His rudeness finally granted him Amara’s attention. “Cretin,” she jeered, using her ire on her friend’s behalf to put voice to her own. “Maddy, permit me to join you. There is something sticking in my throat.”
Something was sticking all right, Brock thought. Disgust. “I will escort you both,” he curtly announced. A weaker man might have shriveled under her stare.
“Your presence is not required.” She tried walking around him.
He grabbed her arm, whirling her around until she stood at her starting point. “You have it just the same.”
Claeg wrapped his hands around Carissa’s waist. “Your flair for spinning discord is positively Byzantine.” She arched her back, gasping when he dug his fingers painfully into her sides. “Never play your games with my sister again.”
Peering over his mistress’s shoulder, Claeg exchanged a silent promise with Brock. Carissa’s perfidy would not go unpunished. Brock dismissed the retreating couple. Whatever the woman’s fate, it was well deserved. Any lingering fondness he had for her dissipated when he saw the pain in Amara’s eyes.
“You are causing a scene,” Amara said through a forced smile. Feeling spiteful, she deliberately stepped on his foot. He promptly released her. “Then again, you are notorious for them.”
“Provoke me further and our memorable exit from the Dodds’ masquerade two years ago will seem like a leisurely promenade in Hyde Park.”
She raised her chin in defiance. “Touch me, and you will be meeting my brother at dawn.”
“Your brother has already vanished with Carissa.”
When she heard Brock utter the woman’s given name, a perilous light flared in Amara’s eyes.
Not certain where her loyalty lay, Maddy stood between them. “Uh, Brock?”
He gnashed his teeth at Prola’s approach. He wanted the man to disappear: away from the conversazione, out of town, and most assuredly into another country.
“Your brother, he found you?” the conte inquired courteously.
Now that Carissa was gone, Amara seemed to loathe the man’s presence as much as Brock did. Staring at the tips of her slippers, she replied, “Yes, thank you.”
While Brock contemplated murder, it was Maddy who innocently spared the man’s life. Stepping in front of Brock, she pressed Amara for an introduction. Drawing on enough feminine wiles to risk a paddling if Tipton ever caught her at it, she asked, “Conte Prola, if I may be so bold and impose on you, would you object to escorting me toward the refreshments? These stimulating discourses are so demanding on one’s throat.”
Brock sensed that Prola was reluctant to leave Amara alone with him. Brock completely understood the man’s sentiment. Maddy brightened her smile when Prola glanced down at her. With practice, the imp would have the majority of males in London under her rule. The conte succumbed without even whimpering. Winking at Brock, Maddy led the Italian away, regaling him with her considerable knowledge of the defining qualities of a proper town garden.
“You should not encourage her. Tipton will not thank you for it.”
Brock shrugged, unconcerned. “Prola wants you. He will play the gallant for Maddy because he hopes it will impress you.”
“Then perhaps I should join them.”
“I disagree.” He turned her around, escorting her in the opposite direction. They continued down a narrow hall toward the front of the house. Brock wanted distance from Prola. By God, he wanted time with her alone. He led her down the stairs to the lobby.
“I am going back.” She wrenched her arm from his grasp and dashed up the stairs.
He raced after her. When piqued, the woman had the swiftness of a gazelle. He caught her at the top. “Will you let me explain about Carissa LeMaye?”
“Explain what? That you were lovers?” She backed him down a step. “It was quite evident. I am astonished you let her wander off with Mallory. Or do you share her?”
A gentleman cleared his throat behind them. “If I may pass,” he mumbled, pretending that he had not overheard Amara’s insolent question. He hastened down the stairs, his brows never descending from his scalp.
“I have tolerated more than enough!” Brock marched her up the stairs, searching for a vacant room. Lifting the door latch, he kicked open the door. The tiny room was not his first choice, but he was too furious to quibble. “A foul mouth deserves an appropriate setting.”
He pushed her into the water closet.
Amara pounded on his chest. “Are you crazy?”
Brock bolted the door. “If I am, the blame is yours.” He crossed his arms against his chest. Amara took three steps away from him and propped her back against the wall.
“The smell is unbearable.”
“So is your opinion of me.” He leaned against the door and rubbed his neck. “Amara,” he entreated, “I was not much older than Maddy when I met Carissa. She was older and I had never—known a woman.”
“I have heard enough.”
He closed his eyes, sorting his thoughts. How could he make her understand without causing more hurt? “I suppose she chose a lowly baronet’s son because I was smitten with her beauty and my inexperience amused her. The affair was brief. She left me for an older, titled gentleman who bought her a small house.”
“Did you love her?” A single tear dropped from her lashes and dripped down her cheek.
Since she was calmer, he came to her. He brushed the wetness from her cheek. “No,” he assured her. “Nor am I interested in renewing her acquaintance. Your brother was correct. She wanted to hurt you because she was jealous.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “There is nothing enviable about me.”
He flicked her chin up with his finger. “Stop belittling yourself,” he rebuked, getting furious all over again. “Carissa LeMaye was jealous. In spite of her good looks, wealth, and a multitude of lovers, she is still searching for happiness.”
He linked his hands with hers. Stroking his thumb over her knuckles, he wished that instead of leather, he was touching her silky skin. “I have not been terribly discreet about my interest in you,” he sheepishly confessed.
“You claimed you were courting me.”
“I am. Or will if you cease avoiding me.” Brock waited for her denial. She disentangled their fingers and glanced away. Patience, he reminded himself. “When Carissa learned of my interest in you, watched my face when you approached, she knew I had found my happiness. With you, Amara.”
“Brock, you cannot keep saying such things.”
“Her cruel machinating unintentionally proved something I have pondered for weeks.” He laughed at himself. “Mayhap years.”
“Do not ask me,” she softly begged.
“You already answered my question.” He kissed her forehead. “I am yours.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Wynne, stop fretting,” her husband said, keeping a reassuring hand on her lower back while Aunt Moll’s butler, Aberly, guided them through a maze of halls. More than an hour had passed since the footman had delivered her aunt’s nebulous summons. The note had mentioned Brock. Unable to shake her mounting alarm, Wynne had sought him out. Keanan had held her and listened. He had survived his harsh upbringing by trusting his instincts. He respected Wynne’s unease; accepted her protective nature. Her family had become important to him as well.
“She is likely busy planning her wedding and needed your advice. The old woman loves issuing her commands,” he said fondly, having received one or two when Aunt Moll had thought he needed advice regarding Wynne. “I doubt she considered how you might interpret it.”
Wynne prayed he was correct. His sensible explanation calmed her. If his aunt or Brock were in trouble, surely the solemn butler would have mentioned it on their arrival.
Aberly brought them to the back parlor. Not bothering with ceremony, Wynne entered the room before the butler could announce them. She absently touched her heart in relief when she saw her aunt was fine.
Aunt Moll had positioned a saber-le
gged chair at the window. Seeing them, she reached for her cane so she could stand. “Good. You brought your man.” Her aunt beamed, tilting her face upward for Wynne’s kiss. She held a hand out for Keanan. He came to her side, and gently clasped it. She surprised him by holding on. “If Wynne cannot talk some sense into him, you may be needed.”
“Aunt, you mentioned in your note some concern about Brock. Is he here?”
The older woman waved her hand in the direction of the window. “There. Down below. Such a stubborn lad.”
Curious, Wynne and Keanan went to the window. There in the distance, they caught a glimpse of Brock’s back. He had removed his coat. Some shrubbery obstructed most of their view, but he was attacking something rather ferociously with an ax.
“What is he doing? Cutting down a tree?” Wynne asked, turning to her aunt.
“Not a whole one. Just an old stump,” the elderly woman explained. “He showed up quite unexpectedly. He seemed so troubled, pacing about the room and not speaking a word. I suggested a walk in the garden. Fresh air helps rid the body of ill humors.” Miserable, Aunt Moll eased onto the sofa. “Then he started raving about that old stump and shiftless jobbers. Before I could utter a word, he had stalked off to the toolhouse. He returned minutes later with the ax in his hands. No argument from Aberly or myself has dissuaded him from his task. He has been out there ever since.”
Wynne left the window and sat beside her aunt. Clasping her hand, she said, “Brock having a tantrum can be a magnificent display. There is nothing anyone can do but keep out of his path. Eventually, it burns itself out.”
“Will you talk to him? You always did have a way with him.”
Her aunt spoke of childhood confidences. The man he had become was an enigma. Not wanting to disappoint Aunt Moll, she said, “Of course. In the meantime, you need to calm yourself. When I see Aberly, I will have him send up some tea.”
Keanan followed her to the door. “You are not attending him alone.”
Blinking at his vehemence, Wynne said, “Brock is my brother. His temper is no fiercer than your own. While I confess he has been known to stomp about spewing his wrath, he would rather plunge a knife into his own heart than hurt anyone.”
He gave her an incredulous stare. “My God, what an innocent. Even if he were King George himself, I would never leave my wife alone with a riled man holding a bloody ax!”
Habit had her parting her lips, preparing to firmly defend her brother. Sudden understanding stilled her tongue. Keanan was not really thinking of Brock. He was reliving that terrible night when he had arrived home and found a madman chasing her up the stairs with a loaded pistol in his hand. “Keanan, that is now in the past. I am taking no risk.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his hammering heart.
“You will have to forgive your overbearing husband,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I have yet to recover from seeing you fight off one crazed fool. The notion of casually watching you take on another will likely put me in my bed.”
Sensing his smile, Wynne pulled back. The smile was there, along with the unspoken need to protect. She knew it well, for she felt the same for this strong, generous man. “Well, if I am responsible for putting you in the bed, then I should at least join you and warm your cold feet.” The last part was a lie. Keanan’s body radiated like a conflagration and he knew it.
Relaxing under her gentle flirtation, he said, “Aye, my damson, at the very least. And you are still not speaking to your brother alone.”
“I know,” Wynne admitted, surrendering gracefully.
Brock brought the ax down, the savage collision of steel and wood vibrating up his arms. Clenching his teeth, he raised the ax high and repeated the motion as he had dozens of times. He had discarded his coat an hour earlier. The temperate weather had not prevented the linen shirt he wore from clinging to him like a second skin. He hurt. The worst of his pain, however, had nothing to do with his labor.
“Your skills clearly surpass those of your foe. I declare the stump vanquished.”
His sister’s facetious observation interrupted his rhythmic strokes. Brock shook off some of the stiffness in his shoulders and finished the downward stroke. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Wynne was not alone. With a derisive snort, Brock lifted the ax. He must look like a cutthroat if Milroy thought his sister needed protecting from her own brother.
“I have rung for some tea,” Wynne said, managing to keep the concern he noted in her eyes out of her voice. “I imagine you are thirsty.”
“Not particularly,” he replied briskly. Resting the ax handle on his shoulder, he gave her his complete attention. “Run along and have your tea, Wynne. You are better company for Aunt Moll than I.”
“Something has happened,” she said, certain she was correct. “If you would allow me to help—”
“No!” Despising his temper, he grimaced and flipped the ax over so the head dug into the dirt. “Let this alone. I have no need of a mother.” He cringed inwardly at his harshness. If Wynne cried, Milroy would give him the bruising he well deserved. He doubted he would defend himself. Turning away, he discarded the ax in favor of a shovel. He glowered at the stump. The roots were deep and tenacious. A man armed with a surly disposition and a few garden tools was not going to conquer it, but nothing less than bloodshed would ever force him to admit it aloud.
A clod of dirt struck him on the cheek.
With the shovel still clutched in his hand, he switched his jaundiced stare on his attacker. He had decided not to be so accommodating for Milroy, after all.
Wynne glared back. Brushing the dirt off her gloves, she said, “I am not your mother. I would disown you if I was. Snarl at me again, Brock Bedegrayne, and you can expect prompt retribution.”
Sisters. He had been cursed with the meddlesome three, and he was sorely tempted to pare the number. He purposely eyed the shovel. “Damn you, woman, can you not give a man his peace?” he asked.
Milroy had the indecency to laugh at his quandary. At some point, the man had deemed him harmless. It was truly insulting.
“No, I cannot!” she yelled back. “Not when you are upsetting Aunt Moll by attacking her garden.”
He strove for patience. “Do not exaggerate. It is one rotten stump.” Who did it hurt if he ripped it out of the ground with his bare hands? he wondered.
“You are hurting.” She came closer, stilling his hand when he buried the head of the shovel in the dirt. “We are your family, Brock. Did you think we would not see your pain?”
His sister was filled with such extraordinary compassion. A part of him was tempted to bask within the warmth of her love and confide his troubles. Still, he remained silent. Wynne had faced too much strife in her young life. She would not sleep better knowing his secrets. She might not appreciate it, but he needed to protect her too.
Milroy walked over to the pile of discarded tools. Surveying his choices, he selected a shovel. “Wynne, go ahead and reassure Aunt Moll that your brother is fine. We will finish digging out this stump and join you when we are finished.”
“You have dirt on your face,” Brock said, deliberately marring her flawless cheek with an affectionate stroke of his soiled thumb. It was a small reprisal for her accurate aim. “Clean up, else she will think we are out here making mud cakes on a lark.”
Wynne swiped at her cheek. “You will not tell me.” She had not posed it as a question, just a resigned statement.
“Have you always been this stubborn?” Brock added another smudge of dirt on her chin. “I can reason this out on my own.”
Unhappy with his reply, she looked at her husband. “Have you nothing to say?”
Brock held Milroy’s shovel while the other man removed his coat. He handed it to his wife. “It will take two men to dig this up.”
Without a word to either of them, Wynne pivoted and headed for the house. Neither the dirt on her face nor her displeasure could diminish her dignified retreat.
Bro
ck passed Milroy the shovel. “Your wife is vexed.”
Not bothered by the observation, the man stabbed the ground with his shovel. “I suppose I could have hit you on the head with the flat side of the shovel and carried you into the house, but it seemed somewhat drastic.”
Eyeing Milroy’s large hands, Brock figured a facer from Reckless Milroy would have been more punishing than a blow from any shovel. “I appreciate your restraint.”
The men worked conjointly, exposing the roots at the base of the trunk. There was no need for meaningless banter, and Brock respected Milroy for his silence. The man threw himself into the task, heedless of his attire. He was beginning to understand why the fighter had captivated his sister.
“Step back while I use the ax on those thick roots,” Milroy directed, not waiting for approval. Brock gave him the requested distance and sat down on his heels. His entire body thrummed from his exertions.
“I am not one to poke in another man’s problems,” Milroy said, as he adjusted his stance and raised the ax above his head. He possessed a body that was honed by hard labor. Brock grudgingly admired the man’s fluid movements as he finished the stroke. A dozen strokes later, he was not even winded.
Brock rested his chin against his fist. “Why debase a perfectly sensible conviction?”
“You are family.”
“You have Nevin—” Damn, he would never get his friend’s new title correct. “I mean, Reckester and his mother bedeviling you. You look like a man who prefers distancing himself from family squabbles.”
Milroy paused, sending him a considering look. “Once I enjoyed inciting them. Wynne has encouraged me to mend my ways.”
Brock doubted anyone compelled the fighter into any decision he had not chosen on his own. “So what are you doing here? Inciting or prying?”
Wiping his face with his sleeve, Milroy gave him a cocky grin. “A little of both, perhaps.” Discarding the ax, he motioned Brock closer. With the shovels they deepened the hole at the base of the stump. “I admire your discretion, but Wynne ferreted out your interest toward Miss Claeg long before you set foot on English soil.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 17