Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
Tempting the Heiress (21 page)
Brock took his time with the horses. He had pushed the team hard, getting them to Whitmott Park. The animals deserved a little pampering. Milroy was not the only member of the family who appreciated prime horseflesh.
He also thought Amara might prefer some time apart from him. Like his horses, she seemed undaunted by their adventure. If he could convince her, Brock had every intention of pampering the lady as well.
The hall was empty when he returned. Brock shouted her name. He listened to his fading echo and then chilling silence. The front door had been left open, he had assumed from his departure. An irrational fear that she had escaped on foot danced down his spine, even as he ruthlessly discarded the thought. If Amara had been afraid of him, she’d had a dozen opportunities to call attention to her undesirable predicament before he took her out of
London. She had ignored all her chances to escape him.
London. She had ignored all her chances to escape him.
Heartened by his logic, Brock retraced his steps outdoors. Following his instincts, he headed east toward the lake. It was approximately twenty acres in size, and Brock suspected one of the Whitmott heirs was responsible for its creation, although nature through the passing centuries had refined the man-made effect.
There near the shore of the lake, he found Amara. She had removed her dusty mantle and had put it to better use as a blanket. Unaware of his presence, she faced the soothing beauty of the lake. Removing her bonnet, she tossed it aside. With bare hands she reached for the back of her head. Her nimble fingers sought out each pin and captured them into the palm of her hand. Free of restraints, her dark brown tresses billowed in the slight breeze as the ends teasingly danced down her shoulders.
“You look like a water nymph.”
Amara started at his voice. He was already regretting his impetuous words when she gathered up her hair and gave it an efficient twist.
“Leave it down,” he entreated, sitting down beside her. He brushed away her hands and appreciatively fingered the windswept tresses that always had reminded him of polished mahogany. “Having it twisted and pinned in that fashion would give anyone a fretful headache. Besides, I like it best when you have it down.”
The look she gave him through the silken curtain was coy. “You have a remarkable memory, since I was a girl the last time I was running about with my hair down.”
“It was longer then,” he said, deliberately drawing a horizontal line across her back. “Long enough to skim your hips.” She had been a beautiful girl and he had been too old to be noticing her.
Oblivious of his uncomfortable memories, she laughed. The sound was as fluid and pure as the water lapping at their feet. She used her palm to brace herself, the action bringing her closer. “Doran liked my hair too. Do you recall the summer you and Mallory found me tied to a tree limb by my hair?”
Amara had been seven or eight that particular summer. He and Mallory had returned from hunting when they had found her hopelessly snarled. “You were crying for Doran’s head, I recall. You begged me for my knife so you could sever it from his neck yourself.”
She shook her head. “I was never so bloodthirsty.”
“You were bloody furious,” he corrected. “By the time we had cut you free, you had lost a good amount of hair.”
“Mama blamed everyone,” she reminisced without rancor. “Doran for tying my hair to the blasted tree. Me for allowing him to do it. You for having the knife.” She sighed. “As punishment, I was not allowed to leave my bedchamber for a week.”
Brock imagined being banished from the family had been difficult for the eight-year-old girl, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “Why did Doran tie your hair to that limb?”
She squinted at the sunlight, reaching inward for the memory. “I believe we were playing coachman. The limb was his perch and I was the—” She faltered.
Following the recollection to its obvious conclusion, Brock laughed. The more she scowled at him, the harder he laughed. Holding his ribs, he gasped for breath. “He made you the horse! What was he using your hair for—reins?”
“I do not remember!” she denied, her expression mutinous. “You said that I was demanding his head for the
prank. What punishment does the gentleman who mocks me deserve?”
prank. What punishment does the gentleman who mocks me deserve?”
He could not recall a recent occasion when he had laughed so much. With his side aching, he fell onto his back, knocking his hat free from his head. Amara took advantage of his weakness and pounced. Rolling on top of him, she tickled him with a ruthless capability only his sisters had managed in their youth. He howled with laughter that bordered on pain.
“Cease, witch!”
Naturally, she disregarded his order. “Well, well … who would have guessed the handsome, arrogant Bedegrayne could be defeated by a mere woman?” She dug into his sides and was rewarded by more laughter. “I can think of a man or two who would pay dearly to learn Brock Bedegrayne is ticklish.”
She was teasing. He hoped. Gazing up at her triumphant heart-shaped visage was no hardship, but enough was enough. A man had his pride. Taking advantage of a brief pause in her assault, he seized her by the waist and expertly flipped her onto her back. He straddled her hips. “You were saying?”
Amara’s eyes widened, amazed by the speed with which he had neatly reversed their positions. It was hardly proper or fair, but he could not resist. Digging his fingers under her arms, he tickled her without mercy. Laughing, she arched her back, trying to bounce him off with her pelvis. “Beast. Get … off!”
Brock stilled as she writhed beneath him. Although her movements were not meant to entice, his body reacted. Desire bubbled through his system like white sparkling wine. Every time she rubbed her body against his, a cannonade of need punctured his restraint. Longing
or something more dangerous must have shown in his eyes.
or something more dangerous must have shown in his eyes.
The carefree amusement that had lit her entire face earlier hardened into awareness. Blowing out her breath, she pushed at his chest. “Off,” she said. The confusion and wariness clouding her eyes made him feel low enough to slither across the ground. “Get off. Now!”
He was not holding her down, so she sat up and shoved at him. Brock swung his leg clear and backed away from her. Pulling her knees to her bodice, she hugged them to her body and rocked, drawing comfort from the action.
“I—” Sickened that he had done anything to make her compare his touch to that bastard Cornley, he absently rubbed his stomach. “It was only play. I would never hurt you,” he said quietly.
Amara peered at him over her knees. “I know.” She sighed. “The fault is not yours. I was the one who climbed all over you. I should have realized sooner.”
“What should you have realized, dove?” he prompted when she failed to finish her thought.
She looked as if she regretted speaking her thoughts aloud. Brock did not care if they sat there until sunset. She was going to tell him what put the mistrust back in her eyes. It was too late for either one of them to hide behind a wall of politeness and manners.
“Friend or not, when a woman presses herself against a man, no matter how innocently, he is likely to become encouraged. Inflamed.”
Inflamed? That was one word for it. The condition seemed permanent around Amara. “You panicked because you were concerned about encouraging me?” he asked, not wanting to misunderstand her.
Indignation flared in her stormy blue eyes. “I did not panic!”
“No, you did not,” he said, reviewing the encounter in his mind. “Not at first. It was not until I knocked you on your back and pinned you down that you became upset.”
Just like Cornley.
Just like Cornley.
Amara laid her cheek on her knee and watched a trio of ducks gliding across the lake’s glassy surface. “This is not about Cornley.”
“The devil it is not,” he said grimly. He crawled around to the other side, putting himself between her and the lake. “He is the reason you spent years pretending I did not exist.”
She jerked her head up. “You exaggerate,” she scoffed. “For goodness’ sake, you have spent the last two years in India!”
Amara was deliberately being obtuse. “I speak of the years before I left,” he said impatiently. “Cornley perished in that fire, but I was the one you treated like a ghost.”
Her movements had become stiffer with her increasing agitation. “What are you saying?”
“You have spent so many years looking right through me, Amara, I resorted to checking my reflection in a mirror from time to time just to make certain I still existed.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He sat back on his heels. “You blamed me for your defilement.”
“What? No, I—” She shook her head. “Is this why you brought me here? You want to spend the afternoon discussing pieces of my past that I have tried so hard to forget?” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, provoked more by anger than sorrow.
“Do not feel guilty. I have spent years blaming myself,” Brock said, his voice full of regret.
Amara braced a hand on the ground to help her get onto her feet. “I refuse to listen to another word.”
He jumped up, and blocked her from escaping. “I never trusted Cornley. I should have guessed his intentions that night. If I had watched you with more care, been quicker in my search, he—”
“Stop!” she begged, slapping her hands over her ears. She glared at him through haunted eyes. “What do you want, Brock? Absolution? You have it. I never blamed you for Cornley’s attack. Never!”
Relief flooded through him, making him light-headed. Her confession answered the question that had plagued him for too many years. Brock wanted to touch her now, but resisted. He smothered the rising guilt he felt for cornering her with the past. However, he was a desperate man. He reasoned silently that he was linked to her nightmare. Amara had coped with her violation by severing all connections that might remind her of the ordeal. The observation brought a sudden understanding.
“You do blame me,” he said, reaching for her.
There was resistance with each step she took toward him. “No!”
“All these years, I had it wrong. I thought you had blamed me for not keeping Cornley from hurting you. It was not quite so simple,” he said, more to himself, wondering why he had not thought of it sooner. “You blame me for being the one who found you. In all these years, you have not been able to forgive me for finding you battered and bloody, humiliated in a way I will never fully understand.” His touch was gentle, as was his expression. “Have you despised me, dove, for knowing your darkest secrets?”
The tears she had done such an admirable job holding back slid down her cheeks. She choked on a sob. “I do n-not hate you. How could I? You were my salvation.”
Her body was soft and warm against his. Truth shimmered in the liquid depths of her gaze. “Perhaps not,” he conceded, listening to the incessant call of a sedge bird hidden somewhere in the reeds. “Even so, I still lost you.”
Amara pressed her face into his chest. Her silence was damning. Although he could not be certain, he thought he felt the faint brush of her lips. Brock closed his eyes. The sunlight was abruptly too bright.
Stepping back, she brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Thank you for sharing the day with me. Your land is quite breathtaking.”
He did not like the finality in her inflection. Amara’s tears dripped like aqua fortis on his conscience, leaving him raw. Hurting her had not been his intention. Sometimes, he feared all he caused her was pain. “And the house?” he asked, allowing her to close the door on the past for now. He was a man who spent his life looking forward rather than back. Besides, she was about to learn the change of topic was all he was willing to surrender.
She gave him a weak smile. “It is a handbreadth from being declared a ruin. You may choose Mr. Streden’s path before it is finished.”
“Amara … Amara,” he sighed. “Challenges merely whet my determination.”
He strolled away, whistling a quiet tune, leaving her to ponder if he spoke only of the sorry condition of his house or of the maddening, troubled woman he had never quite exorcised from his heart.
Instead of readying the phaeton as Amara had expected after her bout of tears, Brock returned carrying a fly rod and the forgotten hamper. Still whistling, he winked at her as he passed.
“Is there some trouble with the horses?”
“Not a whit.”
Since he refused to halt, she was forced to trail after him. “We should start for London.”
Having selected his spot on the bank, he let the hamper drop. “I prefer fishing.” As he retrieved something from his coat pocket, curiosity drew Amara closer. He all but ignored her now while his concentration was focused on tying the metal lure to the braided horsehair line.
She opened her mouth, and then closed it. No one had managed to befuddle her as this man did. One minute he had her laughing like a loon, the next sobbing out old despair on his shoulder. He seemed to effortlessly wring out a spectrum of emotions from her, and still he demanded more. A part of her was tempted to capitulate, if only to repay him for the tenderness he generously offered.
“Are there actually fish in this lake?”
His brow lifted at the silliness of her query. “I thought your stomach might be appreciative of something besides another cold bean tart. Our haste has left us provisionpoor.” With the grace of practice, he cast the line into the water.
“If you are concerned about my perishing, we could stop at the coaching inn again,” she suggested. “From the look of things, the delay will not cost us more than your diddling with your rod.”
Brock threw his head back and laughed. His fly rod bobbed crazily with his merriment. “Christ, Amara! What a lovely mouth you have. I will have you know, I take rod handling quite seriously. I never diddle.”
That was debatable. Since he was having too much fun misinterpreting her words, she did not bother arguing. “Even if you manage catching anything, there will be no opportunity to cook it.”
He peered in her direction. “Surely there will. We are staying the night.”
“Brock!” Though his gaze was fixed on the line he was handling, there was no doubt all his attention was directed at her.
The breath he expelled was weighted by weariness. “Since your temper has cooled, I am loath to remind you about the small matter of your kidnapping.”
He was earnest. Brock glanced at her, attempting to judge her reaction. She had been so grateful after the accident in the square she had not considered how he might twist her awkward confession to his benefit.
“You cannot keep me here.”
“You were willing to give Lady A’Court a day and a night,” he calmly reasoned. “Is not the man whom you
referred to earlier as your salvation worthy of the same devotion?”
referred to earlier as your salvation worthy of the same devotion?”
Amara nipped her lower lip when she realized she was pouting. She was good and soundly trapped, thanks to her ruse. If she surrendered to his high-handedness, she forfeited only her pride. No one would learn the truth of her whereabouts. Brock had proven long ago he could be trusted with her secrets.
“If you hook a fish, your efforts will be wasted. My knowledge of cookery is limited. I was raised to be a titled gentleman’s bride, not a servant,” she warned.
“Cease glowering. You are frightening our supper away,” he said, without looking at her. “I doubt my limited abilities will garner any praise from the
ton,
however, I can cook whatever I catch over a fire.”
ton,
however, I can cook whatever I catch over a fire.”
His boast surprised her. “I do not believe you. If you were in a kitchen, it was only long enough to charm sweets from the cook or flirt with one of the maids.”
“Ah, dove, for someone who cries indifference, you must have spent a great amount of time observing me to know me so well.”
She had, not that she would admit it.
“No outrage or vehement denials? Well, well … progress, after all.” She sensed that the mockery she detected was directed at both of them. “Do not fret, Amara. Your curiosity was reciprocated.”
Brock released the breath he was holding. A sideways glance revealed she had retreated to her abandoned mantle. Bending forward, she retrieved her hairpins. He felt a pang of regret while he covertly watched her coil her hair into a stylish knot and secure it. The pretense gave her
comfort, he guessed. He could afford to be generous. At the moment, she was feeling vulnerable. Although he sensed no fear in her, she was no closer to understanding his actions than he was.
comfort, he guessed. He could afford to be generous. At the moment, she was feeling vulnerable. Although he sensed no fear in her, she was no closer to understanding his actions than he was.
There was a subtle tug on the line as it moved through the water. Experience told him the resistance was aquatic grass or suchlike. He reeled in the line and cast again. The lure landed with a distinct plop and sank into the murky depths.
He glanced in Amara’s direction. Only her shoes rested on her mantle. Searching the area, he noticed she had moved to the lake’s edge. Not wanting to disturb his efforts, she had distanced herself from him. He was grateful she was not the type of female who moped when the fates opposed her.
Brock almost dropped his fly rod when she tantalizingly raised her skirts. She had left her stockings on, a detail he found incredibly arousing. Was she deliberately tormenting him because he had refused to return to London? He doubted it. Amara possessed genuine passion under her polite diffidence, but she was guileless. The direction of his thoughts probably would horrify her.
Wadding up a section of her skirt, she tucked the fabric between her legs. From his position, he could see glimpses of her embroidered garters. Perhaps being alone with Amara was not one of his brightest notions.
“You should have taken off your stockings!” he shouted. Hearing the odd catch in his voice, Brock cleared his throat.
“The water is cold,” she replied.
Was it? The sweat trickling down his back was making his shoulder blades itch. Hungrily, he admired the way she swished her hips as she waded deeper into the water.
The appetite he needed to assuage had nothing to do with his stomach.
The appetite he needed to assuage had nothing to do with his stomach.
“Anything nibbling?”
His back jerked as if someone had taken a lash to him. “Nary a one,” he said huskily, thinking like a man who wanted to nibble on his little fish. He wanted to start at her neck and work his way down to her toes.
“Hmm.” She trailed the fingers of her right hand in the water and then rubbed the chilly wetness into the back of her neck. “Well, if you fail, I could always find a rock and throw it at one of those ducks. Who knows, I might actually fell one,” she teased.
She moved along the shallows with her back to him, oblivious of his wicked musings. Brock had lost interest in fishing. His motions of casting and reeling were that of an automaton. If she had given him any indication that she desired his company, he would have tossed his fly rod onto the bank and joined her. He privately congratulated himself on his restraint. Amara and desire had been entwined within his heart for so long he thought the beleaguered organ might burst.
She was not entirely averse to him. He had noted a similar longing in her expression when she thought she was unobserved. Every time he touched her, she responded with the sweetness and zeal he had only experienced in his dreams. She belonged to him! He just had to convince Amara and her ambitious family before they married her off to the fop.
“Brock, your line!”
He stared down at the arcing lancewood in his hands. Feeling foolish, he tugged back and began reeling in his prize. “There is a kitchen garden in the back,” he told her, his tone clipped with a mix of anger at his clumsiness and
bridled yearning. “Would your limited cookery abilities recognize wild onion?”
bridled yearning. “Would your limited cookery abilities recognize wild onion?”
Pride nudged her chin up so she was forced to look down her nose at him. “I suppose.”
“Fine. Run along and dig some up.” He cursed, feeling confined in his coat. “Christ, this one is a fighter.”
“We will need a cooking pot.”
“Aye. Once you have the wild onion, return to the hall and take the door on the right. You will find what we need.”
“Are you certain?”
He tried not to snarl. “I have no time for you. If the task is too difficult, just wait for me in the hall. Whatever you do, keep away from the old kitchen!”
“Yes, milord,” she said, adding enough sarcasm to make him wince.
A decent meal will placate her annoyance, he thought. If that did not work, he could always beg. He bared his teeth at the lowering notion and concentrated on hauling in the bloody fish.
Two hours had expired since Brock had entered the hall with a beheaded seven-pound perch. Amara had complimented his triumph over nature, and pointedly ignored his smug dismissal of her praise. Moreover, her lack of faith in his skills had offended him. She had forgotten how easily a male’s pride bruised.
The tension in him puzzled her. Perhaps it was anger, though she disregarded the thought. Oh, he had thanked her politely for kindling the hearth and filling the cooking pot with water from the well she had discovered behind the house along with the wild onion he had demanded. Still, his smile never quite reached his light green eyes
and he rarely engaged her in conversation unless she prodded him.
and he rarely engaged her in conversation unless she prodded him.
“The fish smells wonderful,” she said, making another half-hearted attempt to lure him from his deliberating mood.
Brock closed the book he had been reading. Taking her comment for the hint it was, he rose from his chair and poked his knife into the boiling contents of the pot. “Hungry?” he said, his tone laced with its earlier humor.
“You would be disappointed in me if I did not appreciate your cooking skills.”
“Just more for me.” He gestured at the wooden bowls she had found stored with the several pots and a handful of worn utensils. “Hand me the bowls. Our surroundings may be unrefined, but the food is hot and plentiful.”
Amara exchanged the bowl he offered with an empty one. They lacked a table. Most of the furniture left behind by the former owners was earmarked for kindling. They were spared from sitting on the floor because Brock had found in one of the rooms upstairs two old side chairs. The red velvet upholsteries were threadbare, but the gilded frames were solid.
Picking up her fork, Amara speared a flaky piece of fish. An approving sound rumbled in her throat. She looked over at Brock, noticing he had not tasted his food. “It is very good, Brock. Where did you learn how to cook?”
The ease with which he had prepared their basic supper amazed her. Anticipating their needs, Brock had purchased potatoes and turnips at the coaching inn. He had added them to the fish along with the wild onion for flavor. Meeting his guarded expression, she would have praised his efforts even if the food had tasted awful.
Finding what he needed in the sincerity of her words,
he visibly relaxed his shoulders. “There are wondrous sights in India, but some of them were downright primitive. You either adapt or starve,” he said, shrugging. “Brogden was an excellent teacher.”
he visibly relaxed his shoulders. “There are wondrous sights in India, but some of them were downright primitive. You either adapt or starve,” he said, shrugging. “Brogden was an excellent teacher.”
Amara was acquainted with Dr. Sir Wallace Brogden only through Tipton and Devona. During the early years of the viscount’s self-imposed exile from his homeland, he had served as the physician’s assistant on countless voyages as they traversed the various trade routes. It was Brogden who had nurtured Tipton’s interest in medicine.
She had been too distracted by Doran’s imprisonment three years ago to be concerned about Tipton or his unusual houseguest. She had learned later from Devona that Brogden had been suffering the ills of an infected leg, which the delirious physician had allowed to fester. Tipton had amputated part of the gangrenous leg.
When Brogden had healed and spoke of returning to India to oversee various business interests, Brock had joined him.
“Tipton and Devona have always spoken highly of Dr. Sir Wallace Brogden. I regret he departed London before we were introduced.” For a long time, she had blamed the man for taking Brock with him.
Brock looked up from his supper. “You were too busy hating me and burying your brother.”
The remark struck a deathblow to their conversation. Amara conceded defeat. They finished their meal in silence.
Listening to the muffled sounds coming from the other room, Brock added more wood to the fire. He cursed his insensitivity for the thousandth time. Amara had accepted
her captivity with a bemused tolerance. How had he repaid her? He had cast down her dead beloved brother between them because her implicit trust frightened him. Brock had spent the last hours of daylight contemplating how close he was edging toward proving how undeserving he was.
her captivity with a bemused tolerance. How had he repaid her? He had cast down her dead beloved brother between them because her implicit trust frightened him. Brock had spent the last hours of daylight contemplating how close he was edging toward proving how undeserving he was.
While she had washed their dishes, Brock had gone outside. He had brought in more wood for the hearth, checked the horses, and drawn water from the well. The hall was empty on his return. He assumed Amara was attending to her personal needs. Hooking the pot over the fire to warm, he sat down in front of the hearth and waited.
“I found this hidden in a chest.” She held up a bottle of hock. “Who knows how long it has lain there. It may have turned to vinegar.”
Brock held out a hand. “I will risk it, if you will.” He had purchased beer for them at the inn. Amara had dutifully sipped what he had provided, although from her expression he had guessed only necessity encouraged her imbibing. “Next time I kidnap you, I will remember to bring along some tea.”
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