Thief of Hearts (16 page)

"I'll talk about 'your husband' any damn time I want, you prune-faced, self-righteous scarecrow," he snarled, his nose an inch from hers. "Who the hell are you," he wanted to know, shaking her a second time, "telling me I can't say my brother's name? Take the stick out of your arse, Mrs.
Balfour
, and come down to earth with the rest of US."

Anna's wide eyes and open mouth made a triangle of dumbfounded circles. Five full seconds passed before she found her wits. Then she jerked out of Brodie's grip, spun around, and dashed into the trees behind her.

If she hadn't run, he wouldn't have chased her. But like an otherwise well-behaved dog, Brodie couldn't resist this fleeing cat. She scurried between laurel and fig trees, her colorful skirts beckoning to him like flirtatious flowers against the sober green of the rhododendrons. Her shoes handicapped her; he gained on her easily. When she looked back and saw how close he was, she let out a little shriek. The comical sound of it made him laugh out loud.

He caught her in a clearing of moss and violets. Seizing her arm, he stumbled in front of her, a maneuver that forced her to stop. She shoved against his chest with both hands and whirled around, preparing to bolt again. Two steps was all she got before he clutched her shoulder and she heard the awful sound of tearing cloth. She tried to scream, but she was out of breath and could utter only a pathetic, ineffective screech. Brodie tried to grab her again, to make her stand still, to put an end to this stupid scene between them. But she batted his hands away and kicked out at his shins.

It was her downfall. Their legs tangled, his unexpected reach for her arm unbalanced her, and she fell. Hard, on her behind, with him on top of her. For a second she lay stunned and motionless. Then she began to spit and sputter and struggle in earnest as his full weight pressed her into the earth and real panic set in. Her puny strength couldn't budge him; she gave up quickly and resorted to words, a more natural weapon.

"Get off me! Get
off
, you pig, you animal! Monster!"

He would have, was in the act of doing it, before she insulted him. After that, it would've taken a bomb to dislodge him. His hand landed by accident on the bare skin of her shoulder, and without a second's thought he slid it up inside her torn gown as far as he could, in front, until his fingers splayed across her chest. Anna gasped, gave up talking, and went back to flailing, her face a bright crimson, her straining arms and legs beginning to tremble from the shock.

Brodie began to enjoy the squirmy feel of her under him. The sight of his own fingers poking out of the top of her dress excited him. He tried to move his hand lower, but the narrowness of the armhole he'd stuck his wrist into prevented it.

He'd kiss her instead, he decided, and lowered his face to her throat. Her chin whipping around caught him on the temple with a sharp whack, and they both winced. Before she could turn away again he captured her mouth, but only for a second; her nails raking across the side of his neck made him jerk up and mutter foully.

Before she could scratch him again, he caught hold of her thin wrist and anchored it to the ground over her head. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his other hand from inside her dress. His eyes must have communicated his plans, for she started to writhe under him again. He smiled evilly. She stopped breathing. Leering with triumph, he covered her right breast with his palm and stroked her seductively.

"Oh hell, Annie," he murmured after a few silent seconds. He couldn't feel a damn thing. "What the hell have you got on?" Disappointment swamped him. He squeezed the inert mound of whalebone and stuffing in his hand, to no effect, and swore again.

"If there is one small sp-spark of decency left in you, sir, you will let me go at once."

"Must not be any left," he told her, grinning. He tried to kiss her again, but her head swiveled sideways predictably. He had another idea. Watching her eyes, he worked one of his knees between hers, then the other, and slowly prized her legs open. Anna choked in disbelief, then moaned in utter despair as his widening thighs widened hers. He put his hand on her jaw and pulled her head around to face him. Her teeth were her last weapon. Just before his lips met hers, she dipped her chin and bit his softly caressing thumb as hard as she could.

"Ow!"

He rolled halfway off her, holding his throbbing thumb and watching as it reddened but didn't bleed. She seized her chance and wriggled out from under him, rolled to her belly, put one knee on the ground, and sprang up.

Brodie's arm shot out like a catapult. He captured her stockinged ankle in mid-step and she came crashing back to earth. For a panicky moment she couldn't catch her breath. His triumphant cackle sounded hellish in her ears.

"Not so fast, Mrs.
Balfour
," he grunted, dodging with difficulty the other foot she was trying to kick him in the head with. "Still a lot of unexplored territory here."

Screaming was futile; they were too far from the house for anyone to hear. She screamed anyway when she felt Brodie's two hands moving up her captive leg by slow inches, as if he were climbing a rope.

"I've seen less cloth on a six-masted schooner," he panted grimly, pushing more petticoats out of his way. He'd gotten as high as her garter when her free foot finally connected with something solid his errand Anna rejoiced to hear his grunt of pain.

Her victory was brief. He whipped one hand out from under her skirts, his other still clutching her knee, and heaved himself up beside her. She strained away but couldn't prevent him from wrapping his free arm around her shoulders. When she tried to rear backwards, she found the intimate grip was unbreakable. Grinning at her, he located the back of her thigh with the hand that was still under her petticoats and rubbed it softly, slowly, up and down. They were both breathing hard, faces almost touching. Unable to resist, he reached higher until his fingers slid over the satin-soft swell of her bare bottom. The lovely warmth of her throbbed into his palm, made him want to keep his hand on her there forever. He buried his face in her neck and breathed in her fragrance, holding her close when tremors shuddered through her. "Annie," he whispered. He wanted to touch her so gently. He had to kiss her.

He pulled back to do it, and saw her face. Still and grim and defeated, eyes tightly closed, tears glittering on the lashes. The sensitive lips trembled, waiting, expecting the worst. He almost kissed her anyway, to soothe her, to show her it wouldn't kill her. He felt her frightened breath tremble on his cheek. When she opened her eyes, the wounded look in their strange golden depths finished him off. He took his hands from her, rolled away, and sat up.

Anna rested on her side for a few more seconds, hugging herself, trying to stop shaking. The urge to burst into loud sobs was so strong, she had to swallow repeatedly to conquer it. At length she sat up, to Brodie's left and behind him, and smoothed her skirts back down to her ankles. She could do nothing about her torn dress. There were scratches on the palms of her hands from when he'd tripped her. She blew on them a little, cupped them together gently, comforting herself. Her blood hummed in her ears. She felt weary beyond thought.

After a long moment she shifted her eyes to her tormenter. He no longer looked anything like Nicholas to her: he looked like himself. He sat with his elbows on his knees, face in his hands, in the attitude of one who feels either deep distress or deep disgust. But it no longer mattered to her what he felt. The important thing was that the energy to assault her seemed to have deserted him. She got to her feet slowly, as stiff as if she'd been kicked by a horse.

He heard the rustle of skirts and stood up too, though it was a moment before he faced her. Neither spoke. He felt an urge to reach out and brush the smudge of dirt from her chin. Her hair was loose, her tattered sleeve hanging halfway to the elbow. He took off his coat, Nicholas's coat, and made as if to put it over her shoulders. She flinched. He halted. He held it out to her across a distance of three feet and she took it, making sure their fingers didn't touch, and wrapped it around herself. She waited another moment, thinking he would speak, but he didn't. She made a wide half-circle around him and started through the trees toward the villa.

"Mrs. Balfour."

His voice was quiet; for once he said the name with no sarcastic inflection. She stopped and waited.

"There's no need for you to tell O'Dunne what happened here. I'll tell him myself."

She turned around to stare. "You'll what?" she whispered.

"I'll tell him myself. So you won't have to."

She closed her eyes briefly, swallowing. "You're that anxious to shame me, then? I don't understand you.  What have I done to make you hate me so?"

It was Brodie's turn to stare. "You…Are you saying you don't want me to tell him? You don't want him to know?" She didn't answer. "I'm sorry," he said after a pause. "I didn't understand that it would embarrass you."

"No. I'm sure you didn't." Her voice held all the warmth of ice shards.

He deserved that, but it irritated him anyway. "Relax," he snapped, "your shameful secret's safe." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "And don't worry about anything… happening again, because it won't. I give you my word."

She gave a little strangled laugh, intended to sound derisive. "No, it won't. Not because of your worthless promise, but because if you ever put your hands on me again, you'll wish they'd never let you out of the Bristol gaol. That, Mr. Brodie, is my promise to you."

"That almost sounds like a dare," said Brodie, flashing a sudden smile.

She was afraid, she realized, to threaten him again. Afraid he would call her bluff. "I know why you attacked me," she whispered furiously. "You're jealous of your brother because he was everything you're not and never will be. Nicholas loved me and you wanted to ruin that, make it something dirty. You are petty and despicable, Mr. Brodie, and if you lived forever you could never be the man my husband was." She would have said more, longed to heap more insults on him, but his face frozen in an expression of shock and vulnerability, finally stopped her. She sent him what she hoped was a shriveling look of disdain. Then she picked up her skirts, whirled, and disappeared into the trees.

"Aiden, don't go."

The words were out before she had any idea she was going to say them. O'Dunne looked up from the task of drawing on his gloves, surprise on his calm, kindly face. "What's that?"

Anna flushed. "Can't we say you're visiting, too? The Middaughs wouldn't think it strange. You could be passing through on your way someplace."

"You know that's impossible. Dietz has sent letters from Scotland, ostensibly from me, telling everyone I'm visiting my ailing father."

"Yes, but the Middaughs—"

"Could easily hear of it, even though they don't know me. And then speak of it to people who do. Anna, the risk is too great."

Of course it was. She knew that. This was just last-minute nerves.

O'Dunne's voice sharpened. "You're not afraid to be alone with him, are you? You won't
really
be alone, of course, but—"