The Bachelor Trap (28 page)

“My initials,” said Brand.

“I know.” Andrew turned and looked at Brand speculatively. “The
F
stands for FitzAlan. That's your real name, isn't it? Brand FitzAlan?”

“You know too much,” said Brand, but he was smiling.

Andrew laughed. “Grandmama told me that you insisted on adding your grandfather's surname to spite Father.”

Brand's smile faded. “No. My grandfather did that. But that's not why I wanted you to see the initials. You're not the only FitzAlan who has spent time in the roundhouse. I'll say this for our father. He always came and bailed me out.”

Andrew beamed at the letters on the wall, but his satisfaction was short-lived. When he looked at Brand, his eyes were troubled. “Sir Giles says he is going to bring charges against me.”

“Well, that will depend on what happened tonight. Why don't you give me your side of events before I meet with Sir Giles.”

It started out innocently enough. Young Malvern had challenged Andrew to a curricle race. Since Andrew knew Malvern to be a cheat and a bully, he had refused. Taunts were exchanged and Andrew finally agreed.

“Not to do so would have been tantamount to admitting I was no match for him and,” he added tellingly, “I didn't want to lose face in front of Emily's friends.”

Emily's
friends, Brand noted, not
my
friends, and he felt the prick of his conscience. Had Andrew friends of his own? He did not know. He'd been too preoccupied with his own affairs to spare the boy much time.

“Go on,” he said softly.

Andrew shrugged. “I won, and we all went off to the Rose and Crown to celebrate. The girls, of course, stayed inside the closed carriage and drank cordial, while waiters brought out tankards of beer for the men. That's when Malvern and his friends showed up. He challenged me again, said it wasn't a fair race, but I told him we had to get back to the Priory for the end of the ball.”

He stopped, looked uncertainly at Brand, then averted his eyes. “Malvern said something no gentleman could tolerate, and I went at him with my fists.”

Brand frowned. “He insulted Emily?”

“No.”

“Ah. Then the insult was to me?”

Andrew did not reply to this. He let out a long breath. “Then everyone started shoving and pushing and before I knew it, a brawl had broken out.”

“And that's when the constable turned up?”

Andrew nodded. “Constable Hinchley ordered everyone home except Malvern and me. Malvern swore I'd attacked him unprovoked. And I didn't want to repeat Malvern's insult, so I had no defense.”

There was a silence as Brand considered this. He could not think of anything he'd done to deserve such loyalty.

“Tell me about Emily,” he said gruffly.

Andrew grinned. “She jumped down from the carriage and started to argue with the constable, so he took her into custody, too. I had no idea she had such a temper. Nothing could shut her up, not even the threat of arrest.”

It wasn't Emily's face that came to Brand's mind but Marion's.

His train of thought was interrupted by raised voices on the other side of the door. He thought he recognized Hardcastle's voice. The cell wasn't locked, so he pushed through the door and went to investigate. After a moment's hesitation, Andrew went after him.

They found them in the office, Sir Giles Malvern and Dr. Hardcastle. They were nose to nose. Young Malvern was sitting on a bench with a sly smile on his face. Jennings was off to the side, arms folded across his chest, beaming affably at the spectacle of two well-heeled members of the gentry squaring off for a fight.

Sir Giles's face was an angry red. “I say that my boy took a vicious beating and if you won't write that in your report, I want a second opinion.”

Hardcastle's chin jutted dangerously. “And I say that your boy is a malingerer. I saw plenty of those in the war, so I recognize one when I see one. A few scratches and bruises?” He pinned young Malvern with a steely eye. “You should be ashamed of yourself, boy, for making such a fuss. I understand you want to make the army your career. I'd advise you to have second thoughts. There's no place for cowards in the army.”

Sir Giles's breath rushed between his teeth. He made a turn, saw Brand, sneered, and pointed a shaking finger at him. “You put Hardcastle up to this! Well, you'll get your just deserts at the hustings. Don't think that marriage to an earl's daughter will elevate you to her level. You'll always be a bastard.”

Hardcastle said, “Now we know where the boy gets it from.”

Brand looked bored. Andrew scowled. Jennings flexed his muscular arms and took a threatening step toward Sir Giles.

“One more word like that,” said Jennings, “and I shall arrest you for disturbing the king's peace.”

Sir Giles eyed Jennings's brawny shoulders and his lips flattened. “Come, Victor,” he said. “We'll get our revenge on election day.”

There was a long silence after father and son stormed out, then Hardcastle turned his bird-bright eyes on Andrew. He fisted his hands and moved them rapidly as a pugilist would in a fight.

“Did you give him the one-two in the solar plexus as I taught you?”

Andrew flushed and darted a guilty look at Brand, then quickly shifted his gaze to the doctor. “Yes, sir, just as you taught me.”

“And he went down like a winded bellows?”

Andrew grinned. “He gasped for a full minute, like a fish out of water.”

Brand was amazed. To the doctor, he said, “You've been teaching my brother how to fight?”

“Indeed, I have, and he is a natural, as I should know. I'm an avid follower of the sport. Never miss a prizefight if I can help it.”

Brand looked at Andrew. “How long has this been going on?”

Andrew shifted restlessly. “Since the night Dr. Hardcastle took the bullet out of you. We got talking afterward, and one thing led to another.”

The doctor said, “That's a nasty cut you've got on your face, Andrew. Let's have a look at it.”

After leaving the roundhouse, they walked the short distance to the Rose and Crown. The damages didn't amount to much—the cost of repairing a broken window and replacing a few wooden chairs and benches that were left outside for patrons' convenience during the summer months. Andrew's curricle and horses were there, too, safely stowed in the inn's stables, and Brand had to pay for that, also. Trust a FitzAlan to think of his horses first! Brand thought ruefully.

Since Andrew was driving, Brand settled back and was soon lost in quiet reflection. He was thinking that instead of setting himself up as his brother's mentor, he should have been more of a friend to him, more of a
brother,
especially when they saw each other only in the holidays. He hadn't wanted his brother to turn out like their father, so he'd kept the boy busy, first with his studies, then with estate business. It would not have been true to say that he'd neglected Andrew, but his focus had been too narrow. He should have been the one to teach Andrew how to fight.

In spite of his own inadequacies, thought Brand, Andrew had turned out well. He was proud of the way he had handled himself tonight. No need to tell him what kind of vitriol Malvern had spewed out. He'd been used to it all his life. What he wasn't used to was a brother.

“Andrew,” he began, and cleared his throat. “I was hoping you would stand up with me at my wedding, you know, as my groomsman.”

There was a sound like a sharp intake of breath, then Andrew said, “What about Ash Denison? Don't you want him to stand up with you?”

“No. Ash comes out in hives when he gets too close to the altar. He can't stop weeping. He'd disrupt the service.”

Andrew laughed.

“Besides,” Brand went on, “you're my brother. That means a great deal to me.”

This time, it was Andrew who cleared his throat. “I shall be honored.”

Brand smiled. “That's settled, then.”

“Is it? Settled, I mean? I did wonder after what Emily told me tonight, but anyone can see that you and Marion belong together.”

In the process of yawning, Brand froze, then snapped his teeth together. “What did Emily tell you?”

Andrew chuckled. “That one or both of you were suffering from bridal nerves and if you did not get a hold of yourselves, there might not be a wedding.”

“Interesting,” drawled Brand. “Tell me more.”

Marion heard the soft knock at her door and started up. “Who is it?” she called out.

A muffled voice replied, “Who else would it be at this time of night?”

The door wasn't locked, but she ran to open it anyway. “Brand,” she said.

When he entered the room and locked the door, she had no doubt that he was in the grip of some powerful emotion.

Her heart leaped to her throat. “It's Andrew, isn't it? What happened, Brand?”

“It isn't Andrew.” He advanced a step, then another. “He's home and none the worse for this adventure. I don't want to talk about Andrew. I don't want to talk about Emily. I want to talk about us.”

There were times when Brand Hamilton could look quite debonair. This wasn't one of them. His face was set in harsh lines and his blue eyes were glittering like cold steel. She hovered on the brink of fear; then common sense returned. Brand Hamilton in a temper might scare the breeches off the high and mighty in both government and Court circles, but he did not scare her.

She stopped retreating and held her chin up. Eyes steady on his, she said, “What about us?”

He lowered his face to hers. “Since when does a hot-blooded miss like you suffer from bridal nerves?”

He didn't give her a chance to respond. His mouth covered hers in a kiss that was calculated to subdue every remnant of feminine resistance. He used his weight to pin her against the bedpost, and cupped her face with his hands.

“Now tell me about bridal nerves,” he said, and he kissed her again.

She would have rebelled if she had not felt so guilty. Evidently, her muddled conversation with Emily had got back to him and his pride was hurt.

When he raised his head, she whispered, “Brand, you don't understand.”

“Does this give you bridal nerves?” he asked fiercely, and he molded his hand to her breast. He didn't stop there and, in the space of single heartbeat, her knees began to buckle. She clutched his arms for support.

His voice lost none of its force. “Do I have to prove to you how ready you are for this?”

She shook her head.

“Then why in blazes are you having second thoughts? I thought everything was settled between us.”

“I want what's best for everyone,” she cried.

Air rushed out of his lungs and he rested his forehead on hers. “Do you want what is best for me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then I'll show you what's best for me.”

Keeping his gaze riveted to hers, he lowered her to the bed, and came down beside her. Capturing her wrists in one hand, he held them above her head and used his other hand to sweep from her throat to her breasts, all the way to her loins.

Lips against hers, he whispered, “I wish I understood how your mind works. Since I don't, I'm going to tell you how my mind works. All I can think about is this—you, wanting me as much as I want you. Do you think I want to feel this way? You're not a distraction, you're an obsession. No, don't turn your head away. It's more than lust. I want a future with you. I want to have children with you. Compared to that, everything else is like ashes.” He inhaled a ragged breath. “Now tell me that's what you
don't
want.”

“That's unfair! I'm trying to be unselfish.”

“And I'm trying not to lose my temper.”

She gave a teary chuckle. He sighed. Their lips met and clung. Her yielding softened the fierceness inside him, but it did not deflect him from his purpose. She was his mate. The sooner she realized it, the easier it would be for both of them.

Slowly, piece by piece, he removed her nightclothes. There wasn't a part of her that did not feel the stroke of his fingers, the brush of his lips. He was awed by her beauty and lingered over the rosy tips of her breasts, the flare of her hips, the slight swell of her belly, and the soft mound that guarded the core of her femininity.

“You're so beautifully made,” he told her, “so wonderfully female.” His words became more ardent, more explicit, as she moaned and moved restlessly beneath his touch.

When he probed gently and found her wet for him, he had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from falling on her like a ravening wolf.

“Brand,” she said softly.

He heard the uncertainty in her voice as well as the longing. It was the uncertainty more than anything that helped him gain his control. He came back to her and rained feather-light kisses on her eyes, her cheeks, her lips.

“I won't go on with this if you don't want me to,” he said.

She stared up at him in disbelief. Her whole body was aching with unslaked desire. She was frantic with need. Couldn't he see it?

Her response was pure feminine instinct. She lifted her head and kissed him with all the love and passion that was buried deep inside her. She felt the leap of his heart against her breasts. Her breath caught.

He was everything she could hope for in the man she loved. There was no one like him, and there never would be, not for her.

He heard her struggling to catch her breath, felt her leap to passion. “Marion,” he said wonderingly, “Marion.”

Laughing now, he got off the bed and stripped out of his clothes. When he came back to her, he wasn't laughing. His mouth took hers again, ravenous, demanding, and when she answered that demand, he thought his heart would burst.

When he parted her legs and rose above her, his breath became harsh, uneven. “Marion, look at me,” he commanded.

Her lashes fluttered and her love-dazed eyes stared up at him. “No more doubts or second thoughts,” he said.

Slowly, giving her time to adjust to his body, he entered her. When he began to move, she arched beneath him. As his movements became more abandoned, she lavished kisses on his arms, his throat, his shoulders. A torrent of heat swept them to the edge. He felt her body contract beneath his, heard her wild cry of rapture. Only then did he take his own release. At the end, he cried out her name. Marion buried her head in his shoulder.

“I love you, Brand,” she murmured, and her whole body went lax.

She was curled into him, eyes closed, her breath tickling his armpit. He lay on his back, hands linked behind his head, staring blindly at the canopy overhead.

I love you.
He couldn't get his mind around the words.

When she stirred and sighed, he propped himself on one elbow and studied her face. In sleep, she looked no older than Emily, and he felt about the same age as Andrew. He didn't know anything about anything—not that he would have been aware of it at eighteen years old. Now that he was older and wiser, he realized how much he had to learn.

“Brand, what is it?”

His eyes met hers. “You're a passionate woman, Lady Marion Dane, and I'm a very lucky man.”

He smiled into her eyes and smoothed back strands of fair hair that fell in unruly disorder around her face.

Her hand closed around his wrist, bringing his eyes back to hers. “Yes, but that's not what you were thinking.”

“How do you know?”

“Because…you looked pensive, and that's not like you.”

She dragged herself up to get a better look at him, and pulled the coverlet up to her chin. He had to follow her example or be smothered by the bedclothes.

“Well?” she prompted.

He shrugged. “You said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

Her heart stopped beating. She could make light of it and pretend that she couldn't be held responsible for what she said in the throes of passion. What stopped her was Brand. She had never seen him look so vulnerable. They couldn't both be vulnerable. One of them had to take a chance and this time, it seemed, the short straw had fallen to her.

“Yes, I meant it.”

His fingers linked with hers and he brought her hand to his lips. As carelessly as he could manage, he said, “No one has ever said those words to me before.”

She suppressed a smile. “Brand,” she said, “mistresses aren't paid to love their protectors, but to sell them their favors.”

He scowled. “What would you know about it?”

Her look was pure exasperation. “You and Emily seem to think that I'm a hothouse flower. I'm not. I don't need to be pampered. I'm not delicate at all. My mother put me wise to the ways of the world, and drawing-room gossip completed my education.”

“Drawing-room gossip! You make it sound like a grand tour.”

“You could say it's the female equivalent, and when Emily is a little older, I shall put her wise to the ways of the world, too.”

She was wishing she hadn't introduced Emily's name into the conversation, because the endearingly uncertain look on his face vanished, and he was giving her one of his narrow-eyed stares, the one that searched her mind for all her secrets.

Before he could begin to question her, she said, “I did not tell Emily that I was having second thoughts. I was trying to prepare her for the possibility of us moving away from Longbury—you know, in the event of unseen things beyond our control oversetting our plans? Obviously, I botched it, but I'm surprised at Emily. She shouldn't have mentioned it to you.”

“It wasn't Emily who told me, it was Andrew. And,” he added moodily, “it sounds to me as though you
are
having second thoughts.”

“Brand,” she said, appealing to him. “Nothing was settled between us. You know it as well as I do. What if you can't silence David Kerr? What if you can't prove that my parents married before Emily was born? If it comes out, can't you see how this could ruin your chances of advancement? Can't you see that my sisters and I would be better off out of the public eye, and living quietly somewhere else?”

“It won't come to that. These things take time. Bishops are busy men. It may take them a while to look over their transcripts. Patience, Marion. They'll get back to us sooner or later.”

“And what if they say that there is no record of my parents' marriage?”

He dismissed her misgivings out of hand. “Then we'll widen our scope to include other counties. I haven't changed my mind. I still believe that your father married your mother as soon as it was legally possible.”

Her mouth set in disgruntled lines. “You're always so confident! Don't you ever have doubts about anything, like ordinary people?”

He brushed a careless kiss on her bare shoulder and smiled when she shivered. “You told me that you loved me. I'm not confident about that.”

She was ready to take umbrage since he hadn't given her the words in return, but something about his watchful expression changed the direction of her thoughts. What was it he wanted to hear?

“Perhaps I shouldn't have told you,” she said, not challenging him, but feeling her way carefully. “If it makes you uneasy, I won't say it again.”

“Make me uneasy?” He rested his head on the back of the bed and covered his eyes with his arm. “It's just the opposite. No one has ever said those words to me before. No one.” He grinned at her. “Not even the occasional lady, the very occasional lady, I've had in my keeping.”

“There must be someone. Your grandfather? Father? Grandmother?”

“No one.”

He was amused, and though she returned his smile, she wasn't amused at all. He'd just enlarged on those three or four sentences that made up his biography and she ached to make it up to him.

Careful, Marion, she cautioned herself. Trying to make up to people for their misfortunes was one of her biggest failings. Some unscrupulous people took advantage.

“I'm sure your mother said those words to you,” she said quietly.

“Yes, but she died when I was a few months old, so I have no memories of her.”

“What about you? Haven't you said those words to anyone?”

His expression was arrested. “Never.”

“Are you going to say them to me?”

The amusement faded from his face, and he turned to her with an expression that bordered on pain. “It's not our way. We FitzAlans are not a demonstrative lot.”