“…and Brynmore McCann.”
At her name, her attention turned outward. Had that been Dugan’s voice? Or Craddock’s?
“How difficult is it to kill one man?” Sutherland’s voice was no longer charming and hospitable, but sharp and intimidating.
“He decimated the two men you hired. One thought he’d managed to slip a knife in his ribs, but the blackguard looked healthy enough tonight.” Definitely Dugan, and he’d moved closer. A bang shook the side of the wardrobe, and she stifled a gasp with her hand.
“Let’s approach the situation from a different angle. If we can’t dispose of Drake, we take the girl instead.” Sutherland again.
“You’ve got a vicar in attendance, don’t you?” A zealot’s excitement colored Dugan’s voice. “If I can get her upstairs, would he perform the ceremony?”
“Of a certainty. I’ve his bollocks on my desk.” That elicited a laugh among the men. How many? At least four, including Sutherland and Dugan. “But you’re impatient, Armstrong. That’s your weakness. She has protectors tonight. Would she come quietly?”
“Not likely,” Dugan said.
Sutherland spoke again. “Let her go home tonight and settle back into her routine. Surely she goes shopping or visiting with that dotty chaperone. What do you say, McAfee? Can your boys handle a snatching?”
Maxwell tensed behind her as a rough voice answered, “Aye, they can, sir. What’re the rules? Can they have a taste before handing her over?”
“No fucking her. But she deserves some punishment for letting Drake take her, don’t you think?” Dugan’s words made her head swim, and she clutched at the arm circling her waist. Of course she’d known he was cruel, but she hadn’t guessed the extent of his depravity.
“It might even make her grateful to be handed over to you. You can ride in and save her from McAfee’s boys. You’ll have her on her knees in thanks.” Sutherland’s voice contained a salaciousness that made her feel dirty.
“Drake doesn’t seem the type to sit idle waiting for a ransom note. You’ll need to get her wedded and bedded with haste.” Sutherland was on the move, his voice not as close. “Gentleman, please stay to finish your drinks. McAfee, I expect you two can find your way out discreetly after you’ve finished. Come with me, Dugan.”
With Sutherland and Dugan gone, the discussion lost its seriousness and veered into horse racing and the possibility of a game of whist later. The tension ebbed out of her body. They only needed to wait until the men moved on. With Maxwell with her, her fears stayed manageable.
The feel of Maxwell pressed against her from shoulders to knees edged out the blur of conversation. The darkness was no longer menacing but enveloped her like a protective cloak.
Tactile awareness mounted—Maxwell’s breath stirring the hair at her temple, warm and tickling, the slight stubble of his jaw rasping erotically against her cheek, and the strength of his forearm around her waist.
His thighs flexed against her as he slid a foot between her own. Awareness of the hardness pressing into her buttocks came with a sudden clarity. He wanted her despite the peril. Or perhaps because of it?
Danger rubbed her senses raw, every stimulus dancing the edge of pleasure and pain. She arched her back and wiggled her bottom. His arm turned to stone around her waist. He tilted her forward and traced his fingertips along the delicate line of her collarbone.
Desire blossomed like a moonflower, showing its beauty in the darkness. His lips fell to her cheekbone, and a sizzle streaked along the path he trekked to the delicacy of her ear. A moan welled up. He circled his hand around her throat to silence her.
Madness. Utter and complete madness. Men who would be happy to rip Maxwell limb from limb and were planning on abducting and defiling her sat mere feet away. Yet passion flared. He roved his hands from her throat to her collarbone to the swells of her breasts. With each pass, he delved farther inside her bodice, until his finger grazed over a budded nipple, and she quivered.
She slipped a hand between their bodies to glance over his erection. His sharp intake of breath and the buck of his hips grew her confidence. One of his hands stayed to tease her nipple, squeezing gently, while the other gathered the fabric of her skirts.
The sensation of the fabric brushing her skin made her squirm. His hand branded her thigh. She turned her head and nuzzled his jaw. He took her mouth in a kiss that stripped away reality. The wardrobe fell away. They could have been standing on a heather-covered hillock with a star-filled night sky that stretched to forever.
His hand didn’t stay idle. Wantonly, she slipped her legs farther apart and prayed he’d find the slit of her drawers. He did. His touch was light. She needed more and compressed her lips to keep from begging. Still grasping his erection, she squeezed him. Like prodding a horse, he jerked, and his finger slipped through wet heat. He bucked his hips into her hand and buried his face in her neck.
But he gave her want she demanded. He rubbed her sensitive bundle of nerves with his thumb as a finger pressed inside of her. The rhythm he set was slow and decadent. A tiny part of her brain was attuned to the men outside the wardrobe, but they had grown quiet. No, not just quiet but silent. She and Maxwell were alone. She surrendered.
She covered his hand with her own and pressed him deeper as her body clenched and pleasure spiked. She clutched at his erection, wanting it to replace his fingers more than she’d ever wanted anything. Too much cloth stood in her way.
Even though the men had left, the two of them stayed pressed together in the wardrobe. He played along her slick, aroused folds before removing his hand. Her skirts fell to the floor as her body clenched around nothing, unsatisfied.
The unwelcome voice of reality intruded from outside the wardrobe. “Drake?”
Chapter Twenty-three
Maxwell pushed the wardrobe door open and ducked out. Bryn, not sure her legs would support her, wobbled out and plopped in the nearest chair. Penny’s eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing.
“We had to hide when Sutherland and his cronies came in,” Maxwell said with such briskness that Bryn almost believed nothing had happened.
“Did you manage to find the contract before you were interrupted?”
“Not in any of the desk drawers.”
“There’s a locked box behind the oil painting of the lady. There’s a hidden latch you must release at the bottom.” She pointed toward the oil painting. Neither man hid their surprise. “I’m not completely useless, you know.”
While the men worked on picking the lock, Bryn returned to the wardrobe to examine the contents. There were a few odd-looking dresses cut so low Bryn wasn’t even sure they would cover a woman’s bosom. A cylindrical object made of solid glass drew her eye, and she picked it up studying it intently. One end was tapered, and one end was capped by a bulbous projection. What was it? It almost looked like a…
“Oh. Oh my.” She shoved it back on the shelf. She glanced over the rest of the objects with newly awakened eyes and saw harnesses and whips and cuffs. Her face burned. She closed the door and leaned against it.
Penny opened the box and stepped back to let Maxwell rifle the contents. “I’ve got it,” Maxwell exclaimed softly.
Bryn plucked it out of his fingertips and skimmed the first page. Maxwell snatched it back, holding her at bay when she reached for it.
“No time for games. You’d best get back, Mr. Drake.” Penny turned to Bryn. “Mrs. Winslow has informed everyone you’re not feeling well and left early. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for everyone in the carriage.”
“I’d feel more comfortable somewhere I can keep my eyes on you.” Maxwell took her hand.
“I can hardly waltz back into the drawing room after excuses have been made. I’ll be fine.”
Penny rocked on his feet by the door. “Every minute raises the chance of our discovery. You’ve been gone too long as it is, Drake. I’ll take care of Miss McCann.”
They slipped into the hallway, and Maxwell squeezed her
hand. “For God’s sake, stay in the carriage. Do you promise me?”
“I promise.” After everything he had risked for her, it was a small enough concession. Anyway, they had the wedding contract in hand.
Penny led her through a narrow hall to a little room that smelled of flour. “Out the window with you, miss.”
The window wasn’t much wider than her hips. “Are you serious?”
“Come now, I know you’re familiar with the technique.” His voice was rife with tease.
“Not before I met Maxwell. And not in a dress,” she muttered. The window slid open noiselessly. A frigid breeze burst into the room.
“Always have an escape plan ready. Out you go then.” Penny offered a hand as if she were climbing in a carriage and not out a window.
Bryn hiked up her dress, and Penny helped her maneuver her legs and hips out. She dropped and caught herself on her hands and knees in the grass.
The quiet thud of Penny landing came a moment later. She stood and dusted her hands together. He took her elbow and guided her through a small garden. Her dress was no match against the bitter cold. Her bones shook.
A brick wall rose in front of them. Mentally preparing herself to climb it, she was thankful when Penny led them to a small wrought iron gate. It appeared rusty and disused, yet it opened with nary a squeak. Carriages lined the lane on the other side of the wall.
He handed her into Maxwell’s carriage, and she wrapped herself gratefully in her cloak as her toes found a hot brick. “I must return before I’m missed. I’m afraid Sutherland has his suspicions already.”
She grabbed his arm. “You’re not putting yourself in unnecessary danger on my account, are you, Penny? Why must you return at all? We have the contract.”
His smile spoke of intimacy with danger she hoped to never cultivate. “I’ll be fine, but the earl and your gentleman, Mr. Drake, might require my talents. Now, you settle in for a spell. Close the curtains, miss, and don’t leave.”
“I won’t.” She had no intention of stepping outside again.
Penny nodded and slipped away. The interior of the carriage was dark and close, and Bryn settled onto the squab, remembering another dark, close place. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift. What was Maxwell doing? Had Mr. Masterson had a chance to read the contract yet? Was there an easy way out of this mess?
Voices outside the carriage brought her to an instant alert. Most likely a groom. Yet fear zinged through her body. She slid off the squab and crouched on the floor of the carriage. The men grew closer, the whispers forming discernable words.
“Keep clear. Right there is the axle. Not that one, you dolt, but next to it.” Muffled responses followed. “We’re to follow it home. If they don’t crash then, we’ll loosen it more.”
More whispering followed, and Bryn only caught a few words. “Kill him… snatch her… accident, who cares…” Her blood congealed, making her heart pound with effort. The carriage shook and bounced with whatever maliciousness they performed.
The clack of boots faded, and she peeked out of the curtains. The two men were mere shadows. Did their identity matter? If not those two, then it would be another set of hired lackeys.
The far carriage door swung open. Shock held her in its grasp. Craddock’s bulk blocked the opening. She had one chance for escape. Move. She needed to move. Like being shot from a pistol, she scrambled to the far door and fumbled with the latch. A chance. All she needed was a chance to run.
She pushed the door open, but Dugan stepped into the space, sealing off her escape.
Bryn put herself between the two men and looked around the carriage for a weapon. Her foot glanced over the still-warm brick.
Ignoring her, Dugan looked over at Craddock. “I told you she wouldn’t have let some old biddies scare her off. She’s got too much pride for that. What have you been up to, Bryn?”
“I wasn’t feeling well, and instead of making everyone leave, I decided to wait for them in the carriage. That’s all there is to it.”
Dugan harrumphed. “I doubt that’s the extent of it. Do you think she discovered anything?”
“Sutherland keeps anything of importance locked up tight, so I very much doubt it,” Craddock said.
“Sutherland said we should wait, but when opportunity knocks and all that. What do you say?” The smile that crested Dugan’s face was colder than the night.
Craddock nodded. “Take her upstairs, and I’ll corral that dotty old vicar and Mary. Then you can consummate the loving, heartfelt vows, although I think it best if we witness the bedding to make sure it’s legal and binding.”
“Yes. And it will be all the sweeter with Drake downstairs with nary a clue.” Dugan reached for her, and she reached for the brick. She brought it around as hard as she could but misjudged the weight, her aim off. Instead of hitting his temple, it glanced against his shoulder.
“You bitch!” Dugan grabbed her wrists and pulled her out, her arm scraping along the door.
She shrieked, but Dugan covered her mouth and nose with a meaty hand and pulled her back against him. She bucked and clawed like an animal, but his hand over her face only tightened. Air became scarce. Her lungs burned. She pulled at his wrist but couldn’t break his hold.
“Damnation, she’s a hellcat. Knock her senseless with that brick, Craddock,” Dugan said.
“Wouldn’t be wise. Even a vicar in Sutherland’s pocket might balk at legally binding you with an unconscious woman.” Craddock stepped closer, and she lashed out with a kick, catching him on the shin. “She’ll soon learn her place.”
“That’s right. Under me.” Dugan’s laugh made tears spring to her eyes.
His hand shifted enough to allow a breath, but before she could use it on a scream, the sharp point of a knife pressed to her side.
“Believe me, I would be more than happy to gut you for all the trouble you’ve caused us, but you still have something we need. I could cut you, shallow but painful. In fact, if you died in a few weeks from a fever, all the better. I’d be happy to play the grieving widower.” The relish in his voice resonated with an evil truth.
Whether from fear or the cold, her body went numb, and she stumbled along. The poke of the knife in her side wiped all rational thought from her head except survival.
He propelled her forward, toward the darkened back entrance of the house. Craddock veered down the hall toward the party while Dugan hauled her up a narrow set of servant’s stairs. They emerged in a dimly lit guest corridor. The sound of the gathering below drifted to them. So close yet too far for help. Dugan stopped at a door halfway down and toed the door open, shoving her inside.
Away from Dugan and the knife, her brain whirred to life. The room was sweet-smelling and blue and white. She leaned into the massive post of the bed, averting her eyes at her likely wedding bed unless she could gather her wits and escape.
Dugan stood in the doorway and twirled the knife in his hands. His half smile had nothing to do with humor or happiness and everything to do with satisfaction and triumph. Voices and footsteps came from outside the door.
Sutherland was the first through the door, followed by Mary, Craddock, and the hapless vicar that had escorted her into dinner.
“Wasn’t expecting to perform any civic duties this evening. I would have passed on that glass of port otherwise.” The vicar’s voice betrayed his nerves.
“True love can be impetuous, can it not?” Sutherland was all blithe charm. How many masks did the man have at his disposal? “Armstrong and Miss McCann have been betrothed for some time—the agreement is downstairs in my study. They both wish for a small ceremony and a speedy consummation, isn’t that right, Armstrong?” The stare Dugan and Sutherland shared contained an energy and vigor that Bryn didn’t understand but set her on edge.
“Aye, that’s right, Vicar,” Dugan said never breaking eye contact with Sutherland.
Although panic stalked close, she didn’t lose control of her senses as she had all too often. But co
uld she feign an attack or swoon? Mary’s eyes were narrowed on Bryn as if she could read her mind. No, any weakness shown on her part would be exploited. She would have to wait and hope for an opportunity to escape.
The vicar’s face had flushed, and he looked from one person to the next, his gaze landing on the door. “This is most irregular.”
“Yes. Which is why you’ll receive a donation worthy of your time.” Sutherland pulled out a purse and jangled it. “And your silence.”
The vicar licked his lips. Was he reacting to the money or the threat in Sutherland’s voice? “What are the groom and bride’s full names?”
“Dugan Michael Armstrong.”
“And the lass?”
Bryn measured the distance to the door—too far—and kept her mouth shut. No matter what happened, she wouldn’t make this easy on anyone.
Mary pinched Bryn’s arm in a move reminiscent of childhood. “She’s nervous, is all. Her name is Brynmore Katherine McCann.”
“Brynmore… Brynmore…” The vicar intoned her name several times. “An unusual name. I’ve only heard of one other soul with that name.”
For the first time, the vicar met her eyes. A connection flared between them, sparked by her name. She took a step toward him. “Yes, sir. My name is quite rare.”
“And how long have you resided in Edinburgh, lass?”
“Only a few weeks. I traveled from Dumfries during the snow.”
He reached for her hand and patted it. “I’ll need to see the betrothal contract, Mr. Sutherland.”
“Why?” Sutherland narrowed his eyes. “Surely my word is enough.”
The vicar’s hand trembled. He was afraid of Sutherland. Well, that made two of them. She grasped his hand and squeezed. Only this man’s courage and honor stood between her and a fate that would lead to her death.
“If the contract is in order and the bride has no objections, then we’ll see about a ceremony this evening. Otherwise, the blessed event can wait until morning, surely.”
A Reckless Redemption (Spies and Lovers Book 3) Page 24