Kathryn Smith (2 page)

It became harder to lift his feet as he crossed the front hall. Each step echoed heavily on the polished marble floor. Grecian statues cast monstrous shadows in the lamplight, their features cast in sharp relief. Brave felt like a villain out of one of those popular novels as he moved among them, carrying the endangered heroine deeper into his lair.

What a fitting analogy.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Bugley, and two maids carrying blankets followed them into the library, where a blazing fire flickered in the hearth and danced along the curves of gilded furniture and ornate picture frames. For once Brave was happy that his servants had acquired the somewhat parental habit of waiting up for him. The pale blue chaise would be the perfect spot for the villain to ravish the heroine, and he would really much prefer to be the hero of this tale.

He set Rachel on her feet. He didn’t immediately move away for fear she might fall without his support. She didn’t.

Oddly disappointed, and not quite sure whether he should leave the room or not, Brave waited just outside the door,
longing for a warming snifter of brandy while the servants divested the girl of her clothes and wrapped her up in his robe and several thick blankets.

“All done, my lord,” Mrs. Bugley informed him, casting a suspicious glance over her shoulder. Brave almost smiled. His housekeeper acted as though she believed Rachel was a threat to his safety.

Their arms filled with wet garments, the two maids exited the room, each casting a warm smile in his direction as though he was a knight in a fairy tale. Despite all that had happened to him, his servants still believed him to be something other than he was. They saw him as some kind of hero, and he hated it.

Brave returned their smiles with an awkward one of his own and stepped inside the library. He would have laughed at the sight of her were it not for the fact that his damsel still looked so wretched.

She was bundled up enough to survive a winter in Siberia. All he could see peeking out of her mountain of blankets were the biggest, most unusual blue eyes he had ever seen. They were the color of ripe blueberries. As a child those eyes had seemed almost too large for her face. He was glad to see she’d grown into them.

“Are you any warmer?”

“A little, thank you,” She sniffled. Remembering his manners, Brave handed her his handkerchief as he seated himself across from her. Only the tips of her fingers appeared above the blankets.

The tea arrived and Brave poured them each a full, steaming cup. That he managed the task without spilling any was a wonder. Not only was his arm stiff and awkward from having lifted her, but his hands were much bigger than the delicate china pot.

“Cream and sugar?”

She nodded, a bobbing face in an unmoving cocoon. A
long, shapely arm suddenly appeared from the mountain of cloth, a delicate hand accepting the cup and saucer. Her hands were just as lovely as he had imagined.

Brave still would have preferred the brandy, but as he had no idea what effect it might have on him, he drank the tea. It was surprisingly satisfying, and just as warming.

Rachel sat across from him, holding herself like a duchess despite her absurd appearance. She was the first woman in two years, other than his mother and his servants, to step foot within Wyck’s End.

And with that realization the walls closed in on him, and Brave suddenly, desperately, needed her to be gone.

But he couldn’t toss her out, not until he’d done his duty and made certain she would be all right. And he certainly couldn’t send her home in nothing but a few blankets.

Nothing
but a few blankets…

“Rachel,” he said setting his cup on his saucer with a loud clink, “what the devil were you doing near the river? You of all people should know how dangerous it can be after a rain.”

She raised a brow at his harsh tone. “It’s good to see you again too, my lord.”

Brave sighed. Still a brat. He hadn’t known her well as a child, there being a good four or five years between their ages, but he remembered her being difficult even then. His father had adored her, though. “Of course it’s a pleasure to see you again, Rachel. It’s been too long. Now, will you please tell me what you were doing at the river?”

Her eyes glittered with a hint of mischief. “What do you think I was doing at the river?”

Trying to drown yourself.

For a split second, Brave feared he’d said the words out loud. “I can’t imagine.”

“I often go there to be by myself,” she admitted. “I didn’t even know you were still in residence. Had I known you were here, I never would have trespassed.” Her full pink
mouth came fully into view as she lifted the cup to her lips with trembling hand.

No, she wouldn’t have known he was there. Hardly anyone did. He was like a ghost in his own house, in his own village. “You may wander on my property all you want, Rachel, you know that. I’m just glad I happened to be out tonight as well.”

“As am I, my lord,” she replied with just a trace of defensiveness. “Although I may live to curse you and your heroism.”

Brave arched both brows at this cryptic remark. He really shouldn’t care about her or her problems. He had enough of his own. “Oh? Why?”

She shook her head, the blanket falling back to reveal a glimpse of pale blond hair.

“Rachel,” he teased with a lightness he hadn’t felt in some time. “You cannot tell a man you may curse him and not explain why.” Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one leg haphazardly over the other; his thighs were still a little shaky from climbing the tree.

Rolling her eyes, Rachel lowered her cup to its saucer. “Sir Henry is planning to see me married.”

Brave didn’t see the problem. And he certainly didn’t understand why the thought of her married should be so disturbing. “Isn’t that a stepfather’s job?”

“Perhaps if he were a little better at it, I would be more appreciative of his efforts.” Her tone was light, amused, but her eyes were dark and bitter.

“I take it you are opposed to the match?” He raised his cup.

Rachel nodded. “My stepfather is very enthusiastic about it, however, and will brook no refusal. Unfortunately, that’s just what I plan to do—refuse. He will not like to have his plans disrupted, nor will his chosen son-in-law.”

And Sir Henry Westhaver had never struck him as the kind
of man who would take disappointment lightly. In fact, he’d never struck Brave as much of a man at all. Brave supposed he was lucky. His mother had stopped trying to toss him into the marriage mart a long time ago. He doubted that she would bring up the subject again for quite some time. If ever.

“Who is the lucky bridegroom?” he asked, lifting his cup to his lips.

“Today it is Viscount Charlton.”

Luckily he had not drunk or he would have choked. “But he’s fifty if he’s a day!”
And fat. And lecherous.

She nodded, her smile grim. “So, you see why I may see fit to curse your good deed.”

What kind of father—even a stepfather—would marry his daughter off to such a man? A greedy one, no doubt. The idea of an old man like Charlton laying a finger on Rachel’s curvaceous form made Brave angry in a way he did not want to admit.

He dropped his cup and saucer on the table between them and laid his palms flat against his thighs. It was what he had been told to do when the urge to break something came upon him. He hadn’t had to do that in quite some time.

“If there is anything I can do…” He forced his voice to remain calm. What the devil was he doing? He didn’t care whom she married, didn’t care what happened to her at all as long as it didn’t happen on his property.

Rachel glanced up, smiling tightly. “Short of marrying me in his stead, my lord, I don’t see that there is much you could do. Are you in need of a countess?”

For one split second he believed she was serious, and then he realized she was merely joking. Or was she? A smile curved her lips, but there was little humor in her gaze.

His hands clenched into fists—not with violence, but with the sudden, stabbing pain the revelation of her obvious despair brought to his chest. He knew that feeling—that certain
knowledge that the battle being fought could never be won. Everything in his nature told him he should help her, but the voices in his head told him it was insanity even to consider it.

“I am afraid I am not such a good catch,” he replied softly, hoping it sounded lighter than it felt. He had been a good catch at one time, or at least he’d thought he was. But then he’d been told otherwise.

And then he’d proven otherwise.

“Oh well,” she said with a breezy wave of her hand. “It was just a thought.”

The silence was both awkward and welcome. Brave sipped his tea and stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace. He had no idea what to say. How soon before she would leave? He glanced toward the door, hoping to see a maid there with dry clothes.

“I cannot feel my feet,” she announced with something that sounded like a hiccup, staring down at the motionless lump of blankets closest the fire.

Muffling an oath, Brave leapt to his feet. He stomped across the brief expanse of floor that separated them and knelt before her, his hands diving under the blankets. Cold flesh brushed his fingertips.

“Braven!” she gasped, jerking back from his touch.

He rolled his eyes. “I appreciate your maidenly reserve, Rachel, but if you do not allow me to attend to your feet, you may very well lose them.”

Beneath the cold-heightened ruddiness, her face turned white. “Truly? I could lose my feet?”

Brave dipped his head in a curt nod. “I’ve seen it in happen in extreme cases of prolonged exposure to cold. There’s a chance you’ll be fine, but do you want to take the risk?”

Eyeing him warily, she extended her legs cautiously toward him. “Will it hurt?”

He sat back on his haunches. “Is pain not preferable to
nothing at all?” God knew he would rather suffer the fires of hell than the numbness that permeated his soul.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied, her expression one of bewilderment, her eyes searching his face.

“Then I envy you.” Jerking his gaze away from her inquisitive one, he peeled back layer after layer of blanket until he reached the frigid flesh beneath.

“Good lord, they’re huge!” he exclaimed, unable to hide his astonishment. The rest of her seemed so ethereal, so otherworldly. Who would have though such a delicate creature could be possessed of feet so long?

She leaned forward so that their faces were almost touching. “All the better to kick you with, my lord,” she warned with a sardonic smile.

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Brave sat back on his haunches. “I beg you will not kick me, madam. I fear you might give me a concussion.”

Rachel laughed, her dark eyes sparkling. “You’re impertinent, Lord Braven.”

He wrapped his fingers around her chilled foot, his lips curving into the shadow that now passed as a smile. True, her feet were long for a woman, but they were slender and fine-boned.

He could almost imagine running his tongue along the high arch of her instep. He forced himself to massage it instead. Lord, what was he about having such thoughts about a girl he’d known since they were both children?

“Your hands are so warm.” Her voice was low and sighing, sending a shiver down his spine. The blankets parted as she leaned back in the chair, revealing her legs to just above the knees. She had donned his dressing gown as well and the wine-colored silk brocade was a stark contrast against her pale, shapely calves as it slipped open around them.

Against his better judgment, Brave’s gaze traveled up the leg he held in his hands, past the gentle curve behind her
knee to the soft, round thigh peeking through the folds of the robe. Little Rachel Ashton had grown into quite the voluptuous beauty. His hands stilled in their ministrations as he imagined what he might see if she spread her legs just a little bit wider…

“Is there something wrong?” she inquired innocently, leaning forward again.

The movement caused the robe to slip even farther. Heat suffused his cheeks as he stared at her naked flesh. He felt like a schoolboy trying to peer up a young girl’s skirts. Too long. It had been far too long.

Swallowing hard, Brave took a deep, shuddering breath. Oh God, he could smell her. The scent was faint, but sweet, musky, and decidedly feminine.

“No,” he rasped, tearing his gaze away from the dark apex that concealed her succulent flesh. His groin was tight and throbbing with desire. His hardened flesh strained against the front of his snug buckskin breeches. Damnation, what had come over him?

It was the shock of the evening. It had to be. That was the only explanation for the heatedness of his blood and his startling reaction to her. It was the euphoria of having saved her life. Nothing more.

He grabbed a corner of one of the blankets and placed it strategically over his lap. Staring at her toes he stammered, “I…I thought perhaps I was hurting you?”

“Oh no,” Rachel assured him, resuming her former relaxed pose. “I’m actually starting to feel some warmth in that one.” She wiggled the toes of the foot he held.

“Good.” He rubbed briskly, her foot turning pink as the blood and his palms warmed it. He did not allow his gaze to move from his hands. He tried to keep his mind blank, but he could not keep her scent from tantalizing his nostrils.

He rubbed her other foot as well—quickly—then rose to turn her chair closer to the fire.

“There. You should be fine now.” He kept his hands folded in front of him to hide the stubborn evidence of his body’s reaction to her.

She smiled at him, her big eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s twice that you’ve saved me, my lord. I’m afraid I may soon have to declare you my hero.” There was laughter in her voice.

Brave’s throat tightened so close he almost choked on his breath. Most men would kill to be thought a hero by a beautiful woman, but not him. The mere mention of the word almost turned his rod as limp as a used cravat.

“I’d rather you didn’t. I wouldn’t want such praise to go to my head—or yours.” Now he was just being stupid.