Kathryn Smith (31 page)

I
t took several men and a great deal of strength, but with the aid of his friends and some of his tenants, Brave finally managed to pull the dead horse off Henry Westhaver. Then Phelps supervised as Brave and two others lifted the baronet onto a crude stretcher and loaded him into the back of Phelps’s wagon.

“Wrap him in the blankets,” Phelps instructed as they set him down. “And place those heated bricks I brought around him. That should keep him warm until we get him back to the farm.”

It was a miracle—depending on how one looked at it—that Sir Henry wasn’t already dead. He’d been trapped beneath that horse for two nights. Phelps believed the only thing that kept him from succumbing to the elements was the warmth of the horse’s carcass.

From what little Sir Henry had told them, Brave managed to deduce the baronet’s plan.

After their scuffle at Wyck’s End, Sir Henry had gone
home, only to feel his anger grow. Finally, he’d decided that if Brave didn’t want to hand over his wife, then he’d take her by force. Brave had no illusions about Westhaver’s intentions. The rifle proved he had planned to kill anyone who got in his way—specifically Rachel and Brave himself. Given the baronet’s tenuous hold on his temper, he no doubt would have shot Marion as well if she’d dare refuse him.

But Sir Henry had come after them drunk, riding hell-bent for leather across fields neither he nor his mount was used to navigating, especially in the dark. Westhaver tried to force the unfortunate horse into a jump and had botched it. The horse went down, breaking its neck and pinning Sir Henry beneath its carcass.

“Sometimes,” Brave remarked to one of his tenants as Phelps’s wagon departed with its injured cargo, “there’s no such thing as justice.”

The farmer nodded. “I know what you mean, m’lord. ’Tis a pity to see such a fine animal dead whilst that fat arse lives.”

“Well said, Jones.” Turning, Brave walked through the short grass toward where Gabriel and Julian waited with the horses. “Now, I must return to Wyck’s End. No doubt the magistrate will want to know what’s happened, just in case Westhaver doesn’t survive.”

The magistrate wasn’t the only one wanting answers. Rachel was waiting for him in the entrance hall when he came through the door.

“The servants say there was an accident. Is it true?” she demanded without so much as a hello. “Is Sir Henry dead?”

He supposed he couldn’t expect her to greet him with a kiss after his behavior these last two days. He wanted to explain to her, but he was in desperate need of clean clothes, especially since the magistrate would no doubt be paying a call as soon as he heard the news.

“No, he is not.” Handing his hat and greatcoat to
Reynolds, he made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to change before the magistrate gets here.”

“Magistrate?” Skirts hiked up above her ankles, Rachel gave chase. “The magistrate is coming here. Why?”

“Because your stepfather might very well die,” Brave replied, picking up speed. “And if that happens, I want everyone to know that his death was an accident and not murder.”

She struggled to keep up. “Why would anyone think it was murder?”

At the top of the stairs, Brave turned down the corridor toward his rooms. He slowed his pace. “Because he almost killed your mother and because he and I came to blows over it. And because you were seen by several of his servants in his house with a pistol. Anyone with any inkling of how Sir Henry treated your mother will wonder if either you or I finally decided to kill the bastard.”

He found little satisfaction in the way the blood ran from her face. Rachel had already paid more than amply for her rash attempt at confronting her stepfather, she didn’t need to know there might be more consequences.

“But it was an accident,” she insisted, her breath shallow as she hurried. “Meg said it was an accident.”

“So it was.” He stopped outside his bedroom door. “And I want the magistrate to know it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I wish to be in a more presentable state when he arrives.”

Rachel clasped her hands in front of her. “What are you going to tell him?”

“I’ve always found the truth to be most useful.” He opened the door.

“Even about our marriage?”

Pausing in the doorway, Brave turned to her. So that’s what this was all about. “That I plan to discuss as little as
possible—with the magistrate. You and I have much to talk about, however.”

She flushed, and a stab of guilt pierced Brave’s gut, but not for long.

“Of course,” she agreed. “You’ll find me after the magistrate leaves?”

Brave nodded. “I don’t think you could avoid it if you tried.”

And then, before he could do anything foolish, like fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, he turned and entered his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Brave didn’t have to worry about Rachel avoiding him. As soon as the magistrate left, she sent Reynolds with a message that she was waiting for him in her chamber. Would he please join her there at his earliest convenience?

Earliest convenience? With a snort, Brave crumpled her note in his hand and ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing convenient about their situation. Nothing at all.

And did he mind? Not really. Having a wife was new to him, but he couldn’t exactly say it was a bad thing, even given the circumstances. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was terrified that Rachel was going to confirm his suspicions about her motives for making love to him, he’d feel rather content being a husband.

He didn’t want his wife to make love with him out of gratitude. He wanted passion and desire and affection. And while he couldn’t deny that Rachel had wanted him, and had enjoyed it, he couldn’t help but question why.

He took the stairs in his usual two-at-a-time manner. There was no sense in putting this off any longer. Regardless of her answer, he would deal with it. Even if she had slept with him as a means of thanking him, it didn’t mean that she wouldn’t want to be with him again, and this time for the right reasons.

He’d barely knocked when the door to her chamber flew open.

“What did the magistrate say?”

Always right to the point was his Rachel, especially when the situation directly involved herself or her mother. She couldn’t stand not knowing exactly what was going on.

“And good day to you as well,” he replied smoothly, slipping past her into the room.

The door shut behind him. “I’m not sure you deserve such courtesy after the last few days.”

That stung, but it was true. How could he expect her to be cordial after he’d behaved so badly?

He turned to face her. With her arms folded across her magnificent bosom and a cool expression on her lovely face, she looked just like an Amazon warrior daring him to make the first strike.

“The magistrate is convinced Sir Henry’s accident was just that, an accident. He did say that your stepfather has some explaining to do as to why he was coming here with a rifle.”

She paled. “What if he decides to let Sir Henry take my mother back to Tullywood?”

Brave shook his head. “He won’t. Sir Henry was coming here to take her home, and he didn’t mind if he had to kill someone in the process. The magistrate is not likely to forget that.”

He shouldn’t have mentioned Sir Henry’s intent. If it was possible, Rachel’s face whitened even further, and Brave feared she might faint.

“He was going to kill her,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth.

In an instant, Brave crossed the pale green and gold carpet to where she stood. He curled his fingers around her shoulders. “We don’t know that for certain. It could have just as easily been me he was after.”

She didn’t seem relieved by his words.

“I should think you’d be glad to be rid of me,” he joked.

Some of the blood rushed back to her cheeks. “That’s odd. I was thinking you wanted to be rid of me.”

There was a deep hurt in her gaze, and Brave could kick himself for having treated her so poorly. Julian was right. She deserved better. She deserved honesty and trust.

“Why did you let me make love to you?” So much for being subtle.

He’d shocked her. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“I told you,” she replied, her tone confused. “Because I wanted to.”

“You told me you did it because you wanted to thank me for handling Sir Henry.”

There was no way she could have pretended the anger and surprise on her face. “I most certainly did not!”

“Rachel,” he said with conviction. “I heard you say it.”

“Then you heard wrong!” she cried, pulling free of his hold. “I would never had said such a thing because it’s not true!”

He wasn’t convinced. Miranda had said things she claimed not to have meant either, especially when she tried to convince him to propose again.

“Then you didn’t want to thank me?”

“Of course I did!” she cried, throwing her hands into the air. “But I can do that with words, Brave. I certainly wouldn’t do it by offering my virginity. It’s not that much of a prize.”

“I beg to differ.”

The words were spoken softly, not suggestively at all, but she still blushed.

“Besides,” she continued, “I didn’t just give you my virginity, I gave myself to you, and I certainly wouldn’t do that where a simple ‘thank you’ would have sufficed.”

Staring into her eyes, deep indigo with conviction, Brave believed her. She might not think much of her maidenhead,
but she thought something of herself, of her control and her freedom.

And then it hit him just how much of a gift she’d given him, and he was humbled by it.

And shamed. Ashamed of how he had reacted because his pride had been pricked, ashamed because he’d been too caught up in himself to see her true motives.

“Forgive me?” he asked, reaching out for her once again.

She came willingly into his embrace, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. “Yes.”

He smiled against her hair. Every man should be this blessed. “Show me.”

She laughed and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “You don’t want me to thank you with my body, but you’re willing to let me forgive you with it?”

“It’s not the same thing,” he teased.

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He pulled her closer, so that her hips pressed against his. “Thanking someone is an act of kindness. Making love shouldn’t be done out of kindness, but it can be done out of forgiveness. And you know what forgiveness is.”

She raised a brow. “What?”

He grinned. “Divine.”

She laughed. Not a demure giggle or a throaty chuckle, but a deep, full-blown laugh that filled the room and his heart.

Leaving his embrace, she moved toward the bed. Climbing onto the mattress, she turned to face him with an expression that made his blood run hot and his groin tighten in anticipation.

“Come get your forgiveness.”

She was his, finally his, and all the anger and anxiety of the past few days slid to the farthest recesses of his mind. Right now all that mattered was that she was there, offering herself to him, and he meant to take her.

And to give himself in return.

Toeing off his boots, he kicked them across the room and climbed onto the bed to face her.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the soft indent of her temple and trailing down the curve of her cheekbone to her stubborn jaw.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her chin quivered, and her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “Really?” Her voice was little more than a tiny whisper.

He answered her by grabbing her by the waist and hauling her against him. Lowering his head to hers, he kissed her with all the emotion he had to give her. Every overwhelming ounce of emotion and passion poured out of him as he slid his tongue between her teeth, tasting her, drinking her.

His fingers deftly unfastened the handful of buttons on the back of her gown. Drawing it up over her head, he tossed it across the room. Her shift followed, until finally she knelt before him in nothing but her stockings and garters.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers, even though he longed to look at her nakedness.

Her arms wound around his neck as he lowered them both to the mattress. She was soft and warm beneath him, and he wanted to melt into her so he could truly feel every inch of her at once.

He kissed her until he thought his lungs would burst. His tongue licked the hollows of her mouth, tasted the salty sweetness of her lips. Everything about her was a delicious shock to his senses and his body trembled with the force of his emotions.

Gasping for air, Brave stared down at her, into wide blue eyes that were dark with desire.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

She lifted her hips against his. Just the feel of her feminine heat caused his shaft to throb and thicken.

“Yes,” she replied. “This is what I want. I want you.”

He kissed her again, sliding his mouth down her jaw to the slender column of her throat. His teeth nipped at the delicate skin there, and he pressed his lips against the rapidly beating pulse in the hollow at the base of her neck, feeling the frantic throbbing of her excitement.

Lifting himself on one arm, Brave lifted the other hand to her breast, watching her skin flush softly as he brushed his thumb across one taut nipple.

“Do you like that?” he asked, stroking the puckered pink bud until her breathing quickened and her hips began to move beneath his.

“Yes,” she answered, pushing against his hand. “I like it very much.”

Her reply sent him into full arousal, both physically and emotionally. Nothing else mattered but her and joining himself with her.

His erection strained painfully against the confines of his trousers as he lowered his mouth to her nipple. Greedily, he sucked at her, drawing her deep into his mouth until her soft moans became sharp cries and her fingernails dug into his shoulders through his shirt. He moved to the other breast.

Rachel’s hands slid down his back to his waist, her fingers clawing at his shirt until she succeeded in pulling it free of his trousers. “Off,” she demanded, groaning as he tongued her nipple with ruthless abandon. “Take it off.”