by Lauren Smith
“Where is he going?” Lydia asked.
“To see to the coach and horses. We’ll be resting the horses rather than changing them.”
“Oh.” She took a seat, and Brodie joined her, pulling her tight to him, his arm staying around her waist. “Mr. Kincade, please, do not”
“Hush. This is one of my rules. You are never to leave my side in a place such as this. And before you argue, ’tis not my pride but your safety I’m thinking of.”
Lydia did not disagree with that. The men around her eyed her with open interest. One rather frightening looking man even leered at her.
“Pretty piece of muslin you have there,” he said to Brodie. “How much for a quick taste?”
Brodie’s hand on her waist tightened. “She is, isn’t she? But I canna share her. She’s my wife, you ken. No good Scot ever shares his woman, especially his wife.”
If Lydia hadn’t already been controlling her expression, she would have jolted at Brodie calling her his wife. It was only for the sake of dissuading the interest of the other men, but it still startled her.
“Ah, some men aren’t so picky where coin is involved. If’n you change your mind, I’ll be here.” The man winked at Lydia.
She scooted closer to Brodie, a wave of panic making it hard to breathe. What if he changed his mind about her? What if he became upset with her and tossed her to dreadful men such as these? She had no money, no way to get home. She was not brave like Joanna, nor was she clever or inventive like Lysandra. She was a woman with little choice but to throw herself at the mercy of Brodie Kincade.
“You’re trembling,” Brodie whispered in her ear as two glasses of wine were brought over.
“Please, Mr. Kincade, do not give me to those men.” She expected him to laugh and say he might just do that if she didn’t please him. Instead, he seemed quite furious, but not with her.
“I wouldna do that. I’ll not let a man lay a hand on you, you ken? You’re safe with me, lass.”
She hated that lass sounded wonderful on his lips. She placed one of her hands on his. “You mean that? You swear it?”
“I do.” He nudged her glass of wine. “Now, drink up. I’ll have some food brought over.” He waved the serving maid down and ordered three bowls of soup. Rafe joined them a few minutes later.
“Not the safest crowd here tonight. Quite a number of ruffians outside.” Rafe said this calmly to Brodie, like he was reporting on the weather.
“Aye. Someone offered to pay me for time with Miss Hunt.”
“Oh, that’s famous,” Rafe chuckled. “Did you kill him?” He glanced around. “Should I ask where you hid the body?”
“I thought it best not to rip off any arms before we had our dinner.”
“Quite right. Wouldn’t do to spoil our appetite.” Rafe grinned at Lydia, as if she were somehow in on the joke.
When they had finished their meal, Brodie reached for her hand. “You had better get some rest. The horses will be fresh tomorrow morning.” He led her upstairs, stopping at one of the rooms and handing her the key Rafe had given him.
“Lock yourself in,” Brodie counseled.
“Oh, but I need a maid,” she whispered. “Could you send one of the young ladies from downstairs up to see me?”
“What for?” He looked her over critically.
“My dress. I cannot undo it on my own.”
“Is that all?” He shouldered his way into her room. She gasped in protest, but before she could stop him, he had turned her around and was unlacing her gown and stays. He did it far more gently this time than he had the night before, and for that she was grateful.
“There. Now, to bed with you,” he ordered.
Lydia waited until he had left the room before she removed her loosened gown and the stays, along with her stockings and slippers. She retrieved a dark-red shawl embroidered with green vines and draped it around her shoulders to stay warm. It was not overly chilly for a June evening, but after everything that had happened, she felt very small, very alone, and very cold.
What was her family up to? Surely they’d tracked Brodie’s movements back to Rafe’s home, but then what? Did her father even suspect that they’d left Bath? Would Cornelia be shouting the roof down about scandal and wildly fluttering her ostrich feather fan to keep from pretending to faint?
A smile pulled at Lydia’s lips. Hadn’t she longed for a change of pace? For her life to have a bit of adventure? Well, she certainly had it now. More than she could handle. Abduction by a Scottish scoundrel, scandalous passion with said scoundrel, and a wild ride to Scotland. Only what her fate would be once they reached Edinburgh she couldn’t know. That was part of the risk of having an adventure—one did not know if one would ever return.
She thought back to the book Park’s Travels in Africa with a heavy heart and wondered if her fate would match that of Mungo Park. He had traveled up the Niger River and drowned after trying to escape an attack from natives. All of his journals, his maps, and his observations during his second journey into the heart of Africa had washed away in the jungle river. Adventure had cost him his life, as well as that of his sons, who had dared to follow in his footsteps. Only his daughter had survived to continue his legacy, but she’d had no chance for adventure . . . being a woman. That was just as tragic in a different way.
“What will be my legacy?” she asked herself as she sat down on the edge of the bed.
With her reputation ripped to shreds and her virtue soon to follow, she would have nothing left on which to survive. A woman’s value in society lay in her virtue, cruel and unfair though that was. Lydia desperately wished the more fanciful articles that Lady Society penned in the Quizzing Glass Gazette would come true, that women would one day be given a chance to have value in trade or employment.
She had no head for figures or sciences like Lysandra, but she was diligent and organized. She understood everything about efficiency in one’s household. She had taken control of her father’s home and run it for the last five years, better even than most married women would have.
Lydia had a talent for hiring servants to certain positions and training others so they might improve their situations. The servants of the Hunt family were incredibly loyal because of that. They knew that Lydia valued them and, more importantly, that she sought to help them better themselves. She insisted that everyone, right down to the scullery maids, learn to read and write. Consequently, productivity in the Hunt household increased dramatically.
If for whatever reason she could not live at home with her family, perhaps she could offer those services to her friends. Yes. Joanna, Lysandra, and the others of her close-knit group of friends would not abandon her after this, yet they would not be allowed to publicly be seen spending time with her. But if they hired her to consult on the running of households in a more efficient manner, that would give her an opportunity to see her friends. Clinging to that small bit of hope, she smiled.
And then, unexpectedly, strains of music began to come from below, a jaunty beat that soon had her feet tapping. She was unable to resist, and in a matter of moments, she found herself standing up in her bare feet and beginning to dance.
Brodie rejoined his friend at the table. “Where’s your kitten?” Rafe asked.
“In bed.” Brodie waved for a pint of ale.
“I don’t suppose she realizes you will be joining her tonight?” Rafe’s blue eyes glinted with mischief.
“I dinna think so.” Brodie smiled. “She will be surprised later on.”
“Indeed she will.” Rafe watched a man hang a circular wooden board on the wall, and several men stood, pulling knives out as they formed a line. The men began to take turns throwing the knives, trying to hit the bull’s-eye that had been painted in the center.
“You bloody English canna throw to save your lives.” Brodie drank his ale, watching in amusement as more than one man threw his knife too limply or too widely. A few maids screeched and ducked behind the bar when a knife would bounce off
the board entirely, careening overhead.
“Care to show off your skills?” Rafe challenged.
“Aye. I’d be happy for the distraction.” Brodie finished his drink in one deep swallow and pulled a slim blade that had been tucked inside his boot.
“With that tiny thing?” Rafe eyed the blade. Its handle was flat rather than rounded, to better fit against Brodie’s leg in his boot.
“Size doesna matter. ’Tis how you use it,” Brodie said.
“Not to the ladies it doesn’t.” Rafe snorted, and a few of the men around them chuckled with him.
Brodie took his place far away from the target. He gripped the knife by the blade and closed his eyes, which caused some people close to its path to take cover. He threw the blade hard and fast.
There was a thud and a carousing cheer.
“Bravo, well done—for a Scot,” Rafe joked.
Brodie arched a brow. “For a Scot? Think you can do better, Sassenach?”
“Well, certainly.” Rafe’s smile did not waver. “Everyone knows my brother is a master boxer, but while he learned to box, I learned . . . more practical things.” Rafe snapped his fingers at a comely barmaid and held up a gold coin. “Love, please stand by the target and hold up this card by your face.” He handed her a playing card he’d plucked from one of the tables nearby.
The girl, trembling, did as Rafe asked.
“Good, now don’t move.” Rafe winked at the girl as he pulled a dagger out of his coat. He grinned widely at the crowd and then became very still and quiet. His eyes hardened as he pulled his arm back, then with lightning speed threw the blade. It sang in the air for a mere second before it was embedded into the wood just beside the girl’s cheek, right in the center of the playing card.
The girl drew in a deep breath and then crumpled to the floor in a dead faint, though completely unharmed.
“All right, I’ll give you that,” Brodie conceded. But throwing the blade was not a parlor trick for him. It was something he had learned out of necessity. He had caught rabbits to feed tenant farmers who were staying on their lands when his father raised taxes. A man only learned blade work like that of necessity. It made him wonder what had driven Rafe to learn such a thing.
Appreciating Rafe’s skill with a blade, a few men near them ordered a round of drinks for everyone. Someone started playing a tune on a fiddle, and more than one maid began to dance for the onlookers, who cheered and clapped. Though Brodie could hold his ale well enough, he was perhaps a little too relaxed by the time he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door to the room he would share with Lydia.
What he saw startled him speechless.
9
Lydia was dancing.
Dancing in nothing but her pale chemise that clung to her skin as she moved provocatively. She curtsied to an invisible partner and then began to sweep a pointed foot across the floor as she gently waved her arms in a slow, prancing sort of dance. She was exquisite. Her hair came down in flaxen waves that gleamed in the candlelight. What he wouldn’t give to be dancing with her right now.
A breath caught in his throat; Brodie was spellbound. She reminded him of the old stories of the fairy folk back in Scotland. Lydia could have passed for a princess. He leaned against the door, watching her with an ache in his chest that he had never felt before. It wasn’t lust. It was . . . something else, as if her very dance symbolized something he’d always wanted but could not put a name to.
She spun on one foot, her arms above her head like a fine ballerina, and his heart continued to pound with boyish excitement. He wanted to catch her before she disappeared back to her royal realm, hold her close and breathe in that soft scent of wildflowers as he pressed his lips to her hair. But he couldn’t. She was no fae creature. She was a woman, one who thought him a horrible scoundrel and feared him.
It was a sobering thought. Whether his anger was justified or not, he’d still let his temper get the better of him. Brock often feared becoming like their father, but Brodie knew better of his older brother. Brock had mastered self-control and was too compassionate to hurt anyone undeserving.
But not me, he thought. I am more like our father than either of my brothers.
Brodie was quick to judge, quick to throw a punch. He would never hurt a woman, not with his body, but with his words? He might. He had seen what harsh words could do. His father had never once laid a hand on their mother, but he had said unforgivable things to her. It had broken her heart, and she died so early in her young life, leaving four children to face their father’s wrath.
“Oh!” Lydia finally caught sight of Brodie in the doorway. She gasped and stumbled over a footrest she’d moved to one side. He moved fast, catching her in his arms and steadying her.
“Easy. I wouldna like it if you were to sprain a pretty ankle.”
She tried to pull free, and he let her so he could close the door. When he turned back to her, she was reaching for the shawl she had draped across the bed, red-faced.
“I didna mean to startle you, lass. You looked quite fetching, dancing as you were.”
Lydia’s blush deepened. “I did not know anyone would be watching or I wouldn’t have.”
He stepped closer, but carefully, so as not to spook her. “Why not?” He moved like he was stalking a deer.
“I . . . well, it’s rather silly to dance alone in one’s sleeping clothes, isn’t it?”
“There’s nothing silly about doing something that one loves. Name any activity you like, and someone somewhere will consider it a silly pursuit, even reading in one’s own library. So I pay no mind to what others consider silly, nor should you. Do you dance often?”
“Oh . . . some. I don’t get asked to dance much at balls. There are far prettier women, like Portia, and” She stopped short and recovered. “I prefer to dance alone in my chambers. It’s freeing.”
He hadn’t missed her comment about her sister. It had been delivered so easily, without thought. Was she truly that good a liar? He supposed she might have been dancing for the exact purpose of dropping such a casual remark, but such a level of deception seemed unbelievable. Still, he would have to find a way to draw more details from her, either to learn the truth or to catch her in a lie. But that could wait. Right now he wanted answers about her love of dancing.
“Why don’t men ask you to dance?”
“Why?” She stared at him. “I . . . I already said. I’m not in my first season, nor am I that beautiful.”
Brodie drifted another step closer. “Not beautiful?”
She rolled her eyes, as if it was obvious. “My chin is too pert, my nose too buttonlike, my mouth too thin, my hair without luster . . .”
Brodie chuckled and gently caught her chin, turning her face this way and that, pretending to examine her.
“Oh, aye. I see the flaws now. Flaws everywhere.”
Her soft blue eyes filled and began to glisten with tears.
“Your mouth is far too kissable. Men detest that. And your hair . . . it looks too silky. A wretched thing to have. And your throat, far too elegant and swanlike. I canna abide looking at it. Nor can I stand the soft flush of color on your cheeks or the way your eyes make a man think of warm spring days by a cool loch. Aye, you’re too bloody attractive for my tastes, lass. I like my women to be pinch-faced with a meanness in their eyes and a sourness to their rosebud mouths.”
Lydia started to laugh. “You really don’t want all those things, do you?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, lass. I certainly do not. Do you not ken sarcasm when you hear it? I canna speak for those bloody English fools, but you are beautiful. Why you should think otherwise is beyond me.”
He could see the disbelief still in her eyes. “I think I understand sarcasm better than you realize,” she said defiantly.
“I mean it, lass. Call yourself unattractive again and I will put you over my knee. A spanking would set that mind of yours to rights.”
She flushed deeply, much to his delight.
&
nbsp; “You can’t do that. I am a grown woman.”
He trailed his fingers down her throat, his lashes lowering as he gazed at her parted lips. “I can and I will, lass. And afterward you will beg me to take you to bed.”
“For striking me?” She arched a brow. “I’m quite certain I would not.”
“You misunderstand me. It wouldna hurt much. It would ease into a burn that would make you desire me.” Her breathing hitched, and he held in a laugh. “Now, I remember telling you to go to bed.”
“I’m sorry. I was dancing because the music downstairs was so lively.” She turned away from him to approach the bed. “Good night, Mr. Kincade. I hope you and Mr. Lennox sleep well.”
“Thank you, lass. I’m sure we will.” He began undressing, and when she noticed, she halted midway through pulling the covers back on the bed.
“But you aren’t sleeping here!”
“I certainly am.” He smirked recklessly at her, and she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“But there are three rooms. One for me, the valets, and then you and Mr. Lennox.”
“Oh, no. I’m not about to share a room with Rafe—not when I can share a bed with you.”
That fear sparked in her eyes again, and he knew it was genuine. “I’ll not touch you, lass, no matter how you tempt me with your dancing.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat before he continued. “But you and I will share a bed. After all the misery you put me through, I am owed a few nights of feeling your sweet curves pressed against my body.”
He tossed his waistcoat over a chair and pulled his long white shirt over his head.
“Now, in bed, Lydia,” he commanded, though he kept his tone gentle. He gripped her shawl and slowly drew it away from her body, before letting it fall to the floor. Then he scooped Lydia up in his arms and tossed her onto the bed. She gave a little gasp of surprise at being plopped on the bed, before she scrambled under the blankets.