“So ye’re wantin’ to play dirty then?” His green eyes flickered as he rolled her swiftly beneath him. “Two can play dirty, my lovely.” His weight settled across the length of her, hard and toned, she stopped breathing. A rough thumb traced the line of her cheek, shooting tremors of awareness along her spine. He wrapped her hair around his palm, holding her gaze to his, and the tremors shuddered through her, enveloping her arms and legs. His ring burned into her finger. Her lips tingled in secret yearning for his touch. “Are ye afraid of me, lass?” The warmth of his breath caressed her lips, and unwittingly her hands curled against the heat of his bare shoulders.
“No,” she murmured.
“Good,” he stated matter-of-factly and shoved to his feet. “Then there is no reason I can’t share half of the bed. Now, move,” he ordered, jerking a thumb toward the corner.
Cheeks aflame she obeyed, moving to stand by the wooden chair in the corner. Brian lifted the end of the bed and pulled it across the floor until the side was flush against an outside wall, she flinched.
“I will be sleepin’ by the wall should ye be of a mind to drop me on me arse again.” Swinging into the bed he shot her a pointed look, grabbed the pillow and curled on his side on top of the quilt.
Childishly Lydia stuck her tongue out at his turned back. Fully clothed she stomped to the bed, lifted the edge of the quilt, and slipped beneath, careful to maintain as much distance between them as possible.
Clutching the blankets to her chin, she stared at the shadows playing along the wall, listening to his deep breaths. Neither of them spoke, and she wondered if he was already asleep. She was exhausted, her bone weary body begging for relief, but Brian’s proximity assailed her senses making it impossible to relax.
Would he roll into her during the night? And, God forbid, would she cuddle into him? No matter how badly she craved his touch, she couldn’t allow herself to be so near, it was downright dangerous.
What would Olivia say if she laid eyes on this scene? Nothing. Her Stepmother would not say a word. Instead she’d make good on her perpetual threat to swoon and pass dead away.
Brian’s breathing deepened, becoming slower. She adjusted on the bed, trying to peek discreetly over her shoulder. His wide, muscular back faced her. His hair fell against his neck and brushed the pillow, her fingers itched to run through it. Pushing the thought aside, she gritted her teeth and tightened her death grip on the blanket.
I will not touch him. I will pretend he isn’t there.
He released a small groan and shifted slightly closer.
Pretend he isn’t here? Not likely. Her pulse leapt into high gear. Oh, why did the embodiment of her every girlish fantasy have to be lying not two feet away, in a bed, with her?
And why didn’t he want to ravish her?
* * *
Bone weary after another long day traveling on foot, Lydia could hardly put one foot in front of the next, she could not quite bring herself to smile weakly at Brian as he held open the battered door of the hackneyed inn. Concern reflected in his deep green eyes, briefly he touched her hand, the contact intimate.
“Afternoon, Donnelly.”
Lydia faltered as her eyes fell to the man, Roark, from the stables of Wheaton Abbey. They’d been found. Protectively Brian pulled her behind him.
“Shall we take this outside?” Roark asked pleasantly.
“So you can shoot us and be done with it?” Brian scoffed. “I think not.”
“Do not think these people,” he gestured the crowded pub, “will be of any help. I’ve already informed them we’re hunting dangerous criminals. I could shoot you here and now, no one will think twice of it.” Two men stepped from the back wall, flanking Lydia and Brian. “I will ask you again to step outside.”
“Never,” Brian seethed, lunging at Roark. The two struggled for a long moment, Brian quickly gaining the upper hand before the two henchmen dragged him forcibly to his feet.
Roark climbed to his feet, wiping a smear of blood from his chin. “Have it your way.” Without warning he pulled a flintlock from his trousers and fired a ball direct into the center of Brian’s chest.
“No!” Lydia shoved past the henchmen, catching his head and shoulders in her lap as he collapsed to the floor. “Please, God, no,” she sobbed, holding his face in her palms.
“Lydia,” he choked, a small river of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Lydia, I – I—” The state of his breathing grew increasingly laborious, chest heaving as he coughed and struggled for air. The light of his eyes, so vibrant and alive flickered, growing dim.
“Brian, no, please don’t leave me.” His fingers fluttered at her wrist, before all strength left his body.
Lydia sat bolt upright in bed. Hysterical sobs racked her body as her eyes darted frantically about the darkness. Where am I? Brian! Strong arms slid around her waist, drawing her into a warm haven.
“Lydia, hush, love, it was only a dream.”
A dream? But it had been so real. Brian? She whirled against him, throwing her arms about his neck. “Brian, thank God, you’re alive.” Her hands trailed across his chest. Perfect. No gunshot, no wound. “You’re all right.” She clasped his face, memorizing his visage through a veil of tears, the fear of losing him raw on her nerves.
“Love, of course I’m all right.” He folded her into a warm embrace, pulling her across his lap. His head bent and his breath warmed her hair. His lips touched her brow and cheeks, kissing away her tears. “There, there, Lydia, no need for tears. ‘Twas only a dream.”
“It didn’t feel like a dream, Brian. It was…” She gulped. “Real.” Her eyes met his. Grace Covington, her mother, had had dreams like this, dreams so vivid she’d forever slept with a light on. Her father called them night terrors. Until tonight Lydia had never experienced such a dream…
She shuddered, laying her head against Brian’s chest, taking comfort in the steady drum of his heart. If she never had a night terror again it would be too soon. She’d always thought of herself as a strong, independent sort of woman, and hated to admit being overwrought after their ordeal.
“Close yer eyes, love, I’m here for you.” Brian held her close, rocking her and murmuring a soothing Gaelic rhyme. The words were a salve, spoken as a song, and slowly the ragged rhythm of her breathing quieted. She was enchanted. He lay back, pulling her with him, cradling her in the crook of his arm, his fingers tracing steady paths along her back. Again she knew the sensation of heat fusing the whole of her being, and a point of certainty solidified in her mind.
If she was not in love with Brian Donnelly she wanted to be.
Was it wrong to want such a thing? Probably, but in this moment she didn’t particularly care.
* * *
The gentle red and yellow hues of morning light filtered through the window warming Brian’s face. Slowly he opened his eyes, reluctant to rise and release the sleeping Lydia from his arms. It was quite literally a dream come true to wake beside her and for just another moment he wanted to lie with her, pretend she truly was his wife… make believe she loved him.
Her open concern for him after the nightmare last night had touched his heart in no small measure. To be so affected by a dream she must have a more caring nature than he’d originally believed. Most social climbing ladies were out for themselves alone. The fateful day he’d looked into her eyes, dooming himself to be hers for eternity, he’d sensed compassion in the depths of her brown eyes. Hell, he’d sensed more than compassion, in that single moment he’d seen everything he could hope to want in a woman. In a word he’d been… bewitched.
Was any of it true?
Even now his heart lurched to think of never having her, to think of another man claiming her favors. It was some class of sorcery that could take such powerful hold of him for so long. Perhaps he was nothing more than a romantic. The nuns at his Dublin orphanage had forever lectured him on the folly of shooting the stars, instructed him to learn his place, the lectures never took. At th
at time he’d believed a man—any man—could make his mark on the world, to prove it he had run away to join the army at fifteen. Perhaps he should have listened more closely to Sister Agatha.
Carefully he extricated his arm from beneath the ethereal beauty, unable to resist brushing a long chunk of hair behind her ear, and dropping a light kiss to her brow. Quietly as possible he slid from the bed and dressed, all the while his imagination swirling around the vision of her curled in the bed.
He clamped a tight lid on those thoughts. Nothing could ever come of his feelings for her. He had comforted her in a time of need, nothing more, he need not read more into last night than necessary. The girl was a wanton tease betrothed to a peer of the realm, and he was nobody. He reached to touch her again and stopped short. I am nobody.
Heart heavy he finished buttoning his shirt, closed the door and descended the stairs. Harvey waited for him, and after a quick breakfast of porridge and cheese they set to work. The labor was numbing, distracting, and before long Brian relaxed into a comfortable routine, relaying tales of old times with Harvey and listening to stories of his children. Though, all the while he kept at least one wary eye on the road. Discovery by Keith’s men was unlikely but one could never be too careful.
As the sun reached the height of the day Harvey suggested a break for the midday meal. Brian eagerly agreed. The farm was modest so it had not been necessary to pack provisions for the day’s work and it took only a few minutes to trek back to the cottage.
Laughter floated through the house and Brian was no less than surprised to find Anna and Lydia chattering away as the oldest of friends. Wrapped in an apron, moving assuredly about the kitchen, one would never guess Lydia lived a life of gentility and leisure.
“I see you ladies are having a grand time.”
Anna beamed. “Yes, Lydia is sharing her sweet roll recipe with me, and they are divine. Have you tasted her glaze yet, Brian?”
Lydia could cook? Since when did would be viscountess know their way around a kitchen?
“Uh, no. I haven’t had the pleasure,” he murmured, mulling over the puzzle that was Lydia Covington.
“Oh, Lydia, you must give him a taste of that glaze.” Anna waved animatedly between the two of them. “Positively sinful. Like heaven and your darkest secrets all rolled into one.”
Lydia’s wide amber eyes turned to his. She looked adorable wrapped in Anna’s oversize, floppy apron, hair braided over one shoulder and a dusting of flour streaked from her forehead to her chin. He knew the strongest desire to wipe it away. She lifted a spoon from the bowl sitting on edge of the table and moved toward him, head cocked demurely to the side. She held out the wooden spoon and he leaned in for a sample.
The sauce was a perfect combination of tangy and sweet, and as the spices tangled with his taste buds Brian was inundated with the strongest sense of being a little boy again. It was like a memory oh so sweet and all but forgotten. Lydia’s glaze tasted like… Christmas. He smiled. “I know this recipe. When I was growin’ up Sister Agatha made glazed sweet rolls every Christmas Eve.” It was near Sister Agatha’s only redeeming quality—aside from being a nun—and his happiest childhood memory.
Lydia smiled, eyes twinkling. “It was my grandmother’s recipe, she was Irish as well. I’m sure Ireland is where she learned to make this.”
So Lydia’s grandmother was Irish? Brian felt an instant connection with her, a kinship he’d just as soon not experience.
“Would you like another taste?” Lydia asked softly, her glittering honey eyes every bit as sweet and smooth as the glaze.
Yes, yes he would like another taste. Preferably the spot of sauce on the inside of her right thumb, or better yet the spot glistening from the corner of her mouth. How would it taste mingled with her? He reached up to brush the flour from her smooth cheek and licked his lips. If only they were alone.
“That is delicious,” Harvey bellowed, successfully drawing Brian’s thoughts to a close. “You are one lucky man to have a wife who cooks like this, Brian. One lucky man indeed.”
Brian cleared his throat, averting his gaze from the woman posing as his wife. “That’s a matter of perspective I’d suppose.” Recovered he tossed Lydia a conspiratorial wink.
“That’s true.” Her luminous golden brown eyes fixed on him, her smile bubbling with good humor. “After all I am the lucky one, without Brian I would be lost.” She sashayed to his side, eyes dark with emotion.
Just what was he supposed to make of a look like that?
He swallowed, hard, unable to break the bond of their eyes. He had hoped to use the day to distance his emotions from her, prove to himself once and for all that she was a selfish ton brat. But when her magical amber flecked eyes glittered with such raw adoration his cause grew more hopeless, he was lost in her. His mission throughout the morning had been to arrive at the house and catch her behaving as the spoiled high and mighty princess she’d been raised to be, successfully shattering his illusion. Instead she mingled with the Baker’s as though their station, their class was one and the same. None of her mannerisms seemed contrived, Lydia seemed genuine as the moon and stars, and he was a damned fool, but his heart refused to let her go.
Lydia assailed him as physically as if she’d been working alongside him for the rest of the day. Visions of her dressed in night robes swirled with images of her standing before him in stays and a petticoat, and mingled further with the memory of her lying in his arms that morning. He could only imagine what lay beneath the various layers he’d seen adorning her lithe figure, and imagine he did.
“Brian,” Harvey cried in obvious exasperation. “Have ye heard a word I’ve said? Or are you dreaming about that comely little wife waitin’ at the house?”
Shoving a notched piece of wood into the upright post, he turned a guilty grin to his friend. “Aye, Harvey, ye caught me.”
“Can’t say as I blame you.” Harvey hefted his end of the fence rail into an adjacent post. “Found yourself a fine little filly. Anyhow I was sayin’ a bit ago that Henry Wallace is livin’ by Sharpsburg if you and the missus are plannin’ to head any further south.”
“Henry Wallace you say?” Brian could scarcely contain his profound disbelief as he mopped a cloth across his dripping brow. Henry had been a good friend in the day one of few Brian had confided in. His mind whirled as he contemplated what to do with the information. One lesson of a hard life was to keep things close to the vest, a practice Brian knew well. “Unfortunately we won’t be headed to Sharpsburg, but it’s good to know where he is. A good friend he was. A very good friend.”
Stepping back he surveyed the length of new fence. The sun was setting lower on the horizon casting the soothing light of summer across the landscape. Sheep grazed leisurely through the green summer fields, and birds flitted from tree to tree. An ache seeded in his belly, this was a life he craved. “It’s peaceful here, Harvey, got yerself a nice farm.”
“Aye,” he nodded. “Are you ready for a bite of supper? Our wives were cookin’ up a storm.”
Brian nodded, gut clenching with the thought of continuing the pretense of husband and wife. The charade may be the death of him.
After arriving at the house he learned that Lydia had eaten and retired early. Mrs. Baker assured him that it was normal for women to be tired during pregnancy, especially the earliest stages. Brian bit back a grin as a vision of Lydia lecturing him on the audacity of the tale tripped through his mind. Damn, he’d really hoped she’d be here, riling her was entirely too much fun. He ate quickly and contemplated the wisdom of traveling through Sharpsburg. It wasn’t the most direct route to Wheaton Abbey, but Henry Wallace could be a valuable asset and had powerful connections. Seeking Henry out for help would also mean continuing to use his real name. He would have to discuss this with Lydia, her life hung in the balance as much as his own.
“Mrs. Baker, dinner was delicious. If ye don’t mind I’d like to retire and check after my wife.”
“Certainly,” A
nna smiled.
“Lydia?” He burst through the bedroom door without knocking, eager to tell her of the news he’d learned that afternoon, and stopped short. The scent of lilac wafted through the room emanating from a tub of water sitting at the foot of the bed, the blue dress and undergarments had been tossed haphazardly across a wooden chair back, and the last of the day’s sunlight trickled through the wavy window panes to dance across the scarred floorboards. A sense of home as he’d never known hit him square in the chest. The entire scene playing before him was, in a word, right, and the one prop making the scene most right was curled sound asleep across the bed. A nymph.
Gently closing the door, Brian leaned a shoulder against the wall, drinking her in. Lydia lay on her side, wrapped in naught but a shoddy checkered quilt, hands curled beneath her cheeks. A hint of rose tinged her milky skin, and the length of her russet tresses spanned the coverlet, still damp from bathing. Slowly he crossed the room visually caressing the slender curve of her legs. The woman was an angel, from the ends of her hair to the tip of her toes. Tentative at first he sank to the edge of the bed, reclining beside her. Propped on an elbow he studied her face. Thick lashes spanned her closed lids casting long shadows across high delicate cheek bones. Rosy buds lit her cheeks and her pouty heart shaped lips parted in sleep, begging to be kissed.
Unable to help himself Brian reached out softly brushing his knuckles the length of her arm. She did not stir. He grew bolder, turning his palm to her warm skin tracing her fingers, so small and pale beside his, along her slender wrist and up further to cup her shoulder. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, but still she did not wake. His fingers traced the line of her jaw drawing ever closer to her lips.
“Mmm, Brian,” she murmured, still logged in sleep.
It was too much. Shifting, he caught the side of her face in his palm, threading his fingers through the silken locks of her hair and brushed his mouth across hers. She responded, moving onto her back and lifting her arms to his shoulders. He followed her down, deepening the kiss, even though he damn well knew better. Her taste was so sweet, her body so right locked beneath him, and her touch so innocently naïve Brian was driven to the brink.
Forget Me Not Page 7