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

by Gail Ranstrom

  “Then trouble apart from the usual sort,” he clarified.

  She sighed and picked up her fork, thinking he would stop asking questions if she were eating. With the fork poised at her mouth, she gave him one last evasion. “Alas, this sort of trouble is quite usual.” And then she popped the bite of griddlecake into her mouth to forestall further questions.

  He was focused on her mouth and she wondered if she’d dribbled her jam. She ran her tongue over her lips and was flustered when he gave her that sleepy smile that always left her a little nervous. She’d almost rather dodge questions.

  The rest of the meal was eaten in silence while she stole furtive glances in his direction. He was watching her with open curiosity. The silence grew awkward and strained. Finally, she stood to clear the remains of breakfast.

  He pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I will find out, you know.”

  Halfway to the washbasin, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Find out what?”

  “What you’re hiding. What you’re afraid of. And I’ll know before you leave here.”

  She smiled. “I doubt that, Mr. Rush.”

  Chloe had finished washing up and had gone to the loft to fetch her embroidery when she heard the thumping of horses’ hooves on the green outside. She hurried to the dormer window and peeked from behind the white lace curtain.

  Soldiers! King’s men by their uniforms! Oh, dear. They were surrounding Mr. Rush, who was carrying the slop bucket for the pigs. She could see the tension in his shoulders, but his expression did not change. She didn’t stop to listen. She knew what they were there for.

  She ran to the hatch and dragged the ladder up to the loft, then lowered the hatch. Tiptoeing back to the window, she peeked out again. She could hear conversation but could not make out the words. Oh, how she wished she’d left the window open this morning. After a moment, Mr. Rush shrugged and the soldiers dismounted. Still carrying the slop bucket, he led them toward the barn.

  Soldiers circled the barn and poked into the pens where the livestock was kept as Mr. Rush and the captain continued to talk. Several minutes passed and Chloe realized they were being very thorough. One intrepid soldier poked his head out of the hayloft and called down to the captain, “Nothing here, sir.”

  Mr. Rush and the captain walked back toward the house, their heads bent in conversation, and the other soldiers following close on their heels.

  Chloe cringed when she heard the door open and the clatter of boots on the plank flooring. She held her breath, sank to her knees and pressed her ear against the hatch.

  The back door opened and closed and she suspected the soldiers were searching the back garden and privy. She made out the conversation below and strained to hear all the words.

  “Kidnapped, eh?” Mr. Rush asked.

  The captain’s voice was clipped and precise. “Three days ago. They could be anywhere by now, but Mr. Hubbard believes they will not have gone far. I am surprised you haven’t heard.”

  “Is Hubbard that wealthy? How much has the kidnapper asked?”

  “Moderately wealthy, I believe. There’s been a ransom demand for five thousand pounds. Hubbard did not want to pay it, but his wife put up a fuss, so he is scraping it together.”

  “How have you become involved, Captain? I’m surprised Mr. Hubbard didn’t hire a Runner to handle this for him.”

  “He has connections in government. Someone owed him favors. I pity the poor blighter who had the audacity to kidnap your—”

  “Yes, well. I begin to see the problem.”

  “Those involved are going to hang or go to prison for a very long time. No escaping that, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Rush said nothing to this, and a cold dread seeped through Chloe. George! Would George go to prison for her folly? How could she allow that to happen to her beloved brother? And Mr. Rush? He had only been desperate for money. It was not as if he had actually kidnapped her. No, it was more as though he’d given her sanctuary from her stepfather. Oh, dear Lord! She’d sooner cut her heart out than have them suffer for her sake. Perhaps she should give herself up now and explain the whole scheme. Then maybe she’d be the only one to go to gaol.

  “Nothing in the bedroom, captain,” a voice called.

  The back door opened again and a rough voice said, “Nothin’ in the garden or privy, sir. Riley took a quick look in the woods behind, but no trace of anyone.”

  After a pause, the captain spoke again. “Thank you for letting us look around, sir.”

  Mr. Rush’s voice betrayed an edge of impatience. “No trouble, Captain. But I have things to do. If you are finished here, I’d like to return to my chores.”

  “Very…rural of you, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience, but our orders are to search everywhere. No exceptions. Leave no stone unturned, as it were.”

  “Yes, yes. I see. I won’t prevent you from doing your duty, but if you would just finish quickly, I could get on with my day.”

  Chloe frowned. Mr. Rush was being uncommonly firm with men who were on the king’s business. And they were being exceptionally respectful of a gamekeeper. Did he have that effect on everyone?

  “Yes, sir. I believe we are done here.” Footsteps led toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, I see you have a loft, sir. Can you open the hatch so we can have a look?”

  A tiny gasp worked its way from Chloe’s mouth and she muffled it with her hand. Heavens! She couldn’t push the bureau or the bed over the hatch because they’d hear her. If she sat on it, would they still be able to force it open?

  “Hatch?” Mr. Rush repeated. “Oh, yes. Haven’t had it open in years. I’ll have to go to the barn and fetch a ladder.”

  “Years?” the captain asked. “Are you certain?”

  “Not a thing I’d likely forget, is it, Captain? As you can see, I don’t even have a ladder available.”

  Oh, Mr. Rush was very clever, indeed. She said a quick silent prayer that his subterfuge would work.

  “I hate to put you to the trouble, sir. I shall take your word for it.”

  “Thank you, Captain. And best of luck on your search.”

  The door closed again and Chloe scrambled to the window to peek at them. Mr. Rush was heading back to the barn, and the soldiers were mounting their horses. Light-headed with relief, she whispered a grateful thank-you to the heavens.

  Anthony tossed a pitchfork of hay into the horse stall. He had to admit that the physical labor in acting the part of a gamekeeper was making him stronger. But just then his stomach burned and he winced in pain. He may be stronger, but this business with Chloe Faraday was giving him an ulcer.

  When he’d seen the soldiers, he’d been certain the game was up. He’d tried to divert them by taking them to the barn. Chloe, quick-witted little thing that she was, had figured out what was happening and had retreated to the loft, taking the ladder with her. By the time they’d arrived at the house, she was safely tucked in the loft, leaving no trace of her presence.

  However, the captain had recognized him and he’d been afraid Chloe would overhear some snippet of conversation and discover who he was. He certainly wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. He still needed to discover the reason behind her reluctance to marry.

  He spread the hay over the dirt floor of the stall, tossed the pitchfork back into the hayloft and wiped his brow on his shirtsleeve. He just needed to pump fresh water into the trough and he’d be done.

  Tomorrow, they’d have to leave for Litchfield for the wedding. He groaned, thinking of the fiasco in the offing if he and Chloe didn’t reach some sort of understanding, but that was looking increasingly unlikely. He did not like to think what she would do when she saw him standing at the altar waiting for her. That would be a very bad moment.

  She would have to know who he was before that happened. She would be all nerves come Saturday, and he wouldn’t have her falling apart or fainting from shock. Yes. He’d tell her before he sent her back to Litchfield. He owed her
that much.

  But with so little time left, how would he persuade her to confide in him? There had to be a way.

  “Mr. Rush!”

  He turned to find her, smiling, framed by the barn door. The mere sight of her caused him to stiffen in all the wrong places.

  She ran to him, threw her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his scarred cheek. “We did it—we fooled the soldiers! Oh, it scared the devil out of me!”

  “Would that were true, Miss Faraday.” He held her away from him before she could feel the effect her embrace had on him.

  She gave him a wide-eyed look. “You think they were not fooled?”

  “No, I meant—”

  Laughing, she nudged him in the ribs. “I know what you meant, sir. You are right. I haven’t had the devil scared out of me yet, and I think it would take more than a few soldiers to do it.”

  He hardly knew what to make of her in this euphoric mood. She was both alluring and innocent, amusing and tender. He’d give his other leg to keep her this way always. God knows, he’d already given his heart.

  “We shall have to celebrate tonight.” She released him and stepped back, a flush heightening the color in her cheeks. She’d just now realized she’d hugged him.

  And that gave him a decidedly wicked idea. “A capital idea, Miss Faraday. We shall open my best wine and toast our success.” And anything else he could think of. He’d get Chloe foxed, or at least tipsy. Nothing like a few drinks to loosen one’s tongue.

  A few scruples rose to trouble him, but he put them out of his mind. After all, his intentions were the best, and if he was ever to convince her to let her guard down and confess what was troubling her about marriage, he would have to use every resource at his disposal.

  Chapter Eight

  After Chloe put the beef roast in the kettle over the fire, she went to the loft to freshen up and change her gown. She was feeling festive and very pleased with herself. They’d escaped the king’s men. In a few more days her wedding date would have passed and she would have averted the near disaster of her nuptials. And she could go home.

  That thought sobered her. Home. To Mama and George, but also to Steppapa, who would, almost certainly, whip her. She would endure his beating with as much grace as she could, because she deserved this one, even though he wouldn’t know that. She had run away. She had made the family a subject of gossip. Yes, and she’d made herself unmarriageable.

  And then the realization dawned on her that once she’d gone back to Litchfield she would never see Mr. Rush again. The thought made her a little sad, and she realized she’d grown to like the man. Well, a little, anyway. He’d always been kind to her, and patient. He hadn’t even complained about her cooking when she’d deliberately spoiled his food. She couldn’t say why, couldn’t put her finger on the precise reason, but she would miss him. Would he welcome the return of his solitude, or would he miss her, too?

  She stripped down, poured water in the basin and washed every inch of herself. Once clean head to toe, she slipped the only gown she’d packed that was suitable for a celebration over her head and fastened the bodice. It was a lavender silk evening gown edged in transparent white lace. She smoothed it over her hips, hoping Mr. Rush would not notice her lack of proper stays. Then she brushed her hair until it gleamed and tied it back with a white ribbon. Regretting her limited choice of clothing, she descended the ladder.

  Mr. Rush had cut a small bouquet of lilacs from the bushes beside the cottage and put them in a widemouthed jug in the center of the table. They were her favorites. As she lay the table, the heady scent filled her senses and made her sigh. What sweet memories lilacs evoked—warm spring days, running barefoot through the meadow, lying back on a riverbank and watching clouds go by. Oh, for those simple uncomplicated days again!

  The sound of a closing door coupled with an uneven gait told her that Mr. Rush had returned. She smiled as she spun toward him and then stopped short. The thank-you for the lilacs she’d been about to utter died on her lips.

  Mr. Rush had changed into an elegant white shirt with an impeccably tied cravat and snug dove-gray breeches tucked into highly polished Wellington boots. He was clean shaven and his damp hair was combed in the fashion of the day. If she hadn’t known better, and if he’d been wearing a formal jacket, she could easily have mistaken him for a high-ranking member of the ton. The ragged scar on his left cheek could have passed for a dueling scar. Something inside her tightened and she lost her train of thought.

  “Lavender becomes you, Miss Faraday,” he said with a crooked smile.

  Her cheeks burned and she wondered at her own unexpected shyness. How many compliments like that had she been given before? And yet it took on new meaning when spoken by this uncommon man. She was suddenly tongue-tied and unsure of herself.

  “You are pretty, too,” she finally said.

  He chuckled. She liked the sound of his laughter and had not heard it much. Certainly war and his injuries had not encouraged it. Then, for the first time, she wondered if her fiancé laughed very much. He’d been to war, too, and had fought many battles. Would he be as cautious and serious as her gamekeeper? She pushed that notion away. She did not want to ruin the evening with thoughts of Sir Anthony Chandler.

  Mr. Rush took a piece of tinder from the fire to light the lanterns. She busied herself lifting the lid from the kettle and removing the roast, potatoes and carrots to a platter.

  “Allow me,” Mr. Rush said, taking the platter from her and carrying it to the table. He carved the roast with a deft hand and placed slices on their plates.

  He brought two crystal wineglasses from the back of a high cupboard and placed them on the table. “My best wine, remember?”

  He chose a bottle from the larder and uncorked it with a flourish, making her laugh at his exaggerated manners. Before she could sit, he came around the table and held her chair for her, every bit as polished as a duke or an earl.

  After pouring the wine, he sat across from her and raised his glass. “To success.”

  She lifted hers and smiled. “And to soldiers in a hurry.” The deep red burgundy seeped downward, warming her stomach. It was a very good wine, and she wondered how a gamekeeper had come to be knowledgeable in fine wines.

  He lifted his fork and took a cautious bite of roast. “Well done, Miss Faraday. I must compliment you on the speed with which you have learned to cook.”

  Drat! Her cheeks were burning again. She pushed a potato around on her plate. “I, um, learn quickly.”

  “For which I am eternally grateful.”

  She looked up to find him smiling at her. He was teasing! He’d known all along what she’d done to spite him. She gave him a shy smile in return.

  “I am pleased to see you settling in,” he said. “It’s a pity you’ll be gone soon. We were just becoming accustomed to each other.”

  There it was again—that little tweak of pain at the thought of not seeing Mr. Rush again. “Did you and George make plans of how to send me home if my stepfather does not pay the ransom? Will George pay you? I have some money and—”

  “No money necessary, Miss Faraday. I was, ah, paid in advance.”

  “Then you were teasing me about—”

  “I fear we’ve both been guilty of that,” he admitted. “Shall we declare a truce?”

  She nodded and they raised their glasses to each other again. “I suppose I’ve been a bit of a termagant,” she confessed. “I’ve been so on edge that I haven’t been myself.”

  And again he gave her that half smile. “A bit high-strung, perhaps, but whoever you are, I find you most beguiling.”

  “You are being too kind, sir, but thank you.” She attacked her food with a purpose, growing uneasy with their tenuous new camaraderie. Why was he being so nice to her—almost like a suitor instead of a coconspirator?

  After a few moments, by way of dinner conversation, he asked, “Are you dreading your return to Litchfield, Miss Faraday?”

  “I…I w
as, but now…”

  “You are looking forward to it?”

  “I have been rethinking my decisions. I acted in haste. No, that is not right. I allowed three weeks from that wretched man’s return to pass, and my stepfather’s last refusal to call it off before deciding to flee. I only regret that I did not give my betrothed the courtesy of a personal rejection, even by letter. I owed him that much, though he has not afforded me the same courtesy. Thus, I have been thinking I should return to Litchfield before the nuptials to clear the matter up. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Mr. Rush frowned. “So you are willing to return to Litchfield to reject your affianced husband in person?”

  Could she confess that his stories of bravery and courage had taught her a measure of integrity she hadn’t understood before? That running away from danger or problems did not solve them? That standing up to bullies—whether her stepfather or a foreign country—was more important than winning her own way? That, because of him, she wanted to choose courage over cowardice? Would he laugh at her? “And for other reasons,” was all she could say.

  He refilled her glass and regarded her thoughtfully. “Would you care to share any of those reasons with me?”

  Oh, she really could not look into those dark, bottomless eyes and admit that he inspired her. “We have already covered enough of this ground, so, no, sir, I would not.” And then she took the last bite of her vegetables so he could not query her further.

  He shrugged. “Very well, then. Let me see what we have here. To summarize, you fled because you did not want to marry a perfect stranger—one who had not even troubled to communicate with you. And because, in fact, you did not want to marry at all. And you did not want to marry because of ‘certain sensibilities.’ Do I have the gist of it so far?”

  She nodded. “Yes. That is a fair summary. Do you take exception to any of those reasons?”

  “Certainly not.” He, too, finished the remainder of his meal and pushed his chair back from the table. “In fact, I agree that your betrothed is a cad and a bounder of the worst sort. He does not deserve you, Miss Faraday.”