply disappointed they, and even George, must be in her. How horribly her behavior must have injured them. And how could she have been so blind to it all? She hadn’t even realized what she’d become until she’d injured Mr. Rush with her snobbery. Tears ran down her cheeks as she thought of the quick look of pain that passed over his face before he’d covered it with sarcasm. Until that moment she hadn’t realized that she did care what he thought.

  She marched along the forest path, vowing to do better in the future. She’d be so sweet and docile that her mother would call her ‘my angel’ again.

  An owl hooted in the gloom and she realized that night was coming on fast. Something rustled in the underbrush and she thought of the wild boar her stepfather had shot last winter. Were there bears or wolves? The trees obscured the moon, and soon she’d have no light at all. Her growing sense of unease escalated to fear, and she knew it would soon be panic.

  “Oh, please,” she whispered, “let me find my way, Lord, and I will be as biddable as you please.”

  There was a subtle shift in the wind that brought a familiar scent her way, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She stopped and stood very still.

  “As biddable as I please?” Mr. Rush’s voice whispered in her ear.

  She gasped and whirled to face him. How had he come upon her so silently?

  “I was a tracker among other things,” he said at her look of astonishment.

  She was so relieved to see him that she threw her arms around his waist and hugged him so tight he laughed. “I thought I was lost,” she admitted.

  “You were lost, Miss Faraday. You’ve been going in circles. Didn’t the scenery begin to look familiar? The road is in that direction.” He pointed to a path heading south.

  “I…I didn’t notice. My mind was full of other things.”

  “As interesting as that sounds, I think we’d best get home.”

  She let go of him and stepped back. “But why do you want me? I am a liability now that my stepfather has refused to pay ransom.”

  “Oh, Miss Faraday,” he sighed “I regret tweaking you with that lie. I just wanted to stop you from being so smug.”

  “I was smug?” she asked in a faint voice.

  “A little. I’ve noticed that the more I tease you, the more high-handed you become.”

  She should be furious with him but she could only sigh. That was a tendency she would have to overcome if she was to become biddable. “I am sorry I insulted you,” she muttered. Tears filled her eyes. How could she have been so cruel?

  “That is a credit to you, Miss Faraday,” he said, tilting her head upward and wiping at her tears with his thumbs. She held her breath as his deep brown eyes grew softer. “Forgiven.”

  Her heart fluttered and she wondered if he was going to kiss her. He bent closer, resting his forehead against hers. His voice was half moan and half sigh when he spoke. “We’d best get you home.”

  He released her and she looked around, trying to reclaim her senses. She’d lost all notion of direction in the dark. “Which way is home?”

  “Home,” he said with an odd inflection, “is another mile or two and then across a meadow. I came after you on foot so we shall have to walk, I’m afraid. Follow me, and let me know if I’m going too fast.”

  But he didn’t go too fast at all. His limp, more pronounced than ever before, revealed that his leg was bothering him. When she suggested they stop for a rest, he offered to carry her.

  “I hadn’t realized you have such a delicate constitution, Miss Faraday,” he said.

  “Delicate?” she scoffed. “I’ll show you who’s delicate.”

  He chuckled. “I wondered how long your new resolve to be biddable would last.”

  Chapter Six

  Pain
ripped through his leg, slicing muscle and shattering bone. He was afraid to look—afraid of what he’d see. The odor of gunpowder, the deafening thunder of cannon shot and the clash of metal assaulted him from every direction. Then screaming and the coppery smell of blood. His heart pounded erratically. A sudden sense of his own mortality hit him with a thud in the center of his chest. He wasn’t getting out of this one alive.

  The night was as dark as the great abyss but for the muzzle flash of guns being fired. Crawling low and inch by inch, he dragged the unconscious O’Neil back toward British lines. It would be nothing short of a miracle if they made it.

  Above the cacophony he heard Colonel Aldrich shouting. “Leave him, Chandler! Save yourself, man!”

  No. O’Neil was his man and his friend. He wouldn’t leave him behind. He’d lost too many men and he wouldn’t sacrifice another.

  A grenade exploded somewhere nearby. Shrapnel hissed around them and the percussion of the blast deafened him even as a razor-sharp fragment opened his flesh from cheekbone to chin. Red sprayed into his eyes and he realized it was his own blood.

  He claimed another inch of ground, then another, still dragging O’Neil. A cannonball struck a nearby wagon and ignited the tinder-dry wood. Now that they were clearly visible in the firelight, he and O’Neil would be target practice for the French.

  A hail of gunfire miraculously missed him, but he felt O’Neil’s body jerk as if he’d been hit. Thank God he was unconscious. Finally, he gained the edge of the trench. With one last push of his good leg, he rolled into it, O’Neil tumbling with him. Exhausted, riddled with pain, he closed his eyes to rest a moment. Just a moment. Wright was still out there. As soon as he caught his breath, he’d go back for him.

  The Colonel’s voice flowed in and out of his consciousness. Disjointed words that made no sense. O’Neil…the poor bastard. Chandler…more dead than alive. Get…sawbones.