Kathryn Smith (25 page)

Yawning, she stretched her legs out in front of her and sat up. The fire in the hearth was low and she shivered as the chilly morning air seeped through her clothes. Pulling a coverlet around her shoulders to ward off the cold, she leapt out of bed and ran across the carpet to pull the bell for Meg, the abigail Brave had hired for her.

She needed a bath. After she dressed, she’d go down to breakfast and ask Brave—how she was going to face him, she wasn’t sure—if Dr. Phelps would be coming by to check on her mother that morning. Rachel had a few questions she wanted to ask him.

A few minutes later Meg arrived, looking far more chip
per than anyone had a right to first thing in the morning. And shortly after that, there was a steaming tub waiting for Rachel in front of a blazing fire in the dressing room adjoining her chamber.

Rachel’s stomach growled as Meg brushed her hair. She’d missed dinner the night before and was surprisingly hungry. She wondered if she had Brave to thank for that as well. He’d certainly awakened a hunger within her, but she wasn’t sure it was for food.

Blushing, she met the maid’s questioning gaze as she rose to her feet and allowed her to unfasten the back of her gown.

“Meg, would you be so good as to bring me a cup of chocolate when you have a moment? I should like to drink it in the bath.”

“Certainly, my lady,” the young woman replied with a curtsy as she left the room.

Alone in the quiet warmth of the dressing room, Rachel stepped naked into the tub, sighing as the hot, fragrant water closed around her.

Stretching her legs out as far as they would go, she leaned back against the warmed copper and closed her eyes in relaxed bliss. She was up to her neck in hot, soapy water and dangerously close to falling asleep again when a knock sounded on the dressing-room door.

“Come in,” she called. Then when the door opened, “Just put it on the table beside the tub, Meg, thank you.”

“Put what on the table?”

Rachel jumped at the sound of Brave’s voice, sloshing water over the sides of the tub. Instinctively, her arms crossed her chest.

“Brave, what are you doing here?”

His footsteps were heavy behind her, each slow, deliberate stride bringing him closer and closer. Her nipples tightened. Traitors.

“I came up to tell you that Phelps sent word that he will be
coming to look in on your mother later this morning, but now that I’m here—” The footsteps stopped. She felt his breath hot against her neck. “I would be remiss in my husbandly duties if I didn’t wash your back.”

Rachel shivered. The tremors raised gooseflesh on her arms and shoulders and spiraled down to her breasts and between her legs. How did he do this to her without so much as a touch?

He moved around to the front of the tub like a tomcat stalking a mouse. When he turned to look at her, Rachel knew she was that mouse.

She kept her gaze glued to him as he removed his coat. He tossed the dark green superfine onto a nearby chaise. His amber waistcoat followed. The linen of his shirt pulled across his incredibly wide shoulders as he rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were long and well-defined, the muscles clear beneath the dusting of golden hair.

He came toward her, dropping to one knee beside the tub. Not seeming to be able to find her voice, Rachel stared at him, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs.

Brave took the washcloth from the side of the tub. “Where’s the soap?”

In her left hand. In order to give it to him, she was going to have to take her arm away from her breasts, revealing more of herself to him.

What difference did it make? He’d already seen her breasts. He’d kissed them, for heaven’s sake! Yet, the fact that she was naked while he was fully clothed made her feel infinitely more vulnerable than she had on any other occasion.

She handed him the soap. As if sensing her hesitancy, Brave kept his gaze locked with hers, never once glancing at her breasts. How did he always know just what to do?

“Lean forward.”

She did, hugging her knees to her chest. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to,” he replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he soaped the cloth until it foamed with lather. “Besides, when was the last time you had someone scrub your back?”

Longer than she cared to admit. Her mother had done it for her a few months ago when she was sick, but other than that, she always had to stretch and strain to do it herself.

And, of course, it had a completely different effect on her when her husband did it.

The cloth was cool as Brave slapped it against her skin, but it felt so good as he rubbed it along her back that Rachel didn’t care.

“Mmm.” Every stroke just served to relax her even more. If he didn’t stop soon, she really was going to fall asleep.

He rinsed the soap away with handfuls of hot water. “All done.” His lips brushed her shoulder, nipped at her neck. “Want me to do your front as well?”

“Meg will be back soon…” The protest died on her lips as he slid one hand beneath the water to cup her breast. He gave her nipple a light pinch. She gasped.

“I spent the entire night thinking about you.” His voice was low against her ear as his fingers toyed with her tightened flesh. “I couldn’t stop thinking about touching you, feeling you respond to me.”

Like she was responding to him now. One touch and some seductive words and a familiar throbbing started between her legs. This was madness. It had to be wrong. Nothing that felt so good could possibly be right.

“I keep picturing you with your head thrown back, moaning as you came.” He moved his hand to her other breast, teasing the nipple until it puckered almost painfully. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

“You shouldn’t say such things.” Even as she spoke, shivers of desire shook her. His words excited her, aroused
her, and she wanted him to make her feel like he had the day before. She craved that head-spinning pleasure. It would be so easy just to lean back and let him do whatever he wanted to her.

“I want to touch you all over,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her pathetic admonishment. “I want to explore every part of you.” His lips brushed her jaw. “And then I want to put my mouth everywhere my hands have been.”

Rachel’s eyes flew open. “Everywhere?” Surely not…

“Everywhere.” She could feel his smile against her cheek. “What I can do with my fingers I can do even better with my tongue.”

It was on the tip of
her
tongue to invite him into the tub to test that theory her when another knock came, this time from her bedroom.

“It’s Meg!” she whispered. “You have to get out!”

He jumped to his feet and snatched up his discarded clothing. “We’ll finish this later,” he promised with a hard kiss on the lips and a saucy grin. “Too bad Phelps is coming by, or I’d just wait for you in my chamber.”

He was going to leave her there, frustrated and wanting. Unless she told him otherwise, he wasn’t going to do anything to relieve the ache between her legs or the straining bulge in the front of his trousers. He was keeping his word that the actual consummation of their marriage would be up to her. His last remark was just a reminder that she would have to go to him.

He’d torture her, tease her, but he wasn’t going to give her what they both wanted. It would be very easy for her to hate him at that moment if she didn’t want him so badly.

“Get out,” she muttered, completely petulant and not caring if he noticed.

He chuckled—a joyous sound that both thrilled and angered her. He was absolutely breathtaking when he laughed. She just wished it wasn’t at her blasted expense!

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, Rachel. I’m anxious to hear you scream again.”

She flushed right to the roots of her hair.

Chuckling, Brave slipped back through the connecting door to his room just as Rachel called for Meg to enter. If the maid wondered why her mistress had such a scowl on her face sitting alone in her bath, she had the good sense not to ask.

“Your mother is an incredible woman.”

Rachel smiled at Dr. Phelps as they descended the stairs side by side. “I know. Thank you so much for taking care of her, Dr. Phelps. I should never have been able to do it on my own.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Lady Braven. I’m glad to be of service. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to deal with physical injuries like your mother’s. I hope never to have to see the like again.” The doctor’s tone was somber.

“I hope you never have to again either, Dr. Phelps,” Rachel replied, as they stepped off of the stairs and rounded the corner toward Brave’s study. “Nevertheless, I do appreciate your taking time away from your busy practice to come here.”

Dr. Phelps stopped. “You know about my practice?”

“Er, yes.” Rachel was a little confused. Why would he sound so surprised. Weren’t all physicians kept fairly busy? “Lady Braven told me you tended to the earl.” The late earl, she meant to say, but of course Dr. Phelps would know that.

“She did?” The doctor began walking again.

“Yes.” Again, she didn’t understand why he seemed so surprised. “Do the majority of your patients come to you or do you spend your days visiting patients at their homes?”

Dr. Phelps still seemed quite nonplussed. “Both actually. And of course, there are my extended-care patients, who often stay at the house with me.”

What an inventive idea! Patients would be able to receive round-the-clock medical care. Dr. Phelps must love his work very much to devote so much time to it.

“You’re a good man, Dr. Phelps,” Rachel said, as they entered the study.

“Thank you, Lady Braven. I must confess I’m a little surprised. Ladies of your station don’t normally express much of an interest in medicine of the mind, but I suppose given your circumstances…”

Circumstances? What the devil was he talking about? “Medicine of the mind?”

Phelps’s pale cheeks flushed. “I beg your pardon. I should explain. I use the term to describe anyone with some kind of sickness of the mind, be it delusions or an irrational fear, or simple brain fever. Of course, as you know, Lord Braven’s condition is neither.”

“Of course not,” Rachel replied, her voice hollow. Brave’s condition? This was why he was seeing Phelps, because he was mad?

No, not mad. Sad, solemn and perhaps a little antisocial, but Brave was not mad. There was nothing in this world short of him foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues that could convince Rachel that her husband was a lunatic.

She should stop him before he told her anything else. She’d wanted to know what was wrong with Brave, but she was certain this was the kind of thing he wouldn’t want her knowing—no wonder he’d gotten so upset before. But what if there was something she could do?

“How would you describe Brave’s condition, Dr. Phelps?” Keeping her voice even, Rachel closed the door behind them so servants walking past—or Brave himself when he arrived—wouldn’t hear.

“Extreme guilt, Lady Braven. His inability to keep Miranda Rexley from committing suicide, despite it being completely out of his control, resulted in a pattern of destructive
behavior that eventually gave way to a feeling of responsibility.” He smiled. “But I think his marriage to you is putting an end to all that.”

“Oh?” Rachel was too stunned to speak. So Miranda Rexley’s death did have something to do with his perpetual sadness! She should be pleased that she’d ferreted out the root of Brave’s withdrawal, but instead all she could think of was how much he must have loved Julian’s sister to cling to her memory like he did.

Before Dr. Phelps could elaborate further, the door opened. Brave stood there with a sly smile on his face.

“Good morning, Phelps. Ah, Lady Braven. I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.”

Rachel blushed at the memories and sensations his words conjured. Averting her eyes so he couldn’t see the guilt and the desire there, she mumbled something vaguely coherent in reply.

“I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your business.” Head bowed, she bolted for the door.

“You know where to find me if you need me,” Brave called after her.

The sensual promise in his voice sent a shiver down Rachel’s spine at the same time her heart lurched in apprehension. She nodded in his direction, and his answering chuckle echoed in her ears.

She closed the door behind her and collapsed against the wall, one hand pressed against her pounding heart. What was she going to do? She had to tell him that she knew. He wouldn’t be pleased, but he would be even angrier if she didn’t confess, and he found out some other way. Phelps might even mention it to him during their conversation.

Phelps had said he hoped that she might help Brave recover from his guilt. After all Brave had done for her, she was honor-bound, not to mention bound by her feelings, to
do the same for him. But first, she had to know the whole story.

She turned down the hall toward her mother-in-law’s favorite drawing room, the one in which Brave had offered her his name and protection. She had jumped at his offer, as usual acting without consider the consequences. Still, she didn’t regret it. The only regret she had was that Brave hadn’t trusted her as wholly as she had trusted him. Perhaps there was still time to fix all that.

Or she could just walk away, mind her own business, and deal with his anger with feigned disinterestedness. Sir Henry would no doubt be coming for her mother soon, and she had to be prepared to face him. She couldn’t afford to invest more of herself into this sham of a marriage. If she did, she was in danger of forgetting just how much of a sham it was. If Brave opened his soul to her, there would be no way she could just walk away in the end.

She entered the drawing room. Annabelle looked up from her needlework with a smile that faded when she saw the expression on Rachel’s face.

“My dear, Rachel, whatever is the matter?”

Shutting the door, Rachel faced her mother-in-law with an uneasy determination. “I want to know everything about Miranda Rexley. Now.”

“I
have something I’d like for you to take a look at, Lord Braven.”

Swirling the brandy in his glass, Brave fought the urge to smile. Of course Phelps had something for him to look at! The man never called at Wyck’s End without putting him through some new kind of test or procedure. Usually the physician’s tenacity annoyed him, but today, Brave was too pleased with how things were going with Rachel to let Phelps get to him.

“What is it?” He asked, reaching out for the papers Phelps offered him.

“Take a look.”

I don’t believe it.” Brave remarked a few moments later as he sifted through the sheets. “What does it mean?”

He was looking at the notes Phelps had taken during their last visit, when they’d discussed Miranda, compared to those he’d taken almost a year earlier.

“It means that Miranda is no longer the problem,” Phelps replied. “You are.”

Again, Brave read the paper, his gaze freezing on those answers that seemed to jump off the page at him.

“When you think of Miranda now, how do you see her?”

A year ago he’d described her as
“The most beautiful, selfless girl in the world.”
A few days ago his response had been,
“Willful, a little spoiled. Pretty.”

“Describe your feelings for her.”

“She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
followed by,
“I suppose I fancied myself in love with her.”

“And how do you feel about the fact that she didn’t accept your help, that she didn’t love you as you wanted?”

“How do you think I feel?”
Brave almost smiled at his own melodramatic response until he read what he’d said during that last session.
“I feel guilt.”

That was it? He’d wanted to die when Miranda killed herself, and now all he could say was that he felt guilty? Had his feelings for her really been so shallow? Or was he just finally seeing things as they really were? Miranda hadn’t loved him, and he hadn’t truly loved her.

He held up the papers. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m responsible for her death.” Nothing could change that.

Phelps gave a decided Gallic shrug. “Doesn’t it? I think it does. For reasons only you can know you’ve clung to the belief that her death was all your fault. You’ve continued to punish yourself.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, Brave frowned. “Because it’s my fault.”

Phelps stuffed the papers into his satchel and closed it with a decided
click.
“That, my dear boy, is something only you know for certain. I believe if you take a good long, honest look at the situation, you’ll eventually see the truth.”

“I know what happened, Phelps. I know the truth.” Brave sipped his brandy, silently daring the doctor to disagree.

But Phelps only smiled that infuriating smile of his. “I’m sure you do, my lord, but sometimes a new perspective offers
up a whole new truth.” He hoisted the satchel off the table. “I must tell you that I think confiding in your wife was one of the best courses of action you could have taken.”

Brave stilled. His fingers tightened on the snifter until his knuckles were white and his arm shook. Everything around him stopped except for the incessant, thunderous pounding of his heart.

“What do you mean, confiding in my wife? My wife doesn’t know anything about this.”

Phelps’s already pale face whitened even more. “B-but she does. She and I were talking about it when you came in.”

Blood roared in Brave’s ears. Rachel knew? How the hell had she found out? He’d told her it didn’t concern her. He should have known better than to say such a thing to a woman. It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Where was she now? She’d had almost a full hour to digest the information. Was she plotting to leave and take her poor battered mother somewhere safe—somewhere away from her murderer husband? Or perhaps she was waiting just outside the door with a dueling pistol planning to put a bullet through him as she had Sir Henry? Or maybe she was waiting for him to explain things to her before she left him or tried to kill him.

Well, he thought, anger churning inside him, he wasn’t about to disappoint her. Not that he probably hadn’t already.

“We’re done here, Phelps. In fact, I think this might very well be our last appointment. You will of course continue to treat Lady Marion.” Regardless of whether or not Rachel wanted to leave him, he wasn’t about to allow her to take her poor mother anywhere. Not until she recovered.

Phelps nodded absently, as though he realized it had been an order rather than a question.

“Good.” Turning on his heel, Brave stomped to the door. “Pray excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

And he had a fairly good idea just where that business would be waiting for him. Rachel wasn’t the type to wait on safe ground. She’d march right into the enemy camp and start shooting. She was either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.

He took the stairs two at a time and ran down the corridor to his chamber. Emotions raged deep within him—fear, anger, relief. Fear of how Rachel would react to the truth. Anger that she hadn’t left well enough alone. And relief. Relief that he didn’t have to worry about her finding out anymore.

The door to his rooms swung open, hitting the wall with a loud thud.

She was standing by his bed.

The door swung shut behind him. “How long have you known?” There was little point in beating around the bush.

To her credit, she didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Since I spoke to Dr. Phelps earlier.”

That was it? “Phelps was under the impression that you already knew.”

Clasping her hands in front of her, Rachel nodded. “Yes. I’m not certain how he made that assumption, but he did seem to think you had already told me.”

“And, of course, you didn’t bother to correct him.” He kept his expression carefully blank. He had to keep his emotions under tight control; otherwise, he was going to unleash a year’s worth of repression on her, and that would not be pretty.

Her chin came up a notch. “No. I wanted to know what was wrong with you.”

As he moved toward her, Brave held his arms out at his sides. “And what do you think now that you know?” He wanted to hear her tell him she pitied him. It would make his humiliation complete.

“I think I would like to kick you in the buttocks, Lord Braven.”

Which was more of a shock, that she wanted to kick him, or her use of his title?

“You want to kick me?”

“Somebody needs to. In fact, someone should have done it a long time ago.”

Forget humiliation, Brave was just plain mad. How dare she talk to him like that! He’d gone out of his way to offer his assistance to her and her mother—

“And since everyone seems to think that I can ‘cure’ you,” she said, stepping forward, “I think the pleasure might as well fall to me.”

Brave stopped in the middle of the room, his blood cold. How did she know about that? He hadn’t told anyone but Gabriel and Julian about his reasons for marrying Rachel.

“How are you supposed to cure me?”

This time she advanced on him. “I’m not quite clear on that myself. I think they believe we’re a love match, Brave, or that we will be.” There was sadness in her eyes as she gazed at him. “And you know what they say about love. It conquers all.”

He didn’t know what surprised him more—that she could paraphrase Virgil, or that she she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“Maybe it does,” he heard himself reply.

She met his gaze squarely. There was nothing but darkness in her eyes. “It didn’t help you much where Miranda was concerned, did it?”

The blood rushed from his face as her point hit home. So she didn’t just know that he’d been under Phelps’s care, she also knew why.

“No.” He looked away, unwilling to face whatever condemnation waited in her countenance. “It didn’t.”

Standing directly before him, only inches of space between their bodies, Rachel reached toward him. Brave
braced himself for a slap or a punch—something that would prove just how much he had let her down.

“Belinda told me about her first. I forced your mother to tell me about her this morning.” The lightest of caresses brushed his cheek. “Do you want to talk about her?”

Brave jumped at the touch as well as the question. Slowly, he turned his head toward her. “I would have thought you’d know everything, given how many people you’ve spoken to.” He sounded defensive, childish.

“I know that you proposed and were refused. I know she took her own life and I know…that you still grieve her.”

Grieving. Was that what he was doing? Weren’t you supposed to miss the person for that?

Something shriveled inside him. His conscience maybe. He was completely numb except for the burning need to tell her anything she wanted to know. He’d risk her anger and her disappointment if only she wouldn’t look at him as though she understood. There was no way in hell she could possibly understand. She didn’t have blood on her hands.

“What would you like to know?”

He watched as she walked away from him, toward the bed. His gut tightened with remorse. He couldn’t help but feel their relationship was about to change, and he had liked the way it had been going before she found out about Miranda.

“Whatever you’d like to tell me,” she replied, seating herself on the bottom corner of the mattress. Her expression was blank. “I confess to having an unnatural curiosity about the woman you would have chosen for your bride.”

Meaning he hadn’t chosen Rachel herself. Was it possible she was a little jealous? God, she had no reason to be. There was no comparison between her and Miranda.

“She must have been a fascinating woman.”

She
was
jealous.

“Not really,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest.
“Not really a woman, that is. Miranda always seemed like more of a girl.” A very young girl, now that he thought of it, although she and Rachel would have been of an age had Miranda lived.

“But…you loved her.”

Brave smiled at the confusion in her tone. “Yes, I suppose I did.” He crossed the room to the window, his boots silent on the carpet. Staring out at the countryside, Brave watched the rain stream down from the heavens, felt the cold and the damp through the thin layer of glass. It was a fitting day to dredge up the past.

“I’ve always been a bit of a brooding character,” he admitted. It was easy to do so when he didn’t have to look at her face. “I suppose I thought it made me more romantic, more appealing to the ladies.” He laughed self-consciously.

“I don’t remember you like that,” came Rachel’s voice from far behind him.

He didn’t turn. “I never tried to seduce you.”

Silence.

“I’d known Miranda for years. I watched her grow into a beautiful young woman, and I wanted her.” If he closed his eyes, he could picture her elegant beauty in his head. He kept his eyes open.

“As Julian’s sister, she was the perfect candidate for the future Countess Braven. It never occurred to me that she might have different plans.” No, the idea of being refused had never crossed his mind. He’d rarely been refused anything in his life; why should the wife he wanted be any different?

“And those were?” Rachel prompted.

Brave started. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen silent. “Not to marry me, I can assure you. She refused my proposal without hesitation.”

“She was in love with someone else. Belinda said he worked for her father.”

He chuckled mockingly. “I should have known that would be one aspect of the story you would be certain to be told.” He glanced over his shoulder at the woman on his bed. She waited expectantly for him to continue.

With a bitter smile, Brave turned back to the window. “Miranda had fallen in love with one of the grooms in her father’s stables. The blackguard claimed to love her as well. He bedded her and got her with child.” He waited for his wife’s outraged gasp. There wasn’t one.

“When Miranda told him of her condition, he refused to marry her. I think he must have been rather cruel about it because she was in a state of shock when she came running back to me.”

“She came back to you?”

Ah, here it was. Closing his eyes, Brave nodded, filled with a perverse sense of satisfaction. No one had told her this part. How could they? No one but Gabriel and Julian knew.

If this little tidbit of information didn’t ruin any illusions his wife might have about him, nothing would. And although disillusioning her was the last thing he wanted to do, he couldn’t help but want to see her face when he did it. Her reaction would be his validation.

Turning, he rested his shoulder against the window frame. Their gazes locked. “Yes. She came back. She came back and begged me to help her. To marry her. I refused.”

Rachel stared at him, her expression still carefully guarded. “And then she killed herself.”

Why wasn’t she revolted? “Yes. She drowned herself when I refused to marry her. I was angry and hurt, and I wanted to punish her.”

Rising from the bed, Rachel skirted around the footboard to move toward him. “And you were so overwhelmed by grief that you almost destroyed yourself until your friends and family urged you to enter into Dr. Phelps’s care.”

He nodded.

“And you’ve been burdened by guilt ever since.”

What the devil was wrong with her? Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said? “Of course I have been. She killed herself because of me.”

Shaking her head, Rachel looked away with a rueful smile. “I would have thought you’d be smarter than that.”

What the—? Before Brave could open his mouth, she turned her gaze back to him, pinning him with the multitude of emotions there. Anger, sadness, even a glimmer of amusement, but there was no disappointment.

“Does she have anything to do with why you married me?”

Brave froze. He should have known this would follow. Rachel wasn’t stupid. “What do you mean?”

Vulnerability, naked and raw shone in her eyes. “You saved me from dying the same way Miranda did. You married me as you wanted to marry her. Am I…am I merely a replacement for a woman you couldn’t have?”