Seductive Wager

by Leigh Greenwood

  Kate’s befuddled wits recognized Brett’s name, but she found it impossible to understand the rest of Valentine’s conversation. The word “brandy” kept getting mixed up with a priest, but the part that made the least sense to her was the marriage Valentine kept talking about. Who had gotten married, and why should Kate be interested in them? She most certainly couldn’t have anything to do with their wedding night, a subject that seemed to be of great concern to Valentine.

  Kate started to frame a question, but then Valentine mentioned Brett’s name and her heart lurched painfully. Brett couldn’t have married someone else! She tried to grasp the thread of the conversation, but her head was aching so much she couldn’t think. Now Valentine was mixing her name up with this unknown couple; her frustration made her angry enough to fight off the paralyzing effects of the brandy long enough to ask, “Who got married?”

  “You did, mon petit chou,” Valentine crooned in a comforting voice, but her sharp old eyes were alert for signs of danger.

  “Don’t be silly,” Kate giggled. “I don’t even know the groom.” Oh my God, Valentine thought, she doesn’t remember anything at all.

  “Do you remember going out a little while ago?” she asked. Kate shook her head. “Do you remember drinking Brett’s brandy?” Kate didn’t answer. “Can you remember dinner?”

  Kate tried to concentrate. “I think so,” she said, struggling to fight off her mental haze. “Brett was trying to make me do something that made me extremely angry, but I can’t remember what it was.” She had an uneasy feeling it was important. “What was it?” she asked, gazing empty-eyed at Valentine.

  “He asked you to marry him. Do you remember?” Valentine asked, hoping Kate wouldn’t recall the manner of his proposal.

  Kate frowned with the effort to remember. “I think I do, but there was something else that got me so mad. Why did he do it, Valentine? I would give anything to marry him. I love him so much.” Valentine almost cursed as Kate’s eyes began to fill with tears. You’ve got to think of something fast, she told herself. Brett will be back any minute expecting to see a smiling bride eager for her wedding night, and all I have to show him is a crying drunk with hair in her face.

  “Bon Dieu, were you angry when he said you must marry with him to save your reputation.”

  Kate’s hiccups stopped. “I remember now.” All desire to cry gone, she tossed her head in wrathful pride. “I wouldn’t stoop to trap him into such a marriage.”

  Valentine steeled herself for the plunge. “You did marry him, mon ange. You have been Madame Westbrook for more than an hour now.”

  Kate’s body became as rigid as if it had been turned to stone. Her brain fought for words, weapons to drive out the understanding of what she’d just heard. It couldn’t be true. She didn’t remember leaving the inn. Anyone could see she was still in the parlor. Maybe Valentine was teasing. That must be it, but Kate didn’t think it was funny.

  “You got drunk on brandy,” Valentine told her, pointing to the empty bottle, “and we had to carry you to the church. Even now the maid packs for you. This is your wedding night, ma chérie, the most important night of your life. You must be ready when he comes.”

  Her last words were obliterated by a cry of anguish that rose from the depths of Kate’s soul, soared until it became a bone-rattling scream, stayed suspended in space for several moments, then subsided into a heart-rending sob. Kate collapsed into the middle of the floor, her dress and hair forming an arc around her crumpled form, her body rocking to and fro, and her arms clasped close to her bosom.

  “My God, please let me die!” she wailed in anguish.

  The door was nearly torn from its hinges as Brett, closely followed by Charles, burst into the room. “What’s wrong?” Brett demanded, stunned at the sight of his wife sprawled on the floor. “She sounds like she’s being torn apart.” He turned to Valentine in frustrated impatience. “You didn’t say anything stupid, did you?”

  “No, but I did!” Kate moaned, her raised face distorted by grief. She was shaken to the very roots of her being by a sense of utter desolation at being robbed of the right to make the most important decision of her life. For the rest of her days, women would smile knowingly and whisper that she had taken shameless advantage of circumstances to catch the greatest matrimonial prize in England, that Kate Vareyan, a girl of no fortune beyond an old castle about to be sold for debts and a birth that was genteel only because it had no cause to be otherwise, was scorned by her peers.

  She glowered at Brett. Being forced to marry him like this had robbed her of her only chance to prove she loved him. He would always remember he had been forced to marry her to save her reputation. Refusing to become his wife had been her only chance for true happiness.

  “Don’t sit there like a dog howling at the moon,” Brett commanded. “You look disgraceful with your hair in your face and your dress dragging in the dust. Where’s your pride?”

  Kate would have thrown something dangerous at him if she could have found anything, but all she had were her soft slippers, and they missed him. “My pride was stripped from me a short while back in the church when I was too drunk to do anything about it. Now I feel like howling at the moon. I feel disgraced and dirty. I feel like I’ve been violated, completely stripped of all decency and self-respect. I feel utterly and completely debased.”

  “I never heard such ravings in my life,” Brett responded impatiently. “You act like I’ve committed a crime instead of doing what I could to protect you.” Brett grabbed Kate’s wrists and hauled her to her feet. “I’m out of patience with your tiresome predilection for seeing yourself as the mistreated innocent and me the ravishing savage. I don’t relish the role of villain, particularly after I’ve gone so far as to take a bullet because of you.”

  “Bête!” Valentine interposed furiously. “That was not worthy of you.”

  Brett ignored her and turned to Kate. “When you left Ryehill, you placed your fate in my hands. Chance has done you better than I intended. It has given you a name, wealth, and position, and all you can do is sit on the floor wailing like a demented soul.”

  “You have never, from the first minute I set eyes on you, been able to see me as anything more than a body to incite your passions,” Kate said with ice in her voice and fire in her eyes. “Not once have you stopped to think of what I might want, what might be best for me, or how your plans might hurt me, even if that hurt was only to my pride. You dismiss my ideas as female complaints and treat my anger as a childish tantrum. You see nothing but your self-consequence, your own important plans. No one is allowed to get in your way. They’re either forced to mold themselves to your wishes or are brushed aside and dismissed as too stupid to bother with. You’re arrogant, egotistical, and the most thoroughly selfish man I’ve ever met. Martin was not as bad as you.”

  “Little one,” Valentine moaned in despair, “it is not fair to call Brett worse than a crazy.”

  Brett grabbed Kate by the shoulders and shook her violently, unconcerned that his powerful grip might hurt her. “If you had half the breeding and intelligence you think you have, you wouldn’t disgrace yourself and my name by this shameless behavior.”

  “I’m sick to death of hearing about your name!” Kate shot back. She tried to escape, but she realized she could only get away if he allowed her to. That fanned her anger to a white heat. “Let me go,” she hissed, and spat in his face.

  Brett’s reaction was swift and instinctive; he drew back his hand and brought it rushing down toward her cheek. But somewhere in the midst of his swing, Brett realized what he was doing and tried desperately to stop himself. Too late. The blow was only a tithe of what it might have been, but he had struck her nonetheless.

  Kate withstood the diminished blow without swaying. “Just like Martin,” she taunted him, her voice tight with rage. “Even the same cheek. Do they teach you that at school, or is it a natural instinct?” She threw back her head and swept the hair from her face, her eyes meeting
his without flinching.

  Brett had never struck a woman in anger, and he was momentarily stunned by what he had done, but under the cruel lash of Kate’s tongue, his chagrin died and his anger flamed anew.

  “You are the most poison-tongued female I’ve ever met. Every time I’ve tried to help, you’ve turned on me, accusing me of every vile purpose you can think of. You have the face of an angel and the body of a goddess, but you’re certainly your brother’s sister. Would to God he had killed me and spared me the agony of learning what a fool I’ve been!”

  “Nom de Dieu, stop it!” Valentine screamed. “You are a malediction and I am sorry I ever helped you to marry her.” She folded Kate in her arms. “Oh, mon pauvre petit chou, he is a brute of the biggest, but he does not mean what he says. He has the mauvais temper.” She was horrified at what they were saying to each other, but she was most shocked at Brett’s striking Kate. In her mind, absolutely nothing could excuse striking a woman.

  Kate pushed Valentine aside. She, too, was shocked at Brett’s words, but anger insulated her from hurt. “Of course I won’t pay him any attention,” she said, steadying herself against the table. The brandy was still singing in her ears. “I don’t want to ever set eyes on him again.” She started toward the door, then turned slowly to face Brett. Some of the anger had gone out of her voice. “I will see you are released from this odious marriage. Maybe it can be annulled. If not, you can always divorce me.”

  Brett made a motion as though he would go toward her; she cringed involuntarily, and he froze in his tracks.

  “I’m going to my room. Don’t you so much as come near my door tonight,” she warned, and disappeared down the hall. Brett started to follow her.

  “Not now!” Valentine objected furiously, taking him by the arm. “After such a débâcle, all you can do is leave her alone. Maybe she will talk to you again if you give her time. If any man had ever spoken to me thus, I would have killed him!”

  Brett turned his back on Valentine. The more he thought about Kate’s words, the more his anger grew. He felt misjudged and cheated. He could have ignored her treatment at Martin’s hands and left her at Ryehill; he need not have followed her to the Black Crow, he didn’t have to take her to France with him, and most of all, he didn’t have to face Martin’s gun. He had done all of this and more, yet time and time again she turned on him like a mad dog. He hadn’t meant to strike her. Yet even as he thought of her brutal words, her loveliness and soft, inviting curves teased his mind and began to sap the strength of his anger. The longing for her returned, and he could feel the tingling of his senses that was always started by the mere thought of her.

  As quickly as Brett’s wrath had been fanned into flame, his mood changed to one of contrition. “I won’t let her have our marriage annulled,” he said as he moved toward the door. “Get out of my way,” he muttered when Valentine started to block his path. “I’m not going to hurt her. I can’t let her go to sleep thinking I meant all those things.”

  “Be easy with her,” Valentine counseled. “She drank so much her head will not be clear for hours yet.”

  “I’m not going to upset her. I just want to make sure she’s all right.” But his need of her would not lie still. Anger had aroused his every passion, and now desire ran headlong through his veins, the clarion call of unfulfilled yearning reaching to every part of his body. “Besides, she should be waiting for me. After all, the bridegroom expects to be invited to the marriage bed on his wedding night.”

  Valentine bit her tongue. They were married and she had no right to interfere, but she was concerned with what might happen if Brett’s physical nature overpowered his momentary concern; knowing his character, she felt sure it would. Without a word she followed him into the hall.

  Brett knocked on Kate’s door. When he got no answer, he knocked again and called her name. Still she didn’t answer. Piqued, he knocked hard enough to cause the door to rattle and grumble against him.

  “Go away,” she called.

  Brett’s anger, always simmering just below the surface, began to flare again. “Open this door,” he growled. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m your husband and, I intend to come in.”

  “I won’t open that door even if you stand there all night.”

  “Either you open it or I will. Valentine has extra keys for all the rooms.”

  “She won’t give it to you.”

  “You forget you’re my wife. By law it’s my right to sleep in your bed. Surely your mother told you about your wedding night,” he said with an anticipatory smile. The obsession had taken hold of him now and he would brook no refusal. Valentine waited uneasily.

  “I won’t open the door.”

  “Then I will.”

  “No!”

  “Valentine, love, would you mind getting your extra key?” Brett teased. “Kate seems to have mislaid hers.” He grinned broadly at his frowning hostess. “Don’t be shy, Valentine, it’s all right. We’re married.” He began to fiddle with the door, making sounds like he was trying to fit the key into the lock.

  “I hope she hits you,” Valentine hissed. “You deserve it.”

  There was a quick rustling movement from within, then Kate threw the door open and Brett found himself staring into the barrel end of a small pistol. It was loaded, cocked, and pointed at the exact spot between his eyes he had trained her to aim for. He instinctively jumped back.

  “If you so much as touch this door again tonight, I’ll shoot you,” she threatened. She staggered, but caught her balance on the doorframe before she slammed the door in his face.

  Brett recovered from his shock almost before the door had closed. “Then you’d better get ready to shoot,” he stormed, “because I’m coming in, and I don’t mean to shake hands good night.” He threw himself against the door. It creaked, but held against him. An agonizing pain shot through his shoulder reminding him of his wound, but before Valentine could stop him, he slammed into the door once more. The lock broke amid the splintering of wood and the door swung wide open, slamming into the wall with a loud crash. Almost in the same instant Valentine heard the loud report of a pistol shot.

  Chapter 15

  Valentine screamed, expecting to see Brett’s body crumple before her horrified eyes, but instead he remained standing, staring at the floor of Kate’s room. Had the poor child shot herself! Terrified of what she might find, Valentine pushed Brett aside and rushed into the room.

  Kate lay in a white, motionless heap by the bed, the smoking pistol under her right hand. Valentine flung herself forward with an anguished cry. “Holy Virgin, forgive us!” Her lamentations were so clamorous she didn’t hear Brett speaking to her. He tried to raise her to her feet, but she fought him with fists and curses.

  “May the demons of hell tear your soul to pieces!” she cursed.

  Brett tried shaking her, but she continued to shout curses in his face. Swearing because of what he had to do, Brett slapped her sharply on each cheek.

  Valentine stopped screaming then, but before her nails could find Brett’s face to exact their vengeance, she heard him say, “Kate’s all right. She just fainted.” He pointed to a spot above the door. “Your wallpaper is the only casualty.”

  The rush of relief was so great Valentine nearly swooned. She sank down next to Kate and tried to cover her embarrassment by arranging Kate’s clothes more modestly. “Don’t bother,” Brett said in a tired voice. “I’m going to put her to bed.”

  Valentine glared at him with hard, accusing eyes.

  “For Chrissakes,” he exploded. “You must not think any more of me than she does. I’m not such a savage I’d rape her while she’s out cold.”

  At this point, Valentine wasn’t exactly sure what she did think he might do, but she moved aside.

  Brett gathered Kate in his arms. The feel of her body against his skin and the scent of her perfume in his nostrils were almost too much for his weakened condition, and he hurried to lay her on the bed before he dropped her.
He stood for several minutes, his gaze riveted to her bruised cheek, and silently castigated himself for his wretched temper. Why did it have to burst out of control every time something annoyed him? And why, of all people, did he have to hit Kate?

  He seemed to have no self-control where she was concerned. Even now, when he knew he had behaved like a beast, he wanted her so badly he was shaking. He probably would have taken her, too, just like she was, even though her bruised lip was like a whip flaying his raw conscience, if he hadn’t been certain she would never come to him as his wife if he took advantage of her tonight. It wouldn’t be easy to calm his pounding pulses, but this was one battle he couldn’t afford to lose.

  It didn’t do his temper any good to know that Valentine had sided with Kate. And Mark clearly worshiped her, too. “If she told him to jump in Nancy’s stewpot and boil himself alive, the little fool would probably do it,” Valentine had said in exasperation one morning. Even Charles’s devotion to his master was suspect. Hell, Edward wasn’t anywhere near Kate, yet not once had he expressed any interest in Brett’s difficulties. In fact, he had advised him to not consider himself at all.

  The most unnerving part was that the loyalty of all these people had belonged to him first. He knew that friendships altered with time, but not even a blind egotist could attribute such a wholesale defection to natural attrition. Besides, he was talking about less than a month, and half that time he had been too sick to do anything, right or wrong. What was it they saw in his treatment of Kate that he didn’t see? What had he done, what was he still doing, that made them turn against him?