by Lauren Smith
“Thank you kindly, sir. You know where to find me, should you need my services again.” Mr. Webster chuckled.
The shuffling of distant footsteps grew softer before the silence was punctuated by a heavy sigh a moment later.
“I see you are at least partially awake, Mr. Kincade. I did not mean for it to come to this, but I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice.” A man’s face leaned over Brodie.
Jackson Hunt. The little blonde lass’s father. Rafe had been right about the man acting desperately. Brodie tried to speak, but he was too tired, too thick-tongued. Damned Rafe. He was right about the girl, and her father.
“Do not speak. I was told you’ve been given a heavy dose of laudanum, and I suspect it has made it hard for you to think. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t wish for them to drug you. Therefore, I will do the talking. You are to remain here at my home, my guest as it were, while you and I come to an understanding regarding my daughter. She has told me the truth about your meeting. How you seduced her, and how she is carrying your child.”
Brodie stared at Jackson in a cold fury, wishing he had the strength to shout every blasted curse that was on the tip of his useless tongue.
“Now, as I have already told you, I will pay ten thousand a year to you for marrying my daughter so that she might live in relative comfort, along with my grandchild.”
A snort of muffled laughter escaped Brodie. Ten thousand pounds was enough for relative comfort? If that was the case, then he had lived in abject poverty. If Brock hadn’t married Rafe’s sister, their family castle would have crumbled to gravel. Their family had lost their fortune years ago after their mother had died.
“I shall let you rest and think on it.” Jackson turned to leave, but he paused in the doorway. “I love my daughter, Mr. Kincade. She deserves the best in life. A man who loves her and her coming child. While I am sorely disappointed that you did not do the honorable thing with regards to her, I hope very much that you will see sense and become that man.” Then he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Brodie waited until he had left before he tried to move. He jerked weakly, and his hands and legs moved only a few inches before abruptly halting. With a roll of his head to one side, he discovered that thick ropes bound his wrists and ankles to the bedposts.
They had tied him to a bloody bed. He felt like he was trapped in some blasted Gothic novel, only wasn’t it the woman who was always in this position?
He pulled the ropes. They creaked slightly but did not yield. Soon he gave in to the effects of the laudanum and dozed off. He wasn’t sure how long he was asleep, but he woke when he heard the door open and soft steps hurry across the room.
“Oh, my poor dear,” a sweet voice breathed close to his ear.
Opening his eyes, he saw a petite blonde girl leaning over him. His vision was still cloudy with the drug, but he guessed it was Miss Hunt, the woman he had met at the ball last evening. The damned chit who’d gotten him into this nightmare, all because she’d taken a fancy to him. He knew he was good with women, but he’d never suspected he was that good.
The lass was pretty, of course, but looks weren’t everything to Brodie. A woman could rival Helen of Troy, but if she dared restrain Brodie, he would never be hers. Never.
“I am sorry it must be like this,” Miss Hunt gently cooed as she cupped his face. Her blue eyes burned bright as she leaned down and kissed him, as if that would somehow win him over.
“Untie me, now,” he demanded.
“Papa says we mustn’t, not until you calm down and agree to the marriage terms.”
Miss Hunt kissed him again, flicking her tongue against his pursed lips. He refused to indulge her mad desires.
“You lied to your own father, you mad hag! Saying I bedded you.”
“Don’t think of it as lying. Think of it as . . . shifting around the order of events. Once we are married, I promise to let you bed me every day, Mr. Kincade. I will be a good wife, I will,” she said earnestly.
“Why me? Why not another man?” He was finding it easier for his tongue to move. The laudanum was wearing off.
“Because you are magnificent.” The girl threaded her fingers through his hair. “That dark hair, those stormy gray eyes, those features cut from marble, and your body . . .” Her eyes rolled down his chest to his legs. “You have a muscled physique not often seen among the gentlemen of England.”
“It’s because I have lived and worked on the land,” Brodie said quietly. “I ken what it means to go hungry, to be poor, to have to work to stay alive. You ken none of this. We willna suit as man and wife.”
“Oh, we will, I assure you. Would you like some water?”
“Aye. I’m damned thirsty.” His voice was hoarse and his throat scratchy.
She poured him a glass, and he was indeed grateful, but the second he took that first bitter gulp, he recognized the taste and his heart hammered with panic.
“You drugged me, lassie . . . you . . .” He said no more as he sank into oblivion.
Lydia cursed in a very unladylike fashion. She and the coach driver, as well as Tucker, the Russells’ tiger, which was what they called the small boy who rode on the back of the coach, all stared at the broken carriage wheel in dismay.
“If it isna one thing, ’tis another,” the burly Scottish driver muttered. “Well, there isna a thing we can do right now, Miss Hunt.”
“Yes, Mr. Graham, you’re quite right.” She eyed the darkening streets with a little trepidation but far more resolve. “I shall have to walk.”
“Not alone you won’t.” The driver turned to the little boy who stood beside him. The lad couldn’t have been more than ten. “Tucker, run home as fast as you can, fetch the grooms, and have them mend the wheel. Tell the mistress I’ll be escorting Miss Hunt home.”
“Yes, Mr. Graham.” The boy ran off like a shot, racing back the way they’d come.
“Is it safe for him to be out alone?” Lydia didn’t want the child endangered for her sake.
“This is Bath, miss, not London. ’Tis far safer. Tucker is a right quick lad, Miss Hunt. He willna do anything to call attention to himself.”
Lydia hesitated a moment longer, then joined Mr. Graham as they walked along the pavement together. It would be a fairly long walk in the dark with only the streetlamps to guide them. But she was glad of the coach driver’s company more than she could say, and she decided a bit of conversation would not be impolite.
“Mr. Graham, if it would not trouble you, might we converse a bit while we walk?”
The coach driver nodded. “If it pleases you, Miss Hunt.”
“You’re from Scotland?” It was more of a rhetorical question, but she was intrigued after seeing Brodie Kincade. She hadn’t had too much interaction with Scotsmen. They were a bit of a rarity in Bath, at least so far as her social circles went.
“Aye, I was born in Inverness, raised there as a lad before I moved to London with my family.”
“What was it like? Scotland, I mean.” She was curious to know more about a land that made handsome, brooding men like Brodie Kincade.
Mr. Graham was silent a moment, but she could sense he was thinking of his childhood there. “It is a place of nature and magic,” he finally said. “The night sky is filled with stars, and a man can still see the old gods in the woods and hills.”
“The old gods?” Lydia asked. “Do you mean the Greek or Roman gods?”
“No, lass, the Scottish ones. We have Beira, the most feared goddess of winter. She’s a brutal old woman, that Beira, but she created the lochs and mountains. Then there’s the kelpies, the water spirits—great horses made of kelp and seafoam—but you’d best be careful, lest they drown you.” He reached up to show her that his fingers were covered with rings. “We wear silver to appease the old gods.”
She marveled at the beautiful Celtic rings he wore and remembered that she had glimpsed a large ring on Mr. Kincade’s right thumb. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but
now she was quite certain it was one of these pieces of silver.
“Do you miss Scotland?” she asked Mr. Graham.
“Aye. If you visit once, your heart willna leave it. Having been born there, I will always ache for home.”
“But you won’t return?”
He shook his head, a sad, forlorn look in his eyes. “There isna much work there. ’Tis better for my family to live here.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Graham. I cannot imagine how hard that must be.” Yet in a way she could. Her father’s business pursuits had left them in a constant state of upheaval. They might be in Bath for a few more months, but she would wager that by the end of the year they would move somewhere else in England. She had not had a proper home in a long time. She’d forgotten what it felt like to belong somewhere, to feel the call of a place that bore the name of home.
When she reached her family’s townhouse, she offered Mr. Graham coin to get him home, but the Scottish driver’s cheeks turned ruddy as he protested.
“Nay. It was my pleasure to walk with you, Miss Hunt.” He bowed and waited at the foot of the stairs until she’d been shown inside. She waved goodbye to him before stepping into the house.
“Miss Hunt, I was told by Miss Portia that you had left for London,” Mr. Annis said as he ushered her inside.
“I believed I was to go, but it seems I am to stay.” She glanced around. “Is my sister at home?”
“No. Your father, sister, and aunt are attending a dinner party at Mr. Rochefort’s home.”
“Oh well, it is too late for me to join them. Please have Mrs. Kloester send a tray of cold cuts up to my bedchamber.”
“Yes, Miss Hunt.” She didn’t miss the shadow of worry on Mr. Annis’s face.
“Mr. Annis, is everything all right?”
“I . . .” The butler’s gaze turned to the hallway, as if he was expecting to see someone.
“Please, Mr. Annis.”
“I do not wish to speak ill of the master . . .”
Lydia placed a hand on his arm. “Of course not. Please, if it is important to you, you may confide in me without fear.”
Annis hesitated. “I cannot even begin to . . .” He straightened his shoulders and sighed. “You must come and see for yourself.” He led her upstairs to one of the empty bedchambers. He unlocked the door, which puzzled Lydia. They had never locked any doors in this house before.
Annis pushed the door open and stepped back. Lydia entered with no small amount of trepidation and gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth at the sight of a large form on the bed.
“Is that,” she whispered to the butler, “a man?”
“Yes, Miss Hunt. He was delivered here two hours ago by four rather questionable-looking men.”
“What? Why did they bring him here? Who is he?” She stepped deeper into the room, and the man stirred at the sound of her voice.
“They brought him here at your father’s direction.”
Lydia shuddered with sudden horror. “Papa did this?”
A rumbling growl came from the bed. “Let me go, foul wench!”
“Heavens! He’s awake.” Lydia rushed inside. “Annis, bring me a candle!” She stopped at the bedside. Annis handed her a candle, and she lifted it to the man’s face.
“Mr. Kincade!” she almost screamed in shock.
He moved, but it was sluggish, and she soon realized why as she moved the candle over his body. His hands and feet were bound by rope to the bedposts, trapping him with his legs and arms spread wide to each of the four posts of the bed.
“Christ!” She turned to Annis. “Fetch me a sharp knife, quick!” Horror and shame at what had befallen the man under her roof nearly robbed her of her breath.
The butler left, and Lydia leaned close to the Scotsman, hoping he could more easily see her face.
“What happened, Mr. Kincade?” she asked him.
“What happened? You ken very well what happened, lass. You willna take me to the altar. I’ll die first.”
“Altar?” Suddenly it all made sense. A pit of dread formed in her stomach, so deep that it felt bottomless. Lydia had never imagined that Portia or her father would resort to this.
“I’ll set you free at once,” she promised. “Try to rest.” She touched his face, and for a moment he leaned into the caress, but then his wild eyes flashed with rage, and he jerked his face away and groaned in pain.
The second Annis returned, Lydia carefully began to cut the ropes, but it seemed to take ages.
“Annis, have the coach brought round. I’ll take him to the doctor. He seems quite ill.”
The butler’s face was pale. “I believe it is the laudanum, miss. He’s been dosed heavily.”
“What? By whom?”
“First by the men who brought him here, then again either by your sister or your father. Otherwise, he would have come out of it by now.”
Lydia looked at Mr. Kincade, feeling helpless and ashamed at her family’s treatment of him, but he was asleep again, his breathing soft and his eyes closed. She worked even more frantically to cut him loose until the last bit of rope frayed and broke. She gave his shoulder a gentle shake, hoping it would rouse him.
“Mr. Kincade, please try to stand. You are free. I wish to take you to the doctor at once.”
He opened weary, bloodshot eyes and struggled to sit up. He kept his head in his palms, drawing in deep breaths. “I’m free?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, but I believe you should see a doctor.” Lydia set the knife down on the table by the bed as she sat beside him and pressed the back of one hand to his forehead.
“So gentle now,” he murmured. “Such a sweet touch . . .” He struggled for words. “But it doesna matter. It won’t change anything.”
In one swift motion, he swiped the knife from the bedside table and pointed it at her heart while he gripped her throat with his other hand. Barely able to do more than gasp, Lydia held still as the tip of the blade pricked her through her silk gown.
“You had me kidnapped, and now I shall do the same.” He stood from the bed on shaky legs but seemed in command of his body enough that he could spin her around and hold her captive against his chest. They stepped into the hall, and the knife now hovered at her throat as he held her in front of him like a shield.
Annis gasped at them from his position at the top of the stairs. “Miss Hunt!”
“You! Fetch her some clothes. I willna travel with a lass who looks unkempt,” Mr. Kincade barked harshly.
“But” Annis began.
“Please, Annis,” Lydia begged. The blade was resting against her skin. She feared that if she drew too deep a breath it would sink into her throat.
“Yes, miss.” The butler fled to do her bidding, and Brodie led her down the stairs, but it was slow progress given that he relied heavily on her for support.
“Please, Mr. Kincade, let me go.”
“After all you’ve done? No, I’ll not fall for any more acts of false sweetness. You’re as venomous and cunning as a viper, and I will have my revenge for it.”
“But I didn’t”
“Silence.” Brodie’s tone brooked no argument.
Lydia closed her mouth as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Annis held the small trunk and her valise, the ones Portia had packed for her supposed trip to London.
“You may tell Mr. Hunt that I have his daughter as my guest. And in exchange for his hospitality, I will send her back when I’m good and done with her.”
Annis looked like he wanted to intervene, but the butler was no match for the angry Scotsman. She shook her head, and Annis kept his distance as he carried the two pieces of luggage down the stairs to the waiting coach.
“Get inside.” Brodie smiled at Lydia as the driver rushed to open the door. Lydia stumbled into the waiting darkness of her family’s coach, all too aware of the blade still held at her back.
5
Lydia collapsed into the seat opposite Brodie Kincade as he closed the coach door, and her
heart raced as she tried not to panic. It felt as though her whole world was spinning. Her sister and father had done a terrible, wicked thing, and yet she had been the one abducted trying to undo their actions.
She jumped and gasped as the other door opened and Rafe Lennox ducked inside.
Brodie at first pointed his knife at the man, then stared, momentarily stunned. “Rafe?”
“Hello, old chap, thought you might need a hand with . . .” Rafe’s words trailed away as he caught sight of Lydia. He grinned as the coach started to move. “Well, hello there.”
Lydia shrank back as far away from the two men as she could get.
“I say, what’s that sweet kitten doing here?” Rafe asked Brodie.
“Sweet? No, no, no. She’s a viper, a clever one. She told her father that I compromised her and got her with child. The damned man kidnapped me. He thinks he can force me into marriage.”
“Oh! But that wasn’t me!” Lydia said quickly. “You mean my sister, Portia.”
“Lies. You have no sister.”
Brodie still held the knife, and Lydia couldn’t keep her eyes off it. Rafe seemed to take pity on her.
“Right, well . . . I don’t think the kitten here has claws enough to hurt you, man. So why not put the knife down? You’re not in your right head.”
A wild, feral look in Brodie’s eyes warned them both that he was not yet ready to be reasonable.
“She drugged me, offered me water, but then she . . .” Brodie shook his head, as though trying to rid himself of the memory.
Lydia covered her mouth with a hand, unable to speak. Portia had drugged him? Her sister and father had done unspeakable harm to this man. As soon as he calmed down, she would have a rational discussion and explain to him that she’d had no part in any of this nonsense.
“Hand me that ribbon, kitten. The one in your hair.” Rafe held out his hand to Lydia, who removed the ribbon and handed it to him. Rafe took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and turned to Brodie, holding up the two items.
“Should you, or shall I?” Rafe asked.