The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  The horses’ terrified shrieks echoed in Sydney’s head, making him shudder. “You’re risking yourself for no reason, Burke. Those horses are either dead or miles away by now.”

  “Found one of ’em already. Jenny. She were wandering around outside Lucas’s stable. If t’other one’s alive, she won’t ’ave gone far. Worth a look, anyway, my lord. Lucas will sit with ye while I’m gone.”

  Sit with him? Sydney thought of how tempted he’d been to brush the lock of dark red hair from the man’s forehead, and he shifted uneasily in the bed. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea for Lucas to sit with him, alone, in a dark bedchamber. He was already half-dead as it was. Any more excitement might finish him off for good.

  “Bloody hell, Burke. I don’t need a nursemaid—”

  “Now, Lucas don’t talk much,” Burke went on, as if Sydney hadn’t spoken. “Don’t smile much, neither, but ’e’s a better nursemaid than me. Knows a little physic, too.” Burke nodded at Sydney’s shoulder. “He’s the one who set yer shoulder and fixed yer hand. He made that sling fer ye, too. Clever lad, Lucas.”

  Sydney sighed. Yes, he would be clever, wouldn’t he? Because Lucas being strong, brave, redheaded and gray-eyed wasn’t enough of a temptation. “I’m sure Lucas has better things to do than sit here with—”

  “Mayhap ’e does, but ye can’t be left on yer own just yet. Not so soon after ye’ve woken.” Burke hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Yer head took a beating, my lord. Fer a while there we thought maybe ye wouldn’t wake up at all.”

  Shame at his own foolishness washed over Sydney. Burke and this Lucas had saved his life, and here he was, quibbling like a child over who would sit by his bed. “Of course, you’re right. I beg your pardon, Burke.”

  Really, what were the odds this Lucas was half as enticing as Sydney remembered him being? He’d only seen the man once, and his brain had been wriggling about inside his skull like a jelly at the time. For God’s sake, he’d been so befuddled he’d even imagined he’d seen a bear. He was very likely exaggerating the odd attraction he’d felt. All he could recall of Lucas was auburn hair and gray eyes, and there was nothing so spectacular in that, surely?

  And even if there was…

  Even if Lucas was everything Sydney remembered him to be, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. His fate had been decided long ago, when it became obvious he would be his father’s only child, and therefore the heir to the Sydney earldom.

  Sydney had engaged in any number of discreet affairs over the years, with any number of discreet gentlemen, but he’d turned twenty-eight this year, and it was time for him to settle down and do his duty to his title. Heirs were expected to marry and produce further legitimate heirs. That was how it had been done for centuries. He wasn’t the first nobleman who’d be obliged to curtail certain of his natural desires in order to fulfill his obligations, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  He was betrothed now, to a lady he cared for. Isla was very dear to him, and if she couldn’t satisfy every demand of his body, it didn’t make him any less determined to be a faithful husband to her. He hadn’t quite figured out how that would work, but—

  “Ye all right there, my lord? Not falling back asleep, are ye?”

  Burke’s sharp voice interrupted his thoughts, and a damn good thing, too, because all at once, Sydney found himself on the verge of succumbing to a shameful bout of self-pity. He’d always known he’d be obliged to marry, and that once he did, certain of his desires would have to remain unfulfilled. There didn’t seem to be much point in dwelling on it now, when he was already so befuddled.

  He was alive, wasn’t he? A bloody carriage had rolled over the top of him, for God’s sake. By all rights his body should be half-buried in the Beaconsfield mud by now, but he was alive, and betrothed to a lady he adored. He hadn’t a single reason to feel sorry for himself.

  “I’m not likely to fall asleep with you hovering by my bed like some kind of demented mother hen, am I, Burke? Now, why don’t you make yourself useful and get me something to drink? It feels like a dozen rocks are lodged in my throat. I don’t suppose this Lucas has any whiskey, does he?”

  Burke chuckled, relieved. “Right back to yer lordly self, are ye? I don’t know as whiskey’s the best thing for ye, but when Lucas returns, I’ll ask ’im if ye can have a wee nip.”

  Sydney heard the faint thud of the door closing downstairs just then, followed by the heavy tread of boots across a wooden floor.

  Ah. The fabled Lucas had arrived.

  They called them fables for a reason. Because they were too fantastical to be real. No doubt the same was true of this Lucas.

  “There ’e is now.” Burke heaved himself up from the chair and wandered out into the hallway. Sydney heard him call down the stairs, and then a deep voice, too low for him to distinguish the words, called back up in reply.

  Burke came back into the room. “He said ’e’ll bring something fer ye to drink.”

  “Whiskey?” Sydney asked hopefully.

  “No idea, but whatever ’e brings ye, ye’ll take it without a fuss, ye understand? That lad’s clever with the physic, like I said, and ’e knows what e’s about.”

  “Come now, Burke. I’m not going to fuss. I’m nothing if not a polite guest…”

  Sydney trailed off at the sound of the heavy boots climbing the stairs, followed by an odd clicking sound, almost like…dice being tossed across a wooden surface? No, that didn’t make any sense. His head injury was confusing him.

  The boots reached the landing with a thud, then thumped down the hallway, and there it was again—dice, or fingernails scratching against the floor?

  Sydney turned to Burke, his brow furrowed. “What the devil is that noise?”

  Burke didn’t get a chance to answer, because at that moment an enormous, shaggy beast bounded into the room, its toenails scrambling against the floor. It landed in a heap by the bed with its tongue hanging out and its long legs and massive paws in a twisted, furry tangle.

  Sydney’s eyes widened. Dear God, he hadn’t imagined it. There really was a bear, and it looked as if it were about to climb into bed with him.

  But the bear had better manners than he’d anticipated, because it settled for resting its chin on the edge of Sydney’s bed. Sydney reached out slowly with his good hand and stroked his palm over the shaggy head. The bear’s back half started wagging, and before long his whole body was wriggling with delight.

  “Your bear is very well behaved.” Sydney glanced toward the doorway, where a tall, muscular figure had paused, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame. “He’s much gentler than most bears.”

  “That’s because he’s a dog.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember now.” Sydney squinted at Lucas, but the room was too dark for him to make out the man’s face.

  “Enough, Brute. Go lie down.” The dog obeyed his master’s stern command without hesitation, but his tail drooped with disappointment as he went to settle beneath the window on the other side of the room.

  “Awake at last, Lord Sydney.” If Lucas was relieved to find Sydney still among the living, his flat tone didn’t reveal it.

  “Oh, ’e’s awake, all right,” Burke said. “An ’e’s already making demands. Mr. Lucas Dean, this ’ere gentleman is Henry Northrup, the sixth Earl of Sydney. He don’t look much like an earl right now though, does ’e?”

  “I’ve only ever seen one earl.” Lucas paused for a moment longer in the doorway, then crossed the room and came to a halt beside Sydney’s bed. He stood just outside the light cast by the fire, so Sydney still couldn’t see his face, but that deep, smooth voice made his skin prickle with awareness.

  “But this earl here?” Lucas placed the teacup in his hand on a nearby table, then drew a step closer and leaned over Sydney’s bed, far enough so the light revealed his face. He gazed down at Sydney f
or a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable, then said, “He doesn’t look like any earl I’ve ever seen before.”

  Sydney said nothing, because he couldn’t catch his breath. He lay in the bed, motionless, and stared up into the man’s face, every muscle in his body straining with sudden tension.

  Lucas Dean was no fable.

  The dark red hair, the gray eyes, the firm jaw and sensual curve of the lips…

  In Sydney’s experience, very few things lived up to expectation, but that face was as beautiful as he remembered it being.

  Lucas Dean was far from the first man he’d ever been attracted to, but no other man had ever made Sydney feel as if he couldn’t breathe. It was Lucas’s eyes, perhaps, the contradiction of them. Not just the long eyelashes, but the way they were cool and hot at once, as if they could go up in flames or freeze to ice in a single blink.

  Part wary, and part vulnerable…

  Whatever it was, Lucas Dean caught and held his attention. Sydney had a difficult time tearing his gaze away.

  Burke, who was oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, let out another chuckle. “Well, ’e don’t act much like a usual earl, neither, and I fer one am thankful fer it. I daresay ’e won’t give ye much trouble while I’m gone.”

  “Is that true, Lord Sydney?” Lucas leaned closer to study the bandage wrapped around Sydney’s head. He prodded at it gently with his long fingers, then drew back and once again pinned Sydney with those incredible eyes. “You’ll behave like a proper lord while Mr. Burke here goes off to search for your horses?”

  “I, ah…” Sydney swallowed. Good Lord in heaven, at this moment he hadn’t the faintest idea how a proper lord behaved, and he doubted he was going to remember as long as Lucas Dean was leaning over his bed.

  It was a lucky thing he could hardly move, because all at once he had a few ideas as to how an improper earl might behave…

  “Oh, ’e’ll behave ’imself, right enough. He’s as weak as a baby kitten right now, isn’t ’e? I’ll be back in a few hours, mayhap with that horse of yers in tow, my lord.”

  Sydney glared daggers at Burke’s back as the man strolled out the bedchamber door. Weak as a kitten? Damn it, no man wanted to appear weak with a rugged man like Lucas Dean about, no matter if that man couldn’t manage to roll over onto his side without help.

  Especially then—

  “Your head bled all night, and it’s still seeping. Head wounds are stubborn that way.” Lucas followed this observation with a shrug, as if blood gushing from Sydney’s head wasn’t much reason for concern.

  “My left eye is—” Sydney began, but then stopped, sucking in a breath when he felt Lucas once again prodding at the bandage on his head. Lucas had large hands, and long, thick fingers, but his touch was gentle.

  “Hurts, does it?” Lucas asked, misreading the reason for Sydney’s gasp. “Sorry, my lord, but I need to take a look under the dressing. Close your eyes. The left one in particular won’t bear the light.”

  Sydney did as he was told and let his eyes drift closed as Lucas unwrapped the bandage from around his head and carefully removed the thick pad of cloth he’d placed against the deepest part of the wound. Sydney let out a soft hiss as Lucas pulled a bit to free the skin from the congealed blood on the cloth. It did hurt, but he couldn’t have said whether he was breathless from the pain or from the stroke of Lucas’s fingers against his skin.

  “It’s not pretty. It won’t be even when it’s healed.” Lucas leaned closer and brushed the hair away from Sydney’s temple.

  His touch was utterly impersonal, but Sydney had to make a concerted effort not to lean into it anyway.

  Lucas didn’t seem to notice, but continued to dab at Sydney’s head with the cloth. “Looks like you’ll keep your eye, but there’ll be a scar down the side of your face where the glass from the broken window cut you.”

  Sydney moved his good shoulder in a shrug. “A scar on my face seems a small price to pay, considering what might have happened.”

  “Not a vain man, Lord Sydney?” Lucas replaced the bandage, then drew back and settled into the chair beside the bed. “Your coachman is right. You’re not much like other lords.”

  “Are all lords vain?”

  Lucas crossed one long leg over the other knee and regarded Sydney with cool gray eyes. “As I said, I’ve only ever known one lord, but he was a…flawed man, and vanity wasn’t the least of his sins.”

  Sydney snorted, then winced at the pain that shot through his head. “Sounds like what you really want to say is he was an arrogant arse. Don’t let me stop you.”

  Lucas eyed him for a moment, as if he didn’t quite trust this comment. “If that’s what I’d meant to say, my lord, I would have said it.”

  Sydney studied him for a moment. Lucas Dean’s aloof manner and somber face were unusual for such a young man, and Sydney found himself wondering what it would take to coax a smile out of him.

  “A good many are, I’m afraid.” Sydney tried an engaging smile. “Arrogant arses, that is. Most of us, in fact, though I flatter myself I’m not among the majority.”

  The gray eyes narrowed, but then a small, unwilling smile tugged at Lucas’s lips. “Then I’m thankful it was you who crashed into my ditch, and not one of them.”

  Sydney squinted at Lucas, whose face was once again hidden in shadows. “I think it’s me who should be thankful.”

  Lucas shrugged. “Thank Brute. He heard the horses squealing after the carriage crashed and led me right to you.”

  Brute had managed to creep from his place by the window closer to the foot of the bed, and as soon as he heard his name he leapt up and bounded back to Sydney’s side. Sydney’s good hand was lying slack on the bed, and Brute nudged his muzzle into Sydney’s palm.

  Lucas watched them with a frown. Sydney thought he’d order Brute away again, but after a pause, Lucas said, “He knows you’re hurt. It bothers him when he senses pain, whether it’s another animal suffering or a person.”

  “Why did you name him Brute?” Sydney stroked the dog’s nose. He might look like a bear, but Sydney had never seen a less brutish dog in his life.

  “Because I knew he wasn’t going to be one. I thought the name would give him some protection.” Lucas said this last a little unwillingly, as if he didn’t care for explaining himself.

  It occurred to Sydney to ask who Brute would need protection from, but he didn’t. He rubbed the dog’s nose for a while, then murmured, “Thank you, Brute, for finding me.” He raised his gaze and squinted into the gloom. “I don’t know how you managed it in that storm, or how you got me back to your farm, but I’m very grateful to you for your help, Mr. Dean.”

  Sydney stretched his good hand out into the darkness beyond his bed.

  At first Lucas didn’t move, but just when Sydney was about to withdraw, certain the man wouldn’t shake his hand, he felt long, calloused fingers slide against his palm, then close over his hand.

  Lucas’s grip was warm and firm.

  The tingling started in Sydney’s palm, but in the time it took to draw a breath, it had crept up his arm. By the next breath, it had spread to every part of him. His lips, his chest, deep inside his belly…

  Desire.

  Sydney snatched his hand away, his heart pounding, and fell back against the pillows. He was suddenly exhausted, with sweat sheening his forehead.

  Good Lord, but fate was wicked. As if a carriage crash and a concussion weren’t enough, now he had to face the most dangerous threat of all.

  Lucas Dean.

  Sydney had the strangest feeling the promises he’d made—to himself and to Isla, to his father, and his legacy—could all be tossed aside with a single touch of this man’s hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Lucas hadn’t expected Lord Sydney to offer his hand.

  He’d never shaken an earl’s hand b
efore. He’d never wanted to, and he didn’t want to now. He didn’t want to be any more interested in Lord Sydney than he already was, and he doubted touching the man would improve things.

  He sat there for longer than was polite before he finally reached out and grasped Lord Sydney’s hand, but he hardly allowed his fingers to graze the earl’s skin before he drew his own hand quickly away again.

  For a man as weak as a kitten, Lord Sydney had a surprisingly strong grip.

  He also had a warm, dark gaze and an appealing smile. His servant, Burke, was clearly fond of him, and God knew Brute was already his devoted slave.

  An earl who doesn’t act like an earl…

  Lucas would have preferred not to know any of it. He’d seen for himself what sort of men the aristocracy produced—he’d seen the destruction a single, selfish man could cause—and he didn’t want any part of it.

  Perhaps Lord Sydney was as kind as he looked, but handsome faces were misleading.

  “Burke says you mended my shoulder,” Sydney said, breaking the awkward silence between them. “I don’t remember much about the accident, but one thing I do recall is pain so excruciating I thought I’d have to make do with only one shoulder for the rest of my days. I owe you my thanks on that account, as well.”

  Lucas blinked. Damn it, why did the man have to be so humbly grateful? He was an earl. Earls were supposed to take everything as their due, without a word of thanks to anyone, just like every other aristocrat.

  “No need to keep thanking me,” he snapped, but then was ashamed of his gruff tone. Had he become such a curmudgeon he couldn’t even accept the man’s thanks? “How’s the pain now?” he asked, to make amends for his bad temper. “Still hurt?”

  A half-smile flitted across Lord Sydney’s face. “Damn thing still hurts like the devil, but at least now I have the comfort of knowing it remains attached to my body.”

  Lucas’s lips twitched reluctantly, but Lord Sydney didn’t see him fighting back the smile, because Lucas was careful to keep to the shadows. The polite thing to do would be to move the chair closer to the bed, into the light, so his guest could see his face, but Lucas remained where he was, studying the small grin that lingered on the earl’s lips.