Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
Tempting the Heiress (20 page)
Brock surged up. Taking most of the impact must have dazed him. Cupping her face, he asked, “Are you hurt?” Not waiting for her reply, he felt her shoulders and down along her arms in search of some injury.
“You saved us,” she said dully, praying she would not faint. “I was just standing there gaping at the wagon. You—”
A man rushed to them and crouched down. From his clothes, she assumed he was one of the gardeners. “Are you and the lady hurt? When I saw them hogsheads give, I figured it was dead bodies we’d be pulling out from the rubble.”
Amara shivered. Brock helped her stand. “We are unharmed,” he assured the upset man.
“Others—” She forced herself to look at the pandemonium in the street. “Check the people in the street.”
The gardener dug his grimy fingers under his hat and scratched behind his left ear. “I don’t see how this happened. Those water casks were secure, I tell you. I tied the ropes myself.” Muttering reassurances, the man wandered into the street.
Brock and Amara approached the wagon. Someone had unyoked the horses and led them away from the disorder. He picked up one of the severed ropes and examined the end. Thoughtful, Brock bent down and retrieved another end.
“It was a horrible accident,” she said, kicking aside a wooden rib and iron hoop to salvage her parasol. The water and mud had ruined it. She let it drop at her feet.
“So it appears.” Bracing his hands on the wagon’s splintered side, he abruptly said, “I will take you home.”
“I cannot,” Amara protested. She had lied and risked her life for this meeting. She doubted Doran would reveal himself now that Brock was with her. All of this had been for naught. The beginnings of a megrim throbbed in her right eye.
“You were meeting someone. Who? Prola?”
Somehow they had circled back to their conversation before the accident. “Not Conte Prola. In fact, I was doing my best to avoid the man!”
Her vehement reply eased the severity in his expression. “Who?”
She was not prepared to share her news of Doran’s return with anyone. Tipton had risked his reputation in order to smuggle her brother out of England. Knowing
Doran had disobeyed the viscount’s edict by returning divided her loyalties. She had to find her brother before he was recognized.
Doran had disobeyed the viscount’s edict by returning divided her loyalties. She had to find her brother before he was recognized.
“No one,” she told Brock. “If I return home, Mama will know I lied about Brook.”
“Lady A’Court? She is responsible for this?”
His expression told Amara that mentioning the A’Court name to Brock had been a mistake. In spite of his anger, Brock was too fair to blame a helpless woman for her husband’s scandalous deeds. Lord A’ Court had been a sadistic fiend who hid behind his title and a thin guise of civility.
“No, Brook is not in town.” She faced him. “I lied, Brock. I told my family I was visiting her. I placed myself in this outrageous predicament, so I deserve the harsh consequences. You are a sensible gentleman. What daring I have for pulling you into my deception! I accept your gracious offer. Take me home.”
He escorted her away from the wagon. At some point during their discourse, the wrecked carriages had been dragged off the street and the victims had been carried off into Lackington’s. Someone had summoned a surgeon. Only shrinking puddles of water and the shattered remains of the casks hinted at the tragedy.
Following the circumference of the grounds, Brock surprised her by catching her by the waist and crossing the street. They made it across without incident. He guided her toward a phaeton. A man she did not recognize nodded to them as he jumped down from the carriage. He moved on to the horses.
She could not believe Brock had been so careless as to leave his equipage in the hands of a stranger. “This is
when I reprimand you for, oh, what was the phrase you used? Having more hair than wit?”
when I reprimand you for, oh, what was the phrase you used? Having more hair than wit?”
“Oh, I lost my wits completely when I met you, Amara Claeg,” he said, lifting her into his phaeton. He left her alone for a few minutes while he thanked the stranger who had cared for his horses. After a brief contest of wills, the man accepted the coins Brock was offering him and departed with a wave of his hand.
Brock continued their conversation as if he had not been interrupted. “Who do you think blindly charged after you when I saw you in the middle of the street? We were both fortunate to survive your reckless impulse.”
“I suppose I was not thinking at all,” she miserably replied. The accident with the carriages was too fresh in her mind. She could effortlessly picture Brock’s broken body under the wheels of a swift carriage.
Something in her expression must have given away her thoughts. As he climbed in beside her, he patted her thigh. “It did not happen. Put it from your mind.” Taking up the reins, he signaled the horse to set off.
“You never explained why you lied to your family,” Brock said, waiting until they had left the square before he engaged her in conversation again.
“Have you ever wanted to escape? Forget for a day what is expected of you? Pretend you are actually being offered choices?”
Brock gave consideration to her wistful questions. “Now and then. If you believe Irene, I quit England for the adventure. Just another Bedegrayne son shirking his birthright.”
“Was she right?”
His slanting glance was enigmatic. “Partly.”
If he thought she would pry, he would be disappointed. He was entitled to his privacy. Besides, it had been a difficult time. They had both spoken unkind words. She would rather not revisit the painful memories.
“When are you supposed to return from your visit with A’Court’s widow?”
The sudden change of topic flustered her. In truth, she was ashamed she had revealed this unflattering side of her nature. Staring down at her mud-encrusted reticule, she said, “You must think I am a depraved creature, spinning lies like a spider on a garden wall.”
She jerked her head up sharply at his spurt of laughter. “Depraved? Amara, if you are a prime example of depravity, then the rest of us are doomed to blister eternally in hellfire.” The humor died on his face. “You have been raised with privilege and a heavy hand. On occasion, my family and I have noticed your fair skin has been mottled by that rigidity.”
This discussion was mortifying. His words laid her bare. “Please—”
“Do not defend them,” he said, his voice rising with his resentment. “Feeble excuses will never redeem them. They are unworthy of your devotion.” His hard gaze had not wavered from the street. “Is it so strange their dove, like your father’s cherished falcons, yearns for the freedom of the heavens? Do you expect me to admonish you? I would cut the tether myself if I thought you would not later despise me for it.”
His generosity overwhelmed her. She bit down on her lip to prevent herself from telling him about Doran. Recalling his earlier question about Brook, she said, “Since most of my plans are half-baked as you so solicitously pointed out, I was rather vague with my family.”
“A benevolent friend, you would remain throughout the night if asked,” he mused.
Why were they discussing this? She was suffused with guilt. Amara planned to write Brook immediately and confess her sins. “It would be expected.”
When they stopped for a turnpike, she finally became aware they had not deviated from their northern route. Amara looked askance at Brock. For a lost traveler, he was too relaxed. They were not headed in the direction of her family’s town house. She waited until he paid the toll. “I am not confident I warrant a reprieve. However, I imagine any of your sisters would take me in if I asked.”
“No.”
Perhaps she had misunderstood. She wished he offered her more than his inscrutable profile. “If you are taking me home, we are heading in the wrong direction.”
His mouth lifted in a faint grin. “No.”
Bashing him on the skull with her reticule held a growing appeal. “You are not taking me home, nor to one of your sisters. Just what are you doing, Brock Bedegrayne?”
“Why, I am kidnapping you, Amara Claeg.” With a flick of his wrists, the horses hastened their pace.
The view changed from town to countryside before Amara remembered to close her mouth. Brock was respectful of the unpredictability of the horses and road so he barely spared her a glance once he had assured himself she had not fainted.
Her speechlessness fascinated him. It also saved him from having to gag her, not that he was wholly convinced he could resort to such a high-handed maneuver, even though a screaming companion would hinder his plans. Amara had thought herself a devious creature. Once she found her voice, what names would she call him when she realized he was not above taking advantage of her deception?
London was behind them, when she stirred from her silence. “Jem was worried about me racing off to Gretna Green.” Amara did not seem upset about her predicament, just curious.
“Who the devil is Jem?”
“Jem is our coachman, and if I had any sense I might have realized sooner that you are the devil.”
Since they were alone on the road, he risked a cocky grin. “Gretna Green, you say. What are you proposing, Amara?”
There was primness to her spine, even though she was wearing a dusty gown and mangled bonnet. “Nothing,” she said. “I just do not want to be responsible for Jem’s severed cods.”
Brock choked. “Christ, Amara, vulgarity spewing from your delectable mouth is more than I can bear. Someone should discourage your coachman from using rough language in your presence.”
“He was distracted,” she said apologetically. “After all, they were his cods. I am not clear on what these items exactly are, but he was distressed at the thought of losing them.”
Holding his breath, he tried not to laugh. It would only encourage her. He counted to forty-five. In unison, they exploded into laughter.
“There, you see?” he said, after their merriment had ebbed into grins. “You have just proven you were in urgent need of kidnapping. It has been days since I have heard you laugh.”
“We have not seen each other in days,” was her dry retort.
“Not by choice. You have a nasty habit of avoiding me,” he said, keeping his voice light. If he gave in to the hurt and frustration, he might yell and ruin their truce.
“Do you kidnap all the ladies who resist your charms?” she asked, still skeptical about the sincerity of his boast. “I have often wondered if the infamous gossip about you was justified.”
Brock had no intention of regaling her with tales of drunken revelry and forgotten conquests. Every young man was permitted lapses in judgment. By Jove, he had
been wild, living on anger and nerve. That part of his past was best forgotten.
been wild, living on anger and nerve. That part of his past was best forgotten.
“You are my first kidnapping. I pray you will make allowances,” he implored. Brock conceded he was ill prepared for their hasty journey. However, he was not without resources. His time away from his homeland had taught him how to cope with the unforeseen.
“Fustian! This is a jest,” she said, crossing her arms. “You have a myriad of flaws but you are not spiteful. You would not knowingly tarnish my reputation.”
He winced at her blithe assertion of his character. “So nice of you to be so understanding of my faults. However, you have overlooked one thing.”
“What?”
“Your family believes you are visiting Lady A’Court,” he said, noting how her triumphant expression fell at his observation. “Alas, you are not without flaws. For instance, this propensity for dissembling. Most gentlemen would not be so indulgent.”
“Indulgent,” she fumed, realizing she had sprung the trap herself. “I call it knavery. You are taking advantage of my embarrassing predicament!”
“Consider it another of my lamentable failings, dove.”
Amara shifted in her seat; her backside felt numb from their bone-jarring drive. Few words had been exchanged on their mysterious jaunt. She had fallen into a shrewish silence once he convinced her that nothing would discourage him from his course. He had accepted her silence with a cheery tolerance that did little to improve her mood.
From her estimation, they had been traveling for more than two hours. Brock had taken them north and slightly
east. The deflection at least allayed any concern he was taking her into Scotland. They had stopped an hour into their journey when they had chanced upon a coaching inn. He had explained that the horses needed a rest. The truth was, she had needed the respite more than the agile team. She and Brock had separated, each seeing to their personal needs.
east. The deflection at least allayed any concern he was taking her into Scotland. They had stopped an hour into their journey when they had chanced upon a coaching inn. He had explained that the horses needed a rest. The truth was, she had needed the respite more than the agile team. She and Brock had separated, each seeing to their personal needs.
If he had been worried she might run off or announce her abduction to a sympathetic ear, he had concealed it well. Amara had not approved of his high-handedness, but she did trust him. Besides, the scoundrel had known that publicly revealing his temerity would merely gain her the tarnish she so dearly wished to avoid.
On his return, he had found her pacing the yard. The walk had improved her spirits. He had acquired a hamper during their brief parting. Once he had settled her in the phaeton, Brock moved to the rear and secured the hamper. Sensing her needs, he had satisfied her curiosity about the hamper by handing her a bean tart. Too many hours had elapsed since her last meal. She had mumbled her thanks, but it was her stomach rumbling its deepest appreciation for his thoughtfulness that earned her a chuckle and a tug on one of her curls.
More than an hour had passed since the inn. Although the tart had eased her hunger, the shaking and dipping of the carriage was not improving the budding stiffness in her shoulders from Brock’s heroic tackle.
“I like a female who is not a gabbler,” Brock said, smashing the wall of silence she had thrown up between them. “Makes her seem very biddable.”
Very tricky, Amara thought. Brock had figured out how to goad her into speaking to him again. She surrendered to the inevitable. He had saved her life. Fed her
when she was hungry. Brooding seemed mean-spirited. Besides, she had shrugged off her initial frustration long ago. Sometime during their quiet journey it had evolved into a companionable silence. She had enjoyed the quiet as much as the sprawling peaceful countryside.
when she was hungry. Brooding seemed mean-spirited. Besides, she had shrugged off her initial frustration long ago. Sometime during their quiet journey it had evolved into a companionable silence. She had enjoyed the quiet as much as the sprawling peaceful countryside.
“Since I am intimately acquainted with your sisters, I doubt you have ever encountered a biddable female,” she countered, offering the olive branch he craved.
“It was more of a declaration than a preference,” he corrected himself.
She matched his smile. “I thought as much.”
The road they traveled was rutted and slowed their progress. It was not much bigger than the trails used by the occasional dairy herds she saw in the distance. Coughing on the dust they stirred, she gave in to her curiosity. “Did we miss our turn for Hyde Park or do you have a specific destination in mind?”
Brock shot her a look of disbelief. “Only you would wait hours to ask that question. Yes, Amara, I have brought you out here to see more than potato and wheat fields.”
He maneuvered the horses down a long lane. The hedges outlining their path were overgrown and shapeless from neglect. Amara frowned at the imposing dwelling they were approaching. Whoever its owner, the man had neglected his property. The house was old, and in her opinion, was a step away from being considered a ruin. The four three-story octagonal towers flanking the main structure were most likely part of the original structure. The stone was crumbling in places, and the numerous windows were void of glass. A dense creeping vine was consuming the front left tower. The main part of the dwelling seemed to have been built at another time. Perhaps not recently, but someone had been restoring the
dwelling. The front door appeared new and the glass in the windows gleamed in the sunlight, even though the stone needing a good cleaning.
dwelling. The front door appeared new and the glass in the windows gleamed in the sunlight, even though the stone needing a good cleaning.
Abruptly, the lane opened into an unremarkable rectangular gravel yard. With a brisk command to the team, Brock halted the phaeton in front of the house. When no one came rushing out to attend them, she switched her questioning gaze on Brock.
Scrutinizing the building with more appreciation than it deserved, he asked, “Amazing, is it not? During the reign of James the First all this land was a deer park.”
Bemused by his enthusiasm, she watched him jump down from the carriage. He secured the horses to a hitching post. She accepted his hand, when he returned to her side. “I am amazed the house still stands. Brock, it is a derelict.”
“Not quite,” he said, her assessment dimming some of his initial excitement. “The towers are all that remain from the original dwelling. It belonged to the Whitmott family. A fire gutted most of the house about eighty years ago. The family rebuilt, but the lord died before the restoration was finished. His widow preferred the seaside, so the house was abandoned and eventually sold.”
“Are you acquainted with the owner?”
“Well enough,” he said. “About seven years ago, Will Streden bought the house and much of the original acreage. He wanted a hunting lodge when he was bored with London, and entertained the notion of restoring the red and fallow deer to Whitmott Park.”
“I assume his aspirations met with failure.”
“Streden is easily diverted,” he said, apologetically. “After the fire in the kitchen—”
“Another fire!” Aghast, Amara wondered if all that remained of the house was a charred shell.
“Streden had not foreseen the necessity of moving the kitchen and the servants’ quarters from their original subterranean level. Due to the quick actions of the servants, the fire was confined only to the lower level.”
“Mr. Streden was fortunate he did not lose the entire house.”
“I agree. He did, however, lose his passion for restoring Whitmott Park. Shortly after the fire, he placed the property on the auction block.”
The way in which Brock stared at the house confirmed her growing suspicion. His manner was undeniably proprietary. “You bought the house,” she said bluntly.
“Several years ago,” he admitted, not surprised she had guessed. “And most of the land being auctioned.” He escorted her to the door. “Regrettably, the purchase left my funds at low ebb. Until recently, the house remained in the state in which it had been abandoned by Streden.”
“Surely, Sir Thomas—”
He agreed with a nod. “He might have, if I had asked. Nevertheless, the house is mine. Its upkeep is my responsibility.”
Amara shook her head, as he opened the door for her. While other gentlemen would have raided the family’s wherewithal without thought, Brock had too much pride to choose the easier path. His successes and failures were his own.
She stepped inside. The air within was not as stale as she had expected. They entered the large hall. The stone floor was barren, but someone had recently swept the dust and polished the glass in the windows. Amara pivoted when they reached the center of the hall and lifted her brows in curiosity.
“I have been out here a time or two since my return,”
he explained. “I hired some local men and women from the village to clean up the years of neglect. Until the kitchen and servants’ quarters are rebuilt, I have no use for a full-time staff.”
he explained. “I hired some local men and women from the village to clean up the years of neglect. Until the kitchen and servants’ quarters are rebuilt, I have no use for a full-time staff.”
Amara strode to the chimneypiece large enough to spit a whole stag. The oak paneling was simplistic in its design. The hearth had been designed for use, not for pleasing the eye. She glanced up, taking in barren plaster walls holding up a lofty timbered ceiling. It was easy to imagine what this room might have looked like in another century. Instead of the barrenness of neglect, prized antler mountings and elaborate tapestries depicting the success of the hunt would have covered the walls. Interspersed throughout the room, swords, bows, and shields would have not only provided ornamentation but readiness if the need for arms arose.
“Where did you go?”
She was chagrined to have him catch her daydreaming; the image she had built in her mind disintegrated. The bare walls, cracked and stained by age and the elements, returned. “Considering the possibilities.” She was too embarrassed to reveal the extent of her fanciful musings.
He blinked in surprise. By his spontaneous grin, she could tell her answer pleased him. “Aye,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “This place does make a person dream.”
“The house needs more than a dreamer. You will have to possess a vast amount of patience and a respectable fortune to restore it,” she warned.
“I can claim both.”
“Truly?”
She tried not to stiffen when he came up behind her. Sliding his hands over the delicate bones of her shoulders, he lightly kneaded her taut muscles. “You are proof
of the first. My travels abroad ensured the second.” He kissed the back of her head and released her.
of the first. My travels abroad ensured the second.” He kissed the back of her head and released her.
“I will see to the horses.”
Patience! She could think of no man who had less than Brock. He exuded his lack with every flicker of expression and the way he moved as if the people around him were only delaying him from his aspirations. The notion was absurd. Instead of laughing, Amara turned toward the door, wanting an explanation of how she proved the first.
He was out the door before she could stop him. “Have a care, if you cannot resist exploring in my absence,” he called out over his shoulder. “If you fall through some rotting flooring and break your lovely neck, I doubt even I will be able to come up with a plausible explanation for your family.”
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