Forget Me Not (8 page)

If she was not in love with Brian Donnelly she wanted to be.

Was it wrong to want such a thing?  Probably, but in this moment she didn’t particularly care.

*
             
*
             
*

The gentle red and yellow hues of morning light filtered through the window warming Brian’s face. Slowly he opened his eyes, reluctant to rise and release the sleeping Lydia from his arms. It was quite literally a dream come true to wake beside her and for just another moment he wanted to lie with her, pretend she truly was his wife… make believe she loved him.

Her open concern for him after the nightmare last night had touched his heart in no small measure. To be so affected by a dream she must have a more caring nature than he’d originally believed. Most social climbing ladies were out for themselves alone. The fateful day he’d looked into her eyes, dooming himself to be hers for eternity, he’d sensed compassion in the depths of her brown eyes. Hell, he’d sensed more than compassion, in that single moment he’d seen everything he could hope to want in a woman. In a word he’d been…
bewitched
.

Was any of it true?

Even now his heart lurched to think of never having her, to think of another man claiming her favors. It was some class of sorcery that could take such powerful hold of him for so long. Perhaps he was nothing more than a romantic. The nuns at his Dublin orphanage had forever lectured him on the folly of shooting the stars, instructed him to learn his place, the lectures never took. At that time he’d believed a man—any man—could make his mark on the world, to prove it he had run away to join the army at fifteen. Perhaps he should have listened more closely to Sister Agatha.

Carefully he extricated his arm from beneath the ethereal beauty, unable to resist brushing a long chunk of hair behind her ear, and dropping a light kiss to her brow. Quietly as possible he slid from the bed and dressed, all the while his imagination swirling around the vision of her curled in the bed.

He clamped a tight lid on those thoughts. Nothing could ever come of his feelings for her. He had comforted her in a time of need, nothing more, he need not read more into last night than necessary. The girl was a wanton tease betrothed to a peer of the realm, and he was nobody. He reached to touch her again and stopped short.
I am nobody.

Heart heavy he finished buttoning his shirt, closed the door and descended the stairs. Harvey waited for him, and after a quick breakfast of porridge and cheese they set to work. The labor was numbing, distracting, and before long Brian relaxed into a comfortable routine, relaying tales of old times with Harvey and listening to stories of his children. Though, all the while he kept at least one wary eye on the road. Discovery by Keith’s men was unlikely but one could never be too careful.

As the sun reached the height of the day Harvey suggested a break for the midday meal. Brian eagerly agreed. The farm was modest so it had not been necessary to pack provisions for the day’s work and it took only a few minutes to trek back to the cottage.

Laughter floated through the house and Brian was no less than surprised to find Anna and Lydia chattering away as the oldest of friends. Wrapped in an apron, moving assuredly about the kitchen, one would never guess Lydia lived a life of gentility and leisure.

“I see you ladies are having a grand time.”

Anna beamed. “Yes, Lydia is sharing her sweet roll recipe with me, and they are divine. Have you tasted her glaze yet, Brian?”

Lydia could cook?  Since when did would be
viscountess
know their way around a kitchen?

“Uh, no. I haven’t had the pleasure,” he murmured, mulling over the puzzle that was Lydia Covington.

“Oh, Lydia, you must give him a taste of that glaze.”  Anna waved animatedly between the two of them. “Positively sinful. Like heaven and your darkest secrets all rolled into one.”

Lydia’s wide amber eyes turned to his. She looked adorable wrapped in Anna’s oversize, floppy apron, hair braided over one shoulder and a dusting of flour streaked from her forehead to her chin. He knew the strongest desire to wipe it away. She lifted a spoon from the bowl sitting on edge of the table and moved toward him, head cocked demurely to the side. She held out the wooden spoon and he leaned in for a sample.

The sauce was a perfect combination of tangy and sweet, and as the spices tangled with his taste buds Brian was inundated with the strongest sense of being a little boy again. It was like a memory oh so sweet and all but forgotten. Lydia’s glaze tasted like…
Christmas.
He smiled. “I know this recipe. When I was growin’ up Sister Agatha made glazed swe
et rolls every Christmas Eve.”
It was near Sister Agatha’s only redeeming quality—aside from being a nun—and his happiest childhood memory.

Lydia smiled, eyes twinkling. “It was my grandmother’s recipe, she was Irish as well. I’m sure Ireland is where she learned to make this.”

So Lydia’s grandmother was Irish?
  Brian felt an instant connection with her, a kinship he’d just as soon not experience.

“Would you like another taste?” Lydia asked softly, her glittering honey eyes every bit as sweet and smooth as the glaze.

Yes, yes he would like another taste. Preferably the spot of sauce on the inside of her right thumb, or better yet the spot glistening from the corner of her mouth. How would it taste mingled with her?  He reached up to brush the flour from her smooth cheek and licked his lips. If only they were alone.

“That is delicious,” Harvey bellowed, successfully drawing Brian’s thoughts to a close. “You are one lucky man to have a wife who cooks like this, Brian. One lucky man indeed.”

Brian cleared his throat, averting his gaze from the woman posing as his wife. “That’s a matter of perspective I’d suppose.”  Recovered he tossed Lydia a conspiratorial wink.

“That’s true.”  Her luminous golden brown eyes fixed on him, her smile bubbling with good humor. “After all I am the lucky one, without Brian I would be lost.”  She sashayed to his side, eyes dark with emotion.

Just what was he supposed to make of a look like
that
?

He swallowed, hard, unable to break the bond of their eyes. He had hoped to use the day to distance his emotions from her, prove to himself once and for all that she was a selfish ton brat. But when her magical amber flecked eyes glittered with such raw adoration his cause grew more hopeless, he was lost in her. His mission throughout the morning had been to arrive at the house and catch her behaving as the spoiled high and mighty princess she’d been raised to be, successfully shattering his illusion. Instead she mingled with the Baker’s as though their station, their class was one and the same. None of her mannerisms seemed contrived, Lydia seemed genuine as the moon and stars, and he was a damned fool, but his heart refused to let her go.

Lydia assailed him as physically as if she’d been working alongside him for the rest of the day. Visions of her dressed in night robes swirled with images of her standing before him in stays and a petticoat, and mingled further with the memory of her lying in his arms that morning. He could only imagine what lay beneath the various layers he’d seen adorning her lithe figure, and imagine he did.

“Brian,” Harvey cried in obvious exasperation. “Have ye heard a word I’ve said?  Or are you dreaming about that comely little wife waitin’ at the house?”

Shoving a notched piece of wood into the upright post, he turned a guilty grin to his friend. “Aye, Harvey, ye caught me.”

“Can’t say as I blame you.”  Harvey hefted his end of the fence rail into an adjacent post. “Found yourself a fine little filly. Anyhow I was sayin’ a bit ago that Henry Wallace is livin’ by Sharpsburg if you and the missus are plannin’ to head any further south.”

“Henry Wallace you say?”  Brian could scarcely contain his profound disbelief as he mopped a cloth across his dripping brow. Henry had been a good friend in the day one of few Brian had confided in. His mind whirled as he contemplated what to do with the information. One lesson of a hard life was to keep things close to the vest, a practice Brian knew well. “Unfortunately we won’t be headed to Sharpsburg, but it’s good to know where he is. A good friend he was. A very good friend.”

Stepping back he surveyed the length of new fence. The sun was setting lower on the horizon casting the soothing light of summer across the landscape. Sheep grazed leisurely through the green summer fields, and birds flitted from tree to tree. An ache seeded in his belly, this was a life he craved. “It’s peaceful here, Harvey, got yerself a nice farm.”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Are you ready for a bite of supper?  Our wives were cookin’ up a storm.”

Brian nodded, gut clenching with the thought of continuing the pretense of husband and wife. The charade may be the death of him.

After arriving at the house he learned that Lydia had eaten and retired early. Mrs. Baker assured him that it was normal for women to be tired during pregnancy, especially the earliest stages. Brian bit back a grin as a vision of Lydia lecturing him on the audacity of the tale tripped through his mind.
Damn,
he’d really hoped she’d be here, riling her was entirely too much fun. He ate quickly and contemplated the wisdom of traveling through Sharpsburg. It wasn’t the most direct route to Wheaton Abbey, but Henry Wallace could be a valuable asset and had powerful connections. Seeking Henry out for help would also mean continuing to use his real name. He would have to discuss this with Lydia, her life hung in the balance as much as his own.

“Mrs. Baker, dinner was delicious. If ye don’t mind I’d like to retire and check after my wife.”

“Certainly,” Anna smiled.

“Lydia?”  He burst through the bedroom door without knocking, eager to tell her of the news he’d learned that afternoon, and stopped short. The scent of lilac wafted through the room emanating from a tub of water sitting at the foot of the bed, the blue dress and undergarments had been tossed haphazardly across a wooden chair back, and the last of the day’s sunlight trickled through the wavy window panes to dance across the scarred floorboards. A sense of home as he’d never known hit him square in the chest. The entire scene playing before him was, in a word, right, and the one prop making the scene most
right
was curled sound asleep across the bed. A nymph.

Gently closing the door, Brian leaned a shoulder against the wall, drinking her in. Lydia lay on her side, wrapped in naught but a shoddy checkered quilt, hands curled beneath her cheeks. A hint of rose tinged her milky skin, and the length of her russet tresses spanned the coverlet, still damp from bathing. Slowly he crossed the room visually caressing the slender curve of her legs. The woman was an angel, from the ends of her hair to the tip of her toes. Tentative at first he sank to the edge of the bed, reclining beside her. Propped on an elbow he studied her face. Thick lashes spanned her closed lids casting long shadows across high delicate cheek bones. Rosy buds lit her cheeks and her pouty heart shaped lips parted in sleep, begging to be kissed.

Unable to help himself Brian reached out softly brushing his knuckles the length of her arm. She did not stir. He grew bolder, turning his palm to her warm skin tracing her fingers, so small and pale beside his, along her slender wrist and up further to cup her shoulder. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, but still she did not wake. His fingers traced the line of her jaw drawing ever closer to her lips.

“Mmm, Brian,” she murmured, still logged in sleep.

It was too much. Shifting, he caught the side of her face in his palm, threading his fingers through the silken locks of her hair and brushed his mouth across hers. She responded, moving
onto her back and lifting her arms to his shoulders. He followed her down, deepening the kiss, even though he damn well knew better. Her taste was so sweet, her body so right locked beneath him, and her touch so innocently naïve Brian was driven to the brink.

Chapter Five

This was a dream from which Lydia never wanted to wake. It was as real as her vision the night before. The fantasies she’d entertained throughout the day had come to life as she’d drifted off to sleep. Brian’s hard frame stretched on top of her, his lips dragging seductively across her own. His tongue slid into her mouth tangling and teasing until—bold in sleep—she tilted her chin, opening her mouth to allow him full access. His hands, work hardened and rough, ran down her bare arms erasing the chill of the bathwater from her skin. A trail of kisses
dragged
across her jaw and down her neck, her fingers slipped from his shoulders to lace through the wavy thickness of his dark hair, holding the intoxicating heat of his lips to her. He moved down her body pressing his lips into the hollow at the base of her throat as his rough fingers graced the flesh just above her blanket cover. A moan escaped her as the corner of the blanket lifted exposing her breasts to the air; Brian’s warm palm closed around one as his mouth descended, taking the tip into his mouth—

Lydia bucked then froze as stone cold shock brought her to a full state of wakefulness. Her eyes flew open, her hands fell limp to her sides, and she didn’t know what to do, or think. How had this come to pass?  She had never lain this way with a man, and even as she could come to want this
with him
the moment was far from… right.

Brian snatched away from her as though burned. He spun a harried circle, scrubbing both hands through his hair. He turned back to her, eyes aglow with a disconcerting desire, and raked a hot gaze the length of her. Lydia scrambled to cover herself, feeling utterly exposed.

Without a word he strode across the room, snatched her freshly washed shift from the chair and tossed it into her lap. “Put it on,” he commanded gruffly. A caged animal, Brian’s eyes darted frantically about the room, looking anywhere but her as she slid into the thin garment. Finally his gaze came to rest on the door. He was going to flee.

She couldn’t take it. Lydia wanted…
needed
answers. Was he rejecting her?  Moreover why had he kissed her again?  The cool
I’d thought we were about to die
quip would hardly pass muster this time.

“Brian, wait, please don’t go.”

“Why the hell not?”

“We need to talk about this.”  Recovering a measure of dignity she positioned herself primly on the edge of the bed.

His gaze sliced in her direction. He actually looked as though he might be ill. “God forgive me, Lydia, I should never have kissed you. It’ll not happen again, you can rest assured.”

Hurt, she cringed back onto the bed. “But I wanted you to kiss me,” she blurted, instantly regretting the words.

Brian grunted, rolling his head back on his shoulders as though in appeal of a higher power. “Why, Lydia?  Why would you want such a thing?”

She swallowed nervously, searching for the right words. Dare she admit
he
was the reason she’d run away?  That their one magical evening had sparked such burning desire that she could settle for no less in a husband than what she’d seen in his eyes?  Love existed… love was powerful and real, and Lydia wanted a piece of that joy in her life. “Brian, I—I don’t know what to say.”  His gaze leveled, fixing her with a glare that was not quite broken but akin to it. Clear and green, his eyes held no innocence, as though he had seen too much and was simply waiting for fate to hand him the next of life’s disappointments. Her heart could break for him.

“Imagine that,” he scoffed. “Is this fun fer you?  Traipsing across the countryside, practicing your wiles on the stable hand?”

“What?” she breathed, curling her fingers in the robe at her throat. “I—I would never…  Brian, how could you say such a thing?”

“Answer my question.”  Each word was perfectly enunciated, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Ye toyed with me four years ago, and I will know if ye’re toyin’ with me now. Is this a game to you?”

Lydia straightened. “Four years ago?  You actually remember our night four years ago?”

“Oh, Aye, lass, I remember. How could a man forget a shameless flirt such as yerself?  I recall very well how ye smiled and winked and danced like a wanton in me arms only to find ye were promised to another. Was it always yer practice to perform for yer father’s soldiers?  Is it still?  Is this affair nothing more than a game to you?”

“A game?”  She stood, back ramrod straight, reverting back to years of training even as tears pricked her eyes. How dare he insinuate she was a silly girl making light of their situation and throwing herself at him as a common harlot?  “Being abducted and
dragged
halfway across England by murderers is not my idea of fun and games. It is you, sir, treating our situation as a farce. And it is you, Brian Donnelly, who kissed me. Twice
.
Now, I will ask you
why
?  And do not tell me ‘it seemed the thing to do at the time.’”

In an instant he was across the room, eyes hot with anger. “Oh, and did ye not kiss me back?  I distinctly recall havin’ a bit of encouragement.”  His hand caught her upper arm in a wrenching vice. “I know well how ye gentle bred ladies flaunt yer wares, lettin’ us lowborn fools know what we cannot have. Good for a roll in the hay from time to time. Is that what ye’re after?  A quick toss?  Would that be yer reason fer wantin’ me to kiss you?”

Crack
.

Lydia’s handmade sharp contact with the side of his cheek. “How dare you speak to me that way?”  A quick toss indeed!  The only man she had any intention of “tossing”—as he’d so aptly described—with was the man she loved who loved her in return. A man who would share his life with her, be her equal, complete her…  The type of man brave enough to forsake all and run away to Scotland with his one and only love. Was she little more than a romantic?  No. She was an optimist. Could Brian become that dream man?  Perhaps…

“Forgive me,
my lady.
” He backed mockingly toward the door, shattering the illusion.

“Fine, leave,” she spat. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you kiss me?”

“To say I’ve personally debauched the Viscountess of Northbridge ‘twould make one hell of a drinkin’ yarn. Hell, the way things are goin’ I could even claim the next in line to inherit is my bastard.”

Lydia blanched at the vulgar words. Anguished tears swam before her eyes as she searched his hardened face. “Well, you’ve just ruined all such chances.”

His hand fell to the doorknob, his damnably handsome visage totally unreadable. “So it would seem.”

The door slammed and the tears dribbled down her cheeks. So he believed her nothing more than a spoiled rotten child and a conquest to crow about. The realization hurt. It more than hurt, it was gut wrenching. The tower of London could not have provided a more excruciating torture device. Acutely Lydia felt the very life squeezing from her. She glared at the door, willing the last moments to be sucked into oblivion, to have never occurred.

“You are pathetic, Lydia.”  She flopped dejectedly onto the bed, cursing the little piece of her heart that fancied herself in love with Brian. “That—that
bastard
isn’t worth crying over.”  Her nose began to run, she used the edge of her sleeve to wipe it away, not terribly ladylike to be sure, but none of her most recent behavior had been either. How many would be viscountess’ contemplated running away on their wedding day, or allowed themselves’ to be seduced by the fantasy of an Irish rogue.

A vision of her whimsical knight floated through her mind. Brian Donnelly may very well be an Irish rogue, but he was
not
the knight of her dreams. The knight of her dreams would never take advantage of her, or weave outlandish tales of her being compromised and rushed off to the Gretna Green.

Heavily she sighed, curling into a ball beneath the quilt. The dream man she’d concocted so many years ago hardly fit the Brian Donnelly she now knew. Lydia sobbed long into the night, all the while berating herself for the weakness. “He isn’t worth it.”  The words didn’t lessen the pain, but chucking a pot at his face might…  Just where had he gone?

Hours later a dull thud pulled Lydia from the dregs of sleep. “Bloody chair.”  The curse pierced her head, clogged from hours of crying. Slowly she rose on one elbow, prying one gritty eye open and blinking against the gloomy shadows masking the room. Across the room Brian stooped, continuing to swear under his breath, and clutching his left knee.

“Are you all right?” she murmured, brain too fogged to remember being hurt or angry.

“Fine,” he barked testily. “Whacked me knee on that damned chair.”  His speech was suspiciously slurred.

“Ugh. Are you drunk?”  Disgust fairly dripped from her tone.

“Aye.”  He stumbled to the bed the sweet smell of whiskey swirling around him. “And a good long while it’s been since I’ve been properly sotted.”  The toe of his boot caught the edge of the bed, and he sailed forward, landing directly on top of her.

“Oh!”

He flashed a sloppy, almost comically, crooked smile. “Thanks fer breakin’ me fall, lass. Yer a fair sight softer than the floor, probably the mattress too.”  His face fell to the curve of her neck. The touch of his velvet lips on the sensitive flesh of her throat sent her pulse to a run. “Mmm… ye smell so good, love.”

Lydia’s throat ran dry.
I smell good? 
One of Brian’s hands slid up her arm, lacing through her fingers as he trailed a path of feather light kisses across her jaw. She trembled when he reached her mouth.

“If you’d be so kind as to hand me that pillow, lass,” he murmured against her lips.

“What?”

Abruptly he pulled away from her all but falling off the bed. “I’ll be beddin’ down here in the corner.”

Testily she tossed the pillow into his face; inebriated as he was he caught it. “Why is it, Mr. Donnelly, that you are willing to sleep on the floor
tonight
when I could not have paid you a chest of gold to do so last night?”

“Because tonight, me lovely, I can’t promise not to ravish ye whilst ye sleep.”  He chucked the pillow against the wall and collapsed in a heap on top of it.

Her mouth flopped open. There at least was an honest answer.

“Good night.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling the quilt to her chin. “And to you, sir.”

A good night was
not
forthcoming. Certainly not after his bizarre reappearance. Lydia tossed and turned, replaying their argument, picturing his drunken entrance, and contemplating the one thought nagging her brain…  If Brian wanted nothing more than to say he’d bedded a viscountess, why admit to such instead of continuing to seduce her?  He must know his effect on her. She turned to little more than a glop of jelly, trembling from the inside out if Brian so much as speared her with his eye. She feared her heart forever being on her sleeve or at the very least in her blush around him. It was as though he wanted to push her away, wanted to make her hate him. And
that
intrigued her all the more.

Her mind was spinning again. Analyzing and overanalyzing even the minutest turn of events. Olivia was right, it was a wonder her head did not explode.

Perhaps reciting the Greek alphabet would bore her overactive mind to distraction.
Alpha, beta, gamma, delta…  Oh, blast! 
It wasn’t working.

She rolled to the other side and back again, letting her gaze rest on Brian. A plan took shape in her mind. For a few days Brian Donnelly was all hers. Surely she could learn something of his true motivations and character…Whether or not he wanted her. Of one thing she was already convinced, Brian was not the rogue he tried to portray.

*
             
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*

Brian woke in a dour mood, flat on his back, to a wretchedly brittle tapping battering the remnants of his whiskey soaked brain. Surely his left temple would explode. He groaned,
what was that bloody racket,
and pried open his right eye. The sun pierced his cluttered skull a split second before Lydia appeared in the swirling haze of his visual field, the very vixen responsible for his current state, and worse… he was looking at two of her.

He blinked, now three Lydias stood before him.

He blinked again, this time with both eyes open, and managed to focus on the lone woman standing before him.

“Lovely, you’re awake,” she said in an entirely too chipper voice and flashed a sunny smile.

Why for the love of God was she smiling?
  The chit should hate him after last night.

“Now we can be on our way.”  She flipped a freshly plaited braid over her shoulder, turned, and tapped away.

He rose on an elbow. “Could ye stop pacin’ for half a second?”  It was her damned shoes making the earsplitting racket.

“I wouldn’t be pacing if you would kindly get a move on.”

“Perhaps ye could lend me a mite of yer abounding energy.”

“We have a great deal of distance to cover,” she continued as though he’d not spoken. “Not to mention planning to accomplish. Did you have a next location in mind?”