A Night of Redemption (The Night Series Book 2)

  So instead, when the housekeeper had appeared, Beth had quickly pulled on a day dress and made her way almost eagerly down to the first floor. Eager to see that he was well. Eager to know if he would forgive her, or if he would toss her from the house because she had endangered his son. Mostly eager to know if the constable was on his way to arrest her. How? How could this happen again? Was she never to know peace? Or would danger constantly follow, nipping at her heels?

  When she could stand the silence no longer, Beth took a few hesitant steps further into the room. “Oliver is well.”

  He didn’t move but she could see his reflection in the window. She hesitated, unsure. In those woods he had protected her, but perhaps that was where his chivalrous nature ended. She would be asking too much for him to protect her now. What did he owe her, after all? Nothing.

  Now that he’d had time to digest what had happened, he most likely despised her for allowing his child to escape the house. Even a simpleton would realize he was going to fire her. But she couldn’t go home. In fact, she had nowhere to go. She could only hope saving his life counted for something.

  Beth started toward him, intent on begging if she must. “My lord, I’m sorry. I should—”

  “He’s not my child.”

  She stumbled to a stop, confused. “Pardon?”

  “Oliver is not my child.”

  Her lips parted, but she wasn’t sure how to respond. What was he implying? Had he adopted the lad? Or had his wife…no. Surely his wife hadn’t cuckolded him! “My lord, you can’t know…”

  He laughed and finally turned to face her. His head was bandaged where he’d hit it upon the rock when the wolf had tossed him about like a ragdoll. As large as he was, it still should have killed him. For one horrifying moment she’d thought it had. And in that moment she’d realized she cared about him more than she should. Much more than was proper. She’d cared about him so much that when the wolf had looked ready to lunge at Nathan again, she hadn’t thought twice about pulling that trigger.

  Instead of anger, as she expected, he was all ease as he leaned against the window ledge and crossed his arms over his chest. “The first year I was gone during military training, John was born. Then Oliver. And finally…Tommy. Unless my wife was pregnant longer than most, they are not my children.”

  Shock and empathy mingled deep within. It wasn’t done! Women didn’t dishonor their husbands, did they? Women were pure and loyal, it was men who strayed. But even as she wanted to deny his accusations, she couldn’t. The boys didn’t resemble him. They all looked so bloody different. A million thoughts raced through her muddled mind at once. Dear God, how he must have felt. She, more than anyone, understood.

  “Oliver knows?”

  He shrugged those broad shoulders. “The staff knows, the town knows. How could they not? Although I have never denounced them, and so they are treated with respect. But I assume he’s heard the rumors.” He pushed away from the window and strolled to his desk. “He’s a smart lad, they all are…he knows.”

  He said the words so assuredly, that she believed him. Poor Oliver. She had the sudden urge to go to the lad and hold him tight. No wonder why he was so intent on winning his father’s approval. As she studied Lord Brimley, who told her the truth as if he was ordering Sunday brunch, she wasn’t sure if she should be angry, sad, or both.

  “It’s not the lad’s fault,” she blurted out.

  “I don’t blame him.” He settled on the edge of his desk and picked up a glass of whiskey. “Charlie is mine, if that helps. So you see,” he raised his glass to her. “I ignore him as well. I treat all of my children, whether mine or not, with the same callous disregard. Isn’t that what you are thinking?”

  She flushed, a telling sign. “I am merely a servant, Lord Brimley, I would not dare think anything.”

  He released a harsh laugh. “Oh, we both know you’re much more than a servant.”

  She stiffened, her heart hammering madly. What did he mean? What did he know?

  He reached out, grabbed a clean glass and bottle and poured. “Here. Drink it.”

  She didn’t want a drink, she wanted answers. But knowing better than to argue, she took the few steps closer to him. With trembling fingers she reached for the glass. He watched her as she sipped the whiskey, those eerie eyes noticing her every move. She barely felt the liquid burn down her throat.

  “Oddly,” he said softly. “When I saw Oliver in danger… it didn’t matter that he was not mine.”

  Beth swallowed hard, forcing down her emotions. She would not fall for this man. She would not fall for his handsome looks. His feral aura. She would not fall for his sad eyes or kind words.

  She set the glass upon his desk and stepped back. “Why am I here, my lord?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  Beth could barely breathe. Did she read too much into his comment, or was he daring to say that he wanted her here, liked her even? She could no longer deny there was a connection between the two of them. No. She would not fall for false promises again. “I should go. It’s not proper.” Determined, she started to turn away when she saw the red stain upon the sleeve of his shirt. “My lord! You’re bleeding.”

  He glanced down with lack of interest. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

  She rushed forward before she thought better. “Let me see.”

  He didn’t move as she stepped up close to him, merely sat there watching her as she latched onto his wrist and pulled up his sleeve. And although she blushed, she ignored her own reaction, having no time for dramatics or propriety. A long gash sliced his muscled forearm, the wound crusted over with dried blood. “Did your footman not dress it? How did he not notice?”

  “Contrary to popular belief,” he said, his breath warm and distracting upon her cheek. “I dress myself.”

  She sighed, in no mood for his games. “My lord, you need stitching.”

  “Tis fine.” He tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t let him, and tightened her hold.

  “No. Truly, you need stitches.” She left his side and pulled the bell. It wasn’t long before Mrs. Turner arrived. Did the woman ever sleep? Or had she been hovering outside? Beth wouldn’t put it past her.

  “Yes, my lord?” she asked.

  “Call for a physician,” Beth demanded. “Lord Brimley needs stitching.”

  Mrs. Turner gasped. “Of course.”

  “No, Mrs. Turner.” Frowning, Nate stepped away from his desk. “I’m fine.”

  “My lord,” the older woman hesitated, her worried gaze jumping from the wound to Nate, to Beth. “Are you sure?”

  Nate’s attention burned Beth. “You said you have experience doctoring, I assume you sew?”

  Beth felt ill. Certainly he wasn’t asking her to stitch him! “Of course I sew, but Lord Brimley, I can’t—”

  “Mrs. Turner.” His gaze flickered toward the woman. “Thread, needle, clean strips and hot water.”

  “Sir,” she started, voicing the same concern as Beth. “You should see a doctor.”

  The older woman looked as exhausted as the rest of them. Allen’s attack had thrown the house into upheaval. Perhaps it was a lack of sleep making Lord Brimley mad. Blimey, maybe they were all insane here.

  “Now,” Nate snapped out, reminding them of who was lord of the house.

  They dared not disobey. Mrs. Turner curtsied and left. His gaze swung to Beth. There was no merriment in his eyes, he was not jesting. He was serious. Truly and utterly serious. Beth stumbled back, collapsing onto a leather chair. Lord, he didn’t expect her to stitch his arm. It was ridiculous! Preposterous! Insane!

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “No!” she cried out. “I bloody well haven’t! And this, my lord, is not part of my employment description.”

  He grinned, amused when he shouldn’t be. “I was in many a battle. There were plenty of times when we had to make do.”

  “But we’re not at war now, and you most certainly don’t ha
ve to make do.” Beth crossed her arms and frowned at the man. She had the oddest feeling he was doing this to tease her. “This is utterly insane.”

  He could very well hire the Queen’s physician if he so wished. So why was he keeping her here? Was it punishment? A jest? Beth glanced at that bloody wound, then just as quickly she looked away. She wasn’t sure which was more terrifying, the idea of piercing his flesh with a needle, or standing that close to the man. Bloody hell, why couldn’t she find herself attracted to a nice, kind, plain sort of man? A shopkeeper. A lawyer. Why must she always be attracted to dangerous cads?

  “Mrs. Church? Will you help, or will you let me bleed to death?”

  She should let him bleed to death, just to spite him. Instead, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to smile. “I apologize.” She surged to her feet. What was taking Mrs. Turner so long? She would bide time, until he came to his senses, or until Mrs. Turner returned. “Do you have a handkerchief, at least?”

  “No.”

  He was being difficult on purpose. Very well. If he wanted to play a game, she’d join in. Beth knelt and lifted her skirts. Along the hem, where her shift and ruffle met, was a tiny hole. She slipped her finger into the tear and pulled. The sound of ripping material invaded the quiet room. When she stood, the long strip of white material in hand, it was to see the amusement back in Lord Brimley’s eyes.

  “Very inventive.”

  She flushed. “I try.”

  Ignoring his mocking smirk, she edged her way around the desk, and dared to step close to him. Lord, he smelled even better than she remembered. A musky, masculine scent, sandalwood and the outdoors. With the piece of petticoat in hand, she managed to wrap the material around his muscled forearm and slow the blood flow. He shifted, his thigh brushing her hip. Perhaps it was an accident, but then why didn’t he move away? No, he merely stood there indecently close, staring at her. She didn’t lift her attention from his wound, but she could feel his gaze all the same.

  Blast, but why did the man have to smell so lovely? She knotted the ends of the bandage, relieved to be able to step away and put distance between the two of them. The wound only reminded her of how close they’d come to death.

  “There. That should hold.”

  Still, he sat silently there, watching her as if he knew exactly how uncomfortable he made her. She glanced at the door. What was keeping Mrs. Turner?

  “Your hair is down.”

  She jerked her gaze toward him, startled by his bold comment. “No, not down.” She reached up and touched the plait that lay over her right shoulder. “Merely braided.”

  Did he find her improper? Should she have dressed the locks before arriving? She suddenly felt very much naked under his gaze. She glanced toward the door. “Perhaps I should go see if I can help Mrs. Turner.”

  He didn’t respond. She took that as approval and spun around, eager to escape. Breathing at a normal rate was impossible when he was near. As she was reaching for the doorknob he finally replied.

  “Are you afraid of me, Mrs. Church?”

  Beth froze, her heart slamming erratically in her chest. Bloody hell, she should have known he wasn’t going to let her get away that easily.

  ****

  Slowly, she turned to face him.

  Her eyes had gone incredibly wide. She looked almost seductive standing there in slippered feet, with her hair hanging in a braid over her shoulder. But she was nervous. He was making her nervous. He could practically hear her heart pound against her breastbone. And he could most definitely sense her fear, her worry…her desire. A desire that terrified her. Why, he wondered. Did she worry he would ruin her?

  He’d had a hell of a time controlling his erection when she’d been standing close to him, dressing his wound. And although she might not have noticed, she felt his attraction. He was positive she could sense the need within him. She was ethereal, she was bold, she was daring, she was loyal. He wanted her. Wanted to have her fully. Wanted to make her his. It wasn’t surprising. Since he’d become a monster, his need to mate was strong. But he couldn’t. Dear God, he couldn’t take her.

  “Of course I’m not afraid of you.”

  His lips twisted, just a quick quirk of his mouth. She was also stubborn. “What you went through tonight would have traumatized a lesser woman.”

  She did not seem impressed with his compliment. In fact, she seemed almost uneasy. Most women he knew chattered like hens, but not Mrs. Church. She rarely spoke and when she did, the words that came out were not trifling and silly, but bold and intriguing. “It was nothing.”

  “Nothing?” He released a harsh laugh. “You killed a man.”

  For me, he thought. To protect me.

  She flinched. He realized only too late that he’d been crass and blunt. She’d never killed anyone before, of course not. She was a gently bred lady. She didn’t understand death and destruction, hatred and survival.

  “A wolf. I…killed a wolf.”

  He didn’t respond. How could he? If she wanted to believe Allen was a mere wolf, he would let her. She deserved the peace he would never find.

  “Tell me I’m not mad. Tell me there was a wolf.” There was a desperateness to her gaze that tugged at his compassion, that made him want to hide the truth forever. Tell her she wasn’t insane, it wasn’t her fault. “Tell me I didn’t kill a man, but a wolf.”

  He wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her. He couldn’t. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. The castle was still, the only sound the flickering of the flames in the hearth. For some strange reason, he couldn’t lie to her.

  She looked away, her entire body trembling. “I see.”

  What did she see? Hell, he saw nothing. Understood even less.

  There was a soft knock right before Mrs. Turner rushed inside on a whirlwind that interrupted the stillness of the room. “Here you are.”

  Neither of them spoke as the older woman set the supplies upon the desk, spreading out her tools of torture. Beth turned toward the fireplace, but not before he noticed her blush. Embarrassment? Shame? Guilt? How badly he wanted to know. Wanted to know her every secret, her every feeling. Shite, he couldn’t stop staring at her, couldn’t stop wanting her. Why? Hell, there was an opera singer in Paris who could make grown men fall to their knees and beg. But he hadn’t wanted that singer like he wanted this quiet, stubborn governess.

  “Oh my, that doesn’t look good,” Mrs. Turner sighed. “Are ye sure ye don’t wish for me to send fer the doctor?”

  “I’m sure,” Nate said in a hard tone. He adored Mrs. Turner, appreciated her loyalty, but at times she acted more his mother than housekeeper. “Leave us.”

  Beth glanced over her shoulder, surprised. He knew what she was thinking…she worried Mrs. Turner would be offended and take it out on Beth. Power on an estate was a delicate balance. She worried things would become strained between them. But Beth didn’t realize that Mrs. Turner’s reluctance had nothing to do with the desire to keep power, and everything to do with fear….fear for Beth. Mrs. Turner was trying to protect the governess…from him.

  The older woman knew better than to argue with the lord of the house. She hesitated but a moment, then turned and left, making sure to leave the door open. As if an open door could save this governess if he should wish to have her.

  Nate stood, and strolled leisurely toward the door, closing it. The room felt smaller with Mrs. Church here. Smaller, yet warmer, homey.

  Beth.

  That was her given name. He hadn’t missed the fact that in the midst of battle, as he’d fought Allen, she’d called him Nathan.

  Beth. Like a breath of air.

  He started back toward the desk and settled on the edge. “Do your worst, Beth.”

  Her flush deepened. He rested his injured arm upon his thigh and waited. In those woods she’d been a warrior goddess, protecting his son, and then him. But here—alone with a man—she was a trembling colt. It was shocking to believe she’d been married, when s
he seemed more virginal maiden than experienced wife.

  She edged closer, taking up the needle and thread that Mrs. Turner had left upon the side table. Her hands still shook. “This will hurt, you may want some brandy.”

  He wasn’t quite sure why he kept her here, torturing himself, but he couldn’t seem to dismiss her. Needed her here. How had they survived all these years without the governess?

  “I have a higher tolerance for pain than most. Get on with it.”

  She stepped between his thighs and released a trembling breath, the air warm on his neck. The sensation sent chills across his body and blood straight to his groin. He gritted his teeth, shifting as his trousers grew uncomfortably tight.

  He’d called her to his office intent on uncovering exactly what she had seen in those woods, and to make sure their stories were similar. Once she’d arrived, he’d only wanted to bait her, see how far she would go. But her mere presence had baited him. Now…now he wanted her close. Wanted to sink into her, breathe in her scent, run his hands over her silky hair and forget.

  “Be still,” she whispered. “Or the stitches will come out crooked.”

  “It’s not a sampler,” he said, turning his head toward her so that their lips were a breath away. She didn’t look up at him, remaining focused on his arm as she slowly unwound the bloody bandage. But he could see the pulse beating rapidly in the side of her neck. He made her nervous, but she wanted him. So why did she resist? Why did she scurry away when he came near? Because she sensed the danger within him.

  When the needle pierced his flesh he barely felt it. A mere bee sting. She glanced up, as if expecting to see him gritting his teeth in agony. Perhaps hoping, after what he’d put her through, to see him suffer.

  “As I said, I take pain well.”

  Instead of watching her work on his arm, he watched her. Did she realize that she flinched every time the needle went into his body? That right before she pierced his skin she sucked in a sharp breath? Did she know that when she finished a stitch she sighed in relief, a warm puff of air that whispered seductively across his neck?