No child of his would be born out of wedlock, much less raised alone by a woman who may not have the means to care for a babe. He would never subject an innocent to the near starvation and deprivation of his own pitiful childhood. There was nothing for it—he would find the lass.
Who was she? Her name was certainly not Bootsie. How ridiculous. He should have known then. Something else had niggled at him, even in the moment. What?
Maxwell, please… Maxwell, faster… What the devil? No one had called him Maxwell since he’d lived in Cragian. He had been Captain Drake most of his years in the army and plain Drake to all his acquaintances in London. The lass knew his given name.
He jerked his clothes on. With her genteel voice and the floral scent of her hair, she was educated and likely well born. Why would she give her virginity away to a stranger? Why had she picked him? Unless someone had recognized him and sent her to his bed.
Resentment simmered.
The clomp of his boots down the stairs reflected his anger and frustration. Finding a bleary-eyed Jock in the common room cleaning up from the evening’s merrymaking, he spoke harsher than he intended. “Who was the lass you sent to my room?”
Jock stopped midwipe, straightened, and looked Maxwell up and down, working his jaw. “No idea what you’re talking ’bout, sir.”
“A woman was waiting in my bed last night. Was she sent by you?”
“Lawd, no. I’m running an inn, not a brothel. What was your name again, sir?”
“Maxwell Drake.”
Jock’s eyes flared and his jaw dropped, revealing a gummy interior. “Never thought we’d see you walk these hills again, boy.”
Maxwell’s shoulders rose, and a wave of heat rushed through him, in spite of the years gone by. “It’s Captain, if you please.”
“What did the lass look like?”
How to describe her? Ethereal? Kind? Sensual? “She had red hair.”
“As do half the lasses around these parts.”
“She was young and beautiful.”
“A young, beautiful redhead? Those are rarer. Could be the maid of one of the visitors up at the Craddocks.”
It seemed a logical conclusion. Except for the fact she had known his name.
“Ironic, ain’t it? Your mother was a redheaded whore too.” A familiar, malicious humor curled Jock’s lips.
In two ground-devouring steps, Maxwell had the old man around the throat and backed against the wall. Jock’s bony hands scrabbled around Maxwell’s fingers, too weak to pull them off. “If I hear another word of disrespect from your mouth about me or my mother, I’ll burn this inn to the ground with you in it. Understand?”
The man’s eyes bulged, and he fought for air, incapable of an answer. Loose skin sagged over Maxwell’s hand, and he shoved the man down in the nearest chair. Shame tempered his righteous fury. Jock was an old man now and should hold no power over him.
Coming back had been a mistake. His plans had gone completely awry. He jammed his hat on, pulled his greatcoat around him against the cold, and swept out the door. On to see Vicar Mitchell. And, if necessary, to the manor to see Mary McCann—Craddock now—to locate his mystery bedmate. Dread mixed with foolish hope turned his stomach at the possibility of seeing the only woman he’d let close enough to break his heart.
* * * * *
Every bit of Brynmore’s body shivered. She fumbled with the door leading to the servants’ staircase, her movements echoing like hammer strikes in her ears. She’d tarried too long with Maxwell, and the sun had risen on the long walk home. By some miracle, she slipped unseen into her room and whispered thanks to an absent Sarah for having a fire waiting.
She huddled close, absorbing the radiating heat until all the numb, disassociated parts of her body flared to life and reattached themselves with painful prickles.
Sarah bustled in and dropped the cleaning bucket she carried. “Thank Jesus, you’re home. I’ve been so worried.” Dark smudges outlined her swollen eyes.
“Did you stay up all night waiting for me?”
“Mary and Craddock dragged me straight into the inquisition upon stepping in the door last night. Dugan had informed them of your absence from the manor. I thought your sister was going to have an apoplectic fit.”
“I’m so sorry.” Bryn grabbed at Sarah’s hand. “No one hurt you?”
“No, but I thought I was sacked for certain. I lied, of course. Pleaded total ignorance as to your whereabouts. I’m to inform the baroness”—Sarah rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out—“as soon as you get home.”
What would she do without Sarah’s good humor in the face of her dilemma? “I’d like to clean up first. Do you think you could manage a bath? I’m cold and tired and a little sore.”
Sarah’s eyes widened, her tone as solemn as an undertaker. “So it’s done. Was it like Agnes described?”
“It was…” Bryn closed her eyes. Amazing, magical, magnificent. “Not so terrible.”
“I’ll send up a bath. Start rehearsing what you’re going to say to Mary. You’ll have to dance on a sword’s edge.”
The coming interview with her sister might well decide her fate. She tried to muster a convincing argument to retain her independence, but her mind kept casting backward.
Footmen clattered in with the tub and buckets of warm water. After they left, she was thankful for the privacy, even from Sarah.
She stripped bare. Her reflection in the looking glass tugged her to a stop. Cutting her eyes to the side, she stole a peek, as if her mirror image would judge her for it. She shifted and met her defiant gaze straight on.
The sharp angles of her body had rounded over the past few years, and her breasts had finally blossomed from molehills into—well, not mountains—but hillocks, at the very least. She trailed her fingertips from the underside of her breasts, through the valley of her waist, and over her hips. Maxwell had been well satisfied. Perhaps she wasn’t as ugly and hopeless as Mary had charged time and again.
With a hiss, she sank into the water. The feel of the washcloth had her reimagining the night with their roles reversed. The memory of pleasure sensitized her skin. She washed away the sticky residue from his spend with sadness. No regret or shame rose.
Had he awoken yet to find her gone? Had he already taken his leave to Edinburgh?
Maxwell had been gone from Cragian for so long she had given up hope of ever seeing him again. He wouldn’t remember her. For one thing, he’d only had eyes for Mary. For another, she’d acted like a scared rabbit around him, always running. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. She’d acted more like an owl perched in the treetops, waiting and watching.
When Maxwell worked in their gardens, she was there, watching him grow skinnier and skinnier. Watching him never stop to eat a noontime meal. Watching him get winded and weak. Mary had been there too, tormenting him in different ways. Twitching her skirts, tossing her hair, thrusting her bosom in his face.
High up in her tree with the rough bark of the pine scratching her face, Bryn had watched Maxwell declare his love for Mary. He’d asked her to be patient as he made something of himself. She’d tossed him over, informing him of her plans to marry Craddock, twenty years her elder, already rich and due to become a baron on their marriage. Maxwell’s devastation had radiated like a cannon blast, and Bryn had wanted to rip Mary apart like a rat with her talons.
A furtive scratching on the door forced her out of the cooling bath. “Mary and Craddock are waiting in the breakfast room.” Sarah flipped through the meager selection of dresses in her wardrobe. “When was the last time your sister bought you a new frock?”
Bryn pulled out the length of pink-colored cloth she’d stuffed in the back. A ridiculous fall of ruffles covered the bottom three feet of skirt. “My wedding dress arrived. In all the excitement I forgot to show you.”
“That color with your hair? Your sister hates you.”
“Hates me? Because of the color of a dress?”
“Among other thi
ngs,” Sarah said cryptically. “Your brown wool, I think.”
A soft green-and-gold plaid around her waist enlivened the plain brown dress. Bryn pushed at her hair with trembling fingers but left it down. The thick mass rebelled against her attempts at confinement.
No more excuses. The rug-covered stairs seemed to have multiplied overnight. The house was quiet, the guests still abed. What she really wanted was to wrap herself high atop a pine tree and breathe in the sticky sap or climb into the hayloft and bury herself underneath the sweet straw. Those days were gone. She was a child no longer.
Her quaking knees carried her to the door. She took a deep breath and ran her damp hands down her skirts before opening it and slipping in. The snick of the closing door cut off a heated, whispered discussion between Mary and Craddock. They turned and regarded her. In Mary’s eyes was something akin to hatred, but it was the cold calculation in Craddock’s demeanor that sent shivers through her body.
Bryn stayed close to the door, craving the illusion of escape. Stroking the shiny chestnut ringlets hanging over her shoulder, Mary sashayed in meandering arcs, coming inevitably closer and examining Bryn as if she were an undesirable pest to squash. Mary had always exuded confidence, but as she’d obtained a taste of power, she relied more on intimidation than charm.
Since her marriage, her strikingly beautiful face had hardened into a mask of arrogant insouciance, but her voluptuous figure still drew men’s admiring, salacious eyes.
“You were gone all night.” Mary’s too-placid voice put Bryn on alert. “Tell me, sister, are you ruined?”
“Thoroughly and completely.” She forced her chin to stay up. Like a viper, Mary struck. The quick, stinging blow across Bryn’s cheek stunned her.
“Foolish, stupid girl.” Mary turned on her heel to throw up her hands at Craddock. “What now, husband? Where does this leave us?”
Craddock rubbed his chin. “We deny any rumors as ridiculous. Insist she is pure. The marriage goes on.”
“I’ll not start a marriage based on lies. I’ll tell Dugan. He won’t want me now I’m sullied. My virginity is all he cares about.” Desperation colored her words even though the turn of events wasn’t unexpected.
Mary wagged a finger an inch away from Bryn’s nose. She flinched back, her heels hitting the doorjamb. “He may not want you, but he’ll take you as wife and make you pay every day of your life for this mistake. There’s too much riding on your marriage to Dugan. It will take place, Brynmore, make no mistake.” Mary’s voice was made implacable with disgust. Turning to Craddock, she said, “She can’t be trusted to willingly cooperate.”
Bryn’s gaze darted to Craddock as she processed the implications.
“Agreed, m’dear.” Craddock stepped closer, his expression matching the weather. Cold and ominous. “Now that I realize what lengths you’ll go to escape the match, you’ll be confined until the vows are exchanged tomorrow.”
Bryn felt surrounded on all sides, but she wasn’t yet ready to fly the white flag. “You mean to hold me as a prisoner?”
“I can’t imagine a few moments laboring under some dirty, rough sheepherder will prove a wise decision in the end. Your roll in the muck was for naught.” In contrast to her husband’s tightly corralled emotions, Mary’s venomous anger swirled around her like a maelstrom.
“Hardly for naught. It seems Craddock could take some lessons from my man, because he obviously isn’t doing his job well if you consider lying under him a chore. I pity you.” Bryn’s words oozed from a wound that had festered for years.
Perhaps the first cut had been Mary’s disregard of her mere existence. Every insulting word about her appearance, her deportment, her lack of womanly virtues had added to the damage.
Red usually achieved through rouge slashed Mary’s cheekbones. Her upper lip curled, her green eyes as hard and cutting as jewels. “Who was it? One of the butcher’s sons?”
“You can physically drag me to the church, but you can’t make me repeat wedding vows before God.”
“I had hoped not to have to employ underhanded methods, but… I know about your little project.” The corners of Mary’s mouth ticked up in a travesty of a smile, and Bryn froze, her lungs squeezing. “Your extra donations from my coffers to the vicar will cease.”
Flooding relief almost made Bryn smile. Mary had no idea the true extent of her little project. She forced a deliberate quiver into her voice. “Extra money? I have no idea what you mean.”
“The lazy, disenfranchised poor will have to manage without you.” Mary’s smug, triumphant overtones acted like bellows to the fire of Bryn’s anger.
“Lazy? You sit up here in your manor house, stuffing your face while they go hungry to make sure their children don’t cry themselves to sleep.”
“Go to your room, and don’t bother to join us for meals today. Perhaps it will do you some good to experience hunger yourself. A taste of your life if you do not happily repeat your vows on the morrow. I’ll cast you out and instruct everyone from here to Edinburgh that to give you charity will be a personal insult to me. You will be left to scrabble for rotten scraps of food.”
“You would do this to me? Your only sister?” Bryn asked more out of awe than real fear. No doubt, the fear and panic would come later.
“Accept your fate with as much grace as you can manage, if you please. You’re lucky a gentleman such as Armstrong wants to wed you, considering your infirmity.”
“It’s not… I’m not sick.” Bryn hated the whine that had snuck into her voice. Her episodes had grown so infrequent her panicked overreaction in the common room of the inn last night had caught her off guard. Still, she’d got herself under control before debilitating panic could set in.
“But you are, my dear, and you should be thanking us for seeing you settled so advantageously.” Mary opened the door and snapped her fingers. A beefy man she didn’t recognize approached. Bryn didn’t sense the danger until it was too late. He enclosed her upper arm in an iron grip.
“Escort my sister back to her chambers, if you please.”
The footman jailer marched her out of the room. Although she twisted and yanked at her arm, the man did not yield until he shoved her into her room. A rusty outer bolt that had never been used to her knowledge screeched home with resonating finality.
Chapter Four
Time had stood still in this little corner of Scotland. In a village as old as Cragian, ten years was a pittance. A new blacksmith worked at the corner smithy, but Donahue was still the butcher. Maxwell couldn’t believe the old man could still handle the hulking sides of meat, but he appeared as spry as ever.
After wandering down the lane and through his memories, Maxwell climbed to the rectory. Perched atop a rise, the church made a pretty picture standing vigil above the little village, spires reaching for the low, misty clouds. Not much had changed here either. Perhaps the ivy stretched higher upon the stone walls, moss grew thicker around the sides, and more headstones littered the churchyard.
Was old Mitchell still the vicar? Their last communication had been about his mother’s death. By the time the crumpled, dirty letter had found him on the Continent, his mother had been dead for months. He’d sent money for a proper headstone but never received word confirming his money had been well spent. If she had been buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave, forgotten forever, he would never forgive himself.
Maxwell came across old Cadell’s grave, well tended and marked with a large, flat headstone. A bundle of dried heather tied with a purple ribbon lay upon the gray, pitted stone. The stableman had been one of the few who had been kind to him. In fact, he’d always wondered if Cadell had a hand in the life-affirming baskets full of food that had magically appeared on his doorstep, but they’d continued even after his death.
The inevitable waited. He took a bracing breath, the cold air a welcome burn in his lungs. Spying a group of modest stones in one corner, he decided it a likely place to start. Not finding her name on any of the small
markers, he gazed over the tall, imposing stones of the gentry to the pauper’s graves.
The hollowness was back, threatening to swallow him. His mother was insignificant in the grand scheme of the world. Insignificant to everyone but him. She’d been his world and he hers.
He trudged closer, his gaze flitting over the rich stones like a moth. He almost missed her. The large stone was set among the gentry of Cragian, surrounded by those who’d done their best not to acknowledge her in life. Eden Drake, 1767–1807. Fare thee well, thou best and dearest.
A bundle of dried heather tied with a blue ribbon leaned against the expertly carved stone. Squatting on her grave, he braced hands on either side of the stone and laid his forehead against her name. Damnable tears gathered. She hadn’t been forgotten.
The crunch of leaves broke his solitude. Vicar Mitchell approached with slow, hesitant steps. The vicar’s white hair was a bit sparser, his wrinkles and crinkles more abundant, but a familiar twinkle lit his blue eyes as if there was a bawdy joke he desperately wanted to tell but knew he shouldn’t.
Clearing his face of emotion, Maxwell rose and swept his hat off. Would the vicar recognize him after so many years?
“A brisk, good morning to you, sir. Have you interest in a cup of tea?” The vicar sidled closer, squinting at the grave behind Maxwell. The vicar’s gaze darted back to his face. “Maxwell Drake?” A welcoming, happy smile accompanied the incredulous words.
“Aye, it’s me.” Maxwell’s voice was rough. He’d come home to bury his past, but instead he found it difficult to keep his emotions from welling up and swamping him.
“My boy. It’s a shock to see you after so many years but such a pleasant one. Goodness, you’re looking well. You’ve come to see your mother.” The vicar stood next to Maxwell, both of them looking at Eden’s grave. Vicar Mitchell communed with the dead with ease. There were no eerie undertones, only a comfortable friendship. “It’s hard to believe she’s been gone six years. Time flows too quickly.”
A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 4