by Liz Tyner
She didn’t like his quietness. He’d not yet told her how he was getting the money from her stepfather.
Katherine didn’t let the door close before she had her hand out to keep it open. She stepped outside, crossing her arms for warmth in the cool morning air.
‘You must explain your plans to collect the ransom.’ Katherine ran to him. ‘This cannot go wrong. I allowed you to kidnap me on the wrong day, and the wrong place and the wrong time. I should have given you my list. But the ransom—that must not fail.’
‘I got you away from your stepfather. You should be pleased.’
In the full light, even his face appeared rumpled. His shirt neck had fallen down and he rubbed his hand across one eye. She realised Brandt was the only man she’d ever seen so freshly woken and she’d seen him so several times.
‘I am pleased.’ She moved closer to him, curious even as she spoke. ‘The rest of what I wish—the funds—is of prime concern.’
She wanted to stand close enough to check his breath. She wanted to find out more about the elixir in the light of day and when her mind was strong. No other man had ever had such a powerful flavour of breathing.
Surely he must have something in his breath. Because how could the rags of clothes he wore, such a scruffiness about him, pull her eyes to him? She examined him. Something else had to be at work.
He gently shook his head. ‘The ransom is not a prime concern of yours. What you wish is to be free of your stepfather. You are.’
‘I want the funds.’
‘Then you will have to wait.’ He turned, putting the back of his hand to cover a yawn as his elbows stretched.
‘Then I will collect it myself.’
He lowered his arms and turned to her. His eyes twinkled. ‘And what is the direction to London?’
‘I can ask the first stranger I find.’
She heard his quiet laughter. ‘First you must escape your kidnapper.’
Chapter Twelve
Katherine could not understand the fascination he had with the fireplace. He kept staring at it.
‘Do you cook at all?’ Brandt stood, looking at the empty grate, then he appraised her from the corner of his eye.
‘My mother would not allow such frivolities. But I would like to learn.’
‘I thought not. You bring wood and I’ll make sure you don’t starve.’
Then he turned away, unaware of the pull he had over her.
She slipped outside and looked at the house, distancing herself from him. She’d needed to walk away.
She walked quickly, struggling through brambles to move away from the house. She wanted to remove Brandt from her thoughts. Something about him reached into her mind and latched on.
Rolling across the floor had been an uncomfortable way to wake—and not how she expected to be treated if she slept near a man. She had been sadly misinformed.
She thought back to the first time she’d seen him. She couldn’t get that image to leave her mind. She’d been too shocked to really take all of him in. Pity.
She looked at the house, looming stately among the overgrown hedges. Brandt knew the house. He could have worked for the owner who died. Perhaps the owner had left him a small sum for the good work Brandt did.
She could see how a wealthy man might enjoy Brandt’s jests, or how the woman of the house might—Oh, she needed to toss that thought far aside.
She turned back to the carriage house.
Inside, the smell of wood smoke mixed with the scent of food. Brandt stood with his back to her. He had hung a pot over the stove and was now putting dollops of dough on to the lid top to cook.
‘Would probably be too much for me to expect you to cook something even as simple as an omelette…’
She raised her brows in question.
‘An omelette. My father travelled near Bessières once and when he returned he insisted we have omelettes. Eggs stirred about. Cheese in it. Very tasty. I discovered I had to show the women at the tavern how to make them if I wanted one to my taste.’
‘I like my eggs normally prepared.’
‘And how might that be?’
‘By Cook. And in biscuits and cakes and tarts and things like that.’
‘I very much want an omelette.’
‘That is probably beyond my experience.’
He leaned forward, blinked slowly and met her eyes. ‘I thought so.’ He squinted one eye. ‘And if we had eggs, I’d make you the best omelette ever.’ He frowned. ‘But now we’ll have to make do with peas.’
‘Do you enjoy cooking?’ she asked him.
‘It doesn’t matter when I am hungry if I enjoy it or not. I do not have a club to attend or a cook and by the time I can walk to the tavern I can already have my stomach full.’
‘So we are to have peas for breakfast?’
He stopped movement and looked at her. ‘I think not. These will take a little longer to cook. We will have bread.’
‘Bread?’ She instantly thought of Cook’s breakfasts. Ham and buttery bread and steaming chocolate—and not a pea in sight.
When she caught Brandt watching her, Katherine put a smile on her lips. ‘That sounds very tasty.’
*
After they finished eating, he stood, grasping the bail of the water bucket, and walked outside.
He turned, trying to get the woman out of his thoughts. He stared at the large house he’d once loved.
The structure stood timeless. Without the boards on the bottom floor, or the overgrown privet growing high, he could see little difference than what it had been years before.
He wanted to see broken window panes, falling shutters, peeling paint. Images flitted through his mind, bringing their bitterness with them.
The world he once held close no longer existed. His mind kept throwing memories at him. Mary’s squeals of excitement when she’d moved into the house. The pure joy in her eyes.
‘Odd to find a deserted house such as this.’ Katherine’s voice jolted through him, working like a slap, but he didn’t face her. He’d been so lost in thoughts he didn’t realise she’d stepped outside.
‘How did you know of it?’ she repeated.
He shoved his memories aside and answered as if nothing mattered. ‘We kidnappers always have a deserted house tucked away.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Shouldn’t you be drinking?’
‘One of us should, I’m sure.’ He couldn’t take his eyes from the house. He’d loved watching the builders. Loved the way Mary had fretted over the wall coverings. He’d had to cajole her into laughter each time he’d heard the word ‘wall’ or she would have driven him daft with her concerns.
One night he and his elder brother had laughed themselves to tears, comparing the efforts they made to appear entranced by the selection of fripperies.
Brandt was happy to be the second son and once or twice he’d thought his brother envied him a bit. Brandt could stay with the lands, hidden away, happy with Mary. Forgotten about.
Both their wives had been content—at least Mary had been until, at the end of her confinement, she’d lost the baby girl. He tried to push the memories from his mind.
For the first time he wondered what had happened to Nathan’s toys.
‘Do you know who owns this?’ she asked.
He turned his head to her. ‘Kidnapper.’ He touched his chest. ‘Victim.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘You cannot get it through your head.’
‘So, you do know who owns it?’ She put a hand to shade her eyes and turned away to examine the house.
‘A man who lost his mind.’
‘I cannot imagine that.’
‘Perhaps that is for the best.’
He turned to care for the horses. The animals did not need to suffer any more. He moved to get them water from the pump and a good place to graze where they wouldn’t stray.
When he finished with the livestock, he noticed he’d not heard a word from Katherine. He wondered if she had escaped.
; ‘One can always wish,’ he muttered, knowing he would gladly give her one of the horses, but he knew he would have to travel with her as it wasn’t good for her to be travelling alone and it was even worse for her to be travelling armed if she’d taken one of the pistols. She’d probably shoot her foot by mistake. And limp all the way back to him to explain how he shouldn’t have let that happen.
He heard a thump. The sound came from the direction of the house. He walked towards it and found her at the door with a stick in her hands. She had already pried loose one of the boards from the house door.
‘Stop,’ he snapped. He covered the distance separating them. He pulled the stick from her hands and threw it to the ground. ‘Do not go in the house.’
‘We got into the carriage house.’ She stepped back, eyes puzzled.
‘Not the same. We were travellers in the dark needing lodging. No one would begrudge us for sleeping near the horses.’
‘You need reminding you are a criminal.’ She dared him with her eyes. ‘No one would expect more of a man such as yourself. If you are caught, you can claim you were trying to make me comfortable.’
‘I see the difference. A magistrate would never arrest a villain who only stole to please his victim.’
‘I will gladly accept any punishment for opening this house and taking shelter. It’s not proper for me to sleep in the same room as you do. You breathe too strongly.’
He looked at the ground, shaking his head.
She reached up and tugged at the rough wood with her bare hands. Her voice lowered so he could scarce hear it. ‘I certainly need gloves for this.’
‘You need a keeper.’
She graced him with the broadest smile of disrespect he’d ever seen. ‘You were engaged for just such a purpose.’ She gave an uppity toss of her head and her hair fluttered.
Her hair. He imagined she’d scream if she could see her hair.
When it had been stuffed under the hat, she’d wound it like a snake coil. Now it looked as if the snake had been struck by a club and smashed about.
She put her hand out, palm flat. ‘We made an agreement. As such, I do consider myself your employer and if I wish you to break into this house, I see no reason for you to decline.’
His eyes roamed over her. ‘Your hair is a bit—’ He wiggled his fingers on one hand, fluttering them.
‘If you’ll let me…’ He’d seen haystacks with more appeal, yet he wanted to put it back together as it should be. It should look soft, touchable… Like her lips.
He should take Hercules and escape while he could.
She tilted her chin down and her eyes lost all humour. ‘And I must say, you need assistance more than I ever did or will. You were lost in a sea of depravity and I rescued you—at least temporarily.’
‘You—’ He realised what she’d said. ‘You rescued me?’ He looked upwards.
‘Would you not consider yourself far away from respectability?’
‘By choice.’
She grasped his shirtsleeve cloth. ‘This is so faded you cannot even tell what colour it is. No respectable man wears such tatters.’
‘So you’ve decided to be my valet, Nigel?’ He met her eyes, ‘Then I must say you need a valet as well. I can tell you’ve never dressed as a man.’ Before she could step back, he reached to her, running his fingers comb-like through her hair, which didn’t change much.
Then he touched both sides of the shirt top and ran his hands along the back, straightening it. And to linger a little longer, he pulled the drooping shoulders of the waistcoat closer to her neck. He grasped the lapels of the garment and tried to tug it into the right size, but she looked more a street urchin than anything else.
And he refused to let himself pull her close. He contented himself by looking at her.
‘You’d never make a proper man,’ he said, hands still resting at the lapels.
‘I’ve never seen many proper men. So I should be perfect.’ Eyes framed by lush lashes looked up at him and he saw her get a studied look on her face and take a deep breath.
She reached to push his hands aside, but stopped when she touched his skin. Her eyes widened, almost in fright. Her voice whispered, ‘The air. It’s overpowering. In daylight even.’
‘It’s country air. It doesn’t smell. You’ll get used to it.’ He studied her face.
‘Take a deep breath,’ she instructed.
He did.
‘Breathe out.’
He did.
‘Do you feel different?’
He shook his head. ‘Only difference is the country air doesn’t make you spit tar. It’s pleasant.’
She nodded, eyes wide, and studied him, speaking slowly. ‘Precisely what I meant.’ She stepped towards him. ‘But no one has ever done that. Breathed so. I rather like that you do it so well.’
‘I’ve practised since I was born.’
She put a hand to her chest. ‘That is why you are so…strong then.’
He shrugged.
‘Do you…feel anything…about my air?’
He laughed. ‘Your head is so full of nonsense. Air is just air.’
She shook her head and touched the back of his hand. ‘No. Really. You feel nothing then?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I would not go as far as that.’
She puffed out tiny breaths of air. ‘Did you feel that?’
‘Am I supposed to?’ He raised his brows. ‘Are you well?’
She nodded, then shook her head. ‘I think I have an illness caused by the air around you.’
‘It’s not the air.’ He ran his hands the length of her arms, capturing her. ‘Your shirt’s not tucked in at the back. Might I straighten it for you?’ And his hands slid around her to the top of her trousers where the garment had loosened.
He splayed his fingertips and only brushed the band of her clothing, not letting himself know the feel of her skin.
She jumped back from his embrace and used one hand to pinch her nose and the other to shove her shirttail into her trousers. ‘I can care for myself. And you must stop—that thing. That elixir—thing. Breathing it.’
‘Elixir?’ He concealed his humour at her retreat and his irritation she didn’t melt into his arms. ‘There’s no elixir in country air. It’s just air. Without soot.’
‘Well, it’s not doing me any good.’ She tugged at her trouser waist. ‘And neither are these clothes. I feel…’ She looked at him, eyes narrowing. ‘It’s the trousers, too. I think wearing them—it makes one feel a little reckless.’
‘Nigel. It is not the air. It is not the clothes. It is just the way we humans are.’
Her eyes showed recognition of his words for less than a second but she continued looking away. ‘Mrs Caudle explained clearly enough. And I do believe she knows what she’s talking about.’
He raised a brow. ‘Nature.’ He spoke with finality.
‘I don’t care what you call it. But we must not breathe around each other. Let me in the main house. I’m very delicate and need a proper roof over my head,’ she said. ‘And you can stay in the carriage house and fill it full of that beastly stuff you breathe out.’
‘You’re not going inside.’ He reached to the ground, picked up the stick she had used to loosen the board, took each end of it in a hand and raised a bent knee and thwacked the stick over it. He gave both pieces to her and she took them. ‘Firewood.’
‘I cannot believe you would not wish to provide better for me.’
‘I gave you a bed, water, an Apple.’
‘And saddle burn.’
‘I did think I would be able to let you into the house,’ he admitted and felt his memories stirring inside him. ‘I was wrong.’ He turned to stride away. ‘Living in the carriage house will fade some of your airs, Nigel. Get used to it.’
He’d never say it to her, but she wouldn’t have stepped inside his room if she’d had the notions of society that should have been bred into her. Somewhere along the way, someone had beaten her down and force
d her to think more about surviving than soirées.
Chapter Thirteen
She looked at the house, pretending to examine it, but trying to clear her head. She wasn’t quite sure what valets did in the privacy of the master’s chambers and she wasn’t sure she wanted him as her servant. But she wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of soap taken to his chin and a razor uncovering the man underneath.
She’d hold his hair out, while she stood at his back, and she’d snip away untidy bits and there were a lot of those. A good valet could tie a cravat, as well. Tying such a knot would be beyond her, but she could try, certainly.
A picture of him jumped to her mind, with tiny red nicks along his chin, his hair trimmed in blotches and a cravat under his chin drooping like a goat’s ears. She would do both of them a favour to let him care for himself—but he needed to stop that blasted, tainted, breathing.
His footsteps alerted her he was behind her and she turned. His eyes met hers.
She examined his growing beard, but her eyes stopped at the beating pulse of his neck. She could never let a rope touch there.
She caught his eyes following hers.
‘Nigel, you have another blush?’ He grinned. ‘What is traipsing about in your head which shouldn’t be there?’
She stiffened her shoulders and bit out the words, ‘It’s the sun.’
‘And I am Wellington.’ His voice flowed like treacle. ‘But keep your thoughts…’ he leaned close ‘…they surely cannot be sweeter than mine.’
She realised to have those eyes, with some knowledge behind them that she couldn’t grasp, staring at her from a man who took care of his appearance might be an insurmountable problem. Especially in a man with an aversion to nightclothes.
She turned her back to him. ‘You waste your breath.’
Even with him behind her, she could feel his presence and sense his movements as well as if she could see him.
He leaned in. Her hair fluttered at her ears. ‘Some day you’ll have to tell me your thoughts.’
‘I speak them plainly.’ She kept her voice prim. ‘You just don’t listen.’
‘I’m listening—to what you do not say.’