For those staunch enough to get past such silliness, she raised the stakes with feigned hysterics. Fluttering and trembling and babbling usually did the trick, though occasionally she found herself with a more determined suitor. In those instances, Kyra waited for an opportune time, usually dinner, and then she burst into sobs and wails loud enough to be heard back in London.
One night, after a particularly theatrical display of temper had sent her most ardent suitor packing, Cam had looked at her from across the table with a withering look.
“Stubborn as yer ma,” he said. “I love ya as though ye were my own daughter, Kyra. But yer a fool if ye think I’ll let ye carry on like this.”
Kyra had a hard time meeting her uncle’s eye. “I don’t enjoy making a spectacle of myself, Uncle. But I’m not ready to choose.”
“Maybe you’ll change yer tune when I tell ya that I received another message from Ashford,” he said coolly. “Griffin is coming.”
Three simple words, yet Kyra’s heart had nearly stopped in her chest. Grif was coming to collect her. And Grif—well, Grif was not a man who gave up easily.
It had taken a tremendous amount of pleading on her part, and even a number of very real tears, but her uncle finally took pity on her. Cameron MacKenzie was not one to give ground when given the upper hand, however. Before he agreed to send her out with Lachlan and Dougal to hide, he presented his niece with a final list of names.
“I’ll protect ye...if ye swear to me,” he said firmly, “that once ye return to Castle MacKenzie, ye choose a husband.”
Kyra knew when she was beaten. There was nothing more to do but promise to abide by Cam’s wishes. As annoyed as she was with her uncle for pushing marriage, his choice of husband was no doubt better than the one waiting for her in England. And maybe, just maybe, she could delay the decision a little longer.
She just needed to get away from Grif.
* * *
The water was quite cool by the time Kyra stepped from the tub. She vigorously dried herself off and threw the night rail over her head. It was well-worn, and a bit long, but at least she wasn’t sleeping in her filthy clothes again. Kyra pulled out the comb she kept in Riley’s gun pouch and ran it absently through her heavy tresses as she considered Grif again.
There was only one reason Ethan Ashford would bother to drag her kicking and screaming to her upcoming, unwanted nuptials. Money.
Before Riley had gone off to war, Kyra had badgered him relentlessly. She simply couldn’t understand why they insisted on going. The Deverills and Ashfords were titled. They were rich. While she appreciated that they wanted to do the honorable thing, they would be risking their lives. Riley finally lost his temper and spilled the truth. The Ashfords were on the edge of dun territory. Grif’s father had lost the family fortune. Even worse, the earl’s outstanding debts were such that the heir would be reduced to fortune-hunting in order to keep the family from abject poverty.
Kyra hadn’t believed it. Not at first. The ton was not exactly forgiving when it came to such matters. Even the hint of financial woe would have spread like wildfire through rank and file, and she’d never heard such on dits about the Griffin clan. There had never been even the smallest inkling that the Ashfords were deep in debt.
Furthermore, Grif—for all he would have hated marrying for money—was honorable enough to do exactly that to save his family from creditors. His title and his face were enough to recommend him to any number of wealthy heiresses. Yet when he returned from the war he didn’t even bother with the marriage market. As far as she knew, he was still considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Society.
Now, she wasn’t so sure.
The fact that Grif was pursuing her at all was quite telling. He was mercenary enough to do such a thing if he needed the blunt. Otherwise, why would he bother with her? Losing guardianship of her must have been the happiest day of his life. His uncle must be paying him a handsome sum if Grif was willing to deliver her to Brumley.
Kyra frowned at that. It bothered her that Grif was all right with the idea of her marrying Brumley. If half of the rumors were true, Brumley was a very sick man. For Grif to agree to the union was a shocking betrayal. Grif was loathsome in his own way, naturally, as he expected everyone to simply follow whatever he decreed. But with the exception of today’s spider-pitching, he had never been cruel. Well, never with her, she silently amended, thinking of the treatment poor Phillip and Simon had endured at his hands.
Oh, not that Grif had ever been what one might consider nice to her, but he really only lashed out at her when she had said or done something that he found disagreeable. Which was quite a lot, come to think of it. Still, this Brumley business seemed entirely out of character for him.
Kyra stopped combing, mid-stroke. Perhaps Grif didn’t know to whom she was affianced. It was possible that he’d never looked past the promise of cold, hard coin to ask why she was opposed to the marriage. If that were indeed the case, she might reason with him. She would present her case, she decided, simply and soundly. If he seemed amenable, she would even ask for his help. With Grif backing her, there was no way this side of Hades that Brumley would ever find her.
Heartened, Kyra bounded to the door the moment she heard polite tapping.
“I came to see if everything was satisfactory, Kay. If you need anything—”
* * *
Grif’s words died in his throat. Kyra Deverill was lovely, much lovelier than he had remembered. Her face was a perfect oval, and her freshly scrubbed skin glowed in the soft light of the room. Large brown eyes peered out at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. Her nose was dainty and proud and pert, just like the rest of her. The only thing out of place on an otherwise flawlessly balanced face was her mouth. Her lips were much too full and rosy for a proper lady. Of course, Grif had always been troubled by her mouth.
His gaze followed the thick mass of damp auburn curls hanging loosely over her shoulders and down her back. The sleeveless night slip he’d purchased from the innkeeper’s daughter balanced rather precariously on her slender shoulders, and the neckline drooped down to graze her cleavage. Apparently she’d grown breasts sometime over the last several years.
Damned if he wasn’t ogling his best friend’s sister. He really should stop. Really. It was just so hard to look away, especially since she was looking up at him with warm eyes and a welcoming smile on those lips, as though he were her knight in shining armor. A smile just for him. He rather thought he liked that.
A sound behind him brought him back to his senses. She was standing nearly naked in the middle of the inn, for any and all to see. Without a word, Grif pushed her into the room, following quickly behind her and closing the door.
“Just what are you about?” Kyra demanded.
She placed two delicate fists on her narrow hips, straining the wretched cloth tight across svelte curves. Yes, she had most definitely grown breasts. He knew that for fact because he could see damned near everything, and what he couldn’t see his imagination was quickly supplying.
A memory flooded back, and he vividly recalled how she felt in his arms when she’d thrown herself into him that afternoon; her lithe body pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. How she’d nestled into him, trustingly, as he carried her all the way to the stable. All that soft, supple womanhood—
Forcing his eyes to her face, he scowled. “If you had any common sense at all you would realize that answering your door, in public, dressed only in your night rail is a very bad idea.” His voice sounded odd, even to him.
Kyra pulled a face. “We’re hardly in public, Grif. Besides, I knew it was you.”
Grif didn’t know if he liked her answer or not. Probably not. “Have you any care for your reputation?”
She drew a deep breath, which did nothing to help the tightness in his groin. “
Standing in the hallway half-dressed was more prudent than letting you barge into my room alone and uninvited. Now, was there a reason for this visit, my lord? Or do you merely believe you have not sufficiently twitted me for the day?”
“I was just wondering if you wanted me for anything more tonight.” He cleared his throat, realizing that his wording might not be appropriate. “I mean, I came to make sure you didn’t need anything else before you turned in.”
For all her impetuous behavior, Kyra was apparently too innocent in such matters to take offense. Instead, her brown eyes softened. Grif hardened his own in turn. “Actually, Grif, I was rather hoping I might have a moment of your time.”
She could have his entire night if she wanted. Of course, she didn’t, so it was probably best for both of them if he didn’t stay in the room long. At least not with her half dressed. Grif scowled. He really must stop looking at her breasts—it was too distracting. “Only if you put something more on.”
The look she shot him seemed almost hurt. She glanced around the room for something to don, settling for her discarded towel. Wrapping the damp linen around her shoulders, she muttered up at him. “I fail to see why you’re making such a fuss about this. We’ve seen each other undressed plenty of times.”
“I beg your pardon!” he said. “I most certainly have not seen you undressed!”
Kyra snorted. “Grif, we swam together almost every single summer day. We saw each other unclothed all the time.”
“As children, Kay,” he sputtered. “The last time I saw you anywhere close to this bare was when you were eight.” Of course, that wasn’t counting the time he saw her legs, courtesy of Phillip and the wayward spider. “I would have been twelve at the most. And we were never completely naked.”
Kyra’s cheeks flushed bright crimson. “Oh. Quite right.” She bit her lower lip.
He narrowed his eyes at her. Lip-biting was a sure sign that she wasn’t telling him something. “What?”
She exhaled, clearly flustered. “Ah, it’s just...I saw you after that. And you were, um...completely.”
It was his turn to blush. Perhaps it was time to change the subject.
“I was about to give you a moment of my time,” he grumbled sullenly. How she always managed to test the limits of his patience was beyond him. It just seemed to come naturally to her. Grif wondered if she was even aware that she did so.
Kyra sat on her bed, smoothing her towel around her, and gestured to a chair much too small for his frame. As it was either that or join her on the bed, he gladly plopped down on the uncomfortable thing.
“Cut rope, Kay,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended. “I don’t have all night.”
She nodded, eyes on the ground, seeming rather lost in her thoughts. After a pregnant pause, she murmured softly, “My father...” Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him with regret in her beautiful eyes. “Did you attend the funeral?”
Bloody hell. This was the side of Kyra Deverill that Grif had always found the most irksome—mostly because it brought out certain sensations in him that made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Protectiveness. Compassion. He found he reacted poorly to her vulnerability, usually acting quite the sap. It was because of this side that he’d forced Phillip to eat that spider. Damned if he wasn’t already reaching out to take her hand, his earlier irritation fading. Blast!
“The funeral was fine, Kay.”
She gave him a watery look that seemed to gut him. “I should have been there.”
He shrugged, unwilling to acknowledge the truth of that statement.
“I imagine my absence was noted.”
Grif shook his head. He should release her hand, he thought to himself, not really intending to do any such thing. “Actually, Edmund quite cleverly dressed some little chit from his household in heavy veils. Everyone assumed it was you sitting with him in the front pew at the service.”
At her surprised expression, he was forced to admit, “Even I was fooled.” Of course, he’d been several rows back, and he’d still been reeling with the shock of discovering that he was no longer her guardian to pay much attention to details.
Kyra looked appalled. “And they pulled it off? The in-homes and all?”
Grif shook his head. “The girl managed to nod and sob a few responses, and as soon as she left the church, she fainted. Edmund’s footman carried her to the carriage and drove off, leaving him to attend to the details of the visitation and the burial. Shortly after that, the grief-stricken Kyra Deverill, too fragile to accept company, was sent on an extended visit to her uncle’s Scottish home. Quite a well-orchestrated act.”
Kyra stiffened. “It seems Edmund has thought of everything.”
Grif grimaced. After the funeral, he’d endured three gut-wrenching days of being turned away from his uncle’s stoop—at one point he had practically broken down Edmund’s door trying to get in to see what he thought was an inconsolable Kyra. It had taken two large footmen to escort him out. He’d been almost relieved to hear that she’d been taken to her uncle’s. Almost a month later, his relief had turned to absolute terror when he’d learned that it had all been a lie.
They sat quietly for a while, not looking at one another, Grif holding her hand. She broke the silence first, naturally. “What do you think of Edmund? As a guardian, I mean.”
He considered his answer for a long time. “I think,” he said slowly, “Edmund did what he thought was best. I don’t know that I agree with his tack, but he has taken pains to guard your reputation.”
There was a bit of an awkward silence. “So that is the most important thing?” she asked finally, her voice sounding funny. “My reputation?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But a large part of taking care of you is protecting your reputation. You know that.”
“And my happiness, Grif,” Kyra asked quietly, looking up at him. “Isn’t that an equally important part of a guardian’s job?”
Grif pinched the bridge of his nose. “Happiness is intangible. What makes you happy today might make you miserable tomorrow. Reputation is forever. Edmund could never ensure something as ephemeral as happiness.”
She stared at him, jaw tight. “What of you, Grif? If you were my guardian, would you worry only about my reputation? Would my happiness count for nothing?”
Grif didn’t care for this line of questioning. They weren’t discussing him. And he certainly wasn’t in charge of her reputation, or her happiness for that matter.
“Kay, it’s not that simple.”
“Ah, I see. So you believe it’s fine for Edmund to marry me off to anyone he deems worthy without my opinion or my blessing, so long as it doesn’t do anything to tarnish my reputation. How enlightening.”
“It’s his right.”
Kyra narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me, Grif, if you were in Edmund’s position, would you do the same? Would you marry me off to the first suitor you found acceptable? Would you give me no say in my own future?”
How he was managing to keep his temper in check was beyond him. She was accusing him of something he had no control over. “I might have considered your opinion, Kyra. I wouldn’t have given a whit for your blessing.”
“So the suitor Edmund has chosen for me, without my opinion or blessing—”
“Is none of my bloody business,” Grif interrupted. “It’s why I’m here, after all. Your bridegroom apparently wants his wayward fiancé. Odd that.”
Snatching her hand from his, she eyed him with something like disappointment. Or maybe it was disgust.
“So you do know,” she said waspishly. “I daresay, I’m a bit surprised. I thought you might actually care.”
Grif considered that. He did care. A bit too much, perhaps. It had bothered him more than a little that Edmund had found her a suitor before the marquess was even cold, although he
could very much understand Edmund’s eagerness to unload the little virago at the first suitable offer. But the hastiness of it all did seemed a bit unsporting for the rest of the marriage-minded gentlemen who would have slavered at the chance to wed her.
Not that he would have offered for the chit. Certainly not. Even if he weren’t a step away from dun territory, it was out the question. Grif couldn’t imagine a more aggravating life than spending every single day—and night—with Kyra Deverill. His stomach clenched, and he forced away thoughts of nights with Kyra.
He let his frustration loose. Springing to his feet, Grif glowered down at her. “What do you want me to do about it, Kay?” He threw up his hands in aggravation. “Tell Edmund he can’t marry you off without your blessing? He has a legal document saying he can do just that. Or do you expect I’ll feel sorry that you find your suitor less than perfect? Well, I don’t.”
Kyra leaped up. Then she actually climbed on top of her bed to stare him in the eye. Jabbing a dainty finger hard into his chest, she snarled, “So I’m supposed to sit back and let other people determine the rest of my life? Is that it?”
“Yes,” he stated.
“Well, I find that unacceptable.” She jumped down from the bed and stalked to the door. “And as I find this entire conversation disagreeable, you may leave.”
“I was planning on doing just that,” Grif retorted, following her to the door.
“Good!” she stated imperiously.
“Fine!” he returned, walking out of the room.
“Oh, Ethan?” she said, stopping him just outside the door. “One more thing.”
He turned, surprised to hear her use his first name. “What?” he snapped.
Kyra gave him a pert sneer and slammed the door in his face.
“Bloody hell!” he roared. She had nearly bloodied his nose.
An Inconvenient Wife Page 7