How to Lose a Bride in One Night (17 page)

Her breath hitched, the air seizing in her chest. This time she didn’t stop herself from leaning forward, angling her face up for him. Her entire being ached for him. He had to know. If he even felt a fraction of what she felt, he would touch her, take her, claim her.

His hand left her face then. She blinked as he stepped back. His fingers curled, clenching into tight fists at his sides. “Good night, Anna.”

She inhaled a shaky breath and ran a hand through her hair, still feeling him there, his fingers wrapping around the tendrils.

“Good night, Owen,” she murmured, trying not to appear as though she had desperately wanted him to kiss her again.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with nothing but the pop of the fire to fill the silence.

T
he following morning, Annalise waited in the foyer for Owen. Her bags had already been stowed in the carriage. She had taken breakfast alone in the dining room. She knew Lord and Lady Winningham were keeping late hours, tending to the baby themselves. Most aristocrats would leave such matters to the staff, but she had spent enough time among members of the
ton
to know that Lady Winningham was not like other ladies.

Still, as she ate alone, she had thought that Owen might join her. Perhaps he was limiting his time with her. After he had left her last night, it seemed clear that there would be no more kisses. He would be a gentleman and make no such advances on her again. Or perhaps he simply did not desire her enough to breach impropriety. Lowering as the thought was, it resolved her to stifle this infatuation she felt for him. It would be best. For both of them.

She folded her hands in front of her and tried not to feel awkward standing alone in the vast foyer space, the groom in the corner watching her silently.

“Anna. Good morning.” Lady Winningham appeared. “Did you breakfast already?”

She sketched a quick curtsy. “Yes, my lady.”

The countess tsked. “I am sorry I wasn’t awake yet to join you. Brand kept us up quite late. He still doesn’t have his days and nights straight. He is sleeping like a log now. Naturally.”

Annalise smiled, suppressing a small stab of jealously that this woman possessed all she had ever dreamed for herself. A family. A loving husband. A healthy child. All things that could never be hers. Just as quickly as the thought entered her head, she banished it, hating that she should even entertain such graceless sentiments. She should simply be grateful to be alive after the tragedy of her wedding night, not envying this woman her happiness.

“Nothing to fret over,” Annalise assured her. “We’re leaving this morning.”

“Yes. Owen said as much. We’re very sad to see you go.” A mischievous light entered her eyes. “You’re waiting for Owen, then? I think I know where he is. Come this way.”

The countess strode ahead, not giving Annalise a chance to explain that she would gladly wait for him in the foyer. Clearly, she was expected to follow.

She fell into step behind the lady. They didn’t stop until they reached a partially open door. The countess peered within first, her movements careful, as though she wanted to remain unnoticed. A satisfied smile spread across her lips. Nodding, she looked back at Annalise and motioned for her to peer within.

Annalise stepped forward, and her heart constricted at the sight. Owen sat in a rocking chair, the tiny Brand in his arms. Morning sunlight spilled through the parted damask drapes. She had never seen him look so peaceful. The hard features of his face were relaxed as he gazed down at the sleeping babe. He rocked him back and forth, humming something faintly. Gone was the awkwardness of yesterday when the child had been forced into his arms. He looked natural cradling that sleeping baby, and sudden longing pinched her chest.

“He will make a wonderful father someday,” Lady Winningham whispered in her ear.

Annalise glanced back at the countess, taken aback at the directness in her dark eyes. She nodded mutely.

Of course he would make a good father. She knew that without even seeing him rocking the babe thusly. He had exhibited gentleness before. Beyond rescuing her, he’d cared for her, helped tend her injuries alongside Mirela. What nobleman would do that for a stranger? She knew firsthand there was tenderness in him even as he’d held himself apart from her so often.

Fast on the heels of this thought came another.
You’re more than infatuated with this man. You’re falling in love with him.

She inhaled a ragged breath. Of all the foolish, stupid things to do. She couldn’t afford to love this man. She wasn’t free to love him. Even if he could care for her in turn, she would be leaving soon to make her own way in the world.

She shifted, desperate to flee from the sight of him holding the child, to erase the image from her mind. The floor creaked beneath her weight and Owen’s head snapped up at the sound. Instantly, the softness fled from his face, a curtain falling over his eyes, quickly masking anything he might have been thinking.

She backed away from the door, bumping into the countess. “Pardon me. I’ll wait for him in the foyer.”

Turning, she fled down the stairs.

Chapter Nineteen

O
wen found her waiting for him in the foyer. He tried to suppress his annoyance, but it was too fresh, simmering beneath the surface.

He had felt exposed when he looked up to find her watching him holding Brand. Humming a Gaelic lullaby he recalled from his youth, rocking Jamie and Paget’s child—a child named after his eldest brother, no less—had been a vulnerable moment. And she had witnessed it.

His annoyance wasn’t alleviated by the fact that Paget stood just behind Anna, a satisfied sparkle in her eyes that told him she was responsible for bringing Anna to the nursery.

“Come,” he snapped. “I’ve said my farewells.”

He strode out the front door, tugging on his gloves and lifting the collar of his coat against the brisk morning.

“Are we leaving directly?” she asked behind him. “I thought you were teaching me to shoot this morning.”

“I am.” He opened the carriage door before the groom could reach it and assisted her inside. Once they were settled on the squabs and the carriage was moving, he elaborated. “There is a spot just up ahead. We’ll stop there.”

Those wide brown eyes stared at him so solemnly, as though he might jump across the seat and bite her. He turned his attention to the window, watching the familiar scenery roll past, hating that she would look at him with such apprehension and yet knowing it was for the best. There could be no comfort or familiarity between them. That could lead to only one thing.

They drove for several more moments before he heard himself saying, “Tell me, Anna. In your limited recollections, do you think it a habit of yours to spy on people?”

She cleared her throat. “Lady Winningham led me to the nursery. I did not mean—I did not know—” She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. I should not have pried.”

He had suspected Paget motivated the encounter, and to hear Anna say as much made him feel wretched for taking out his frustration on her. She was as much a victim of Paget’s machinations as he.

“I suppose we must count ourselves fortunate that I did not startle and drop Brand.” He smiled to show that he was teasing.

A grin of relief brightened her features, and he almost regretted his levity. She was far too lovely when she smiled like that. And he was far too weak to resist her. He turned his attention to the window and stared out.

When they stopped minutes later, he helped her down and led her from the road into the trees.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I didn’t want you to walk too far on your leg. There’s a spot ahead where I used to target practice with my brothers and father.”

Anna stared at her feet as she walked. “Thank you.”

She was always thanking him. Almost as though she didn’t know kindness or consideration.
As though she didn’t know love.
He drew a deep breath at the notion, marveling that someone like her shouldn’t have been loved before. It troubled him far more than he liked. She deserved love.

He slid his hand from her elbow and down her arm, catching her fingers in his. Her smaller hand felt good, and he longed to strip the glove from his hand so he could feel the sensation of skin on skin.

The grass was taller, whispering against her skirts and the fabric of his trousers as they walked.

“Jamie said there should be targets there.”

She glanced up at him. Sunlight ribboned through the tree branches overhead, dappling her features in shadow and light. “Do you have a pistol?”

He patted his jacket where the weight of it rested. “Always.”

“You always wear one?” She lifted her legs high as she walked, almost as though she sought to step over the grass that came to her knees.

“Mostly. Not at home. But always when traveling.”

“And why is that? Is England not civilized?”

“It’s shocking how quickly one can step outside civilization.” He thought of their picnic. That scenario could quickly have twisted into something lacking all civility. Something ugly. He’d seen the savagery in the eyes of those men.

“Do you think danger lurks at every turn?” There was no judgment in her voice, just a faint curiosity as she flicked her gaze at him before staring ahead again.

“It can.” He stopped as they reached the three trees tangled close together that he and his brothers had used to hold various pieces of glass for target practice over the years. He dropped her hand and moved to the trees to position five of the glasses Jamie had left on the ground.

Returning to her side, he said, “Perhaps more importantly for this discussion is what you think.”

She looked up at him, her smooth forehead furrowed. “I know it does. You can never be too prepared.”

Staring into those radiant eyes, he knew she was speaking from experience. A history she wasn’t ready to share with him. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps she would be gone from his life before he ever had a chance to know the mystery behind the shadows in her eyes.

He reached inside his jacket and removed his revolver. “Then let us better prepare you, shall we?”

He motioned her closer, and then tried to ignore the sweet scent of her as he pointed out the different parts of the weapon, including how to load the balls into the chamber and cock the hammer when ready to fire.

Handing it to her, he instructed her on how to hold it and aim. “Understand?”

“Yes.”

Despite her response, she sounded nervous, and the revolver dipped as if too heavy for her hands.

“Why don’t we do the first one together?” He stepped behind her. With a tug, he pulled her flush against him, his chest aligned to her back. Even tense as a board, she fit him perfectly. He pressed his cheek alongside hers, sliding his hands over the length of her stretched arms until his hands reached her wrists. His fingers circled the delicate bones there. He felt her pulse through his gloves.

Struggling to focus, he squinted and followed her line of fire. “Are you aiming at the middle bottle?”

“Yes,” she breathed, still sounding nervous.

“Good. You’re spot on.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Try not to jerk your arms when you squeeze the trigger. Go ahead and pull back the hammer,” he encouraged. “Fire when ready.”

She cocked the hammer and after a very long moment in which he savored the closeness of their bodies she squeezed the trigger. Her body jerked, but he absorbed the force into himself. She released a small gasp as the ball flew loose and struck the tree. Bits of bark flew at the contact.

“Not bad. You shifted your aim low when you fired. Hold your arms steady and try it again.”

She fired again, this time shattering the glass. She laughed, delighted. He moved around her, staring down at her flushed face.

“I hit it, Owen!”

“Very good. There are three more in the chamber. Want to try it alone this time?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

He stepped back, giving her space.

“Steady arms,” he reminded her, watching as she squared off to aim. “Remember not to jerk them when you fire.” She breathed some quiet words of affirmation as her face screwed tight into a look of intense concentration. It was adorable.

A loud pop cracked on the air. She jumped slightly but shattered another bottle.

He whistled. “Impressive. We might have discovered a marksman in you.”

She flushed.

“Again?” he asked.

She nodded and fired again, her body falling back a step from the recoil. He didn’t have to suggest she fire the fifth shot. She stepped forward, set her chin at a determined angle, locked her arms, and fired the last ball.

She hit the final bottle.

“You’re a natural.” She still wore that grin on her face. It was infectious. He felt himself smile. “How do you feel?”

She angled her head, studying the shards of glass marring the ground. “Surprised.”

“That you’re a good shot?”

She nodded.

“Just remember, if you ever have to do this in reality, stay calm. You may only get off one shot. You want to make it count. It might be your only chance. You can’t miss.”

She faced him and offered him the revolver. He shook his head. Pulling out his pouch, he shook five balls into his palm and held them out to her. “Once more. And why don’t you load?”

Nodding, she copied his earlier movements and carefully loaded the chamber.

“We’re out of bottles.”

“So call your shots.”

She hesitated before peering intently at the tangled trio of trees. “Third tree on the right. Bottom half of the trunk.”

Then she fired, hitting the third tree in the vicinity she had just predicted.

“Excellent,” he praised.

She fired the remaining four shots, if not spot on, then remarkably close.

Afterward, Anna turned to face him, beaming, and his heart squeezed to see her so happy, so triumphant. If nothing else, this had been an excellent exercise for her self-esteem.

“Is this what it’s always like?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “What’s it like?”

“Marvelous.” She scrunched her nose, evidently seeking a better description. “Empowering.”

He frowned. It had been a long time since he’d ever felt exhilarated when firing a revolver or rifle. He fought the tide of dark thoughts. He didn’t want to mar the brightness of this moment for her.

“Once, yes. It was like that.”

Her smile slipped and she considered him for a moment. “But no longer,” she replied, far too perceptive.

Owen collected his revolver from her, busying his hands. “I think that’s enough for the day. You have the idea. The revolver is yours to keep. I’ll give you the case when we return to Town.”

He felt her still beside him and lifted his gaze to her face.

“You’re giving it to me?” She blinked.

He nodded. “I’ll feel better knowing you have it. When you’re gone.” Something in him sank as he uttered those words. He told himself it was simply concern for her out there alone in the world. Nothing more than that.

The brightness faded from her eyes. “You’ve done so much for me. Thank you.”

Although she didn’t sound grateful.

Together, they walked. This time he did not hold her hand. He touched her only to assist her into the carriage.

“I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?” she asked. “Earlier?”

At her question, he faced her, bewildered. He didn’t think this woman could ever say the wrong thing. She spoke with her heart. “What are you talking about?”

“Firing a gun. It’s not marvelous for you, is it?”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t care for what I am,” he admitted. “What the war turned me into.”

“And what’s that?”

He simply stared at her, unwilling to say it. It had been said before.

“Oh. That’s right.” She nodded slowly. “A killer.”

He didn’t protest.

She continued, “Isn’t that what a soldier is?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Has it occurred to you that you’re doing a disservice to those who lost their lives? Your fellow comrades?”

He tensed, his ire sparking to life. “What are you saying?”

“They’re dead. You are not. Should you not live to honor them? As your brother is doing?”

“You sound like Paget.”

“Perhaps she’s right.”

“Marrying and begetting children will not
fix
me or erase the things I’ve done.”

“And what is it you’ve done that any other soldier has not?”

“Don’t you understand?” He moved across the carriage to sit beside her. “I don’t care what other soldiers have done. I only care about my actions.”

“And what did you do?”

He turned to the window, studying the tiny motes of dust dancing on the thin stream of light pouring into the shadowy confines of the carriage. “I was a sharpshooter. They gave me assignments. I would sneak into villages, enemy camps, and kill men before they even had a chance to arm themselves. Sometimes they sat at a fire, sipping their coffee, and I ended their lives. One man I executed sat at dinner beneath a tent. There were women at that table with him. Children. And I put a ball straight through his head. When I close my eyes, I still hear their screams.”

He was lost in the recollection until the brush of Anna’s hand on his face brought him back. She cupped his cheek with a tenderness he did not deserve. He snatched hold of her wrist, squeezing the delicate bones. “Do not comfort me.”

“What shall I do then?” she whispered. “Pretend I don’t care?”

“I don’t want you to care. You shouldn’t care.”

Her gaze scanned his face. “Too late,” she whispered, and firmly pressed her lips to his.

He didn’t move for a long moment, didn’t respond to the pressure of those lips on his. Her hands slid around his neck, her fingers toying lightly in the strands of his hair.

He could not resist. With a groan, he hauled her against him and kissed her like a man starved.

Anna sighed into his mouth, releasing a tiny sound of satisfaction that he swallowed deep inside himself. His fingers went for her hair, the silken strands overflowing in his hands.

They strained against each other awkwardly, side by side on the squabs, trying to touch more, taste more. Frustrated, unable to get enough of her, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Her legs straddled him, knees coming down on either side of his hips on the seat. His hands closed on her thighs and pulled her closer until he felt the heat of her through her skirts.