by Liz Tyner
‘That is my knife,’ she said, ‘and I would like it back. I cannot trust you to follow simple directions and I may need it.’
He flipped the knife into the wall across the room. The blade vibrated and so did his body.
Chapter Seven
Katherine moved closer and Brandt took a step back. ‘Don’t toss the weapon away. It’s all I have to protect myself.’
‘Not any more.’
‘I cannot tolerate you in any way, yet you don’t make me wish to cast up my accounts as Fillmore does.’ Her words were quiet, but forceful. ‘Do you understand how despicable that makes him?’
She touched his waistcoat again and held on. ‘Do not ruin my plan.’
She could not touch him. And he could not touch her. But he had to.
Gently, he pried her fingers loose from his coat. Slender fingers. He could have crumpled the fingers in a grasp, but he used no more strength than he would have on a baby bird which might fight against him as he moved it back to the nest.
After that he moved her hand away and took her shoulders and back-stepped her to the edge of the bed. ‘I will do it as I see fit,’ he added. ‘Now finish getting dressed in these clothes. You’re going to be riding a horse and not side-saddle and we can’t have a skirt flapping in the air.’ Or riding up to expose her legs.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll steal things from the house and sell them and move away on my own.’
Oh, he could see how well that would work out. Her amongst the people who had no conscience. He didn’t stop his movements.
‘You could be hanged,’ she said.
‘After days with you, I may buy and knot the rope myself to give to a magistrate.’ He moved close enough so a hiccough would have caused their faces to collide. For a moment, even with all the sleeplessness he had suffered of late, he realised he had damned himself again.
Brandt handed her the trousers next. ‘Wear these so no one will recognise you.’
‘No. They must recognise me.’
‘I’ll take you where it’s best no one does. There is an abandoned house. You can stay there.’ He paused. ‘Assuming we’re not standing here talking this time tomorrow.’
She raised her head and took them. Then she sat on the bed.
Her nightrail brushed the air and filled his nostrils with a scent of femininity. He was thankful the lightskirts didn’t smell as hauntingly sweet as she did, or he’d have more than one vice at the Hare’s Breath.
‘Hurry,’ he said. He needed to get her covered as quickly as possible.
She shook her head, her braid whirling against him. ‘I am. I’ve just never—’
‘The horse won’t care how you look.’
She raised a leg to slip it into the trouser and his eyes didn’t need to see the bare skin revealed as she moved her leg into the clothing. His mind filled in each fibre that brushed against her body.
She put the second leg into the clothing and he turned away.
He didn’t need the warmth rushing through him. He didn’t want any awareness of her, and yet, even with only sounds behind him, he knew every movement the trousers took as they hugged her close.
He squeezed his lips tight. His brain had rotted.
His movements slowed slightly as he took in her womanliness. If he’d been Fillmore, he would have gained her favour. He would have picked her raspberries, and written sonnets so sweet the ink would have dripped hearts.
But he was not Fillmore.
He could hear her struggling with the buttons. Buttons. Could she not hurry? His mind latched on to each sound, freezing his movement, trapping him closer than any noose ever could clasp his neck. Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
He stepped back, forcing his legs to move away. Forcing his body into separate parts so he could think about the movements he needed to make next. She was just a human and he was another human and it meant nothing more than that. He was a hired servant to take her to a safe place. It might make up for some of the mucked-up way he had caused Mary to die.
‘This waistcoat is never going to fit me.’
He turned. ‘Now. Put it on.’
She moved her arms into the shoulder openings. The garment hung from her and she stared at it. ‘I can’t keep it on.’
‘You are paying me to do a job.’ He pulled the sides of the waistcoat away from her body and finished the buttons.
He backed away. ‘You should never hire a man to do such as you asked me.’
She stumbled towards him, her trousers more sideways than straight and only a part of the front of her nightrail tucked inside the trousers. She put her hands on her hips. ‘The clothes are not even from the same person.’
‘The clothes…but the waistcoat is mine.’
‘Oh.’ She reached up, touching the fabric, feeling it, and the touch stilled them both. He could almost feel her hands running along his body.
He had to stop this. ‘We must go.’ He picked up the hat, held it out.
She looked at it and reached to pull some hairpins from the table. She twisted the braid around and used the pins to secure it. Then she took the hat, fingers brushing his. ‘I would not even call this hat worthy of the coal boy.’
He moved his foot from under hers and stepped back. ‘I doubt anyone would pay a penny to have you returned. I suppose if I were to try to collect a ransom on you I would find a chunk of coal resting on a few bills from your modiste, your hatmaker, your glove-maker, and for slippers, with the request I pay them promptly.’
‘I see why you drink. And after being alone with you, I expect I will need something a little stronger than tea.’
‘We both will.’
With two fingertips pinched over the cloth, she held the waistcoat from her body. ‘And you should have got a better shirt. It’s ripped.’
‘It didn’t look so well on the dead man either, but he didn’t complain.’
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. He won that point.
He moved his index finger to mimic a ball rolling down a hill.
She grabbed the frock coat and waved her hand in the direction of the chest in the corner of the room. ‘I’ll eventually need a dress.’
He blinked and walked to the trunk, pulling open the heavy lid. She’d packed. The blasted woman had packed for a kidnapping.
‘It is clothes for the needy,’ she whispered when he paused. ‘I’ve told my stepfather I am collecting.’
For a moment he stared forward. He could remember the exact day when he’d last looked at a woman’s packed clothing. The memory almost took him to his knees and fuelled a rage churning inside his stomach.
‘I must have my blue dress because it withstands rough wear the best.’ Soft feminine words.
His jaw tightened and he flopped back the lid of the oversized trunk. He bunched the fabric of the dress she wanted and jerked it out, fighting all thoughts from his head. He couldn’t think or he would think of the days when he believed in fairy tales because they came true and the world received more sunshine from his wife’s eyes than it would ever need.
He shoved the dress into the satchel which had held the man’s clothing. The bag bulged at the seams and he forced the buckle closed.
‘I must have…’ She was at his shoulder and reaching into the trunk for something edged in a very thin row of filigree.
Lace. Oh, no. That would be unforgivable.
‘There is no room.’ He moved in front of her, forcing her to step away.
She glared, but she reached for a pair of half-boots by the wardrobe.
She worked the laces of her boots in the darkness. A different blackness raged deeper inside him. He thought of his house and wondered if he had made another grave mistake. He had managed to make only a few rough blunders in his life and, of those few, one had been deadly. He hoped he did not get another innocent buried.
He reached for her arm and tightened his grasp, stilling her. ‘You can stay here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘If you leave with me,
your life will be changed for ever.’
‘I am of stern constitution.’ She two-fingered his sleeve, pulling his hand from her arm. ‘I can dress my own hair and—’ she walked over to pull the knife from the wood ‘—I’ll need this.’
‘Leave it.’
She gave him a glance which looked through him. He returned it.
‘Your life will never be the same.’ He felt a bit of compassion tug at his heart.
‘My life is going to change anyway.’
He brushed a hand across his eyes. When he opened them, even in the darkness he could see the set of her jaw, the firm edge to her face. He wished for more light so he might see her better. Surely he had imagined the dark sweep of her eyelashes? The cheeks so soft fingertips wanted to brush against them.
‘If I stay here,’ she muttered, ‘I am destined to lose my innocence in a horrible way. I will not be rutted every night by a man who makes me want to bathe even when he looks at me. His designs on me are carnal even if they are within marriage.’
‘Some of those designs might not be too bad.’ He thought of her hair pooled around her shoulders and his hands softly moving down her arms, pushing nightclothes aside.
‘You have not had Fillmore’s tongue in your mouth,’ she muttered, walking to the door and jerking it open.
Well, she had a point.
He reached out, secured her waist and pulled her back against him, relishing her gasp. Warmth tingled in his body and he leaned away from her. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Wilder, but my name is on this dance.’
He reached to her fingertips, holding them—aware of the unroughened skin, the lightness of her grasp.
He pulled back his hand. ‘You’ve cast your dice. Don’t complain when they don’t roll as you wish.’
‘You will see they do.’
He shook his head and moved through the door. ‘No, I will see that they roll as I wish them. I am not a governess, or nursery maid.’
He turned back, reached out, snagged her waist with his right hand, then transferred her to his left and kept her close against his body, moving her easily and quickly as if in a waltz.
He gave her a moment to get her feet steady beneath her and then he rushed forward, not giving her time to find words to make him even more upset with himself. Perhaps he should have kidnapped the old man and tossed him on to a sailing ship.
Brandt stopped. A perfect solution to her problem. With much less bother.
But then she wiggled and his heartbeat increased with the feel of the warm skin beside him. He caught his breath. Forget the ship. It had sailed.
The nephew would still be there. And Miss Wilder would be deeper in Fillmore’s grasp.
But right now she was in his. His skin didn’t go numb when he stood near her like it did with the tavern women. He could feel the wisps of her hair if he leaned his head close to hers and the strands brushed him with the softness that swirled around her.
One strand of her hair floated in the air and brushed across his lips. He blew it away, demanding his body feel nothing. She meant no more to him than a child who might need to be carried out of a rainstorm.
She was a Nigel. Nigel. In men’s clothing. Men’s clothing that didn’t trick his thoughts a bit.
‘Show me to your stepfather’s room,’ he whispered. ‘I will let him know I’m an evil kidnapper after the spoiled princess. And then he will shoot me and I will die and it won’t be my problem any more.’
‘You cannot let him shoot you. I will be stuck with Fillmore.’
‘So I must stay alive. How wrong of me not to take that into consideration.’
‘He has the weapon in the drawer beside his bed. Don’t let him open the drawer. Simple enough.’
‘Let’s hope it’s in the drawer.’
She leaned closer. ‘If not, duck.’
Brandt quietly tucked her against the wall after she’d indicated a door. ‘Go out the back door. The horses are ready. Wait for me so we can leave quickly. I’ll convince the man easily enough. He’ll think I’m on the way to taking you and I haven’t got you yet. He may rouse the servants so we need to leave quickly.’
‘Do not fail.’ She leaned closer and all the other scents of the soiled shirt faded, covered by the scent of her warmth and softness.
She stepped back, the movement a battle march in reverse. ‘Watch the drawer. I cannot abide blood.’
‘Horses. Outside. Saddle. Backside.’
She turned, a huffy little mouse with her sharp teeth chewing on the imagined words she was slinging his way.
Brandt waited until she moved out of sight, then he opened the door, freezing briefly at the sound of the hinges creaking. A whiff of boots worn too many hours hit his nose.
He heard the bedcovers rustle, then the man in bed sat up. The sleeves of his nightshirt puffed around him.
‘Your daughter—’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I’m taking her. Don’t look for her.’
‘You…’ The old man’s voice was drugged by sleep and then his shoulders tightened. ‘You and Katherine?’ His arm reached to the side fumbling for the weapon.
Moving forward, Brandt’s fist closed over the neck of the nightshirt and he pulled the man away from the drawer, both tumbling to the floor.
Augustine’s fist glanced off Brandt’s chin and another connected with his stomach.
Brandt rolled aside, pulling the man’s shoulders into his rotation, stopping when he had Augustine’s face against the rug. Securing Augustine, Brandt moved up enough to keep the old man’s face to the floor and curl his arm up. ‘I’ve a pistol,’ Brandt spoke in the man’s ear. ‘And I’ve no reason to hurt you—unless you fight me. But the woman is not to marry your nephew. It will not happen.’
The man mumbled an answer and Brandt made swift work of pushing the wrists together, taking the thin rope he’d tucked into his trouser waistband and tying Augustine firmly.
When he finished, he pulled the man to a sitting position, propped him against the bed. Augustine swore and Brandt grabbed a bedcover and stuffed the edge in the man’s mouth, then pulled the woollen nightcap down to hold it in place.
Then he reached to the drawer and opened it. A duelling pistol. He picked it up, glancing at it. Chances are it would misfire. It was loaded and highly unlikely to have been cleaned recently and recharged often enough to keep the powder from drawing moisture. He put it back beside the powder flask.
He stumbled around until he found the ewer of water for the man’s morning ablutions and poured a splash of it into the flintlock’s pan. The weapon wouldn’t fire any time soon.
Brandt walked out the door. The punch to Brandt’s stomach had hurt. Being awake hurt. And not being able to erase the feel of where the woman had brushed against him when she struggled was the most irritation.
He rushed outside and she was standing, the reins in her hands, and patting the smallest horse’s neck. And she was murmuring to the horse.
‘I hope you do not mind to ride astride.’ He stopped at the horses. Bending, he interlaced his fingers to give her a foot rest to boost herself up.
She took the pommel, rested her foot in his hands and pulled herself into the saddle, surprising him.
At some point, the woman had ridden and she’d not always stayed side-saddle.
He slid on to his own mount. He already regretted the ride ahead of them and knew they would probably both be wishing for a soft carriage before too long. He already did. But they needed the speed of the beasts in case they were followed.
All the slowness left her body and she nudged the horse, taking off before he could get astride.
He jumped into the saddle, pushed Hercules forward, then reached her side. ‘The other way.’ He raised his voice above the hooves.
She nodded and they turned.
He kept the horses at a steady pace, but slowed them after they’d made some distance. He couldn’t afford to wear the horses out. They had a long trek in front of them.
*
After an hour in the night air, he spoke. ‘I know a place where you cannot be detected.’ He remembered her sour face as she looked around his room. ‘You’ll have more freedom to move about. We’ll call you something else. A different name. Pick one.’
‘Nigel, I suppose.’
‘You cannot pick that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Fine. Pick what you wish.’
She slowed her horse even more, then turned to him. ‘Are my clothes really from a dead man?’
‘It’s best not to know who wore them.’
He saw her inspect the clothing. She pulled the shirt out from her body and wrinkled her nose. She tried to keep the garments from touching her.
‘I know you have a laundress.’ Her voice was subdued. ‘I am sure she wouldn’t have minded cleaning these.’
She paused. ‘I’ve not forgiven you from altering my plan.’
‘Follow.’ He nudged the horse. He couldn’t take her from Almack’s. That would be kidnapping. Best to let her think her plan was going along just as she expected. He didn’t feel like explaining anything to the spirited mound beside him. He didn’t feel she’d go along as easily if she knew her plan had been altered and he didn’t know what a master criminal would think of a simple country life. But once she was in the house Mary had lived in, she could make her choice. It wouldn’t matter to him if she left or stayed, but she’d have a chance to make her own decision.
A much better decision than getting him on horseback in the middle of the night. He hated riding. Especially any distance, but it was the best method to get her to the country quickly.
He dreaded the next hours. He knew he would have to care for her a few more days, and he didn’t want to play nursemaid—but giving her a new life might take some of the blackness from his soul.
He couldn’t leave her at his boarding house. If she stayed at his room, she would find some clever disguise which gave her the feeling she could go out safely—such as an ermine cape and a plumed bonnet.
She would be upset to be so secluded, but he saw no help for it. He had to protect everyone from her criminal mind.