Wispy touches across his forehead registered through the pain. He opened his eyes. She was close, her eyes warm and soothing like a thick plaid.
“Let me see to your wounds,” she whispered.
“I don’t need your help.” He harshened his voice, making an effort to distance himself from her, already feeling too vulnerable. It had no effect on her.
“I know you don’t need my help, but you’re getting it anyway. Slip off your jacket and shirt.”
Beyond arguing, he obeyed, unbuttoning his waistcoat and pulling his torn, bloody shirt over his head. He sat back, and she moved between his spread legs, putting him eye level with her bosom. The brown wool gaped and afforded him a shadowed view of her breasts. A white chemise concealed her curves. But he remembered too well how her nipples had hardened with just the brush of his gaze. He shifted in the chair.
Her hands moved like butterflies over his skin, cleaning the cuts on his neck and forehead and washing off the dried blood. She leaned over to examine the bullet crease on his neck. Her hair swept forward to tickle his shoulder. He wanted to nuzzle into the cleft of her breasts and run his hands along her hips. He clenched the arms of the chair to control the compulsion.
His desire ran deeper and wider than the physical, and therein lay the problem. In two short days, Brynmore McCann had somehow managed to worm her way past his defenses and into his rusty, unused heart. Her problems and pain and worries were his.
How had he allowed it to happen? After Mary rejected him, he’d guarded himself well. More than one lover had accused him of heartlessness. His intention was not callousness, but he’d never allowed himself to care about a woman beyond simple pleasure.
She straightened and set her hands on her hips. His gaze wandered up to her face. A wrinkle appeared between her eyes. “Your pain must be considerable.”
“My leg and head ache, but I’ll live.”
“You look as if you might rip the arms straight off the poor chair.”
His fingers were white against the dark leather. He forced pliability into his hands, although tension stiffened his shoulders. “It’s been a rather trying day.”
“Forever the master of understatement.” She fiddled with the open neck of her gown, her eyes veiled but examining him. His stomach muscles jumped as if she’d grazed him with her fingertips. “Do you have another shirt? I’m afraid this one is ruined.”
“In my satchel by the door.”
Once she was out of sight, he heaved in two great breaths and filled the cracks in his armor. She was back too soon, shaking out a clean, white shirt. When she tried to help him put it on like a child, he snatched it out of her hands and finished the task himself.
Water splashed. “I’m going to wash Meredith and the babe.”
Wearing a happy, dazed expression, Reese shuffled out of the little room, straight to a shelf on the wall and pulled out a dusty bottle. “A present from my father-in-law. I don’t imbibe often. Would you like a glass?”
“God, yes,” Maxwell said with more feeling than he’d intended. The numbing effect of alcohol would be welcome.
Maxwell made to rise, but Reese waved him back into the armchair and pulled up a sturdy, straight-back kitchen chair. “Your wife is bloody amazing, if you don’t mind me saying. She saved Meredith and the baby. If I’d lost them—”
Reese and Maxwell looked in opposite directions. Bryn wasn’t even officially his betrothed, yet the thought of losing her made him toss down half his glass in one swallow. The burn cauterized the ache in his chest.
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Reese said in a roughened voice. “Meredith is grateful for the company. She grew up in a vicarage in Edinburgh, you see, around scads of other ladies. The farm is so isolated she’s had a hard time, especially since her confinement.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid Bryn and I are in a bit of trouble. We were accosted on the road, which is how we ended up seeking shelter with you, and I got this.” Maxwell gestured to his head before emptying his glass.
“Robbers?”
“Of a sort. Whoever it is may come looking for us. We don’t want to put your family in danger.”
Reese leaned forward and poured another finger of liquor in Maxwell’s glass. “I’m a handy man to have around in a fight.”
“I’d not ask it of you. You have Meredith and a new babe. The best thing we can do is leave in the morning. I don’t want to travel on the main road to Edinburgh though. Is there another route?”
“Aye. Longer but less traveled.”
Maxwell tipped up his glass and glanced toward the door shielding Bryn. “Tell me how to find it. We need safe.”
* * * * *
Bryn wrapped the sweet-smelling, pink-skinned baby in a soft blanket and handed her off to Meredith. Dirty sheets were piled on the floor, and both mother and babe were clean.
“Have you settled on a name?” Bryn asked.
“What think you of Elizabeth Brynmore Douglas?”
Bryn stared at the little girl sleeping in her mother’s arms. A girl who would bear her name. “I would be honored, but it’s not a usual sort of name, so don’t feel you have to—”
“I have the feeling after coming into the world the way she did, she’s not going to be the usual sort of girl.” Meredith’s smile was tired. “I’d like you to be her godmother.”
Tears burned behind Bryn’s eyes, and she dropped her gaze to the basin to finish washing her hands. “I’m not sure we could attend the christening. You see, Maxwell and I are in a spot of trouble.”
“I wondered. Your husband appeared rather beat up.”
“We were attacked on the road.”
“Reese and I will help you. Do you need money?”
“Kind of you to offer, but we don’t need money.” But as the words left her mouth, a ping of awareness shot through her. Wasn’t the root of all evil money?
After Meredith and the babe were settled, Bryn gathered the soiled sheets and retreated. Reese joined his wife, closing the door behind him. Meredith wasn’t the only one exhausted. Bryn dumped the sheets in a corner. Maxwell was sprawled in the leather armchair, sipping on a glass of amber liquid and staring at the fire.
“The baby’s name is Elizabeth Brynmore,” she said.
Maxwell’s eyebrows quirked. “A fine and righteous name. You saved both their lives tonight.”
With Maxwell occupying the armchair, that left her a stiff-backed wooded chair or the floor to sleep on. In her state of exhaustion, the woven rug in front of the hearth looked heavenly. She stutter-stepped to the hearth and dropped to her knees.
“What the devil are you doing?” Maxwell asked.
She had no strength of will to deal with grumpy, gruff men. “Going to sleep.”
“Not on the floor.” He grabbed her wrist, tugged her toward him, and maneuvered her into his lap. He pressed his glass into her hands. “Drink the rest.”
She swirled the liquid. Firelight striated the whisky into golds and browns. Tipping it up, she drank it in two gulping swallows. The burn stung her nose, but as the warmth spread, the tension in her body dissipated. Whatever had been holding her together dissolved.
Panicked tears, sad tears, worried tears, and mad tears came in a silent storm, and she turned her face into Maxwell’s shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
He brushed his hand along her cheek and pushed her hair back. A hiccup escaped. Two errant thoughts ran through her head. The first was regret that he was going to see her face turn splotchy, and the second was that she’d never seen a man look as terrified in her life as he did in that moment.
“Why are you crying so? We’re safe. Everyone will live.”
“It’s been a harrowing day, and crying makes me feel b-better.” Her tears slowed, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Sometimes life called for a good cry, a way to clean away all the ugliness, Cadell used to say.
“Feel better?” He sounded horrified at the notion. “You
must stop immediately.”
In contrast to his harsh command, he gathered her close and nuzzled his bristly cheek against hers. He smelled of winter’s pine and leather and whisky. She closed her eyes.
“Stop,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. He kissed her temple and skimmed his lips along her jaw. “Please stop.”
His mouth found hers, his lips soft. She nipped his bottom lip and sucked it into her mouth. He tightened his arm around her and cupped her nape, bringing her even closer. Her lips parted, and he took the invitation to sweep his tongue against hers.
The kiss went on and on, their tongues playing and teasing, their lips grazing and pressing. Her body thrummed with an energy she’d thought lost after the day’s trials. Her breathing grew shallower and faster until she had to pull away to catch a lungful of air.
He dropped his forehead to her collarbone, his hair tickling her chin. With his weight holding her still and the warmth from the fire and from his body, contentment tempered her arousal.
Chapter Eleven
Maxwell did not deal with emotional women well. He’d seen women cry before, but they had been calculated tears in order to sway him to provide money or jewelry or a more permanent commitment. Women’s pretty tears never moved him.
These were not pretty tears. As her face had gone splotchy and her eyes swelled, helplessness tore at him. He would give anything—do anything—to stop her crying. Even break his promise.
In fact, between her tears and the whisky, his promise not to touch her seemed selfish. He’d kiss her sadness away. Except his kiss of comfort flamed into a kiss of passion.
His cock throbbed against her hip. What the devil was wrong with him? He never allowed base emotions or needs dictate his actions. Yet around her, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He set the tumbler on the side table. It was the alcohol’s fault once again. Liquor and Brynmore McCann were a bad combination, one he’d be sure not to repeat—again.
But for now he rested on her chest and laid a kiss on soft, fair skin where the curve of her breast began. Her body was lax, and he raised his head. She was asleep, her lips parted, her breathing even.
He should leave her to sleep alone in the chair, but instead of rising, he gathered her close and rubbed his chin against her soft hair. Firelight flickered behind his closed eyes.
Something jostled Maxwell awake. He blinked, his eyes sandy and blurred. Morning light reflected off the snow and poured through the windows. The fire in the hearth sputtered as cold air sped down the chimney. Reese came into focus, bent over him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Riders are approaching. Two of them,” the man said shortly.
A pulse of nervous energy shot from Maxwell’s stomach and startled him into action. He stood and dumped Bryn on the chair. She grunted but curled up in the warm spot he’d left like a sleepy cat.
“Wake up, lass. We have to leave.” Maxwell grabbed her wrists and pulled her upright. Her eyes were open but unfocused. He looked to Reese. “Can you stall them at the door? We’ll go out the window and circle around to the barn.”
“I’ll do my best. Here’s your things.”
Pounding sounded on the door. Bryn took her cloak from Reese and followed Maxwell to the window. Dark circles under her eyes highlighted her pale, tired face.
Maxwell opened the sash and climbed out. His bad leg seized. He stumbled before catching himself against the rough planks of the cottage. He held a hand out to help Bryn. After throwing one leg over the sill, she stopped and put a hand on Reese’s arm. “Perhaps someday soon we might meet again in less harried circumstances.”
“You would be most welcome in any circumstances, Mrs. McCann,” Reese said with a bravado Maxwell hoped didn’t get him in trouble. The door rattled again with the force of the men’s knocks. With a grim smile, Reese pushed her into Maxwell’s arms and shut the window.
Maxwell pulled Bryn down on her haunches. The pounding came again, this time accompanied by a rough, uneducated voice. “Open up before I break it down!”
“Bloody hell, man, my wife’s given birth this night hence. You’ll wake the babe with your caterwauling.”
On cue, little Elizabeth Brynmore, perhaps sensing the importance of the moment for her namesake, let out a lusty cry that echoed throughout the cottage and drifted outside.
Under the noise of the spate of crying, Maxwell crept to the edge of the house and peered around. No sentinel in sight. The barn stood across an empty space with no cover. Had they run across Primrose yet? If they were any sort of competent blackguards, they would have checked the barn first.
The throbbing pain in his leg would have to wait. He jerked his head at Bryn and took off in a hobbled run. She was like the wisp of a breeze at his side, her feet hardly making a sound. He stopped at the corner of the barn. The gaping crack in the double doors confirmed his suspicions.
Without taking his eyes off the man, he whispered, “Stay here. If I’m overwhelmed, make for the woods and hide.”
He slipped through the doors and scooted to the side to wait for his eyes to adjust from blinding brightness to dim shadows. The man leaned against the stall door and offered Primrose a handful of oats.
“Come ’ere, you nag. Let me in to see that saddle.”
Primrose, bless her, apparently took the insult to heart and nipped at the man’s outstretched hand. Oats flew in the air, and Primrose snuffled at the floor to gather what she could. “Ungrateful wretch. Mayhap I have a taste for horsemeat.”
Maxwell approached from behind. Primrose’s head rose with a whinny. The man’s balding pate glowed like a bull’s-eye. Maxwell muffled a startled curse as a long, thick stick appeared at his elbow.
Bryn had followed him like a bloody wraith. Against his orders. She pointed the stick at the man who was trying once again to lure Primrose close to the stall door and wagged it toward Maxwell. He grabbed the stick from her hand, poked the blunt end into her shoulder, and pushed her out of the way.
A few more quiet steps put him within striking distance. The man was still unaware of the danger. With a lunge, Maxwell brought the stick around and hit the man on the temple. He stumbled, swayed, and crumbled into a jumble of arms and legs.
“I told you to wait outside the barn,” he whispered.
“You needed a weapon.”
He took in a great gust of air but let it go with a shake of his head. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”
Color flushed her face, and the rising sun sent a beam to land on her hair, catching it on fire. “You’re daft if you think I’m going to diddle outside while you face danger alone.”
She looked ready to annihilate him herself. When she took a step forward, he pulled his head back, but she bypassed him on the way to Primrose and his saddle. He joined her, and they had Primrose saddled in minutes.
He gestured her to follow him out the back of the barn. “We’ll cut through the forest to the east road. You ride her out, and I’ll cover our tracks.”
“But your leg. Why don’t I cover—”
“I’m fine.” He bit the words out. Fine was an exaggeration, but he’d been through worse. Much worse. And he wasn’t about to leave Bryn without an escape. If the men found them, she could ride to safety.
He gave her a leg up, and she walked Primrose through the drifts and the scrubby line of trees. He smudged their prints from the snow with the branch from the nearest evergreen tree.
Once the barn was out of sight, he dropped the evergreen branch and whistled for Primrose. Both horse and woman looked back at him. The brim of Bryn’s hat had wilted low over her face, the edge dripping melted snow.
With both of them still silent, he mounted behind her. She collapsed back into his chest.
They rode in silence. Each plodding step without attack released a portion of his tension. The trees grew sparser until only brush and rocks littered the countryside. The animal path intersected with a soggy, muddy mess of a road, narrower by half than the main road they’d been chased off
the day before. They met no travelers in either direction.
The afternoon passed, the terrain growing rockier. Dark gray clouds overtook the sun. A foggy, misty rain obscured their view and blanketed them in an unnatural silence.
Bryn fell asleep, and he tightened his arm around her lax body to keep her comfortable. She snuggled her face into his neck and burrowed in his chest. He fought his own exhaustion. It made him inattentive and careless, yet he could feel it winning the battle.
His breath puffed white and hung in the sodden air. Although it didn’t snow, the air felt colder and heavier. “I see a farmhouse ahead.” His words rumbled hoarsely.
He prodded Primrose into a faster walk, circling back and approaching the barn out of sight from the farmhouse.
She hopped down at the barn door. “I’m going to ask for—”
He shushed her with a hand over her mouth. “Quiet. They’ll know we’re here.”
She cocked her head. “They’re going to find out we’re here when I go beg for some food.”
“No begging for anything,” he whispered. “And, for Christ’s sake, keep your voice down. We may have been followed.”
“There was no sign we’ve been followed. I understand caution, but we must eat.”
His stomach rumbled on cue. His body didn’t remember the days without food as a child and demanded something besides air. “I’m coming, just in case.”
He took a step forward, but she lay a hand on his chest. “In case of what? I can handle myself. You see to Primrose.”
He grabbed her wrist and pressed a coin in her hand. It wasn’t much, but to offer more invited their hosts to slit their throats. “Give them this, but emphasize it’s all we have.”
She nodded, pulled her cloak around her, and ducked back out of the barn.
He stared at the empty space she left. She was a mystery. Around Mary, she acted unsure and frightened—smaller somehow than the woman who’d faced challenge after challenge on the road with him.
A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 12