For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  “Very happy. I didn’t know that you two…that is, I didn’t know,” she said with a helpless shrug. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It is?” Wetherald asked in surprise. “Why?” Barnabas was wondering that as well.

  “As a woman in my position, the thought had crossed my mind that I was at Sir Barnabas’s mercy,” she said without hesitation. “I need somewhere to go, and I do enjoy it here, but still, it was disconcerting and made me uncomfortable. But now, well, I don’t need to be, do I? I hope you don’t mind my honesty, sir,” she added belatedly.

  “Not at all,” Barnabas said, quite pleased with her response. She was aiding his cause without even knowing it.

  “So it would please you if Sir Barnabas and I…” Wetherald paused and blushed. “If we…kept company?” he asked lamely.

  “Oh, it would,” Melinda said, relief evident in her voice. “And I would get to see you more often, too, my lord. I shall be forever grateful for your assistance in my rescue, and it is always a pleasure to see you.”

  The smile this time didn’t quite reach her eyes. Barnabas knew she disliked social visits. He had, of course, read her journal. The woman couldn’t hide state secrets if she tried. He also knew that she’d been afraid Wetherald had developed a tendre for her, and she thought herself base and unworthy after her experiences. Barnabas did not agree, but convincing her otherwise was a task best left for the future. She was still too fragile now, as evidenced by her fear of touch.

  “And you can vouch for Sir Barnabas’s character?” Wetherald asked, surprising Barnabas.

  “Most assuredly,” she said firmly. “After all, he orchestrated my rescue, did he not? And he has not asked for one thing in return. He even gave me this position, when I’m sure he could have found an experienced housekeeper.”

  “No, I really couldn’t,” he said honestly. “Word is out. No one else would take the position.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Jones said, sounding nothing like a deferential housekeeper. Barnabas had decided he liked her refreshing candor. He was tired of everyone always asking how high when he said jump. “You’re quite pleasant to work for,” she told him. “Not unreasonable at all.”

  “And it wouldn’t…bother you,” Wetherald asked hesitantly, “knowing that we were…together? Like that?”

  “No,” she said, a slight blush on her cheeks. She stood quickly. “What an odd evening! If you gentlemen will excuse me.” She rushed from the room as Wetherald hastily stood. The door closed and he continued to stand there staring at it, his back to Barnabas.

  “I need time,” Wetherald choked out. “I can’t just…do it.”

  “I like the idea of seducing you,” Barnabas said. “So that won’t be a problem.” He leaned forward and reached out for Wetherald’s hand. When they touched Wetherald jerked but he relaxed his arm and let Barnabas pull him back down to the divan. “Tell me what you know about it.”

  “It?” Wetherald said. He took another drink of whiskey with a shaking hand as Barnabas traced one finger in and out of the soft spaces between his fingers on the other hand.

  “Fucking,” Barnabas answered. “Or more precisely, men fucking.”

  Wetherald slumped against the back of the divan and closed his eyes. “Right now?”

  “No time like the present to tackle difficult tasks,” Barnabas said. He brought Wetherald’s hand to his lips and nipped the tip of his finger.

  Chapter 10

  Mel sat on the floor again, staring out her window. Was Lord Wetherald still there, she wondered. It had to be at least four in the morning.

  She was still grappling with that stunning bit of news. It was nearly impossible to imagine the staid politician as Sir Barnabas’s lover. Now, Sir Barnabas? The man practically breathed fire. She could very easily imagine him in the throes of passion. As a matter of fact, she’d been doing just that for hours. But it was harder to place Wetherald in the picture. Would he be as fierce in bed as Sir Barnabas was out of it? Or would he be meek and submissive? In spite of his despotic nature, she didn’t think Sir Barnabas would be happy with a meek bed partner. He seemed like the kind who would want to fight fire with fire. She’d dearly love to see Wetherald finally lose his composure and burn with desire.

  She waved a hand in front of her overheated face. Surely it wasn’t proper to think of your employer like that. But she couldn’t help it. It was surprising, actually. When she was younger she’d longed for forbidden passion and hedonist, sensual delights, but she hadn’t thought of a man in those terms for a very long while. Not since her marriage.

  She wrapped her arms around her drawn up knees and hugged them. Her marriage was something she tried very, very, very hard not to think about. It still existed, of course. She’d thought and thought about a way to get out of it, but there wasn’t one, not really. Not unless de Vere died. As much as she wanted to, however, she didn’t think she had the resources or the fortitude to kill him. Well, perhaps the fortitude. She’d learned enough about herself in the last few months to feel fairly confident that if given the opportunity, she could kill.

  For some reason de Vere had left her alone so far, but that had to be a ploy. Sooner or later he’d show up with the authorities and take her back. Then there’d be hell to pay. There was always hell to pay with de Vere.

  Mel had been quite shocked at the violence at first. No one had every raised a hand to her before. She’d rarely been told no. But she’d learned very quickly after her marriage that her previous life was over. She’d never enjoy the sort of indulgence her parents and other family members had shown her.

  She laid her head down on her knees so that she could still see the moon. She hadn’t seen her parents since her marriage. De Vere had forbidden it. He’d been so disappointed when her father hadn’t paved his way into the aristocracy’s pockets. Apparently he felt that was his due after taking her off their hands. And that’s what it was, she now realized. She’d been a liability to her family due to one stupid escapade after another. Her treacherous libido and sense of entitlement had led her down one too many disastrous paths. She’d tried to laugh off the rumors until suitors stopped calling and her friends disappeared, steered away by their disapproving mamas.

  In hindsight Mel couldn’t believe what a spoiled brat she’d been. She had honestly believed she’d get away with it all because of her pretty face and family name. What an idiot she was. And honestly, none of her silly young lovers had been worth it. Sexual relations weren’t worth it. Where was the supposed euphoria, the stupendous pleasure that drove good women into bad choices? She hadn’t found it, that’s for certain. All she’d found was awkward, messy groping that usually ended in profuse apologies from embarrassed boys who avoided her like the plague after. And she’d kept her virginity for marriage. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? Fat lot of good that did her. It had earned her a slap from de Vere because she’d cried and hadn’t known what to do.

  She knew what to do now. She knew how to give pleasure in a multitude of ways, all while receiving none. Those lessons had been burned into her brain while she’d been shackled to a bed in a brothel. The high and mighty Melinda Dorsett, debutante of the season, reduced to a common whore, fucking for her bread and water. If some of the girls she’d wronged during her season knew what she’d become, they’d no doubt gloat gleefully.

  Although Lady Vanessa hadn’t. Mel had woefully misread Lady Vanessa’s character. How many other people had she made the same mistake with? Too many, probably. When one is of low character herself, she is unable to see the elevated characters around her, she supposed. She’d assumed everyone was like her. Thank God she’d been so wrong.

  It was chilly out, but she left the window open. She didn’t like to be locked in, but it was necessary to keep the door to her rooms closed. So she opened a window when she was inside. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep her sane. If her bedroom had been without a window she’d be sleeping on the sofa in the sitting room, and then they all wo
uld think her mad.

  She took a deep breath of the cool night air, imagining the smell of fresh cut grass, the sound of night insects and horses rustling in the stables, just as it had been when she was a young girl at her family’s country estate. Back then no one expected anything of her. She’d been left to her dolls and books and her old sweet nurse, of no use to anyone. But then one day her mother noticed how pretty she’d become and nurse had been sent away. Then it was all dancing masters and French tutors and learning watercolors and the pianoforte. She’d been poked and prodded and dressed like one of her dolls, and constantly, through it all, they told her how perfect she was, how high she’d climb, how brilliant the match she would make. And she’d swallowed it all, ate it up like sugar candy and believed it.

  She wished she could turn the hourglass and go back in time and slap the idiocy out of herself. If she hadn’t been so vain she would have seen their praise as what it was, manipulation, using her to get what they wanted. Perhaps she hadn’t made a brilliant match, but by God they’d gotten their money’s worth out of her when they sold her to de Vere. And once they sold her, there was no returning used goods.

  She covered her face with shaking hands and breathed deeply through her fingers, eyes closed. Slow breaths—deep, cleansing—filling her lungs with the here and now. She wouldn’t mind not sleeping if only she could keep her thoughts quiet. When her hands stopped shaking, she reached for her journal.

  * * *

  Breathe

  Just breathe

  Childhood is over

  Gone

  My words on this paper are the screams in my head

  Breathe, just breathe.

  When my hand stops shaking am I still alive?

  I can’t touch anyone to find out.

  * * *

  Help me.

  * * *

  Mel set the book down on the carpet beside her and turned to look out the window again. Only another hour or so before she could go down to the kitchen and help Cook.

  * * *

  Barnabas sat next to the window in his bedroom, his foot balanced on the sill, his fourth glass of whiskey in his fist. She was still awake. He could hear the rustle of the pages in that damn journal of hers. She hadn’t slept at all. Did she know that his room was right above hers? She must. She was pretending to be his housekeeper, after all. Although she didn’t realize it was a game of pretend. He wasn’t sure he had either when he’d offered her the position.

  Her smile tonight had been unfettered and radiant. The first such smile he’d seen from her. He could see it now, why she’d been considered the belle of the season. What had she been like, he wondered, before life had beaten her and broken her? He took a drink as he tried to imagine it. Spoiled and catty, no doubt, like all the rest.

  Was it irredeemable that he was glad for what she’d been through, because it had made her what she was today? She was harder, polished by adversity to the diamond they’d once called her. It took a woman of unimaginable fortitude to withstand what she had and come out with her sanity intact. She was a survivor. He knew too many of those. But she had earned her place among their ranks. Someday she’d realize how rare she was. He only knew a few women like her, and he’d made sure she was surrounded by them. It was the least he could do for her.

  What was she scribbling in her journal? Perhaps she was expounding on how grateful she was she needn’t worry about Sir Barnabas jumping out at her from corners and trying to ravish her now that he had Wetherald to fuck. He smiled against the rim of his glass. How naïve she was. Barnabas liked a good fuck no matter what sex his partner was. He was more about opportunity than anything else. He almost laughed at the thought, but didn’t want to give away his presence.

  He sighed. There was a desk full of paperwork waiting for him tomorrow at the office. He had two operations ongoing in London, and three more active investigations throughout Britain. If he could get the appropriations bill passed, he’d have the money to expand his operations on the coast. Smuggling was still a problem there thanks to the inexperience of the new coastguard.

  And he still had Hastings on a leash. He needed him in the field, but he wasn’t going to be of any use if he couldn’t control himself. He took his assignments too personally. Maybe Barnabas needed to rethink his recruitment policy. During the war it had been easy to find lads that were trainable and expendable. He hadn’t known then that each one he lost would feel like a cut to his soul that never healed. Rescuing orphans from the streets hadn’t solved that problem. Hastings needed more than an assignment. He needed guidance, and it was up to Barnabas to give it to him.

  He dropped his head back on his shoulders, weary as hell. He shouldn’t have let Wetherald off so easy tonight. A little touch, a little lick, some frank talk. All it had done was heat his blood. He didn’t need that. He needed to burn of the steam, not stoke the fire. Wetherald. Damn if Barnabas didn’t want him with an intensity that shocked him.

  What had turned the key and unlocked this unholy desire for a man he’d known, and disliked, for years? And Wetherald felt the same. A virgin, for God’s sake. Barnabas wanted to bend him over and fuck the daylights out of him. Poor Wetherald would most likely have an apoplexy if he tried. He was going to have to go slow, when slow was furthest from his mind. Fucking was the one outlet Barnabas allowed himself for the rage and frustration he felt every damn day, and now he couldn’t have it, not the way he wanted it.

  He stood and set his glass down on the table beside him. He was going to bed, damn it. He was going to sleep, and tomorrow he’d tell Mrs. Jones she damn well better start sleeping, too, or he’d give her some laudanum to make her.

  He paused as he started pulling off his cravat. Laudanum. Opium. He cursed under his breath. She was still burning for the opium at night. Of course.

  He sighed. Tomorrow he’d sleep some during the day. Tomorrow night he’d keep her company. He’d seen before how hard it was to quit the opium.

  Chapter 11

  “Wetherald.” Lord Meeks hailed him from across the lobby. “I say, Wetherald.”

  Ambrose tried not to wince as he turned and stopped to wait for the other man. Lord Meeks believed himself to be Ambrose’s confidante, but the truth was Ambrose neither liked nor trusted him. Good manners, however, forbade him walking away without acknowledging Meeks.

  “Good afternoon,” he said politely as Meeks stopped in front of him.

  “Good afternoon? What’s good about it?” Meeks grumbled. “Stuck in Lords all day listening to blowhards trying to prove they’re smarter than the rest of us. Did you hear Hargraves? Utter rubbish.”

  Ambrose looked down his nose at the shorter man. “I support Lord Hargraves efforts to improve conditions for the working class,” he said stiffly. “As I’m sure you noted when I spoke in his defense today.”

  “But at who’s expense, I ask? Ours, that’s who. Why should we have to support the lot of them? Lazy, dangerous, criminal underclass, that’s what they are, all trying to steal our legacy. It’s a wonder we can sleep at night as they plot against us. Hargraves is a traitor to his class, and you should be very careful, Wetherald, that you are not tainted by association.” The flush that began on Meeks face as he was speaking was evident through the thinning hair on his head.

  “Indeed,” Ambrose agreed, his anger simmering below the surface. “One must be very careful of his associates. Good day, Meeks.” He started to turn away but was stopped by Meeks with a hand on his arm.

  “I say, Wetherald, that reminds me. Someone mentioned that you’ve been seen calling at the residence of Sir Barnabas James. There’s a dangerous association, I tell you. The man is barely accepted in society. I hear his, shall we say, personal tastes are such that few will tolerate his presence in their homes. And now word is he’s established some common doxy as his housekeeper. Can you imagine? I’d steer clear if I were you.”

  Ambrose was practically vibrating with suppressed fury. “Sir Barnabas James is a decorated, highly e
steemed and valuable member of the Home Office. His exemplary service during the recent war with Napoleon is widely recognized. You would do well to be very careful how you speak of him. As for his personal staff, that is neither your business nor mine. I have better things to do than to stand around in public gossiping. Good day.” He turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Meeks sputtering behind him. He ignored Meeks’ attempts to call him back as he pushed open the door and paused on the steps. He placed his hat on his head as he surveyed the street.

  Carriages blocked the way as gentleman left the building and climbed inside, coachmen called out to whinnying horses, and hawkers hollered their wares to passersby. Another typical day in London. It was hard to imagine that evil lurked behind closed doors and down dark alleyways on a bright afternoon like this, with life teeming rich and loud around him. But he knew it did. He’d seen it. He’d seen Melinda de Vere shackled to a bed, broken and begging.

  The memory had him hurrying down the steps, skipping a few as he rushed away from the hypocrisy and entitlement of the Lords. Some days it was so hard to stay steady and stand up for what he was trying to accomplish. He was relieved there were other like-minded men such as Theodore Hargraves who fought beside him.

  He thought of Barnabas as he walked down the street with long strides, his walking stick swinging by his side. Why had he defended him? The man was a blackmailing blackguard. Ambrose had had to sit there by his side last night, enduring his touch as he made Ambrose talk of things that he’d never uttered out loud to another human being before. He’d been alternately hot with embarrassment and cold with mortification.

  When Barnabas had nipped the tips of his fingers, Ambrose hadn’t trusted himself to speak and he’d begun to sweat. It was decadent and uncomfortable and Ambrose had just wanted him to stop, but he couldn’t bring himself to protest. When Barnabas had lightly licked the soft space between his fingers he’d nearly leapt off the sofa. It had done more than tickle him—it had awakened something inside him that he’d rather stay dormant, at least around Sir Barnabas.