The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  “I beat Ciaran more often than not,” she went on. “He claims my superior game is the result of a wicked and devious mind. I’m sorry to have to say it, but he pouts like a child when he loses. Then again, the pouting does make beating him that much more enjoyable.”

  Did she gloat when she won, then? How irritating. A game of chess was looking more and more promising every minute. “Well, then, Miss Ramsey. Shall we have a game?”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, but after a moment, she agreed with a shrug. “Very well, Lord Pierce. A game of chess sounds just the thing for a stormy afternoon.”

  She crossed the room and took a seat at the games table. Hugh fetched the chess set and spread it open on the table between them. They arranged their pieces, then Hugh nodded at the board. “I await your pleasure, Miss Ramsey.”

  Isla didn’t dither, but wrapped her slender fingers around one of her white pawns and slid it forward two spaces. “How kind you are, Lord Pierce, to offer me the opening move.”

  Her tone was polite, but the tiny smirk at the corner of her lips said he’d soon regret his generosity.

  “I’m a gentleman, Miss Ramsey.” A gentleman who’d like to nip that impudent little lip—

  No, damn it. There would be no nipping. Not of Isla Ramsey’s lips, or any other part of her. He’d suggested this game to give her a chance to irritate him into falling out of love with her, not so he could stare at her lips.

  No matter how tempting they were…

  Hugh forced himself to look away from her mouth. He hadn’t even made his first move yet, and he was already disgusted with himself. He seized his own pawn and dropped it onto the board, facing hers. “Your move.”

  She eyed him over the top of her white king for a moment, then slid forward a second pawn. Hugh took his turn quickly, hardly glancing at the board, then he sat back, watching her as she pondered her next move.

  She’d do something bold, very likely—a daring move would be in keeping with what he knew of her. It was fascinating, really, how one’s chess game revealed their character. Surely what had seemed to be vivacity in the ballroom would reveal itself as pure recklessness in chess.

  Vivacity, spirit, adventurousness—they were all charming qualities, to be sure, but no gentleman wanted a reckless wife.

  She’d risk her queen, perhaps, or—

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Lord Pierce.” Isla plucked up her knight and placed it at one of her pawn’s right flanks.

  He was surprised by her move, but he hid it with a careless shrug. “Why should I be disappointed? Knight to F3 is a fine move.”

  It was a fine move. Clever, strategic, and not at all reckless, damn her.

  She gave him a sly smile. “Yes, it is. But you’re disappointed because you expected me to risk my queen.”

  Hugh had been fiddling with another of his pawns, trying not to notice how fetching he found her mischievous smile, but now his gaze shot to her face in surprise. “Is that so? How would you know that?”

  “Because you were staring so intently at her I’m amazed she didn’t burst into flames. Come now. You must know one of the first rules of chess is to study your opponent as carefully as you study the board. This isn’t, I trust, your first game?”

  Hugh grunted. “Of course not.”

  “My brother Ciaran likes to win, Lord Pierce—he’s very much like other gentlemen in that regard. He’s a ruthless opponent. I learned long ago not to take needless risks in my game, so if you’re expecting me to start tossing pieces across the board with thoughtless abandon, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  Her grin widened, and Hugh could only stare at her, into blue eyes sparkling with merriment, while it dawned on him his problem wasn’t that he’d be disappointed.

  It was that he wouldn’t be.

  He’d made a grave error, suggesting this game.

  Damn it. Only she could make a simple game of chess seductive.

  He’d never found chess arousing before, but the way she pursed those delectable lips when she was considering her next move, the flash of challenge in her blue eyes when they met his over the board…

  Much to his dismay, anticipation curled in Hugh’s stomach. He took a deep breath to clear his head, then slid his knight forward. “I also like to win, Miss Ramsey. I daresay I’m as ruthless an opponent as your brother is. I rarely lose.”

  “Well then, this promises to be a thrilling game.”

  Chess, thrilling? Hugh had never found it so before, but he’d also never found it arousing to watch his opponent finger her pieces. This particular game was turning out to be unlike any other he’d ever played.

  “You don’t pout when you lose, do you? It’s quite tiresome when Ciaran does it.”

  “You’ll have to beat me to find out, won’t you, Miss Ramsey?”

  She shrugged, as if her victory were a foregone conclusion. “Very well. It’s your move, my lord.”

  Hugh studied the board, considering his next move carefully. After a moment, he slid another pawn forward, then leaned back in his chair, watching her.

  Isla stared back at him, her eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a particularly ruthless move. What are you up to?”

  Hugh said nothing, only raised an eyebrow at her. In terms of board strategy, his move was worthless, and it also weakened his king’s position, but as she’d so kindly reminded him, chess was as much about understanding one’s opponent as it was about each move, and he’d already underestimated her once.

  Now he was curious to see what she’d do. She was thinking at least three moves ahead—that much was certain. She never would have offered him the chance to take her knight if she hadn’t thought she’d soon gain an opportunity to attack his king.

  “Hmmm. I’m afraid you leave me no choice but to take your pawns, my lord.”

  A small smile drifted over Hugh’s lips as he watched her attack, sacrificing her knight to gain his pawns. Ah, yes—that was just what he’d anticipated she’d do. He’d had to lose two pawns to find out if he was right, but it was worth it. “That’s a devious smile on your face, Miss Ramsey. I suspect my pawns are the least of my worries. I think you’ve got your eye on my king.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lord Pierce. I’ve got my eye on your queen.”

  She glanced up at him then, and the wicked little smile on her lips made his breath catch. She’d never looked at him like that before. Even during the season, before the scandal with Lord Sydney, she’d always seemed to hold a bit of herself back from him. The night of Lord Pomeroy’s ball, he’d kissed her, and even then—even when he’d been sure he saw love in her eyes—there’d been some part of her that hadn’t been his.

  Later, after she’d broken his heart, he’d thought it was the part of herself she’d kept for Lord Sydney.

  She wasn’t holding anything of herself back now. She’d let go of whatever doubts plagued her and was simply enjoying their game. She didn’t seem aware of it, but for him, seeing her so easy and natural was like getting struck by lightning.

  Their game was showing him a part of her he’d never seen before. It was what he’d hoped for, but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected her. Isla wasn’t careless, and she wasn’t reckless. She was bold, yes, but not thoughtlessly so. She wasn’t annoying him. Instead he found her more intriguing than ever.

  He’d pay for it later. The memory of her flushed face right now would haunt him. This entire day would haunt him. While they were here alone together with the storm raging outside, it felt like they were the only two people in the world. It was far too easy to let himself believe she wasn’t betrothed to another man. For now, just for a short time, it felt like Isla was his.

  He knew he was in danger, but he couldn’t deny her the pleasure of finishing the game. Not when she was facing him across the board, her cheeks flushed with delight, her lower
lip caught between her teeth as she studied the pieces, plotting her next move.

  Hugh’s stomach exploded with heat as he took in the sight of her white teeth sinking into that plump pink lip.

  Maybe it’s not her pleasure you’re concerned with at all, but your own.

  He couldn’t concentrate on their game after that. She took another of his pieces with each move, until the board was awash in white and she was within three moves of capturing his queen. She’d beaten him. Not just at chess, but at the other game. The one she hadn’t even realized she was playing.

  All he cared about, all he could see, was her.

  The room had grown dimmer as the afternoon advanced. The storm clouds thickened again, but neither of them thought to light a lamp. Hugh moved his pieces across the board when it was his turn, but his attention was fixed on her—the delicate movements of her hands as she played, the way she rubbed her fingertips over the smooth ivory pieces, the firelight playing over her dark hair.

  The afternoon had dwindled into dusk when she raised her eyes from the board and met his gaze. “Check, Lord Pierce.”

  Hugh glanced down at the board, grateful the dimness of the room hid his hungry expression from her. “So it is.”

  But the raw edge to his voice must have given him away. Isla had been studying the pieces spread out across the board, but as soon as he spoke, her gaze flew to his. Sudden knowledge darkened her eyes, and a flush crept into her cheeks. “I, ah…if you’d prefer not to finish, we could—”

  “No, we’ll finish it. How else will I prove to you I never sulk when I lose?” Hugh’s low, husky voice made the question sound like a dare.

  She swallowed. “Yes, of course. If you like. It’s your turn, Lord Pierce.”

  Hugh tried to look away from her—tried to give them both a moment to gather themselves together—but when his fingers closed around his last remaining pawn, his gaze was still fixed on her face. “Take my pawn, Miss Ramsey.”

  When she reached to move her bishop, her hands were trembling. “Check.”

  Hugh didn’t look down at the board. His gaze roamed over her face, then down her neck, lingering on the pulse point fluttering under her pale skin. He’d never tasted her there. He stared at that smooth, white skin and thought he never regretted anything more than not tasting her there when he’d had the chance.

  He slid his king forward with the tip of his finger, exposing his queen. It was the only move left to him, and he took it. Now Isla would take his queen and declare checkmate. “The game is yours, Miss Ramsey. Finish it.”

  Isla wasn’t looking at the board anymore. She was staring at him, her chest rising and falling with short breaths. They sat there for a long moment, staring at each other, both of them waiting for Isla to take his queen.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she shocked him by jumping unexpectedly to her feet. “I…a sudden headache, my lord…”

  Startled by her abrupt movement, Hugh leapt to his feet as well, reaching for her hand. “Isla—”

  She jerked away from him with such determination she bumped the table, upsetting the chess board and scattering the pieces. The black queen rolled over the edge of the table and hit the floor with a crack.

  She knelt down, picked up the pieces, and cradled them in her palm. “Oh, no. I’ve broken it.”

  Hugh glanced at her hand and saw the tiny ball at the top of the queen’s crown had snapped off. “It doesn’t matter.”

  But it clearly did matter to Isla, because to Hugh’s horror, she was looking at the broken piece as if she were about to burst into tears. He crouched down next to her and held out his hand for the queen. “It’s all right.”

  She stared at it for a moment longer, then set it in his palm, careful not to touch him. “I’m… I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Hugh rose and set the broken queen next to the chess board. He turned back to Isla, opening his mouth to reassure her again, but he didn’t get the chance.

  Isla was already gone.

  Chapter Six

  Sydney cracked one eye open, then slid it closed again with a groan as pain sliced through the left side of his head. His eye. Good Lord, what was wrong with his left eye? It felt like someone had stabbed a knife into his eyeball and was twisting—

  “Ye’ve only been awake for six seconds, an’ already ye’re carrying on?”

  Sydney forced both eyes open this time, wincing as he peered into the gloom. “Burke? Is that you?”

  There was a low grunt. “Who’re ye expecting? The King of England?”

  Sydney sighed with relief. Yes, that was Burke. The dry sarcasm gave him away as surely as his west Scots lilt did. “Where the devil are we?”

  That is, he knew he was in a bed—he just didn’t know whose bed. Good Lord. This must be what it felt like to be a rake. Damn disconcerting, if you asked him.

  Burke dragged his chair closer to the bed, grumbling as he lowered himself into it. “At a farm a few miles outside of Beaconsfield. Ye’re in a bed, and before ye get any foolish ideas, ye’re not likely to leave it anytime soon.”

  Sydney lay there quietly for a moment, trying to come to some explanation for why he’d be in a bed at a farm near Beaconsfield, but he couldn’t grasp a coherent thought. They fluttered madly inside his head, and pinning one down was like trying to pluck a butterfly out of the sky with only his fingertips. “Well then, Burke. Don’t keep me in suspense. What the devil happened?”

  There was a brief pause, then Burke asked carefully, “Ye don’t remember?”

  Sydney squeezed his eyes closed again and tried to concentrate through the pain in his skull, but all he could remember was a series of alarming noises. Glass shattering, wood splintering, horses shrieking in fright, and then…trickling water? Yes. There’d been an eerily profound silence, then he’d heard water spilling over rocks and felt cold liquid flooding his nose and mouth—

  “The carriage.” Sydney jerked upright in the bed, panic overtaking him. “Jesus, the horses, Burke. And Isla…I promised her I’d be—”

  Burke leapt to his feet and eased Sydney flat onto his back in the bed. “No thrashing about, my lord. Ye’re not in any sort of shape fer it.”

  No, evidently not—not if the nausea that swamped him the moment he sat up was any indication. Sydney choked back the bile burning his throat and let his head fall weakly against the pillow. Now he’d make the mistake of moving, he realized his left eye wasn’t his only problem. “What’s wrong with my shoulder?”

  “It’s dislocated, but it’ll mend all right.”

  Dislocated? Was that all? It felt like it had been torn free of his body. “What about my hand?”

  “Yer left wrist’s broken, and all yer fingers. But don’t ye worry, my lord. Ye’ll be back to shuffling cards soon enough. ’Fraid yer embroidery days are over, though.”

  Sydney let out a feeble chuckle. “Very good, Burke. Now, tell me what happened.”

  Burke dropped back into his chair with a sigh. “Ye were thrown from the carriage, and then it rolled on top of ye when it crashed into the ditch. Horses were gone by that time, and a good thing, or else they would’ve trampled over ye, too.”

  Sydney shuddered. They had nearly trampled over him. He remembered pounding hooves coming dangerously close to his head. He also vaguely recalled looking up just in time to see the carriage bearing down on him, and there not being a bloody thing he could do about it. “My head? Is my skull intact, or did I leave part of it behind in the ditch?”

  Burke hesitated. “It’s a bit battered, but hard as ever.”

  Sydney heard the strained note in Burke’s voice and turned his head on the pillow to peer at his coachman. Burke was putting as cheerful a turn on it as he could, but Sydney saw the lines of worry carved into the man’s craggy face. “Ah. That bad, is it?”

  Burke grunted. “I’ll own ye had us a bit worrie
d last night, but now ye’re awake, I reckon ye’ll live, if that’s what ye’re asking.”

  Sydney didn’t answer right away. He lay there silently on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  He’d live. His hand was on fire, his shoulder was screaming with pain, and his head felt like a crushed piece of fruit, but he’d live, and that was a damn sight more than he’d expected when he’d been lying on his face in that soggy ditch.

  All in all, he had plenty to be thankful for.

  He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help, Burke. You’re a good man.”

  Sydney could practically hear Burke flush with embarrassment. Burke didn’t care for excessive displays of emotion—or any displays of emotion, come to that—and his next words proved it.

  “Fer God’s sake. Don’t thank me. I didn’t do a damn thing but follow ye to this farmhouse after Lucas dragged ye here. He’s the one ye need to thank.”

  “Lucas?” Sydney closed his eyes again and frowned up at the ceiling. He didn’t recall knowing anyone by that name, but perhaps the fall had knocked it out of his head.

  “That’s right. Big lad, with ginger hair? Don’t say ye don’t remember ’im? This here’s ’is farmhouse.”

  Sydney’s eyes flew open.

  Lucas. The man with the gray eyes.

  I thought I’d dreamed him.

  “Lucas found ye in the ditch last night. Damn lucky it was ’im who found ye, too. Not many men about who’re strong enough to carry yer weight on their shoulders fer a mile.”

  Arms like cricket bats…one foot in front of the other…

  Then, at the end, when the pain had overcome him and he’d fallen to his knees, the man—Lucas—had carried him.

  Sydney swallowed. “Where is Lucas now?”

  “Went to the stables to check on the horses. Should be back any minute. He’ll stay with ye while I go back out fer a bit, to see if I can find Molly.”