London was behind them, when she stirred from her silence. “Jem was worried about me racing off to Gretna Green.” Amara did not seem upset about her predicament, just curious.
“Who the devil is Jem?”
“Jem is our coachman, and if I had any sense I might have realized sooner that you are the devil.”
Since they were alone on the road, he risked a cocky grin. “Gretna Green, you say. What are you proposing, Amara?”
There was primness to her spine, even though she was wearing a dusty gown and mangled bonnet. “Nothing,” she said. “I just do not want to be responsible for Jem’s severed cods.”
Brock choked. “Christ, Amara, vulgarity spewing from your delectable mouth is more than I can bear. Someone should discourage your coachman from using rough language in your presence.”
“He was distracted,” she said apologetically. “After all, they were his cods. I am not clear on what these items exactly are, but he was distressed at the thought of losing them.”
Holding his breath, he tried not to laugh. It would only encourage her. He counted to forty-five. In unison, they exploded into laughter.
“There, you see?” he said, after their merriment had ebbed into grins. “You have just proven you were in urgent need of kidnapping. It has been days since I have heard you laugh.”
“We have not seen each other in days,” was her dry retort.
“Not by choice. You have a nasty habit of avoiding me,” he said, keeping his voice light. If he gave in to the hurt and frustration, he might yell and ruin their truce.
“Do you kidnap all the ladies who resist your charms?” she asked, still skeptical about the sincerity of his boast. “I have often wondered if the infamous gossip about you was justified.”
Brock had no intention of regaling her with tales of drunken revelry and forgotten conquests. Every young man was permitted lapses in judgment. By Jove, he had been wild, living on anger and nerve. That part of his past was best forgotten.
“You are my first kidnapping. I pray you will make allowances,” he implored. Brock conceded he was ill prepared for their hasty journey. However, he was not without resources. His time away from his homeland had taught him how to cope with the unforeseen.
“Fustian! This is a jest,” she said, crossing her arms. “You have a myriad of flaws but you are not spiteful. You would not knowingly tarnish my reputation.”
He winced at her blithe assertion of his character. “So nice of you to be so understanding of my faults. However, you have overlooked one thing.”
“What?”
“Your family believes you are visiting Lady A’Court,” he said, noting how her triumphant expression fell at his observation. “Alas, you are not without flaws. For instance, this propensity for dissembling. Most gentlemen would not be so indulgent.”
“Indulgent,” she fumed, realizing she had sprung the trap herself. “I call it knavery. You are taking advantage of my embarrassing predicament!”
“Consider it another of my lamentable failings, dove.”
Amara shifted in her seat; her backside felt numb from their bone-jarring drive. Few words had been exchanged on their mysterious jaunt. She had fallen into a shrewish silence once he convinced her that nothing would discourage him from his course. He had accepted her silence with a cheery tolerance that did little to improve her mood.
From her estimation, they had been traveling for more than two hours. Brock had taken them north and slightly east. The deflection at least allayed any concern he was taking her into Scotland. They had stopped an hour into their journey when they had chanced upon a coaching inn. He had explained that the horses needed a rest. The truth was, she had needed the respite more than the agile team. She and Brock had separated, each seeing to their personal needs.
If he had been worried she might run off or announce her abduction to a sympathetic ear, he had concealed it well. Amara had not approved of his high-handedness, but she did trust him. Besides, the scoundrel had known that publicly revealing his temerity would merely gain her the tarnish she so dearly wished to avoid.
On his return, he had found her pacing the yard. The walk had improved her spirits. He had acquired a hamper during their brief parting. Once he had settled her in the phaeton, Brock moved to the rear and secured the hamper. Sensing her needs, he had satisfied her curiosity about the hamper by handing her a bean tart. Too many hours had elapsed since her last meal. She had mumbled her thanks, but it was her stomach rumbling its deepest appreciation for his thoughtfulness that earned her a chuckle and a tug on one of her curls.
More than an hour had passed since the inn. Although the tart had eased her hunger, the shaking and dipping of the carriage was not improving the budding stiffness in her shoulders from Brock’s heroic tackle.
“I like a female who is not a gabbler,” Brock said, smashing the wall of silence she had thrown up between them. “Makes her seem very biddable.”
Very tricky, Amara thought. Brock had figured out how to goad her into speaking to him again. She surrendered to the inevitable. He had saved her life. Fed her when she was hungry. Brooding seemed mean-spirited. Besides, she had shrugged off her initial frustration long ago. Sometime during their quiet journey it had evolved into a companionable silence. She had enjoyed the quiet as much as the sprawling peaceful countryside.
“Since I am intimately acquainted with your sisters, I doubt you have ever encountered a biddable female,” she countered, offering the olive branch he craved.
“It was more of a declaration than a preference,” he corrected himself.
She matched his smile. “I thought as much.”
The road they traveled was rutted and slowed their progress. It was not much bigger than the trails used by the occasional dairy herds she saw in the distance. Coughing on the dust they stirred, she gave in to her curiosity. “Did we miss our turn for Hyde Park or do you have a specific destination in mind?”
Brock shot her a look of disbelief. “Only you would wait hours to ask that question. Yes, Amara, I have brought you out here to see more than potato and wheat fields.”
He maneuvered the horses down a long lane. The hedges outlining their path were overgrown and shapeless from neglect. Amara frowned at the imposing dwelling they were approaching. Whoever its owner, the man had neglected his property. The house was old, and in her opinion, was a step away from being considered a ruin. The four three-story octagonal towers flanking the main structure were most likely part of the original structure. The stone was crumbling in places, and the numerous windows were void of glass. A dense creeping vine was consuming the front left tower. The main part of the dwelling seemed to have been built at another time. Perhaps not recently, but someone had been restoring the dwelling. The front door appeared new and the glass in the windows gleamed in the sunlight, even though the stone needing a good cleaning.
Abruptly, the lane opened into an unremarkable rectangular gravel yard. With a brisk command to the team, Brock halted the phaeton in front of the house. When no one came rushing out to attend them, she switched her questioning gaze on Brock.
Scrutinizing the building with more appreciation than it deserved, he asked, “Amazing, is it not? During the reign of James the First all this land was a deer park.”
Bemused by his enthusiasm, she watched him jump down from the carriage. He secured the horses to a hitching post. She accepted his hand, when he returned to her side. “I am amazed the house still stands. Brock, it is a derelict.”
“Not quite,” he said, her assessment dimming some of his initial excitement. “The towers are all that remain from the original dwelling. It belonged to the Whitmott family. A fire gutted most of the house about eighty years ago. The family rebuilt, but the lord died before the restoration was finished. His widow preferred the seaside, so the house was abandoned and eventually sold.”
“Are you acquainted with the owner?”
“Well enough,” he said. “About seven years ago, Will Stre
den bought the house and much of the original acreage. He wanted a hunting lodge when he was bored with London, and entertained the notion of restoring the red and fallow deer to Whitmott Park.”
“I assume his aspirations met with failure.”
“Streden is easily diverted,” he said, apologetically. “After the fire in the kitchen—”
“Another fire!” Aghast, Amara wondered if all that remained of the house was a charred shell.
“Streden had not foreseen the necessity of moving the kitchen and the servants’ quarters from their original subterranean level. Due to the quick actions of the servants, the fire was confined only to the lower level.”
“Mr. Streden was fortunate he did not lose the entire house.”
“I agree. He did, however, lose his passion for restoring Whitmott Park. Shortly after the fire, he placed the property on the auction block.”
The way in which Brock stared at the house confirmed her growing suspicion. His manner was undeniably proprietary. “You bought the house,” she said bluntly.
“Several years ago,” he admitted, not surprised she had guessed. “And most of the land being auctioned.” He escorted her to the door. “Regrettably, the purchase left my funds at low ebb. Until recently, the house remained in the state in which it had been abandoned by Streden.”
“Surely, Sir Thomas—”
He agreed with a nod. “He might have, if I had asked. Nevertheless, the house is mine. Its upkeep is my responsibility.”
Amara shook her head, as he opened the door for her. While other gentlemen would have raided the family’s wherewithal without thought, Brock had too much pride to choose the easier path. His successes and failures were his own.
She stepped inside. The air within was not as stale as she had expected. They entered the large hall. The stone floor was barren, but someone had recently swept the dust and polished the glass in the windows. Amara pivoted when they reached the center of the hall and lifted her brows in curiosity.
“I have been out here a time or two since my return,” he explained. “I hired some local men and women from the village to clean up the years of neglect. Until the kitchen and servants’ quarters are rebuilt, I have no use for a full-time staff.”
Amara strode to the chimneypiece large enough to spit a whole stag. The oak paneling was simplistic in its design. The hearth had been designed for use, not for pleasing the eye. She glanced up, taking in barren plaster walls holding up a lofty timbered ceiling. It was easy to imagine what this room might have looked like in another century. Instead of the barrenness of neglect, prized antler mountings and elaborate tapestries depicting the success of the hunt would have covered the walls. Interspersed throughout the room, swords, bows, and shields would have not only provided ornamentation but readiness if the need for arms arose.
“Where did you go?”
She was chagrined to have him catch her daydreaming; the image she had built in her mind disintegrated. The bare walls, cracked and stained by age and the elements, returned. “Considering the possibilities.” She was too embarrassed to reveal the extent of her fanciful musings.
He blinked in surprise. By his spontaneous grin, she could tell her answer pleased him. “Aye,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “This place does make a person dream.”
“The house needs more than a dreamer. You will have to possess a vast amount of patience and a respectable fortune to restore it,” she warned.
“I can claim both.”
“Truly?”
She tried not to stiffen when he came up behind her. Sliding his hands over the delicate bones of her shoulders, he lightly kneaded her taut muscles. “You are proof of the first. My travels abroad ensured the second.” He kissed the back of her head and released her.
“I will see to the horses.”
Patience! She could think of no man who had less than Brock. He exuded his lack with every flicker of expression and the way he moved as if the people around him were only delaying him from his aspirations. The notion was absurd. Instead of laughing, Amara turned toward the door, wanting an explanation of how she proved the first.
He was out the door before she could stop him. “Have a care, if you cannot resist exploring in my absence,” he called out over his shoulder. “If you fall through some rotting flooring and break your lovely neck, I doubt even I will be able to come up with a plausible explanation for your family.”
Brock took his time with the horses. He had pushed the team hard, getting them to Whitmott Park. The animals deserved a little pampering. Milroy was not the only member of the family who appreciated prime horseflesh.
He also thought Amara might prefer some time apart from him. Like his horses, she seemed undaunted by their adventure. If he could convince her, Brock had every intention of pampering the lady as well.
The hall was empty when he returned. Brock shouted her name. He listened to his fading echo and then chilling silence. The front door had been left open, he had assumed from his departure. An irrational fear that she had escaped on foot danced down his spine, even as he ruthlessly discarded the thought. If Amara had been afraid of him, she’d had a dozen opportunities to call attention to her undesirable predicament before he took her out of London. She had ignored all her chances to escape him.
Heartened by his logic, Brock retraced his steps outdoors. Following his instincts, he headed east toward the lake. It was approximately twenty acres in size, and Brock suspected one of the Whitmott heirs was responsible for its creation, although nature through the passing centuries had refined the man-made effect.
There near the shore of the lake, he found Amara. She had removed her dusty mantle and had put it to better use as a blanket. Unaware of his presence, she faced the soothing beauty of the lake. Removing her bonnet, she tossed it aside. With bare hands she reached for the back of her head. Her nimble fingers sought out each pin and captured them into the palm of her hand. Free of restraints, her dark brown tresses billowed in the slight breeze as the ends teasingly danced down her shoulders.
“You look like a water nymph.”
Amara started at his voice. He was already regretting his impetuous words when she gathered up her hair and gave it an efficient twist.
“Leave it down,” he entreated, sitting down beside her. He brushed away her hands and appreciatively fingered the windswept tresses that always had reminded him of polished mahogany. “Having it twisted and pinned in that fashion would give anyone a fretful headache. Besides, I like it best when you have it down.”
The look she gave him through the silken curtain was coy. “You have a remarkable memory, since I was a girl the last time I was running about with my hair down.”
“It was longer then,” he said, deliberately drawing a horizontal line across her back. “Long enough to skim your hips.” She had been a beautiful girl and he had been too old to be noticing her.
Oblivious of his uncomfortable memories, she laughed. The sound was as fluid and pure as the water lapping at their feet. She used her palm to brace herself, the action bringing her closer. “Doran liked my hair too. Do you recall the summer you and Mallory found me tied to a tree limb by my hair?”
Amara had been seven or eight that particular summer. He and Mallory had returned from hunting when they had found her hopelessly snarled. “You were crying for Doran’s head, I recall. You begged me for my knife so you could sever it from his neck yourself.”
She shook her head. “I was never so bloodthirsty.”
“You were bloody furious,” he corrected. “By the time we had cut you free, you had lost a good amount of hair.”
“Mama blamed everyone,” she reminisced without rancor. “Doran for tying my hair to the blasted tree. Me for allowing him to do it. You for having the knife.” She sighed. “As punishment, I was not allowed to leave my bedchamber for a week.”
Brock imagined being banished from the family had been difficult for the eight-year-old girl, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “Why di
d Doran tie your hair to that limb?”
She squinted at the sunlight, reaching inward for the memory. “I believe we were playing coachman. The limb was his perch and I was the—” She faltered.
Following the recollection to its obvious conclusion, Brock laughed. The more she scowled at him, the harder he laughed. Holding his ribs, he gasped for breath. “He made you the horse! What was he using your hair for—reins?”
“I do not remember!” she denied, her expression mutinous. “You said that I was demanding his head for the prank. What punishment does the gentleman who mocks me deserve?”
He could not recall a recent occasion when he had laughed so much. With his side aching, he fell onto his back, knocking his hat free from his head. Amara took advantage of his weakness and pounced. Rolling on top of him, she tickled him with a ruthless capability only his sisters had managed in their youth. He howled with laughter that bordered on pain.
“Cease, witch!”
Naturally, she disregarded his order. “Well, well … who would have guessed the handsome, arrogant Bedegrayne could be defeated by a mere woman?” She dug into his sides and was rewarded by more laughter. “I can think of a man or two who would pay dearly to learn Brock Bedegrayne is ticklish.”
She was teasing. He hoped. Gazing up at her triumphant heart-shaped visage was no hardship, but enough was enough. A man had his pride. Taking advantage of a brief pause in her assault, he seized her by the waist and expertly flipped her onto her back. He straddled her hips. “You were saying?”
Amara’s eyes widened, amazed by the speed with which he had neatly reversed their positions. It was hardly proper or fair, but he could not resist. Digging his fingers under her arms, he tickled her without mercy. Laughing, she arched her back, trying to bounce him off with her pelvis. “Beast. Get … off!”
Brock stilled as she writhed beneath him. Although her movements were not meant to entice, his body reacted. Desire bubbled through his system like white sparkling wine. Every time she rubbed her body against his, a cannonade of need punctured his restraint. Longing or something more dangerous must have shown in his eyes.
Tempting the Heiress Page 20