The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Read online

  Charles was doing his damndest to keep his thoughts on Bridget’s safety and not on her decidedly stimulating nude form.

  “These must be the newest thugs hired by The Boss. I will get word to Stevens to have this mess cleaned up.” He pulled the bedclothes off the bed and tore a strip off the bottom. “For the time being, this will ensure that they do not escape to come after us once more or go on to tell others of our disguises.” He bound first one unconscious intruder, then with another strip of linen, bound the other.

  Bridget transferred the weight on her feet and held her shift to her glorious bosom, clearly discomfited.

  “I will allow you a moment to dress. Please also replace your weapon to your trunk and have it ready for travel as quickly as possible.” He walked to the bedchamber’s doorway and stood in its centre, blocking the majority of the view inside from any prying eyes, should someone pass by.

  He heard her hesitate, then the sound of rustling fabric told him that she had begun to dress.

  His heart skipped a beat at the thought of her being set upon by the intruders. What if she had not wielded her sword in time? What if something had happened? A tightness gripped his chest at the thought. Lord, it was a terrifying circumstance. He uttered a quick prayer of thanks for Bridget’s safety and her apparent skill with her smallsword.

  The woman was remarkable. In all his eight and twenty years he had not met another female akin to Bridget. Unlike the general population of ladies, Bridget charged into battle. Unminding of her state of undress, she had picked up her weapon and defeated the intruders. Most others would have let out a scream and hoped for someone to come to her rescue.

  But not Bridget. Bridget was a veritable Amazonian Goddess, one that heartily stretched the limitation on his restraint.

  An image of Bridget, nude but for her necklace, with two felled criminals at her feet and a smallsword in her hand, appeared in his vision once more and he fought against the desires of the wilful appendage in his trousers.

  He turned at the sound of a gently cleared throat, thankful that she had not called out in English. It would be difficult enough explaining what had just occurred here without having the added confusion of why he and Bridget had taken on alternate personas.

  She stood in the centre of the bedchamber, just beside her fallen attackers. By God she was beautiful. A rumpled Amazonian Goddess worn from travel, but breathtaking nonetheless.

  He walked to her and spoke in an undertone, “I will carry the saddlebags and the trunk, but you are to stay close to me. We must walk. Riot will stay behind, they likely know who he is. I will inform Stevens of his whereabouts.”

  A lock of Bridget’s blackened hair fell over one eye as she nodded her understanding.

  “I will explain more along the way, but for now, I do not wish to be overheard. I will revert back to Spanish until we leave.” He walked over to the desk and sought out some parchment, ink, and a quill.

  Charles quickly scrawled a coded letter to Stevens, updating him on the recent events, and requesting the removal of the unconscious men and Riot.

  Sealing the letter, he rounded on Bridget. “What do you think you were doing?” he shouted in Spanish, causing Bridget to jump. He pocketed the letter and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “We are diverting their attention.” Good God, she smells incredible, even with the inky mixture in her hair. “With the state of your undress and the nearly lifeless men on the floor upon our entering, there will likely be queries when we arrive belowstairs, as to the events that led up to it. I am not desirous to have the magistrate make inquiries as to our identities.” He gave into temptation and ran his lips along the curve of her jaw, drawing a small gasp from her parted lips. He flicked his tongue over the rapidly beating pulse at her neck. “Te amo.” I love you.

  Bridget pulled back to look at him, her blackened hair flowing in rivulets down the sides of her face, over her shoulders, and down her back. The darkness of her hair contrasted handsomely with the paleness of her skin and the emerald green of her eyes. He still preferred her naturally unique hair, but her beauty was unparalleled with or without her disguise.

  Charles ignored her unspoken question; he most definitely was not going to tell her that he still loved her in a language she understood. She would not believe him. Nor did she likely return the sentiment after the abominable way he had treated her over the past months.

  He straightened, pulling the saddlebags over one shoulder and picking up Bridget’s trunk. “When I yell at you on our way belowstairs, you will respond demurely with ‘si querido’, which means ‘yes, darling’, and ‘Lo siento’, which means ‘I am sorry.’ Repeat them for me.”

  “Si querido, Lo siento.” He watched her lips move as she spoke.

  “Excellent.”

  “What will you be yelling at me?”

  “I will be accusing you of cuckolding me.” He gripped Bridget’s hot hand in his and led her aggressively toward the door with a mumbled apology.

  He began yelling in Spanish, “How could you do this to me? How could you defile our sacred marriage agreement?” He led her down the hallway and the stairs, entering into the taproom. Several curious eyes turned their way and Charles let out a string of Spanish curses. “Are you some kind of whore?” He looked reprovingly toward Bridget.

  “Si querido.” Charles struggled to keep his expression one of angry betrayal, and not give in to his amusement.

  His mirth dissipated rapidly, however, as he recalled his purpose.

  Escape. Get Bridget to safety. Find and kill The Boss. Unearth the traitor in the Home Office. Repair his relationship with Bridget, if such a thing could be done. Be victorious.

  He pulled Bridget through the taproom toward the bewildered innkeeper, bellowing blasphemous curses along the way. He called upon the anger and fear he felt upon first hearing the commotion abovestairs, and shouted a dark curse, making the innkeeper cower.

  Charles spilled out a string of Spanish accusations and gestured wildly, hoping that he was making his argument clear. He reached into his pocket and threw some coins on the counter, then tossed the letter to Stevens along with it. “Important letter.” He laced his words with his thick Spanish accent. “Send immediately.”

  “Yes sir. Right away, sir.” The innkeeper slipped the coins in his pocket and handed the letter to the nearest employed man with the orders to deliver it personally. The young man sketched a short bow and left.

  “Gracias, señor.” Charles reached his hand up to tip his hat, but realized belatedly that he was not wearing one. The motion culminated into an awkward salute of sorts. He hoped that the man thought it a Spanish custom and not simply that Charles was a fool.

  He reached for Bridget’s hand and led her out the front door. They rounded the corner and made their way into the surrounding woods.

  Chapter 21

  “I am sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I do not comprehend your meaning.” Lane Mason’s brow drew together in a frown as he gazed into the mysterious golden eyes of the man standing at his door.

  “Please, Lord Devon. Allow me entry and I will clarify.”

  Lane looked the man over sceptically. He had nearly barrelled past Geoffrey in his attempt to see Lane, but thankfully Geoffrey had held his ground. Lane did not want strange men traipsing about his home, particularly if they muttered strange things, such as, “The Castle has been compromised.”

  He was about to refuse the man entry when the golden-eyed man stepped close and lowered his voice. “I work with Major Charles Bradley. My name is Bramwell Stevens.”

  Alarm spread through Lane’s chest and he pulled the door wide to allow Mr. Stevens to pass. Damnation. I hope Bridget is well.

  “Please follow me to the morning room.” Lane extended his hand indicating the nearby doorway.

  Mr. Stevens hesitated then let out a short whistle. Lane worried briefly that he had made a horribly drastic decision by allowing this man access to his home, but his fears dissolved when a little boy ap
peared in the doorway. Mr. Stevens ushered the boy over the threshold, allowing Geoffrey to close the door behind them.

  Lane turned and made his way to the morning room, expecting that Mr. Stevens and the boy would follow, curiosity and fear warring within him.

  Once inside the room with the door closed, Lane turned to the duo and folded his arms across his chest. “Please explain yourself, Mr. Stevens. I find that my patience is wearing thin this morning.”

  Mr. Stevens bent to speak to the boy, then rose as the child ran toward the window to gaze at the front gardens and stroke the kitten sleeping on the sill.

  With careful steps, Mr. Stevens approached Lane and spoke in lowered tones. “I am afraid that my news is of a sensitive and troubling nature, Lord Devon.” The alarm in Lane’s chest grew as Mr. Stevens spoke. “You may wish to sit, for what I have to say will…well, you may wish to sit.”

  “I will stand, thank you. Get to it, if you please, Mr. Stevens.”

  With a dip of his head, the odd Mr. Stevens began. “As I said, my name is Bramwell Stevens and I work with Major Bradley for the Home Office. I had been placed in your very home in the guise of a footman when Major Bradley had feared for Lady Bridget’s safety here. For the past weeks I have been acting as gentleman farmer, father of Henry,” he gestured toward the boy at the window, “and employer to Lady Bridget.” He looked down at his boots, then met Lane’s gaze. “The Castle is the home in which we have been living in High Wycombe. It has been compromised. We do not yet know the identity of the spy within our circle, but the Castle is no longer safe. Lady Bridget was shot two days past, and—”

  “Shot!” Lane’s arms dropped to his sides. “Bridget has been shot? Good God! Is she all right?” His stomach knotted sickeningly.

  “I assure you, she is well. The ball gouged her arm and she was stitched and bandaged. At this moment, she and Major Bradley are on their way to a secure location. What I am here to request is a safe home for Henry, until we are otherwise able to find a permanent home for him. We could not possibly return him to the orphanage, and a home with one of my fellows would be perilous.”

  Lane was glad that Bridget was, as of yet, unharmed, but he still worried for her safety.

  “You wish for us to house Henry?” The decision was remarkably simple. From what he had heard from Bridget in her letters and on her days off, Henry was an obedient, bright, and charming boy with a sweet disposition. How could he possibly refuse? “Of course. We would be happy to welcome him into Mason Hall.”

  With a sigh of relief, Mr. Stevens turned to summon the boy and made the introductions. “You will stay with Lord Devon and his family for a short while, Henry.”

  Lane lowered to his haunches and put his hand out to the lad. The boy hesitantly shook it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Henry. I have heard much about you.” The boy remained silent and Lane sympathized with his reticence. “I understand you enjoy puzzles. What do you say to working on one with me after luncheon this afternoon?”

  Henry slowly nodded.

  “I have brought Lady Bridget’s belongings as well,” the golden-eyed Mr. Stevens said. “She and Hydra left the Castle rather quickly, or so one could assume upon entering her bedchamber. It was in a shambles when I took it upon myself to pack her belongings.” He shook his head. “Regardless, I have her trunks in a hack on your front drive.”

  Lane turned his attention back to Mr. Stevens. “I will have the footmen bring them in, thank you.” He paused. “How long will Bridget and Charles be gone? How will we know if they require aid?”

  “Charles is capable of protecting them both. This is his field of expertise. Besides which, from what I gather, Bridget is more than qualified to defend herself.”

  Lane hadn’t the faintest idea what the man was talking about. Bridget was petite and frail. She rarely got enough sleep and more often than not she would cry until she got the headache. Surely the man was confused.

  Bridget required protection. Charles had better damned well safeguard her with his life, and do so without putting his hands on her.

  * * *

  Bridget removed the sash from around her waist and settled herself onto her borrowed woollen blanket. Dried leaves crackled loudly beneath her, the grass lumpy and uneven. Despite the blanket, she was far from warm. The early November air was nearly frigid.

  If she’d had a choice, she would be at home in the comfort of her own bed, but this small glade in the middle of the forest would have to suffice. It was a place to sleep, and they were safe.

  She’d worried a great deal about Helen’s welfare. Her maid would return to the castle after visiting with her ill mother to find Bridget gone. Charles assured her that his men would return Helen to her family, which moderately pacified her.

  Bridget tugged the blanket tighter around herself. Her stomach was finally satisfied, their dinner of fire-roasted hare, with sides from Charles’ store of foodstuffs, filling her perfectly. The rest of her body ached, however. After hours of riding and her bout with the blackguards at the inn, she and Charles had walked through the forest until well past dusk.

  Her eyes burned behind her eyelids as she closed them. Charles sat leaning against a felled log beside the fire he’d built. She listened to his soft breathing, her mind running through the events of the day.

  Bridget had let go of her annoyance with Charles for the sake of their purpose today, but now, as she was able to reflect, she felt justified in her displeasure. Charles had deceived her. He had lied to her.

  And it hurt.

  It hurt to know that he trusted her so little as to keep the truth from her, that he would rather cause pain by giving her the cut direct or uttering cruel words than be honest with her. Then to compound his lie by creating her fictional position as a governess!

  Poor orphaned Henry did not deserve to be served falsehoods; he did not deserve to be given the hope of a life with a family and a warm home and food on his plate only to have it swiftly taken away.

  Charles cleared his throat, interrupting her thoughts. “I apologize for disturbing your sleep, Bridget, but I’ve been meaning to speak to you…”

  Turning over, Bridget looked up at Charles across the fire. The light flickered over him, revealing his ashen complexion and his grim expression.

  “I was wrong,” he stated.

  Bridget’s eyebrows shot up, her heart fluttering.

  Charles ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “I’ve been arrogant,” he ground out. “You were correct, I hadn’t considered your feelings when I took control of your life without your knowledge. I did what I thought was best, which, evidently was wrong.”

  Her heart thumped heavily against her ribs.

  “I am profoundly sorry, Bridget.”

  As much as she felt she ought to accept his apology, she required answers.

  Pulling the blanket closer around herself, she braced for what he might say. “Why did you do it?” She rubbed at her dry, exhausted eyes. “Why did you withhold this secret from me? Why did you do your utmost to hurt me? Why did you create this elaborate scheme when you could have simply told me the truth?” His gaze lowered to his booted feet and she continued, “We were the best of friends, Charles. I would have understood if you had enlightened me. I had hoped that you would have known that I am worthy of your trust and am able to keep confidences.” She felt the sting of angry tears begin to threaten. “Please. Tell me why.”

  He shook his head, Bridget did not know if it was in refusal or in self-derision. Several moments passed in silence, and she began to assume that he would not reply, but finally he spoke.

  “I was afraid.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then distractedly touched the fake moustache above his upper lip.

  He turned silent once more, and Bridget urged him on, speaking softly, “Of what were you afraid, Charles?”

  “I was afraid that an enemy would discover how much you mean to me and would come for you in order to get to me.”

  Bridget’
s heart skipped as she listened.

  He scoffed. “My monumentally vain mistake was believing my plan would succeed. In the process of trying to shield you, I damaged our friendship, hurt your feelings beyond repair, put my sister and your brother’s lives in danger, and then the very thing I’d attempted to avoid came to pass; you have been targeted.”

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  He threw a hand in the air and let his palm slap against his thigh. “You see? You see how very successful and proficient I am?” His rueful gaze met hers. “There you have it, my dear. The past months of misery have been for naught. Simply a man’s futile attempt to protect his loved ones from his dangerous profession. No alternate agenda, no true reason for any of it.”

  An unbidden hope began to blossom in Bridget’s chest. Did Charles speak the truth? Did he genuinely only have her best interests at heart? She met his piercing blue gaze and knew. He, in his misguided understanding of women, had been trying to protect her.

  Her heart flipped over in her chest, and her stomach fluttered with excitement.

  “Thank you for being honest with me, Charles.”

  A look of relief crossed his features.

  Bridget, however, had no intention of letting him be free of guilt. She had suffered with his ill behaviour for above ten months; he could endure her detached comportment until they were no longer under pursuit. She was still displeased, after all.

  She cleared her throat. “I am glad you understand that your uncouth conduct created unsalvageable damage to our friendship.”

  The guilt on Charles’ downcast expression caught her off-guard, and she immediately rethought her plan to shame him.

  “Although…” she continued, “I believe we may supersede the damage if I forgive you and we create anew.” His hopeful gaze caught hers and anticipation blossomed in her chest. “What say you, Charles? Shall we begin fresh?”

  His broad smile exposed his beautifully white and straight teeth. “I would very much like that, Bridget.”