A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  With her fingers stiff and sore from polishing silver all afternoon, her attempts to produce viable sparks were anemic. She struck the flint harder and pinched a finger. Blood welled, and she sucked on her finger, tears springing to her eyes for the first time all day. She was at the end of her endurance. Snuffling a little in self-pity, she decided Lord Drummond could freeze. But what if Jenny got in trouble? Leaning over, her hands shaking, she struck the flint again and again.

  “Having problems, are we?” A jolly, self-satisfied voice startled her. For a big man, he could move without a sound. Numb fingers tightened around the flint.

  Keeping her face to the floor, she surreptitiously wiped at her dewy eyes. She took a deep, steadying breath, but her voice cracked anyway. “I’ve never started a fire.”

  Expecting more mockery, she was surprised when he squatted next to her. She looked away, refusing to let him see her gathering tears.

  “Let me show you.” He brushed a finger over her frozen hands, his touch gentle, his voice a whisper. On its own accord, her hand relaxed. He took the flint from her palm and rearranged the wood. “The tinder and peat go under the logs, which you need to prop up to allow the air to feed the flames. Then get your flint close to the pile of tinder and…”

  He deftly struck the flint a half dozen times and sparks rained down. The tinder caught, and he crouched even lower to blow deep gusts of air under the mound of wood. The fire grew until the merry crackling filled the growing silence between them.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” The leaping orange flames mesmerized her.

  “In the war. When it was safe enough, a fire offered a bit of company and comfort. It takes a bit of practice, but you can learn.” His deep, resonant voice washed over her with the comfort of a bedtime story. The warmth from the fire soothed her aches. She would be perfectly content to curl up and fall asleep where she sat like a cinder girl.

  “I suppose I should thank you. I’ll take my leave. Have a pleasant evening, my lord.” Her carefully delivered speech was ruined when she staggered getting up. Rising with her, he caught her elbow in his big hand. She finally looked him square in the face. His stormy eyes didn’t reflect the smug arrogance she’d expected. Something more dangerous lurked.

  She pulled out of his grasp and backed away, holding his gaze until she bumped into the doorjamb. She slipped away without another word, too tired to spar with him, and trudged to the kitchen. Mrs. Devlin glanced at her wan face, ordered a tray fixed and promised clean water for her ablutions, patting her arm all the while. Mrs. Potts’s sympathetic tutting drew more tears to her eyes. She’d never had anyone worry over her like Mrs. Devlin and Mrs. Potts.

  After dragging herself up the three flights of stairs, Minerva ate reclined on her bed, not even caring if she had to sleep in crumbs. Ready to nod off, she forced herself up to remove her dress. The gown already showed wear. Minerva examined the other dresses hanging in the wardrobe with chagrin. They were all too fine to be worn doing the type of work she’d performed today even if she could find someone to help her fasten them. Heaving a sigh, she sponged the grey wool as best she could.

  She wondered how Simon had fared, but slipping between the sheets, she was asleep before worry could take hold.

  Chapter Five

  Minerva spent the next two weeks in a whirlwind of activity. She discovered a newfound respect for how much work went into maintaining a house and how physically grueling the work could be. She spent her days helping Jenny, and they became good friends. It was impossible not to like the feisty, funny maid. She assured herself Simon wasn’t being physically mistreated but never had time for an in-depth questioning. As for Lord Drummond, she’d only seen him at a distance.

  Their brief encounter in the study had left her off balance. She didn’t want him to be kind, didn’t want to wonder if something gentle hid under his brutish, rude exterior. She’d tried to avoid it but eventually found herself outside his bedroom door again to dust and straighten. Jenny’s budding romance with Tom Donahue had her traipsing to the stables every free moment, and Minerva happily abetted the situation, covering for her when she could.

  While Jenny stole some time with Tom, Minerva promised to tidy the Lord Drummond’s room. He would be either in his study or outside with Simon for hours yet. While stacking the numerous books littering his nightstand and dresser, one in particular caught her eye. It was a poem called The Lady of the Lake. The title intrigued her, and she flipped through the small book.

  She had never read for pleasure as a young girl. Her tutor had been adamant she and Simon fill their time with academic texts. She could recite the characteristics of the various flora and fauna inhabiting Ireland but knew little about Shakespeare or, heaven forbid, any popular authors of the past fifteen years.

  She chewed at her bottom lip. The sun was high in the sky. She tiptoed to one of the chairs and sat on the edge, ready to jump up at any noise. Returning her attention to the book, she lost herself in Ellen and Malcolm’s love and the story of Scottish deception and war.

  Rafe ascended the stairs to his chambers, stroking his beard and worrying over his two indentured servants. The duke was proving to be a hard nut to crack. He had withstood the punishing physical labor better than expected. Although he grumbled and complained, he hadn’t broken.

  Lady Minerva was another enigma altogether. His two encounters with her had surprised him. In his room, she had been sassy and spirited. Then, in his study, her eyes had been wet with tears, her face pale. She’d been at the end of her endurance, and he’d felt…guilty, dammit.

  He had caught sight of her several times in the company of one of Black John’s daughters. Uncommonly aware of her, he seemed attuned to her bubbling laughter, the sound providing both pleasure and discomfort. Was she actually enjoying herself or was she putting on an act? He found himself lingering outside of any room she occupied, but he never entered, knowing he’d steal her happiness.

  He stepped into his room but stopped short, sensing someone’s presence, instantly on guard. A pair of legs covered by a serviceable wool dress dangled from the side of one of the armchairs.

  Any question of who the invader might be was put to rest with a breathy exclamation. “Lud, no.”

  He crept up behind the chair and peered over the back to find Lady Minerva engrossed in a Sir Walter Scott poem. Not that Rafe blamed her. The man wrote an exciting tale. She’d finished more than half the pamphlet, and he smiled. He was wont to get lost in a story as well.

  He rested his arms across the back of the chair and said teasingly, “Shirking your duties, Lady Minerva?”

  She startled and looked like a child caught filching sweets, her eyes huge. Scrambling up, she straightened her skirts and pushed escaped pieces of hair behind her ears, clutching the book to her chest. “I’m so terribly sorry. I’ll not let such a thing happen again, my lord.” Her gaze darted to the window, and Rafe could practically see the curses she stemmed with her tight mouth. “I had no idea it had gotten so late. I’ll finish cleaning your room tomorrow, or after you dress for dinner.”

  She returned the book to the bureau, grabbed her duster and scurried around him. Before she could escape, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm gently, but with no intention of letting her slip by.

  “You’re welcome to read during your free time.”

  “I don’t have free time until bedtime, my lord, and it would be a waste of your candles. Pardon me, please.” She twisted her arm. He loosened his grasp but didn’t release her.

  She was so delicate and fragile. Christ, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He slid his hand partway down her arm before letting her go and then turned around, effectively dismissing her.

  Her flurry of footsteps stopped. “May I inquire how my brother is faring?”

  He spun back around to find she’d stopped well shy of the door, holding a handful of his c
lothes to be washed and her duster. “Better than I expected from a spoiled, self-centered young man thrust into such a situation.”

  “I tried not to spoil him, my lord. I did my best.” Anger and hurt warred in her voice. Rafe had meant it as a compliment, but she assumed the worst of him time and again. Really, was that so surprising considering she was being forced to clean his room? Guilt reared its ugly but justified head once again.

  To cover his discomfiture, he pulled at the hair on his chin. “I apologize, my lady, I’m sure you did. My guess is it would be hard to be a duke from age five and not grow up feeling entitled. He fares well.”

  “Is he eating enough?”

  At this, Rafe rolled his eyes and chuffed. “I don’t make him clean his plate like a child. If he’s hungry, he’ll eat. You must stop managing his entire life.”

  “What happens when I stop? Look where that has gotten us.” She waved her duster around and kicked up a cloud, making her sneeze three times in quick succession. “Good gracious, pardon me.”

  The dust settled on her dress and hair. Christ, why was she so damn appealing all rumpled in her dowdy grey dress? He approached and reached for her thick braid. Rolling the silken rope between his fingers, he pictured her hair flowing around her shoulders. “You’re a mess, Lady Minerva.”

  She sucked in a breath and yanked the braid out of his hand, raising another smaller plume of dust. “We’re not discussing me. We’re discussing my brother.”

  “Leave your brother to me. He doesn’t need a bloody nursemaid.” Her obvious distaste for his touch stabbed at his gut and harshened his voice.

  “You are such an unfeeling, dastardly, rotten…stinker!”

  The weak epitaph settled into the silence and neither of them moved. She seemed to glow with her rage, her blue eyes like the hottest part of a flame. A crackling energy emanated from her and filled the room. She looked as if she wanted to launch a dozen less-than-lady-like insults or maybe even beat him around the head with the duster. Was this the same woman the ton had named the ice princess? They were either blind or fools.

  He shocked himself when laughter bubbled out of his throat. God, he couldn’t help but admire her spirit. She did not look amused. Turning on her heel, she stormed out and slammed the door behind her—again.

  * * * * *

  Stomping feet and laughter woke Minerva the next morning. Her sleep had been restless, filled with the memory of Rafe Drummond’s laughter. Worryingly, the need to kick him in the shin had been trumped by the urge bask in the beauty of his smile and wallow in the sound of his resonant laughter.

  She wanted to pull the covers over her head for another hour, but she didn’t have such luxury anymore. Once downstairs, she watched two footmen haul a rolled rug on their shoulders out into the bright, warm sunshine. She followed, joining Jenny and three other housemaids. The men struggled to heave the rug over a long rope tied between two oaks. The maids urged the footmen on with insults to their manliness. Minerva did a poor job stifling her giggles.

  “What in the world is going on?”

  “It’s beating day.” Jenny seemed positively delighted. “Do you want to join us?”

  “I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter.” Mrs. Devlin was nowhere to be seen, and if this was what the maids were doing, Minerva supposed she should help.

  The footmen finally wrestled the rug over the rope, and the maids took up wooden sticks with a large circle on the end. Jenny handed her one, and she tested the weight in her hand, moving to a smaller rug hung to the side.

  “It’s dusty work. You might want a kerchief for your hair,” Jenny called out.

  Gingerly, Minerva hit the rug a few times. Puffing clouds of dust rose into the sun-dappled leaves, the occasional beam illuminating the motes eerily. Becoming comfortable with the wooden club, she heaved it harder. As all the girls got to work, dust lay in the air like a fog.

  Lord Drummond came into her mind’s eye. The pace and vigor of her swings increased. She needed to dispel the incredibly disconcerting feeling of his large hand encircling her arm like a vise, and his fingers tugging playfully on her braid. Tingles had shot all the way to her toes as if her hair contained a thousand nerve endings.

  In short, she wanted to beat the ungodly physical attraction that thrummed through her in his presence out of her system. The attraction was only some primal reaction of the natural world, after all. She was strong-willed and logical and planned to smother it out of existence.

  She muttered at her rug before laying into it with fervent relish. The other maids had taken notice and stopped work to listen to her ramblings. All the insults and set-downs she’d been too flustered to let fly the previous day poured out of her. The fact Rafe Drummond wasn’t around to hear only diminished her satisfaction slightly.

  “And another thing, you callous brute, your smile will not make me forget myself.” At that, a flurry of hits poofed a great cloud of dust into the air.

  Through the dust, a man approached. His sheer bulk identified him as the object of her imaginary beating. She straightened, swinging the beater at her leg until he came into focus as if emerging out of a dreamy fog.

  His hair was neatly combed and pulled back. Although he was still in his customary buckskins, he’d tied on a cravat, albeit loosely. He looked ready for a ride in Hyde Park, and handsome enough to set a debutante’s heart aflutter. The dust settled, and she took a deep breath in preparation for another uncomfortable confrontation. Her nose itched. A series of loud, unladylike sneezes had her doubling over.

  A wellspring of amusement hid poorly behind his bland expression. “Good morning, Lady Minerva. You’re really laying into that poor Abbusson. Did it insult you at tea?”

  Anger should be her first emotion, but looking down at herself covered in dust, she wanted to laugh along with him. She refused to give in to the urge. It smacked of friendship and forgiveness. “It didn’t insult me.”

  “Imagining beating your brother for his irresponsibility?” Rafe nodded as if commiserating with her, crinkles showing at his eyes.

  “Not this time. But that’s a good idea for the next rug, my lord. No, I had someone else in mind. Someone who deserves a good beating.”

  “And who would this miscreant be?” His slowly curling lips flipped her stomach.

  Before she found herself smiling back, she turned back to the rug and gave it a good whack. “Lord.” She hit it harder. “Rafe.” Another blow. “Drummond.” The beater cracked and hung in her hand. “Blast! I wasn’t nearly done bashing you, my lord.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. He laughed so hard, he had to wipe away tears. Everyone in the side yard stopped to listen and stare, her included.

  “Do you ride, Lady Minerva?” he asked after his laughter dissipated.

  She went on-guard. “Yes, of course. I love to ride. Why?”

  “Take your aggression out on a hard ride. Go check on your brother.”

  “What about my chores?” She gestured with her limply hanging beater, and he sputtered out more laughter.

  “Leave the rugs to the maids and footmen. I’m not sure our limited supply of beaters would survive the afternoon. I’d say you’ve done enough damage.” Rafe leaned close enough she could smell the scent of his shaving tonic and added, sotto voce, “And to be perfectly frank, you’re scaring the rest of the staff. They think you’re a bit—” He winked and tapped his temple.

  Heat coursed up her face. A look around showed several maids sending them side-eyed glances. Cuthbertson waved from the door. As Rafe backed away, he said, “Unfortunately, I have a meeting, or I’d join you. Why don’t you change into a habit and look over my stables. Pick a horse. I’m curious which you’ll choose. Take a groom and tell him the men are working in the north pasture. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes, quite.” She was pleased and confused and suspicious. He turned and
bounded up the steps, disappearing inside.

  After a quick wash and changing into a habit, Minerva toured the stables with Tom Donahue, suitably impressed by the cleanliness and diversity of stock. Tom was somewhere in his late twenties and a handsome rough-hewn man. He was quiet and serious, quite a foil to Jenny’s exuberance. He obviously loved the horses and detailed the breeding and temperament of each one. They looked in on Aries, Lord Drummond’s horse.

  “Aries was half wild when Lord Drummond brought him here. Nearly destroyed his stall. He took a long while to break and train, but Master Rafe was patient and didn’t allow whips. He’s turned into a gentle giant, he has. He’s been bred twice now and his progeny are equally as impressive.”

  Minerva admired the huge black stallion, wondering at Lord Drummond’s depths. Still reeling from his sudden kindness, she had to assume there was some hidden motivation behind it.

  Minerva picked a frisky grey mare named Sparrow. Once on the horse, she felt her spirits rebound. A golden field crisscrossed with lines of gray stone walls led into a copse awash with songbirds. Red squirrels jumped from branch to branch chattering happily. Clean, sweet air filled her lungs, and she could almost put her troubles away for a moment or two. She and the groom broke from the trees into another field.

  “There they be, ma’am.” The groom pointed to a group of five men moving stones from the field toward a partially finished wall.

  Poor Simon had dressed for a jaunt in Hyde Park. The mud and dust covering him was in complete juxtaposition to his Weston jacket and fine Hessians. She trotted up, and the men stopped their work.

  She spoke to the group as a whole, not sure who was in charge. “Good day. Lord Drummond said I might speak to my brother. Would you mind if I borrowed him for a few minutes?”