A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3)

by Laura Trentham

  She and Maxwell exchanged a glance. Before he could open his mouth, she stepped forward with faked enthusiasm and a perfunctory curtsy. “Lady MacShane, it’s been too long, hasn’t it? Terribly sorry to arrive unannounced, but it couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

  A cap in a virulent shade of puce covered Lady MacShane’s iron-gray hair and glowed against the black fustian she had worn since her husband’s death. Her jowls hung low, and her thin lips curved into a frowning sickle.

  Laying down her sampler, she assumed the position of an imperious eagle on the edge of the settee and surveyed Bryn as if she were a rodent let loose. And she hadn’t even spotted Maxwell yet.

  “Miss McCann. What in blazes are you doing here? Are you not to be married this very afternoon? Shouldn’t you be preparing yourself for your groom?”

  Bryn’s mind drifted a moment as to how you prepared yourself for a groom—was there a special baste or a bitter medicine? “Dugan Armstrong and I have decided we don’t suit. I don’t love him.”

  “Love? What’s love got to do with marriage? Foolish gel, ride back and throw yourself on his mercy. You won’t find anyone as handsome or rich as Armstrong to marry you. Look at you. Hardly a great beauty like your sister. Are you addled?” Lady MacShane stood and rapped her cane on the floor for emphasis.

  “Most likely I am.” Lady MacShane’s assessment pricked her feelings, but it’s nothing she hadn’t heard from Mary a hundred times. “I’m here for another reason, actually. I’d like to introduce you to Captain Maxwell Drake, decorated war hero. He is recently arrived from London.”

  Maxwell stepped out of the shadows. Lady MacShane drew in a great breath and swung her ire to him. “You. You would dare show your face in my home? Are you here for money? Is it your aim to bludgeon me and steal the precious memories of my dear husband?” Her bejeweled hand was at her neck as if Maxwell planned to leap across the room and strangle her. “Hamish, help me.”

  One dark look from Maxwell froze the footman halfway into the room. “Lady MacShane, let me assure you that I’m not after your money or your jewels or your precious memories.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “I’m here to read my father’s last will and testament.”

  “Absolutely not. If you aren’t after revenge, then why do you want to see MacShane’s will, you lowborn cur?”

  The insult made Bryn gasp, but Maxwell didn’t seem bothered. “If there’s no mention of me or my mother, then why won’t you allow me to read it?”

  Lady MacShane gave an unladylike snort. “It matters not because I don’t have it. It’s in Edinburgh with my solicitor.”

  Maxwell stared her down, but she didn’t falter. Finally he said, “As luck would have it, we’re headed to Edinburgh. What is the firm’s name? I’ll be sure to pay your solicitor a visit.”

  Her jowls quivered, but she rattled off the name. It was all the information they were likely to get without resorting to torture, and while it looked as if Maxwell might enjoy locking Lady MacShane in a dungeon, retreat was the wisest course of action.

  Bryn backed toward the door. “We must be on our way, Lady MacShane. There’s a long road in front of us, and—”

  “Does Mary know you’re whoring yourself with such an animal?” Lady MacShane’s malice hit her like an artic wind, yet something else stirred in the old lady’s eyes. Fear?

  The way Mary and Lady MacShane could tear people apart over a civilized cup of tea had always been intimidating. Bryn would sit to the side and wish for escape. But she’d stayed silent, always silent. To have the insults directed at her was shocking.

  “You will not speak of my betrothed in such a fashion, Lady MacShane.” In Maxwell’s voice was a threat to tear the old lady limb from limb.

  “Betrothed?” The lady tutted. “Dragging the McCann name through the muck. Your sister must be devastated.”

  Was this a taste of how Maxwell had been treated as a child in Cragian? Even with all the insults Mary had aimed her direction, she’d never felt less than a person—an ungainly, unaccomplished, unwanted person, but a person nonetheless. Words formed. She would stay silent no more.

  Bryn sidestepped in front of Maxwell. “He’s not an ani—” She bit her lip, unwilling to attach the word to him. “Maxwell is a hundred times the man Dugan is, no matter his birth. Good day to you, Lady MacShane. May we never meet again.”

  Bryn took a step back and bumped into Maxwell’s chest. He turned her and nudged her into the entryway. The warmth of his hand on her shoulder steadied her in the midst of the old woman’s bitterness.

  Hamish galloped ahead of them and opened the front door. His eyes were wide, and he bounced on the balls of his feet. He would be in the kitchens relaying the confrontation before they were out of sight. They waited outside for their horses to be brought around.

  Maxwell didn’t seem agitated in the least, his stance casual and his hands loosely clasped behind his back. Her stomach tumbled, and she broke into a light sweat in the aftermath, yet her anger kept the hated panic at bay.

  “How can you be so calm about that… that despicable, horrible, detestable, ugly old woman?”

  Maxwell’s eyebrow and mouth quirked up in unison. His hazel eyes danced. “Although a useless endeavor, you did a fair job defending my honor.”

  “She called you an animal,” she said, the last horrible word on a whisper.

  He chuffed, still holding on to his half smile. “What Lady MacShane hurled was nothing compared to what I endured growing up. I was insulted, with much saltier language I might add, on a daily basis. The lads beat me up and pushed me around for years—until I got big enough to defend myself. I know what and who I am.”

  Did an old pain linger? Bryn understood the scars hateful words could leave. “You’re better than all of them. If I could go back, I would do more.” She cursed her tongue.

  “More?” His dark brows rose, and his voice turned mocking. “What more would you have done? Called the boys out on my behalf? I would have liked to have seen that, a ten-year-old sprite with dueling pistols.”

  If he discovered her hand in the baskets, his pride would never recover. And for a man like Maxwell, who had grown up with nothing, his pride was his most valued asset.

  She forced a tease and winked. “I’m a fair shot, I’ll have you know.” Her smile faded and she whispered, “Why did you tell her we’re betrothed?”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “As long as the marriage contract exists, I’m still legally betrothed to Dugan.”

  “A piddling detail. If you’re carrying my child, we will find the nearest blacksmith, marry over the anvil, and consummate the marriage without delay.”

  A spark passed between them, threatening to light banked embers. In place of the dread she harbored at the thought of a wedding night with Dugan, anticipation danced.

  The hostler arrived and broke the spell. After giving her a leg up himself, Maxwell led them down the drive in a fast trot. A galloping horse approached from the open grouse field to their right.

  Lord Albert MacShane pulled up short, blocking the drive. His horse was lathered and puffing clouds into the air. Bryn cut her eyes to Maxwell, unsure how to proceed. “Lord MacShane. This is Captain Drake. We’ve been to see your mother.”

  MacShane stared at Maxwell as if studying new plant life. “I can’t imagine the visit went well.”

  “It didn’t,” Maxwell said.

  Maxwell’s calmness and Albert’s lack of animosity quelled the tension stiffening her shoulders.

  “Mother is rather high-strung.” Albert rubbed his nape, a too-bright smile coming to his face. He stood in his stirrups and held out a hand. Bryn’s breath hitched. Maxwell hesitated a moment before reaching out to clasp Albert’s in a brief handshake, broken by their skittish mounts.

  Although the two men bore a resemblance, Maxwell’s features were blatantly masculine, while on Albert, the full lower lip and sharp cheekbones took on an effeminate cast.

  Albert spared h
er the briefest of glances. “I was returning to ready myself for your impending nuptials. Am I to assume those won’t be taking place as planned?”

  “You assume correctly.” Bryn wished she didn’t blush so readily.

  “Lord MacShane, perhaps you could help me.” Maxwell’s face stayed impassive. “I wanted to lay hands on our father’s will.”

  Suspicion shuttered Albert’s curiosity and good humor. “Why would you be interested in such?”

  “I was told there might be mention of me or perhaps my mother.”

  Albert’s gaze dropped to the scrub lining the lane. “I’m not sure who insinuated such, but I assure you, there was no mention of either of you. I must return to see how Mother is coping with her shock.” Albert tipped his hat and tapped his heels against his horse’s flanks, sending them trotting toward the stable.

  In contrast, Maxwell gave Primrose a gentle pat and nudge, their pace sedate. She could tell nothing about the direction of his thoughts from his expression. Unable to tolerate the silence, she said, “Can we safely assume you’re mentioned in the will?”

  “Indeed.” His voice was as blank as his face.

  “Do you think old MacShane tried to legitimize you or left you a great deal of money?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll discover the truth.” He nudged Primrose into a trot and left Bryn staring at his back.

  Hours later, Bryn’s view had changed little. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the clouds and cast a premature dusk. The clouds had grown thicker and darker all day. Maxwell’s mood had spiraled in concert.

  Although Bryn tried time and again to engage him in conversation, his monosyllabic answers had finally discouraged her. The day passed in an exhausting silence, yet as the minutes ticked off, her mood soared.

  She trotted up next to him and smiled. If she’d been on the ground, she would have danced a jig. As it was, she bounced in the saddle. He gave her a side-eye glance and then turned fully for a thorough inspection. “Why are you so cheerful? It’s freezing, and we’re still miles from the nearest inn.”

  “Despite the weather and your gloomy disposition, I would rather freeze to death on the road to Edinburgh with you than be standing in Cragian’s chapel, choking out vows to a man I detest.”

  A combination of victory and relief made her want to pump her arms or jump up and down or give him a hug. She hadn’t caved to everyone else’s demands of her. Maybe for the first time in her life. Even with the uncertainty of the future, freedom made her giddy.

  “Congratulations. Thrilled this debacle has worked to your advantage.” The bite in his voice deflated her bubble of euphoria.

  He was right. She had escaped Dugan only to become a burden to Maxwell, and he would never forgive her. Her smile wilted. She twisted the reins, and her horse skittered ahead.

  “Wait, Bryn, I’m—”

  A distinctive crack in the woods silenced him. She turned around and held still. He scanned the tree line, his mouth pulled into a grim line. The stretch of road was flanked by a dense forest. The dimming winter sun cast long shadows, making it difficult to see more than twenty feet in any given direction.

  “What—”

  He held up a hand to shush her. Both the horses shuffled, perhaps reacting to the sudden tension crackling the air or perhaps to an unseen threat. Her mount tossed its head and trotted forward, its nerves affecting her. The air rushed close to her face before the report the musket echoed through the woods.

  “Bloody hell, ride, woman!”

  Chapter Nine

  She froze like a wild animal caught in a trap. Maxwell dug his heels into Primrose’s flanks and slapped her horse on the rump as he passed. Her mount bucked forward. She listed off-balance in the sidesaddle.

  A tree on her left splintered a split second before the report sounded. Maxwell moved beside her.

  “The woods. Head into the woods,” he yelled.

  She pointed her horse into the thick copse to their right. The pounding of her heart and the clatter of horses’ hooves echoed in her ear. She hunched over, making herself as small as possible. Her breaths were quick and sharp.

  Commotion behind her had her glancing over her shoulder. A riderless Primrose bolted to the left.

  Maxwell. His name roared through her.

  Bryn pulled hard at the reins, but crazed with fear, her horse continued to crash through the trees. Maxwell. She had to get to him. He needed her. She kicked free of the stirrups and leaped off. Her hip and shoulder hit the frozen ground, but she rolled to absorb the fall like Cadell had taught her.

  She patted her body. Her shoulder and hip throbbed, but she’d live. It was Maxwell who needed help. She scrambled up and through the patchy snow, searching for him. Her frantic fear made her heart gallop and her breathing fracture.

  Spotting the shiny black tip of his boot, she stumbled to his body and fell to her knees. He lay unmoving and spread-eagle, half-hidden in evergreen fronds. The left half of his face was covered in blood. She pressed her ear against his chest and sagged to hear his strong, steady heartbeat.

  Blood oozed out of a cut to his forehead. She used her teeth to start a rip in her thick muslin petticoat. Using the swath, she staunched the cut on his forehead and wiped the blood away. It might leave a scar, but it would heal without needing to be stitched. Another cut bled along his neck, but it too was shallow and mostly bluster.

  An examination of his body didn’t reveal any breaks or blood. She felt his skull and found a lump. He’d knocked his head. A long-ago warning from Cadell amplified her worries. People didn’t always awaken from such falls even if they had no other injuries.

  She turned her concern to their surroundings. Someone had shot at them. Could it have been a hunting accident? Unlikely, considering more than one shot had rung out. They were easy prey stranded in the woods with no horses. The man, or men, could come back at any moment and finish them off, and Maxwell was too heavy for her to move far. None of it boded well.

  She forced her breathing to slow and heard nothing besides her own heart beating in her ears. Another danger loomed. It was growing darker and colder by the second.

  An evergreen tree with drooping branches close by would offer them some concealment. She grabbed Maxwell by the boot heels and dragged him fully underneath, muttering apologies even though he couldn’t hear her.

  Once under the meager protection of the tree, she smoothed his hair back. He was pale beneath the red streaks of blood. “Please wake up,” she chanted through cold, numb lips.

  What now? Cadell had always told her to think like an animal. They needed shelter and warmth. She used evergreen boughs to create a makeshift bed. Once not a speck of snow was visible through the fronds, she rolled Maxwell onto the boughs.

  Dare she start a fire? While death by bullet was a possibility, death by cold was a certainty. Except the smoke and light would surely draw attention. Anyway, his flint and all her things were packed in Primrose’s saddlebags. She rubbed her temples and tried not to surrender to the threatening tears.

  She smoothed the marks they made in the snow and settled herself on top of Maxwell, spreading out her skirts like a blanket. She pulled more loose boughs over them. The cold snuck past her puny efforts at warmth. As darkness fell, she settled in to monitor the rise and fall of Maxwell’s chest.

  * * * * *

  Warm puffs of moist air and large wet lips caressed Maxwell’s face. He tried to angle away from the large woman with rancid breath, but she was tenacious. Hair tickled his chin, and he tried to push the lady off, but his hands were tied. Was he being held prisoner?

  His time in the army had taught him patience under duress, and he forced himself to consciousness without movement or panic. Memories flooded him. He and Bryn on the road… shots fired… a desperate ride into the woods… then nothing.

  Physical sensations bombarded him—a throbbing pain in his head, the bitter cold seeping into his back, the lump shivering on his chest, and finally the caress of
a large, hairy muzzle at his cheek.

  Primrose. Dear, sweet Primrose was nudging him awake. He almost kissed her back. Saved again by a horse. The huddled, trembling figure on his chest had his arms trapped. Brynmore. How long had he been unconscious?

  Full dark was upon them, made deeper by the trees. Maxwell pulled his numb arms from under her body. Pinpricks followed the path of blood. He grit his teeth until they faded and shook Bryn. “Wake up, lass.”

  “Leave me alone. I’m so tired.” She pushed at his hands.

  “You can’t sleep. Get up.” He rolled her off him and got to his hands and knees. Nausea churned his stomach and drove bile up his throat. Black edged his vision.

  She rubbed his back and over his arm, her voice penetrating the roar in his ears. “…never wear breeches again if you’ll be all right.”

  “Is that a promise?” His voice came out rough, with none of the tease he’d intended. He wanted to lie back down, which would be suicidal in these conditions.

  She helped him stand. He beat back the surge of pain in his head and leg. Primrose offered support on one side and Bryn the other. There was some black humor to be mined, but Maxwell didn’t have the strength to dig.

  “We’ll be dead by morning unless we find shelter. Up you go.” He cupped his hands for her foot. Getting Bryn in the saddle was the easy task. It took him three tries to haul himself up, his movements jerky. He huddled over Bryn for support as much as warmth.

  “Does your head hurt terribly?” she asked.

  “Everything hurts terribly,” he said. “What about you? Did you fall as well? Are you injured?”

  “I jumped off to find you, and the disloyal piece of flesh and hair ran off and left me.” Her disgust turned his lips up until the implication settled in his pain-ravaged head.

  “For the love of— Someone shot at us, you daft woman. You should have ridden for safety. He could have taken or killed you.”