by Mary Wine
She did not tell him that his son was already known to her, as his wife had once been, improbably, her friend. “I don’t believe that would be wise, my lord.”
“Why not? If you recall, I offered you the position as his step-mama a year ago. It is past time you become acquainted with my son, and I with your daughter.” His busy fingers had begun removing hairpins.
Laurette said nothing, lulling in his arms as his lips skimmed her throat, his hands stroking every exposed inch. In dressing tonight, she’d bared as much of her flesh as she dared in order to tempt him. She wondered how she could so deceive herself. Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. And that was the problem.
Laurette pressed a gloved finger to his lips. “We do not need to discuss the past, my lord. We have tonight.”
“If you think,” he growled, “that I will be satisfied with only one night with you, you’re as deluded as ever.”
An insult. Lucky that, for she suddenly retrieved her primness and relative virtue. She straightened up. “That is all I am willing to offer.”
He stood in anger, dumping her unceremoniously into his chair. “My dear Miss Vincent, if you wish me to forgive your brother’s debts—all of them—I require a bit more effort on your part.”
“A-all? What do you mean?”
“I see the young fool didn’t tell you.” Con pulled open a drawer, fisting a raft of crumpled paper. “Here. Read them and then tell me one paltry night with you is worth ten thousand pounds. Even you cannot have such a high opinion of yourself.”
Laurette felt her tongue thicken and her lips go numb. “It cannot be,” she whispered.
“I’ve spent the past month buying up his notes all over town.” Con’s smile, feral and harsh, withered her even further. He now followed in his father-in-law’s footsteps.
“You did this.”
“You may think what you wish. I hold the mortgage to Vincent Lodge as well. You’ve denied me long enough, Laurie.”
Her home, ramshackle as it was. Beatrix’s home, if only on brief holidays away from her foster family. Laurette had forgotten just how stubborn and high-handed Conover could be. She looked at him, hoping to appear as haughty as the queen she most certainly was not.
“What kind of man are you?”
Keep an eye out for Sylvia Day’s
PRIDE AND PLEASURE,
coming next month from Brava!
“And what is it you hope to produce by procuring a suitor?”
“I am not in want of stud service, sir. Only a depraved mind would leap to that conclusion.”
“Stud service …”
“Is that not what you are thinking?”
A wicked smile came to his lips. Eliza was certain her heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. “It wasn’t, no.”
Wanting to conclude this meeting as swiftly as possible, she rushed forward. “Do you have someone who can assist me or not?”
Bond snorted softly, but the derisive sound seemed to be directed inward and not at her. “From the top, if you would please, Miss Martin. Why do you need protection?”
“I have recently found myself to be a repeated victim of various unfortunate—and suspicious—events.”
Eliza expected him to laugh or perhaps give her a doubtful look. He did neither. Instead, she watched a transformation sweep over him. As fiercely focused as he’d been since his arrival, he became more so when presented with the problem. She found herself appreciating him for more than his good looks.
He leaned slightly forward. “What manner of events?”
“I was pushed into the Serpentine. My saddle was tampered with. A snake was loosed in my bedroom—.”
“I understand it was a Runner who referred you to Mr. Lynd, who in turn referred you to me.”
“Yes. I hired a Runner for a month, but Mr. Bell discovered nothing. No attacks occurred while he was engaged.”
“Who would want to injure you, and why?”
She offered him a slight smile, a small show of gratitude for the gravity he was displaying. Anthony Bell had come highly recommended, but he’d never taken her seriously. In fact, he had been amused by her tales, and she’d never felt he was dedicated to the task of discovery. “Truthfully, I am not certain whether they truly intend bodily harm, or if they simply want to goad me into marriage as a way to establish some permanent security. I see no reason to any of it.”
“Are you wealthy, Miss Martin? Or certain to be?”
“Yes. Which is why I doubt they sincerely aim to cause me grievous injury—I am worth more alive. But there are some who believe it isn’t safe for me in my uncle’s household. They claim he is an insufficient guardian, that he is touched, and ready for Bedlam. As if any individual capable of compassion would put a stray dog in such a place, let alone a beloved relative.”
“Poppycock,” the earl scoffed. “I am fit as a fiddle, in mind and body.”
“You are, my lord,” Eliza agreed, smiling fondly at him. “I have made it clear to all and sundry that Lord Melville will likely live to be one hundred years of age.”
“And you hope that adding me to your stable of suitors will accomplish what, precisely?” Bond asked. “Deter the culprit?”
“I hope that by adding one of your associates,” she corrected, “I can avoid further incidents over the next six weeks of the Season. In addition, if my new suitor is perceived to be a threat, perhaps the scoundrel will turn his malicious attentions toward him. Then, perhaps, we can catch the fiend. Truly, I should like to know by what methods of deduction he formulated this plan and what he hoped to gain by it.”
Bond settled back into his seat and appeared deep in thought.
“I would never suggest such a hazardous role for someone untrained,” she said quickly. “But a thief-taker, a man accustomed to associating with criminals and other unfortunates … I should think those who engage in your profession would be more than a match for a nefarious fortune hunter.”
“I see.”
Beside her, her uncle murmured to himself, working out puzzles and equations in his mind. Like herself, he was most comfortable with events and reactions that could be quantified or predicted with some surety. Dealing with issues defying reason was too taxing.
“What type of individual would you consider ideal to play this role of suitor, protector, and investigator?” Bond asked finally.
“He should be quiet, even-tempered, and a proficient dancer.”
Scowling, he queried, “How do dullness and the ability to dance signify in catching a possible murderer?”
“I did not say ‘dull,’ Mr. Bond. Kindly do not attribute words to me that I have not spoken. In order to be acknowledged as a true rival for my attentions, he should be someone whom everyone will believe I would be attracted to.”
“You are not attracted to handsome men?”
“Mr. Bond, I dislike being rude. However, you leave me no recourse. The fact is, you clearly are not the sort of man whose temperament is compatible with matrimony.”
“I am quite relieved to hear a female recognize that,” he drawled.
“How could anyone doubt it?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I can more easily picture you in a sword-fight or fisticuffs than I can see you enjoying an afternoon of croquet, after-dinner chess, or a quiet evening at home with family and friends. I am an intellectual, sir. And while I don’t mean to imply a lack of mental acuity, you are obviously built for more physically strenuous pursuits.”
“I see.”
“Why, one had only to look at you to ascertain you aren’t like the others at all! It would be evident straightaway that I would never consider a man such as you with even remote seriousness. It is quite obvious you and I do not suit in the most fundamental of ways, and everyone knows I am too observant to fail to see that. Quite frankly, sir, your are not my type of male.”
The look he gave her was wry but without the smugness that would have made it irritating. He conveyed solid self-confidence f
ree of conceit. She was dismayed to find herself strongly attracted to the quality.
He would be troublesome. Eliza did not like trouble overmuch.
He glanced at the earl. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I must speak bluntly in regard to this subject. Most especially because this is a matter concerning Miss Martin’s physical well-being.”
“Quite right,” Melville agreed. “Straight to the point, I always say. Time is too precious to waste on inanities.”
“Agreed.” Bond’s gaze returned to Eliza and he smiled. “Miss Martin, forgive me, but I must point out that your inexperience is limiting your understanding of the situation.”
“Inexperience with what?”
“Men. More precisely, fortune-hunting men.”
“I would have you know,” she retorted, “that over the course of six Seasons I have had more than enough experience with gentlemen in want of funds.”
“Then why,” he drawled, “are you unaware that they are successful for reasons far removed from social suitability?”
Eliza blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Women do not marry fortune hunters because they can dance and sit quietly. They marry them for their appearance and physical prowess—two attributes you have already established I have.”
“I do not see—”
“Evidently, you do not, so I shall explain.” His smile continued to grow. “Fortune hunters who flourish do not strive to satisfy a woman’s intellectual needs. Those can be met through friends and acquaintances. They do not seek to provide the type of companionship one enjoys in social settings or with a game table between them. Again, there are others who can do so.”
“Mr. Bond—”
“No, they strive to satisfy in the only position that is theirs alone, a position some men make no effort to excel in. So rare is this particular skill, that many a woman will disregard other considerations in favor of it.”
“Please, say no—”
“Fornication,” his lordship muttered, before returning to his conversation with himself.
Eliza shot to her feet. “My lord!”
As courtesy dictated, both her uncle and Mr. Bond rose along with her.
“I prefer to call it ‘seduction,’” Bond said, his eyes laughing.
“I call it ridiculous,” she rejoined, hands on her hips. “In the grand scheme of life, do you collect how little time a person spends abed when compared to other activities?”
His gaze dropped to her hips. The smile became a fullblown grin. “That truly depends on who else is occupying said bed.”
“Dear heavens.” Eliza shivered at the look Jasper Bond was giving her. It was … expectant. By some unknown, godforsaken means she had managed to prod the man’s damnable masculine pride into action.
“Give me a sennight,” he suggested. “One week to prove both my point and my competency. If, at the end, you are not swayed by one or the other, I will accept no payment for services rendered.”
“Excellent proposition,” his lordship said. “No possibility of loss.”
“Not true,” Eliza contended. “How will I explain Mr. Bond’s speedy departure?”
“Let us make it a fortnight, then,” Bond amended.
“You fail to understand the problem. I am not an actor, sir. It will be evident to one and all that I am far from ‘seduced.’”
The tone of his grin changed, aided by a hot flicker in his dark eyes. “Leave that aspect of the plan to me. After all, that’s what I am being paid for.”
“And if you fail? Once you resign, not only will I be forced to make excuses for you, I will have to bring in another thief-taker to act in your stead. The whole affair will be entirely too suspicious.”
“Have you had the same pool of suitors for six years, Miss Martin?”
“That isn’t—”
“Did you not just state that many reasons why you feel I am not an appropriate suitor for you? Can you not simply reiterate those points in response to any inquiries regarding my departure?”
“You are overly persistent, Mr. Bond.”
“Quite,” he nodded, “which is why I will discover who is responsible for the unfortunate events besetting you and what they’d hoped to gain.”
She crossed her arms. “I am not convinced.”
“Trust me. It is fortuitous, indeed, that Mr. Lynd brought us together. If I do not apprehend the culprit, I daresay he cannot be caught.” His hand fisted around the top of his cane. “Client satisfaction is a point of pride, Miss Martin. By the time I am done, I guarantee you will be eminently gratified by my performance.”
In the Warrior’s Bed
In the Warrior’s Bed
MARY WINE
This book is dedicated to the one and only Mama Zini. For
years of mentoring
and partnering in crime, my dear friend, Frieda, who can
size up any living soul and dress
them to the height of fashion, no matter the year. May you
always know how talented you
are and how much you mean to those you touch.
Beware the spoon!!!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
Red Stone Castle, McQuade land, 1603
“Father writes that the king has given him leave from court.”
Bronwyn McQuade flinched. In spite of years of steeling her feelings against her father’s disdain, she still dreaded his return. Her sire was a hard man, and that was thinking kindly about him. Erik McQuade was laird and he enjoyed making sure that every man, woman, and child born on his land knew that bettering the clan was the most important duty they were charged with.
As his daughter, she felt the bite of his expectations more than most.
“I hope he has a safe journey home.”
Her brother snorted. Keir McQuade failed to mask his personal feelings completely, too. The parchment in his grasp crinkled when his fingers tightened on it. Born third, Keir was often relegated by their sire to the more mundane tasks of running the estate while their older brothers stood at their father’s side. Keir didn’t seem to mind, though. He had a keen mind and raiding alongside his father wasn’t the only thing that captured his attention. Their older brothers, Liam and Sodac, lived for night marauding—a fact that endeared them to their father. Keir shook his head before refolding the letter and storing it inside his writing desk.
“At least Jamie no’ sent him home with snow on the road.” A shadow darkened her brother’s face. “No’ that I’d blame our monarch for it.”
Bronwyn didn’t reply. She held her tongue with the aid of years of practice. Her father had no patience for any spirit in his only daughter. In truth, the man had little stomach for the sight of her at all. A girl child was of no use to Laird McQuade. Quite the opposite, and she’d grown up listening to her father lament the fact that someday he’d be pressed to dower her.
There was little chance of that happening, though.
Bronwyn sighed. She didn’t love anyone and still her father’s distaste for her chafed. There was no man wearing her father’s colors who would dare flirt with her. Liam and Sodac helped ensure that by telling one and all that she was a shrew cursed with a demon temperament.
“Och now, sister, dinna look like that.”
Bronwyn fluttered her eyelashes. “Look like what?”
Keir clicked his tongue. Raising a single finger, he pointed at her. “I know ye too well.”
“But Father does not, so there is no reason to warn me. He’ll see nothing but what he wants to see.”
Her brother grunted. The sound reprimanded her by remin
ding her that she was not the only child their sire valued lowly. Keir was a huge man, his hands twice the size of her own. His lack of zeal for war earned him the cutting edge of his father’s tongue. He was not a coward, simply a man who understood the value of finding other solutions that didn’t include using a sword.
“Aye, ye have the right of it and still I see the hurt in yer eyes.”
A soft smile lifted her lips. “My life is nae so hard as many have. Save yer pity for those that truly suffer.”
She didn’t want it. Nor need it. Holding her chin steady, Bronwyn pushed the floor pedal of the large loom she was working to switch the threads for the next pass of the shuttle. Rolled up on the finished end of the loom were several measures of the McQuade plaid. The loom itself was a prized possession. Modern and efficient, cloth could be woven as fine as any found in Edinburgh.
By a skilled hand, of course.
Trailing her fingers over the fabric nearest to the working edge, she smiled at how smooth it was. The heather, tan, and green stripes were perfectly repeated over and over throughout the length of fabric where they crossed, squares formed to perfection.
“Ye do fine work, Bronwyn.”
Keir’s voice was soft but she savored the approval she heard in the tone. Flashing her brother a smile, she pressed down on the opposite foot pedal.
“And ye are a master at managing the estate funds.”
One of Keir’s eyebrows rose. “I came to warn ye to take a ride afore ye canna anymore.”
Her brother bowed before turning in a swirl of pleated McQuade kilt, the back ones falling longer than the front. A sturdy, thick belt was buckled around his waist to hold the wool against his lean frame. His shoulders were wide and thickly muscled, because while Keir might not lust for war, that did not mean he was any less skilled in the art of wielding a sword than any McQuade retainer.