Saying I Do to the Scoundrel

by Liz Tyner

He lay there, taking in the tangy air, the feel of the room cooling, and his heartbeats returned to normal. He’d let himself get carried away in the moment and he could not risk it happening again.

  She mumbled at him and she raised an arm and let it fall against him. He sat up, moving the covers, blanketing them together, and then he slipped back beside her, their bodies relaxing.

  The room slowly got quiet. His senses were so alert and the room so still, he thought if a mouse had wiggled a whisker he would have felt the breeze.

  He put his lips to her hair, wanting to hear an endearment from her. And when she didn’t speak, he nipped her ear.

  She jumped, giving him a half-hearted nudge away with her elbow. ‘Bran…’ she mumbled, slapping at him.

  ‘Near enough,’ he whispered, beginning a gentle caress of her hip and stomach.

  She moved so her lips nearly touched his chin as she spoke.

  She had a look about her which caught his eye so easily. He would have to keep himself a little further from her.

  Something ripped into his body and took him by the senses and pulled him straight to her. He couldn’t live like this.

  *

  Katherine couldn’t tell if Brandt was asleep or awake. He lay at her side and they weren’t touching.

  She ran her fingertips along his arm, feeling the underlying strength. His breathing changed, stopping, then continued as it had. He didn’t speak. He didn’t roll away.

  No matter. He had chosen to spend the night with her. Surely it meant something to him.

  She looked out of the corner of one eye to see the open window. She’d not realised the air was moving, but she felt coldness.

  She was closer to him than she’d ever been to any other person and they might as well have been in different rooms. In different houses.

  Marriage had made her feel more abandoned than ever, and the closer she moved physically to Brandt the further she felt him retreat.

  She looked at his eyes and the line of his jaw. He wasn’t thinking of her.

  He rolled to her, pulling the covers around them.

  ‘I’ll leave instructions with the banker and the man of affairs to let them know my wishes.’ He spoke quietly. ‘They will be told to follow your words as carefully as they would my own. And, the man of affairs will send reports to my brother and he’ll see I’m informed—although I have no problem with how you spend the money. Just do as you wish.’

  ‘And you?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

  ‘I’ll live somewhere else.’

  ‘You don’t wish to live in London and live the life of a gentleman, or a tavern rug?’ If he were at the Hare’s Breath, or his room, he would not be far. But, he sounded as if he wished to disappear.

  ‘No. I don’t wish to go back there.’

  ‘Brandt. I won’t follow you. I won’t. And it would be so much better, for your mother, if you were to be close.’

  ‘I will not tell her where I am. She’ll think I returned to the old place. She never has to know. And you can tell her that I will return eventually. And the hope will keep her happy.’

  ‘She’ll not believe it.’

  ‘Perhaps she will.’

  ‘I must thank you, I suppose. For giving us a home. And freedom. And a family. I will do my best to spend many days with your mother and we will keep each other company.’

  She tugged at the top edge of the cover, not because she wanted more, but because she wanted to discomfit him.

  ‘If you have need of anything, I’ll see that the man of affairs can send a note to me.’

  ‘Will you visit?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ The bed creaked and he moved over her, and even as she tried to ignore the movement, she couldn’t erase the nearness of his body, the hint of skin brushing past her eyes, the scent of a man and the way he made her feel as if she were half the size of him. Surely he couldn’t be that much larger than she was. But when he was naked, his size increased.

  ‘Do you feel any caring for me at all?’ she asked.

  ‘I care for you. Of course. How could I not?’

  ‘More than you feel for Hercules?’

  ‘I hate his sorry hide. Bit my ear. Hard. And nickered like he’d won a race. So, it’s not much to say I care for you more than Hercules. But I do.’

  She met his eyes. ‘You’re more generous than I.’

  She rolled from the bed, attempting to pull the cover with her, but the cloth didn’t move with her. She looked back. The bedclothes were caught in his fist quite firmly and he’d raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I still have not thanked you for opening my door when I was naked and showing my backside to Mrs Caudle.’

  ‘We’re even now,’ she snapped and threw her side of the covers over his head and reached for her chemise.

  She heard his movements as he pulled the counterpane from over his head.

  ‘I cannot wait for you to leave,’ she said as she tugged the chemise in place. Then she stepped beside the bed, picked up her corset, examined it, then tossed it to the wall.

  She turned back to him. ‘If you don’t wish to live with me, I understand completely.’

  ‘Good.’ He stepped to the washstand and splashed the water on his face with both hands.

  The action irritated her.

  She’d never had a man in her room—in her actual sleeping quarters—before—except, of course, him. Mrs Caudle was right. He did have a pleasant elixir. And every place on his body seemed to waft it into the room.

  But he didn’t care.

  ‘I can’t father a child and think, well, must be on my way.’ He turned, eyes darkened. Changed. Almost not the same man. ‘No. Children are much more to me then little weeds who pop up after a rain. You cannot ignore a miracle and you cannot walk away with a backwards yawn and a fresh brandy. And even when you stay you cannot save them from fate. Do not think with sweet whispers you can talk me into the risk.’

  ‘I talked you into the kidnapping and now I’m free of Augustine.’

  ‘You see how well it’s turned out for me when I listened to you. Practically had a pistol in my face and nearly had to choose between hanging or a marriage.’

  Katherine couldn’t help herself. She tried a different vein. ‘You are what a woman needs in a father for her children. A caring man. And we have the benefit of marriage.’

  He turned, pulling her close. ‘Nigel, that sweet mouth of yours isn’t going to be able to talk me into a child.’

  She felt his lips near hers. The warmth seeping into her. His tongue brushed against her lips, dipping softly into her mouth. Pulling back, and then he kissed her softly.

  ‘Katherine,’ he whispered. ‘You’re as tempting as any woman in the world. A precious jewel, but you’re made of flesh and bone, not stone. And all of this can end in a second. It’s not good to have a heart involved.’

  His words stayed in the air when he backed away.

  ‘Yes, I have a heart,’ she bit out the words. ‘For what it’s worth. So perhaps I should use it. I suppose I should care about someone other than Gussie or Mrs Caudle. I am just not certain I know anyone worthy of my highest esteem.’

  ‘If I could love anyone, Katherine, it would be you.’

  He stopped and his voice softened. ‘You’re truly a fine woman, but I am not your husband.’

  In those seconds, she saw nothing in his eyes she wanted to see.

  His words crashed into her skin. ‘A marriage has never made any man a husband who did not wish to be.’

  She turned her head away as the door closed softly behind him. She didn’t want him to see her face.

  She jerked herself upright and moved to a chair at the table, sat and put her face in her hands.

  Brandt meant what he said. She knew.

  Her heart felt a shudder and she wondered if its coldness seeped in from the ring on her finger. Once it had been her mother’s. The one from her first marriage and it hadn’t done her well, either.

  Chap
ter Twenty-Two

  Brandt grabbed his clothing and moved to the adjoining dressing chamber. He did not want to speak with her. He had to leave quickly.

  He pulled on his small clothes and took his time dressing, tying his cravat carefully.

  When he opened the door to her room, he ignored her grunt and the hairbrush that flew by his head. He was too drained to wish for anything but his clothing.

  Bad enough she stirred him—even now, with her clothes on. That couldn’t be helped. She had been made too ripe for his hands, too perfect for his eyes. And his eyes. Keeping them from her took all his strength. He’d felt such a physical pull once before, but this time, he was a man and he wouldn’t let it ensnare his heart. Katherine was a beauty. He loved the feel of her hair. The way her body moved when she simply walked across the room, or the way she carried the tepid tea as if the cup might burn her hand.

  Even when she sneezed at the dust in the carriage house, she did little more than emit a squeak. His lips turned up. Then he felt the heat begin to stir in him. Blast. He would speak with her again and wish her well, and he would leave to a new tavern in a new town.

  Brandt strode into the study. He had to leave.

  He saw a rag doll on the floor, and picked it up, staring for a moment at the embroidered eyes before sitting it in the chair.

  He didn’t even take the time to sit at the desk, but pulled out foolscap and readied the quill.

  The door burst open. Katherine walked in and put her hands at her hips. ‘Brandt—your mother needs you. You have lost a son. Don’t take hers from her.’

  ‘That was a bit low, even from you, Katherine.’ His eyes darkened. ‘You know nothing of my grief. The marrow is removed from your bones, replaced with grinding ache. Breathing pulls the sorrow into you deeper.’

  ‘You lived through it.’

  He grunted. ‘That was not living. I breathed. I drank. I ate. I sometimes slept. I could have been in a gaol. It made me no difference.’

  He spread extended fingers over the desk and tapped them against the wood, almost as if he played pianoforte. ‘Katherine. This is not a choice I made. It’s how I’m made. I lost so much, including a part of myself. The part that loves died with them. Children are so fragile. They fall from wagons. They get consumptive. They die. I know everyone dies, but when it’s a child in your care and you’ve failed him, then you are not given a second chance. Children die. They die, and while you watch and you can’t make them breathe again and you can’t make their eyes open again or take the pain from their lips as they fade away… No matter how much you have—you have nothing any more.’

  ‘Brandt. It doesn’t mean—’

  ‘Katherine. I saw Nathan’s breath stop and I waited for the next one, and waited, and he had no strength to breathe again and I had no strength to beg his ravaged body to work harder than it could. I kept waiting and waiting. He didn’t breathe again.’

  He let himself look at the worthless things on the desk. ‘Children leave so easily. More easily than you can imagine.’

  ‘This is not the way you should feel. I want you to feel differently.’ She leaned forward.

  ‘It would be pleasant for me to feel differently,’ His words slashed out. ‘I would like to feel differently. But I don’t.’

  ‘You still have something in your heart.’

  ‘I cannot find my heart, Katherine.’ He sat at the desk and steepled his fingers, resting his hand against them. ‘It died.’ Then he spoke so softly she almost didn’t hear. ‘Gone.’

  Katherine didn’t move and Brandt stood. He turned his back to her.

  ‘Katherine. Mary lost a baby girl. I don’t know why. Stillborn. Mary couldn’t stop crying. This was the second lost baby. The first time wasn’t so difficult. Mary had barely known she was going to have a child and then she lost it. But the second…’

  She heard the intake of breath and saw him put both hands to the wall and lean into it.

  ‘I insisted I could make her better. We must go to London, I said. London. We’ll buy you pretty dresses and it will be good for Nathan to see all the buildings and people. We’ll have a nice visit and it will make everything better and then we can come home.’

  ‘Brandt.’ She reached out.

  ‘Leave me, Katherine.’ He dropped his head even lower, outstretched fingers raking up through his hair. ‘I hadn’t even thought of the children growing older. It was all so new to me. The family. The home. I knew all children leave home eventually. But then they left me alone. Nathan. My son. Almost five. Like Gussie. And he was gone. They were all gone for ever.’

  Katherine turned. The spirits of Brandt’s family didn’t walk the earth. They lived inside him, trapped by his memories and his heart.

  Maybe his family was in heaven looking at Brandt, but she doubted they watched. How could you leave someone behind and bear to see him suffer? If heaven were a place of comfort, Mary could not be watching Brandt and be in peace.

  Katherine walked to Brandt. She touched his back, letting her hand rest a moment, and turned away.

  When she pulled the door shut, the sound hammered into her heart, then left a silence. He could stay in the room or leave. She couldn’t control his actions or his heart.

  *

  When the door shut behind Katherine, Brandt felt the deadness seep into his soul.

  ‘When?’

  The little voice was less than a whisper and it shuddered as if blown about by the force of the earth.

  He looked, and saw the girl, Gussie, sliding her thin frame from behind the curtain. She grabbed her doll from the chair. Her brown eyes bit into him.

  ‘When?’ she repeated, stronger this time. ‘Bedlam?’

  ‘No.’ He took a step backward, his palm outstretched. ‘No. You’re not leaving. This is to be your home.’

  Solemn eyes stared at him.

  ‘Not you. My children,’ he said. ‘They had to go away.’

  He saw the sideways shudder of her head—the disagreement in her eyes.

  ‘Gussie. I was talking of my children.’

  Her face didn’t soften. ‘Papa said Bedlam for bad children.’

  He knelt on one knee. ‘You’re not a bad child and neither were mine.’

  Her face didn’t change. ‘You want me to go.’

  He saw the eyes, accusing.

  ‘Gussie…’ He put his hand on her shoulder, surprised by the thinness underneath her shift.

  She stepped back from his touch. ‘You’re ugly.’ She ran to the door, darting through it.

  He stood and walked to the window, seeing nothing but Gussie’s frightened stare.

  This wasn’t his world. His life. He hadn’t meant to be here. He should be back at the tavern. But it felt as closed to him as his house.

  What kind of man was he that every place he found solace became impossible for him? He made both hands into fists, knowing raging did no good. If it had, his wife would have returned to him, and his son.

  Raging did nothing. Tears did nothing. Nothing.

  He turned to the door Katherine had first shut and then Gussie had closed as quietly as a tick of a clock.

  This time was different.

  ‘Gussie,’ he called as he half-ran.

  He went to Gussie’s room and found it empty. Then he turned and ran to the governess’s room, banging his fist on the door. Almost instantly the barrier opened, and the woman, with sleepy eyes, stood before him.

  ‘Is Gussie with you?’ he asked and saw her step back.

  ‘She’s asleep. I read her to sleep almost a half-hour ago.’

  He shut his eyes slowly, opened them and turned from her.

  ‘Gussie,’ he commanded, shouting out. ‘Gussie. Come here.’

  ‘What is the matter?’ Katherine stepped into the hallway. ‘You’re shouting the house down.’

  He clenched his jaw. He would not put this into words. ‘I need to see Gussie. She is to be in bed and she slipped away.’

  ‘She’s not a pris
oner. She’s a child. If she wakes—she finds something to play. She isn’t troublesome.’

  ‘Katherine…’ His voice was slow. ‘Find her and bring her to me. I must—’

  ‘Must what?’

  He turned his face from hers. ‘She’s a babe. I do not want her to carry the scars I carry.’

  ‘No one can, Brandt.’ Her whisper-soft voice reached into his soul.

  He turned to her. ‘I cannot risk it.’ He took a breath. ‘Gussie.’ The loudness doubled with each word.

  ‘Hush, Brandt,’ Katherine walked to him, putting a hand on his arm. ‘No one would come to you when you speak so harshly. I’ll find her and bring her to the study.’

  Brandt gave a sharp nod and went to the study, and lowered himself into the chair he’d sat in a thousand times before.

  He watched the doorway for the little girl.

  Katherine brought Gussie into the room, almost dragging her.

  Brandt faced the tear-stained eyes.

  He stood and walked in front of them and knelt down.

  ‘Go away.’ Gussie’s voice quavered, her long hair tangling around her shoulders. ‘I want home.’

  Brandt knelt in front of her. ‘This is better for you.’

  ‘No.’

  Gussie looked at her sister. ‘I… Home.’

  ‘Gussie.’ Katherine turned her sister so she could stare into her eyes. ‘We’ll make a new home here.’

  ‘This is Bedlam?’

  ‘No. It’s not. You will learn to like it here,’ Brandt said. ‘You can build a bonfire at night and watch for shooting stars. And you can ride horses and play outside.’

  She turned her head to him, chin raised. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a stubborn child,’ Brandt said.

  She nodded her head.

  ‘Almost as stubborn as I am.’

  ‘I don’t like horses,’ she said.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘She doesn’t usually act this way.’ Katherine ran her hand over the little girl’s hair, smoothing it back in place.

  ‘I do.’ Gussie looked at Brandt. Her chin rose high. ‘’Cept when I’m worse.’

  ‘My Nathan was a good child.’

  ‘I threw Papa’s papers in the fire.’

  Katherine gasped. ‘You did not.’