The Smithfield Bargain (19 page)

He paused, clearly waiting for her response, but words were impossible. She continued to stare at him. His voice sounded the same. The elegant cut of his burgundy coat that he wore over a bright green waistcoat made him as much the sprig of fashion as ever. From the top of his thinning hair to the tip of his brightly shining shoes that peeked from beneath his pantaloons, he was the Bradley Montcrief she had mourned for.

This could not be. James had told her that Bradley and his man were dead and buried in the cemetery of a nameless Scottish church. James would not have lied to her about Bradley … would he? Hadn't she already agreed to play a part in this scheme? She was unsure.

“Romayne, my sweet, sweet Romayne,” he murmured as he took her hands again. “Can it be that you find it impossible to forgive me? I vow to you that I sought you through that hellish storm, but those squires of the pad had vanished with you into the Scottish night.” He pressed his hand to the ruffles cascading from his collar. “Think of my agony when I imagined you suffering their abuse! Now to see you, so unchanged, my heart cannot begin to contain the joy within it.”

“You're alive!” she finally managed to whisper.

“Although they left me with no carriage and no provisions, I found help. We returned to the carriage, hoping to see some sign of you. All we found was Scribner's corpse and the remains of one of the damned highwaymen.” He hurried to add, “Forgive my crude words, my sweet.”

“Of course,” she whispered, unaware of anything she said. Bradley was alive! Then why did she feel only the emptiness she had when she had assumed he was dead? She should be deliriously happy.

“Our search for you lasted for days, but nothing led us to you. Then I returned here to give your grandfather the terrible tidings that you had vanished.” His smile faltered. “Another night I care not to recall.”

“I thought you were dead. I heard gunshots. I saw—” Her voice shattered on the razor-sharp memories.

“What you thought is over, my sweet. The nightmare is past for both of us. We can begin again. We still have our plans to marry.”

“Bradley—”

He put his finger to her lips. “No, my sweet, listen to me. We were foolish to hie out of Yorkshire. No elopement this time. Somehow, we shall convince your grandfather of the wisdom of accepting our love.”

“Bradley—”

Again he interrupted her. “Say nothing, my sweet. I wish only to look at you and hold you to my lips.” He smiled with the teasing light in his eyes that she had loved so dearly and took her hand. His expression wavered when he noted the circlet of gold around her fourth finger. Dropping her hand, he looked past her, his lips tightening.

Romayne did not need to turn, but she did. As she had guessed, James stood behind her. His face held less emotion than those in the portraits of her ancestors. She knew she should say something—anything—but all words had vanished from her head.

“Sir,” Bradley said, clearly not as tongue-tied as she was, “this is a private conversation. Lady Romayne and I wish to be alone.”

“Do you now?”

She was astounded that James's voice was low and threatening. First Clayson had lost his composure; now James was acting nearly as agitated in spite of his outward serenity. This boded poorly for an already complicated situation.

“Are you intimating that I might be speaking other than the truth?” Bradley returned.

“I question only if you are speaking for the lady.” James turned to her. “Is that your opinion, too, Romayne?”

“Sir,” Bradley said stiffly, “you are overly familiar with my betrothed.”

Romayne stepped between the two men before they could put the fury in their eyes into action. Although she guessed James would restrain his temper, she could not be so sure of Bradley or what James would do if Bradley challenged him to name his seconds. In a duel, Bradley would be at a disadvantage, for she knew he did not have James's skill with a pistol. She could not say that, for it would add to the pain she must inflict on Bradley with the truth.

“Bradley, calm yourself,” she said softly.

“You are your usual sweet self to defend this worthless yapster.”

When James tensed at the insult, she raised her chin and glowered at him. He need not make this more difficult! He had said worse things to her.

In her coldest voice, she said, “James, this is my betro—this is Bradley Montcrief. Bradley, James MacKinnon.” She hesitated, then feeling the steady challenge of James's eyes, added, “James is my husband.”

“Your husband?” choked Bradley. His face took on the gray shade of his eyes. “You are married?”

“Her name is now Lady Romayne MacKinnon,” James replied before Romayne could answer. “As you are a friend of long acquaintance, however, I will not object to you addressing her familiarly.”

Romayne had not guessed she could be more infuriated, but James spoke of her as if she was nothing more than his possession. Although the law granted her few rights as a married woman, a fact her grandfather had impressed upon her the first time she had mentioned marrying Bradley, she refused to be treated as chattel.

“Why don't we sit down?” she asked.

Neither man moved.

With a silent curse, she sat on the nearest chair. She relaxed slightly when James chose one next to her. Bradley remained standing, his hands folded over his chest as he glowered at them.

“This is, indeed, a surprise, Montcrief,” James said. “It isn't often that we have the chance to speak with a man who has been put to bed with a shovel. You appear quite recovered from your mortal wounds.”

“Bradley was not hurt.” She dampened her lips which were oddly dry. “He says the bodies belonged to his coachee and one of the highwaymen.”

“So why did you abandon your carriage?”

Bradley shrugged. “What good was it when the doors were hanging ajar, the roof filled with gashes, and it was splattered with blood?”

When Romayne looked at James, he smiled for the first time since she had left the table. A hint of gentleness seeped into his voice as he put his hand on her shoulder. “Thatcher and I were determined that you would not notice the stains.”

“Thank you.”

“You have my carriage?” Bradley asked.

“If you go to the stables, Thatcher can tell you where he drove it after it brought us south.” James locked his fingers around his knee and leaned back. “I'm afraid, after your adventures in the Lowlands, it has few miles left on it. Be careful when you take it home. The rear axle has a tendency to break at the most inopportune times.” He did not pause before he added, “How did you get back to Yorkshire?”

Bradley's smile strained his taut lips. “A few yellow Georges can buy a useless nag. It was a horrendous journey in the cold and wind.”

“So you do not plan to return to Scotland again soon?”

Romayne tensed as she realized where James's questions were leading. Although he had told her that he had dismissed Bradley as a possible suspect, James still distrusted him. She wanted to cry out that Bradley would not sell his own country out to the French. If the blunt was so important to him, Bradley would not have asked her to be his wife. He knew she now had only the inheritance from her parents.

“I hope never to return to that blighted land,” Bradley answered. “I long to forget every hideous moment I was there.”

“But you are home and safe,” Romayne interjected, wishing he would sit so she did not have to strain her neck to look up at him. “The worst is behind us.”

“Is it?” He glared at James, who now wore a superior smile. “I can think of nothing worse than you being married to another man.” Boldly he took her hands in his again. He did not step back when James lost his lackadaisical pose, but she felt his tension in his touch. “I lied, my sweet, when I said that I abhorred every moment of my time in Scotland. I look into your eyes, and I see the warmth I found on your lips when I held you so close in the carriage.”

Hearing a low rumble from James that might have been anger with Bradley's daring or amusement at his flowery words, Romayne jerked her hands away. “Bradley, please say nothing that will make matters worse.”

He swore, then again hastened to apologize. “Romayne, you must see that I find all of this most unsettling, as you must.”

“Mayhap,” James said, “you would be wise to retire to gather what wits you have remaining. I am sure my wife would be glad to receive you the next time she is at home.” To Romayne, he said as coolly, “I came to inform you that your grandfather is anxious for your return to his table.”

Looking from one man to the other, she recalled her wish that the highwaymen had been nothing but a nightmare. In comparison with this moment, the night when she had been abducted now seemed no more appalling than a morning ride about the Yorkshire countryside. She sat between a man she had honestly promised to wed and a man she had falsely vowed to be faithful to for the rest of her life. One thing she was certain of: she could deal with the anger of only one of them at a time.

“James, please tell Grandfather that I shall return as quickly as possible.”

“You would not prefer to tell him yourself?”

For a moment, she was tempted to accept the escape he was offering. His compassion urged her to throw her arms around him and hide her face against his shoulder, so he could comfort her as she wept the tears that burned in her throat. Bradley would not understand how James's arms offered her solace when she hurt, and she could not slight Bradley, when she failed to grasp her feelings herself.

“No,” she answered in a whisper as she stood when he did. “I know you can make my excuses for me.”

His ruddy brows arched in the expression she had come to recognize as a cover for his most dangerous emotions. “It appears that you can devise your excuses quite well by yourself. I shall see you when you return to our rooms, then, Romayne.”

“Our rooms?” she squeaked, then put her hands to her lips. That was hardly a matter to be discussed in front of Bradley. When she saw her erstwhile betrothed's eyes widen, she rushed on to add, “I had thought you would retire with Grandfather for port after dinner.”

“As I might, although I own to a true reluctance to miss a moment of having you to myself in our rooms.” Dipping his head cursorily toward the other man, he said, “Good evening, Montcrief. Congratulations yet again on your return from the dead.”

Romayne folded her arms in front of her, gripping her elbows as she sought to control the quivering of fury. James was doing everything he could to incite Bradley. Why? So Bradley would err and own that he was the traitor? Impossible! She intended to tell James that on the first occasion she had to speak with him alone.

Her anger was consumed by the heated maw of desire as she thought of where that conversation would take place.
Our rooms
. Grandfather must have acceded to James's demand that they share a room. In the privacy of her rooms, with Grange retired to her own chamber, there would be no one to interrupt if he drew her into his arms as his lips invited her to sample the rapture awaiting them.

She flinched when the door closed softly, the click warning her of the peril she was courting as James courted her. Why hadn't James slammed the door? Why did he deny his anger tonight when he was usually eager to show how she incensed him? She shivered as she wondered exactly what he planned for when they were alone tonight. She yearned to find out.

“Blast that Scotsman,” grumbled Bradley.

“Sit down, Bradley, please,” Romayne said, finding etiquette a haven from her dangerous thoughts of a passion she must not experience. “If you wish, I can ring for something for you to eat.”

“I will be supping later at Foxcroft's house.” Sitting on an unpadded bench, he drew her next to him. “My sweet, sweet Romayne, I wish only to look upon you as you explain why you forgot your longing to be my wife.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I am quite alive, as you would determine for yourself if you would allow me to touch you for more than a moment.” He folded her fingers between his. “My dearest Romayne, what made you think such a mad thing?”

“I heard a gun fire.”

Scowling, he bit his lip in concentration. “As I did. Many guns. That is why I was so shocked at the tidings that you lived. When I heard that, I had to ride out here without delay to determine for myself that a miracle had truly happened. Although we could find no signs of you, save the glove the knight of the pad had stolen from you, I feared, if you had survived the guns, you would become lost in the storm and freeze.”

“I nearly did.” Quickly, tersely, she explained how James had halted the highwaymen and led her to safety. When she saw Bradley's eyes slit as his mouth turned down in anger, she cut the story short.

What a block she was! The listing of James's heroism was guaranteed to add to Bradley's rage.
But
, the small voice murmured,
James is the one who saved you
.

Bradley reached to brush her hair back from her eyes, but she drew away and stood. “Romayne, can it be that you are loath to my touch?”

“I am married to James.”

He spat a curse, this time not bothering to apologize for swearing like a cutter. Setting himself on his feet, he snapped, “You must understand that I am distressed to discover you have replaced me so quickly in your heart. When did you wed him?”

“What does that matter?”

“It matters to me.” He seized her by the upper arms, his bony fingers pressing against her skin. “How long did you mourn me before you let that Scotsman bed you?”

“Bradley, you're hurting me.”

“As much as my heart hurts when I think of that man holding you as I had dreamed I would?”

She winced and tried to pull away. His grip tightened, and fear flashed through her along with the stories of the times he had gotten into a peal. She had dismissed them before, but for the first time, as she stared at his twisted lips, she owned they might be true. Arguing with him, as she did with James, might lead to more disasters.