Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
He’d been a damned fool! He’d only gone after her to flirt and tease—she got so adorably flustered and angry when he did, and then she’d been sitting there in a pile of clothing, her hair falling down her shoulders, looking at him with that mixture of anger and longing.
He wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready for the upheaval she’d brought to his life, not ready to mend his wicked ways. He was only twenty-six—far too young to settle down. But settle down he would, into respectable married life, because he simply could not imagine living without her.
She was going to take some convincing. He had their extraordinary sexual connection on his side, though he suspected she might not know how rare it was.
She definitely hadn’t been expecting her own reaction to things, which of course made him impossibly smug.
She was an experienced woman, but not that experienced—there were so many things he could teach her.
He wanted to go back upstairs and finish what he started, he wanted to carry her off to someplace with a warm bed and keep her there for weeks.
Instead, he had to behave himself and convince her to marry him.
He had no illusions she’d be dazzled by his money and position, by the gloriously tawdry Rohan family.
She was a sensible woman, but not sensible enough to change her life from drudgery—with Annis for a mistress he was sure it had been drudgery—to one of luxury and privilege.
No, the practical Mrs. Jenny Lancaster would only marry for love. Fortunately, she was in love with him. She just might not know it yet, though last night had been a good start. She’d know it soon enough.
“You’re up early,” his mother said when he wandered into the breakfast room. It was otherwise deserted, and he gave a mental groan.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said briefly. He couldn’t eat either—this damned love business was messing with everything.
“I imagine not,” Miranda said smugly. “Love is most inconvenient, isn’t it?”
He gave her a sour look. “What makes you so blasted omniscient? What if I told you I had a bad case of wind?”
“It can feel like that. You forget that I know you, better than anyone. I saw you take one look at her and fall, though you’ve certainly been fighting it manfully.
And I do mean manfully. Men are so determinedly silly when it comes to accepting the fact that they’ve fallen in love.
I suppose you’re going to tell me you have no feelings for her. ”
“I intend to marry her.”
If he’d hoped to surprise her, he’d failed. She simply nodded. “Your father will be pleased. He likes her.”
“I don’t give a damn whether he likes her or not, I’m marrying her.”
“And she’s agreed?” she asked coolly.
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But I’ll convince her.”
“May I suggest you don’t try to bully her. She’s an independent-minded female and she wouldn’t respond well to it.”
“I intend to woo her like some lovesick moonling. I’ll write her poems…”
“Oh, God, no. Your poetry is atrocious.”
“That was ten years ago,” he said stiffly.
“It would take more than ten years to improve. Just be nice to the girl.”
“I am nice,” he said, affronted.
“Since when?”
“I’m going for a ride.” He headed for the door.
“But you just fell yesterday. I don’t think you should ride until your father gets to the bottom of why the strap broke. He assured me nothing like that would ever happen in his stables.”
“Straps break, even in the Scorpion’s sainted stables. And I’ll be fine.”
“You haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her shock was palpable. “Now I know you’re in love. You’ve never turned down a meal in your life.”
His response was muttered—his mother was openminded, but even she wouldn’t like that word.
“I hope you’re in a better mood when you come back,” she said.
“If I come back. Maybe I’ll just keep riding and forget all about this love nonsense.”
“Even you aren’t that self-destructive. I’ll work on her while you’re gone,” his mother said.
“You’ll keep away from her,” he shot back. “I can do my own wooing.”
She sighed. “You’re going to make a muddle of it. I need grandchildren.”
“Willem is only four. Raise your own children first.”
“I like babies.”
He left without another word.
The halls were deserted that early in the morning.
He’d only been able to sleep a few hours, and he was tired and edgy and determined.
The only way to work off his energy was to go for a fast ride, though this time, he was going to check the straps himself.
There’d been too many accidents of late, and the last thing he could afford was another—
The blow came from out of nowhere. He tried to turn, to catch his attacker, but another followed, and he was falling, falling into blackness, until he was gone.
“You must have slept well last night,” Horry said as she pulled on the diaphanous dress made for a fairy princess. It was sadly crushed, but there was time enough to see it pressed before the night’s performance.
Jenny jerked, startled. “What makes you say that?” she demanded suspiciously. She’d slept a total of two hours, and she was a mass of conflicted feelings. Had Hortensia someone how discovered what had happened last night?
“You’re positively glowing,” came the reply, and Jenny’s cheeks burned.
“Yes, you are,” said Penelope, eyeing her critically. “What happened?”
“What makes you think anything happened?” she said stiffly.
“I think Brat kissed her,” Horry said. “She has that just-kissed look.”
Jenny choked. She had that just-something look, all right, but it was a great deal more carnal than that. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then why are you blushing?” Penelope persisted.
“If you want to have gowns for tonight, you’ll cease this topic of conversation,” she said.
“My, aren’t you sensitive today! I think we’re closer to the truth than I realized,” Penelope said.
“And you might have a problem without an accompanist,” Jenny continued, fluffing Horry’s skirts around her.
“For someone with such a glowing countenance, you’re awfully bad-tempered,” Horry observed.
“I’ve warned you…”
“Don’t worry about it, twin,” Penelope said. “Brat promised to play Little John in the children’s skit. We can tell what’s going on when she sees him. If they’re all mushy, then we’ll know we were right.”
It would have been lovely to share love-struck looks with Brat, Jenny thought, except she was the only one who was unfortunately in love. But when it became time for the younger ones to practice their skit there was no sign of Brat.
Jenny was filled with anger and relief. She’d been terrified to see him again, uncertain how to behave, but the fact that he would abandon those who were counting on him simply because he didn’t want to face her was infuriating.
Fortunately, their Uncle Brandon stepped in, and everyone carried on as usual, but as the day lengthened and there was no sign of Brat, her stomach grew tighter.
He'd run away, rather than face her again, she knew it. It was just as well—she didn’t want to face him either.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve—if she couldn’t persuade the Rohans to convey her to the nearest inn beforehand, it should be a fairly simple matter afterward.
And she wouldn’t ever have to face Brat again.
She touched her stomach surreptitiously.
The baby was safe there, for the next nine months, and she’d have plenty of time to figure out what she was going to do.
Aunt Dorothy would help her—she’d always been a believer in the rights of women to live their own lives, and she’d been begging her to stay with her.
It would all work out. And if part of her would always long for a certain bad boy, she’d survive.
“You’re a hard man to kill.”
Brat surfaced from the darkness, his head pounding, and looked around him. He was in some sort of outbuilding, and it was icy cold. He shifted, trying to pull himself into a sitting position on the hard ground, and looked at the man who held a gun on him.
He was dressed as one of the stablemen, but Brat didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was one of his father’s servants. This wasn’t a countryman—he had the dark, feral face of a city dweller, and a killer.
“Seems to me you haven’t tried very hard,” he answered, his voice a little slow and rough. “If I were trying to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”
The man’s smile exposed dark, broken teeth. “It’s harder than you’d think, killing a person. You moved at the last minute when I shot at you, and the girth broke when you were riding on level ground, not when you jumped.”
“So why are we having this conversation?” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, seemingly at ease, but inside, everything was tense.
Despite the man’s incompetence, he wasn’t someone to underestimate, and he was the one holding the gun.
“Why don’t you just shoot me and get it over with instead of talking about it? ”
“In an awful hurry, are you?” the man sneered. “Happens a gun is loud, and you’re too bloody big to drag far from the main house. I shoot you now and everyone would be swarming the place before I had a chance to escape.”
Brat shook his head, disappointed in his poor-spirited assassin. “Then why don’t you cut my throat? Much quieter.”
“I’m not getting within reach of you,” the man said, affronted. “What kind of fool do you think I am?”
“A fairly big one. Seems to me you’ve got a problem—how do you intend to solve it?”
“After the household goes to bed, I’ll walk you far enough away from the house that they won’t hear the gun. Someone will find your body the next day.”
“And why would I do that if you’re just going to kill me? Seems to me it makes more sense to stay put.”
“Because I’ll shoot you and take my chances,” the man shot back.
“Do you have any particular reason to want to kill me? Or is this just something you do every now and then?” Brat leaned back against the wall, cursing his pounding head.
“It’s for money, you fool!”
“Isn’t it always?” Brat replied. “Who’s paying you and why?”
“I don’t know why and I don’t care. The money’s right and I don’t ask questions. As for who, it’s a Lord Merrick.”
“Lord Merrick?” he echoed, considering the name. “That’s ridiculous. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have his title. His nephew killed himself when he lost everything to me in a card game. You’d think the man would show a little gratitude.”
The man was looking at him in disgruntled fascination. “Mebbe he wanted the money too.”
Brat shrugged. “I’ve always been good at cards.”
“Well, your luck has run out,” the man said. “Now shut up or I’ll shoot you now.”
Brat sighed. “This is tedious. Why don’t you try?” It would be a risk, but a reasoned one. He was in much better shape than he was pretending to be, and he could leap up and disarm the man before he could prime the gun to shoot.
“Because you’ll behave yourself. You’ll put off dying as long as you can. Now shut up.”
The longer he waited, the stronger and faster he’d be. Brat shut up.
There was no sign of Brat by dinner time, and Jenny was getting angrier by the minute.
He was hiding from her, he must be, too embarrassed to face her like a man.
So he regretted last night? That was fine with her—she could top him with a list of regrets a mile long.
The only thing she didn’t regret was the mythical child growing inside her, a child he’d never know about.
He didn’t deserve to know. He was a lecher, a coward, a despicable human being.
Where the hell was he? He wouldn’t have run away—he wouldn’t have cared enough about facing her. Where could he have gone?
It didn’t help that his mother was looking worried, his father annoyed by his absence. It didn’t help that the young cousins were hurt and confused by his abandonment, even though they welcomed their tall Uncle Brandon with gratitude. It didn’t help that her heart was dying inside her.
The twins’ humorous song went over well, but the assorted Rohans made a captive audience.
The Robin Hood skit produced great chuckles, and little Oliver’s rendition of “The Ash Grove” brought a tear to a great many eyes.
And then it was time for refreshments, and Jenny was ready to scream in frustration.
Where was he? Had something happened to him?
“I’ll be back,” she whispered to Horry, the nearest twin.
Horry looked at her. “Are you off to rendezvous with Brat? I think it’s very unkind of him to skip our pantomime, and you can tell him so.”
“I have no idea where he is. I’m merely going out for a breath of fresh air.”
“But it’s snowing!”
Jenny looked past her charge to the tall windows lining the great hall where they’d decided to hold the pantomime, and she saw the fat flakes coming down.
“It won’t bother me,” she said firmly. Indeed, a blast of cold snow might wake her up to the fact that she’d been a fool and still was, longing for a man who didn’t want her.
Catching her shawl around her shoulders, she left the ballroom.
There was a small side door just off the hallway, and she pushed it open, feeling the blast of wind in her face, as she looked out over the snowy landscape.
The night was pitch-black around her, and she pulled her shawl closer as she stepped out into the frosty night air.
There was no sign of life in the darkness, just inky black, and she could feel frustrated tears fill her eyes.
Where was he? Was he hurt? Dying? He wouldn’t care enough to be hiding from her.
She just needed to know he was safe, nothing more.
Her righteous anger had dimmed, and she turned to go back into the house when she saw the distant flash of light.
It was gone in the swirling snow a moment later, but she knew she’d seen it, knew it meant something.
Brat was there somewhere, hiding from her, and she intended to find him and give him a piece of her mind.
Just to make sure he knew she didn’t care.
She pulled the door closed after her and headed off down the path.