by Liz Tyner
‘I’ll leave you to your imaginings.’ She tightened her shoulders. ‘And I’ll enjoy mine. But we mustn’t think too long.’ She moved away from him, to escape his breathing. ‘Or else…’
She heard a low chuckle when he stepped back and could tell he turned away by the sound of footsteps.
She moved enough to watch him gather fallen branches for the fire.
She imagined London’s thieves eyeing him as he passed and taking note of the sturdy shoulders and legs—and not willing to risk a tussle with him.
One shouldn’t expect any kind of propriety from a man of low morals, Katherine decided, moving the opposite direction to gather more fallen firewood. Even men with high morals only used them on occasion.
Men could do tasks of strength without effort, but they never saw further than the end of their nose, or the end of another part of their body, if the governess was to be believed.
She knew she’d never been aware of a man before. Not a man like Brandt.
She could see the lines of his body and the strength in him. Strength he accepted without his own awareness of it.
And when she heard his voice, she knew he wasn’t as low born as he pretended. He had been quite meticulous when he’d taken care of the horses, so he might have been a stable man at one time, but if so, it had been at a large house and he’d had underservants.
But he would make a pleasant diversion for a woman who could toss aside her morals.
‘What is going on in your spoiled head?’ he asked when he returned, gritting out the words. His arms were piled with wood. ‘You’re not chattering my ears off.’
She forced her face innocent. ‘I was thinking of what you might have for us to eat.’
He didn’t answer and moved towards the carriage house. She followed, carrying her smaller bundle of sticks and a smile on her lips. She’d employed well. Brandt especially looked appealing from behind. He had legs to spare and, when he walked, his trousers shaped just right.
Inside, she waited as he took the food from his saddlebags. He didn’t comment on the missing fruit, but sat smoked meat on the table.
She hitched up her trousers. ‘Hungry?’ she asked, hoping he might feel the need to prepare a meal.
‘Perhaps I was hoping you might prepare something for us?’ He stepped closer and raised a brow in question.
‘I was hoping you might.’ She closed the distance, stopping directly in front of him, and sniffed again. Wood smoke and leather and… She tried to place the fragrance, a light, comforting scent.
He reached out, touching her elbows. ‘Stop sniffing.’
‘It’s not my fault.’
‘You don’t see me sniffing.’
‘Because I don’t smell as good as you do.’
He dipped his head near hers and his hands tightened at her elbows, holding her steady. ‘I’m not complaining.’ Warm breaths tickled her cheek, sending slivers of heat throughout her body.
She moved and, ever so lightly, her palms rested on his waistcoat. The worn cloth turned silken under her touch and she looked at her hands, feeling she’d never seen them before and never seen a man before. ‘No one warned me about how you’d feel.’
She raised her face.
His grasp moved from her elbows to her waist, and his head dropped nearer hers and her eyes closed. And in a feather-light movement, his lips rested against hers, only for a moment, and then he moved away.
She blinked and swayed forward, and the kiss started again. He tasted of all the scents she’d smelled before, only now they were alive and unfurling inside her, taking the warmth of the summer morning and easing it throughout her body in a way she’d never felt summertime before.
He stepped back and she almost stumbled as she opened her eyes and returned to the world she’d left for a moment.
‘No.’ He moved further back. ‘I don’t need this.’ He turned away. ‘Not here. Not in this place.’
She stared at him. ‘You didn’t have to kiss me.’
‘Oh, but I did.’ Then he turned. ‘This is not what I bargained for.’ One arm flew out at his side as if pushing all thoughts of her away.
‘I thought it was nice.’
‘Nice?’ He gasped out the word and a whirlwind seemed to erupt behind his eyes. ‘You thought it was nice?’
‘Yes,’ she mumbled. ‘Didn’t you?’
He puffed out enough air that a lock of the hair in front of his face moved, but this time the breath didn’t do a thing for her. He gave an undecipherable clenched-teeth response—and brushed by her without speaking and stalked outside.
She followed him, knowing the tension in his eyes marked a decision.
He walked to the back door of the main house and, with both hands on a board and a foot braced against the wall, he ripped the wood from its moorings. He worked at another, twisting and weaving with it until it became loose. He slammed the board on to the ground and looked at her as if it were her fault the house was boarded up.
She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t tear off the door.’
‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get away from you.’
‘Going in the house isn’t very far away.’
‘Far enough. Further than you know.’
She watched as he grappled with the boards. He only stopped briefly to brush back his hair from his forehead. She stamped some vetch aside so she could sit, feeling a bit disconcerted to have the fabric of the trousers pulling around her legs as she moved.
But, instead of sitting in the genteel ladylike way, she propped her knees up and put her hands on the ground behind her as she appraised his body. All she needed was a comfortable bonnet to shield the sun from her face.
She reached for a stalk of grass with a dried bit at the end, snapped off the fuzzy part and put the stalk between her teeth. She felt near manly enough to grow a beard.
But nothing about her felt masculine as she watched Brandt working. She should have learned to paint. This, she would have liked to have captured on canvas.
She liked the way his hair moved about when he put his back into pulling the boards from the house.
He turned as he threw aside a board he had extricated and his eyes appraised her. She couldn’t read anything in his thoughts and she hoped he couldn’t read hers. He had such refreshing movements. This was certainly better than looking at bonnets in shop windows.
She moved the straw aside so she could speak easily. ‘What was your trade?’
A breeze ruffled her hair and she thought she sniffed gardenia.
‘You smell flowers?’ she asked.
He ignored her.
‘What trade do you do to earn your living?’ she asked.
She pressed the heel of her boot into the ground, eyes still locked on the way the back of his waistcoat pulled across his shoulders. Most men she’d seen wore waistcoats and frock coats in her presence. His lack of proper attire eased her so she felt comfortable asking him any question she wished. If he were a private man, he should have worn more coverings.
He didn’t seem inclined to answer. ‘I kidnapped you—doesn’t give you the right to know the details of my life.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s not uncommon for two people to have conversation. At least—I would have thought so. But, I guess you might have no interest in talking with a woman.’
He turned and reached for another board, putting both hands firmly on it, and the wood groaned as he pulled it free in a single heft. ‘My dear Nigel. You are correct.’ He looked over his shoulder at her, paused a moment, then turned back to his work.
He tossed the board he removed near the other one, the wood clattering as the boards connected. ‘My life is not your concern. But since you so wish to have conversation, I might say, I have had more women try to get in my bed than I have tried to get in theirs.’
He turned back to the board and she heard a wrenching sound as he battled the lumber and pulled it against the nail. ‘I find it tedious my company is considered reason enou
gh for women to push themselves in my face or to expect me to rescue them from whatever trials they have. I try to keep to myself and women do not seem to comprehend I might wish for a brandy, not their petticoats or their words.’
‘Are you so enamoured of your drink you think of nothing else?’
‘I drank to forget—not be reminded.’ He paused, gestured loosely with his hand. ‘Just be quiet. And with you about, even brandy is not a consideration. I must keep my wits about me so you don’t shoot me in the back, kick me awake, or—’ He peered at her. ‘Don’t steal the horses.’
She stood and brushed the dirt from her hands, using the thighs of her trousers. ‘I would not do such a thing. I am a duke’s granddaughter, and now that Grandfather has passed, my uncle is the duke.’
He kept his back to her before he glanced at her for half a second. ‘The Duke of Carville’s granddaughter.’
She was surprised he knew of her. ‘How did you know who my grandfather was?’
‘When I followed you to your house to see who you were, I asked one of the servants leaving on an errand who lived there. He told me the house had once belonged to Carville’s daughter.’
‘You followed me?’ She touched her chest.
He nodded. ‘A daft woman came to my house asking me to commit a criminal act. What if you were a lightskirt leading me into a trap of some sort?’ He leaned in and spoke in a loud whisper. ‘Not all of the tavern folk are strictly honourable. Like say, a duke’s granddaughter.’
She brushed his jest away. ‘I never liked my grandfather much. He sat in his chair and talked on and on about how life used to be. Mother made me sit with him when I was young and I read chapters and chapters to him of the most boring books he could find. He’d fall asleep and wake up when I got quiet and make me read some more. Wearing these clothes is much easier.’
He turned his head to her, his hands still on a board. ‘As a woman with peerage in your heritage, you should act a lady.’
‘I’m ruined. It hardly matters.’ She reached a hand to shield her eyes.
‘You’ll find a way to restore your life.’ He put both hands on a board and tugged, the nails screeching against the wood as they pulled free. ‘I took you at night so no one knows you’re ruined, as you call it, but your stepfather. You can still go back.’
‘When I needed a man to dash me to Gretna Green, I couldn’t find a single one who’d tackle my stepfather. I want a man who keeps his distance.’ She took the board with the nail sticking out and gestured with it. ‘I have seen the mess a man can make of a woman’s life, more than once.’
‘You’ll not have much trouble with that, Sweet.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘Just start shaking that board his way and he’ll be backing away.’
She looked down at the nail, then tossed the board on to the others. ‘A lot of women remain unmarried and do well. And some marry for security. A home.’
‘I will never wed again.’ He took the board from her hand. ‘I married young—was too happy in my marriage.’ His movements froze for a moment, then continued when he spoke again. ‘We had too much. And, then, everything was gone.’ He stopped. ‘Fate had given me what I asked for most and when it disappeared, I could not stop it.’ He laughed without humour.
‘Fate.’ His voice hammered the word into the air and forced any talk of it closed. The look behind his eyes spurred her to avoid his gaze.
He stacked the boards together, turning the nail side down so they wouldn’t step on them. ‘Stay near this side of the house. With the carriage house hidden in the rear and my going through the house back door, it’s less likely for us to gather attention.’
Brandt turned and her eyes followed him.
She pulled her head back. What was it about him that captured her eyes so? The man was sweating and she was drooling like Fillmore.
She shut her eyes and shook her head. Putting her free hand to pinch her nostrils, she took in a breath.
Brandt turned, seeing the pinched nose, and she instantly dropped her hand.
‘I do not have an elixir.’ He watched her as if he thought her daft. He held the last board in his left hand. He tossed it with the others on to the ground.
He took a step closer. ‘Perhaps it’s you putting a bewitching spell on me.’
Her insides tumbled to her toes and back to her throat. ‘That is nonsense.’
When Brandt looked at her so, she knew they weren’t strangers any more. And she couldn’t decipher his thoughts, or even her own.
With his right hand, her reached out and held her jaw in a light grasp, and then he moved his face closer.
‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘I think I am feeling some kind of enchantment. I think you are weaving some sort of charm to pull me close to you.’
‘No. I don’t know any charms.’
‘If you did, would you use them on me?’
‘Of course not.’
‘My feelings are hurt.’ His mouth was so close and she could feel the wisp of his breath against her lips, and the sensation of it entering her body and spreading, covering her from the inside out.
‘You are playing a game,’ she said.
‘I have no more elixir inside me than you have a spell in your pocket.’
She put a hand flat against his chest, thinking to push him back, but she couldn’t. He drew in a breath. Her hand connected them, all the way throughout their bodies. He reached up, put his hand over hers, clasped it lightly for a moment and put it at her side. But he didn’t move away.
‘Elixirs and enchantments are for people much different than we are,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been down that road before and there is no going back. There’s only darkness at the end.’
‘I’ve not.’
‘And you’re better for it.’
He dropped her hand and looked at the house.
He stared at the door, but didn’t move. She had to do something—something to take the coldness from his face.
She brushed by him to grasp the knob.
‘Locked.’ She sighed and looked at the heavy door and then back over her shoulder at him. ‘Perhaps you should try a window next.’
‘I’ll think about trying a window.’ His eyes brushed her face and his crooked smile flashed, moving the conversation they’d had into the past.
An answering flutter grew from her insides. She would never forget him. Even after they’d each moved on.
She hoped they could keep in touch, at least from a distance. She would somehow see he learned a trade after the adventure was over. Perhaps, after she had her funds, if she threatened to expose him as a kidnapper, he could be persuaded to consider becoming some kind of shopkeeper. She couldn’t see him inside a simple shop, though. The tavern life had roughened him too much.
She followed his eyes as he kept staring at the house. Apparently, he didn’t understand how such a comfortable place could be left empty, either.
This dwelling should be open. Should have the bustle of life around it. She thought she could see a barn in the distance which would have kept the smaller livestock needed for the family.
‘It’s a sin to let a house ruin like this.’ She spoke softly, more to herself than anyone else.
His head turned quickly to hers and his eyes flashed. ‘There are worse sins.’
‘Yes,’ she mused. ‘But this manor should have a family.’
‘Who are you to speak of a family?’ He put a hand to the door and she noticed he clenched his fingers. ‘You detest your stepfather. Did not like your grandfather. And you talk of a marriage only as a means to produce a child.’
She stared at him, her voice quiet. ‘I have an aunt and cousins, but my stepfather refuses to let a carriage driver take me near my family.’
He moved a half-step towards her and she forced herself to stare back.
‘I have my sister, Gussie.’ She held her chin high. ‘And some day Gussie will have suitors and she’ll find a man who can love her. She is my sister, half by blood and whole by hear
t. I would not change that.’
She sensed his rage, controlled but deep. She didn’t feel the same as she had with her stepfather’s anger. She knew Brandt wouldn’t strike her.
‘I will be able to have people to tea. And I will invite cousins to see me. I have some who have been ruined and we can all be ruined together and talk of our own adventures instead of the debacles of others.’
‘Can you be so sure?’ Some inflection in his voice convinced her his feelings were inward. Directed at himself.
‘I have no bargains to make with the devil or creator to give me a life of sweet contentment. But I’ll have the best I can have.’
He nodded, picked up the last board he’d dropped and strode to the carriage house. She heard the plank crash into the outside wall and fall to the ground as the door closed.
Brandt didn’t stay inside more than the time it took him to turn around. She saw him striding to the manor’s back door again. When he walked abreast of her, she saw a key in his hand. He put the key in the lock of the door and the barrier creaked open as if pulled by spirits.
He stared ahead, then turned back to her. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded.
She took a step forward, but the door shut in her face and she heard the sound of a latch closing. Pushing against the wood with both hands did no good. Locked from the inside. This was the cut direct.
She stood and stared, wondering if the house was his. But it couldn’t be. He was from the tavern.
In a few minutes, the door opened and he shoved two pillows into her hand. ‘Take these to the carriage house.’ He thrust them at her and again she heard the turning lock.
She flopped the pillows against each other as she walked, trying to keep the dust off her face and coughing when the efforts failed.
When she returned, the door was again closed and he’d set out a bucket with a pan, two cups and other supplies from the kitchen.
She smiled and took them quickly back to the cupboards in the carriage house. Cups—and a bucket to carry water in. She felt quite regal herself.
*
By the time he’d finished, the little carriage house had two comfortable-looking mattresses side by side making a pallet on the floor, a small looking glass, a bit of cookware and even several flannel washcloths.