took a breath and then flipped the coin again.
Brandt wore dark clothing and, as dusk fell, he took both horses and went to the woman’s house. He’d noticed the sky clouding. He wasn’t waiting until Sunday morning at half past eight and fifteen steps beyond the street corner and half a bottle past the refuse in the road. The woman wanted to leave her stepfather. That he could take care of. She could save her blasted instructions for her next kidnapper.
Nor did he want to be hanged if something went wrong. He really was picky about things like that. Tavern floor, fine. Noose, tight. He’d never even tied a cravat tightly. Things went smoother in the darkness. Fewer eyes watched. Usually the people who were about at such hours would go to great lengths to avoid notice and tried to avoid anything which might bring questions their way.
Looking up, windows on the first floor flickered with candlelight and silhouettes of figures moved beyond the curtains. He could take her away. He could hide her. He had the perfect place—waiting, but not for him. She could step over the threshold there. He couldn’t, but she could.
He tied the horses near the back of the house. He’d tried to hitch them as if they belonged to a house because if someone nicked them, he was going to be in a bind. Horses irked him. Heiresses irked him.
He noted the dim light from an upstairs window and then the corner ones. He knew the end room was more likely the master’s chambers because it received window light from both sides and had the ability to open more windows if the room became stifling. Then, when he saw the curtains being closed, he saw the shape of a valet, not a maid.
He moved to get sight of the other side window and could see only the dimmest of lights behind it. Miss Wilder’s room. Earlier he’d stayed long enough to see the outline of her bonnet as she’d removed it. And he’d watched a footman slink out another door, then rush away, possibly going to a meeting with a sweetheart or to finish an errand he’d neglected earlier. In just moments he’d known where to get into the house and where to find the woman when he returned.
Now, he stared up at the house darkened except for shadows near the front entrance.
He went to the back entrance with a bar he had brought along to pry open the door and, when he reached out, the latch was locked.
He put pry marks into the wood, separating the metal from wood, working to get the lock free.
Earlier in the day when the footman had left, Brandt had pretended to ask directions. Then he’d discovered Katherine Wilder was the niece of a duke.
He paused. He had to take care. He knew why she hadn’t turned to her uncle. A self-righteous man who refused to let his servants turn their backs on him or raise their eyes when he spoke with them. He doubted Miss Wilder could ever get on well with the man.
Lifting the bar, he slipped inside. He walked the hall until he found a stairway and quickly got to the upper floors. Even if someone heard him, he’d be undetected unless they saw him. Footsteps would be attributed to a servant, or to Miss Wilder herself, or to the master of the house. It would be assumed someone moving about was answering a bell pull.
He found a doorway which he thought paralleled the window he’d watched.
The door opened easily, with only a small click. The first thing he noticed was the flounces. No man could sleep in a room decorated like a petticoat.
He took five paces and stood beside the bed.
His breath caught.
She lay so still. Beautiful. Innocent. And still as death.
Memories flooded back, choking him. He turned to the window, stepped closer, and pushed back the curtain until it stood wide. He felt the burning in his eyes.
He was locked inside his own past.
The covers rustled as she turned away in her sleep.
She’d caused the flood of thoughts. The strength of them. She needed to wake and he didn’t want to touch her. But he wanted to shake her, rail at her and curse her. She wasn’t Mary and she’d brought the pain back to his mind, and he didn’t have drink enough to cover it because he had to be here, with her, instead of sitting at the tavern.
Afraid of what memories would stir if he touched her, Brandt picked up a book from her bedside table. He nudged her arm with the volume. She didn’t move.
‘Wake.’ He spoke insistently and this time the book was forceful.
She sat up, slapping at him before her eyes were open. He watched as she tried to see in the darkness.
When he saw the mussed look of her hair and the innocence of the white clothing she wore, he clenched his empty hand into a fist. He slammed the book on to the table, uncaring about the noise.
‘Come on. Get up. Your chariot is waiting. Her name is Apple.’ He reached for Miss Wilder’s arm and pulled her to a sitting position.
She jerked her arm away and her eyes flooded with recognition.
‘You are trespassing.’ The whisper hissed into the room. ‘You’re in my bedchamber, and I am not some person who might appreciate a man’s night-time attentions.’
As easily as lifting a child, he grasped her arms and pulled her from the bed and to her feet. He stepped back.
He moved away, giving her a graceful bow and pointing to the door.
‘It is not tonight, you fool. I have not packed yet. There are no witnesses,’ The whisper ended on a hiss. ‘He will merely think I have run away.’
Fool, she had called him.
How well she knew. He hadn’t controlled his world enough to keep this one out of it with the reminders of another life she forced into his head.
This had been a mistake. He’d thought years passing would give him strength. Would have made him able to face what he was about to do. No.
He’d hoped, like a fool, he had strength to look at his past without dunking his head in a bottle.
He wanted to swim to the bottom of a pool of brandy and not return to the surface. He embraced the murky depths and they held him. That would be the only touch he would ever again need. And he’d had to forgo it to keep a clear head so he could keep his feet clear on the direction to her house.
The Miss stood glaring at him.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She kept her voice low. ‘This kidnapping is not so important to you that you’re able to put aside the drink for one night and attend to it. You are not following my direction, either. Now leave my bedchamber.’ She pointed a finger just as he had done, directing him away. ‘This is not how I wish to be kidnapped.’ Her whisper hardly sounded, but he could hear her well.
‘I could be in a warm tavern.’ He gritted his teeth and fought to ignore the soft purity of her skin. She bombarded his senses with the air of womanliness which swept from her to cover him. ‘You’re not staying in your warm bed.’
Brandt
