Capturing the Bride (The Kidnap Club Book 1) Read online

  “I imagine you are never clumsy,” she finally said.

  “I have my moments.”

  A lie.

  He wasn’t certain why he was downplaying his skills with women, but it felt needed.

  “No, I do not think you do.”

  Well, apparently, she saw through his lie. He would have to remember that.

  “What were you doing when you came upon Priscilla?”

  “I wished to explore the grounds. I tried to explore the house a little last night, but it was too dark, and you have most of it shut off.”

  “I can show you more during your stay but as I said, we do it so we do not have to heat too many rooms.”

  “Do you live here all the time?” she asked.

  “I stay with friends a fair bit.”

  She came down from her steps to stand right in front of him. “In Town?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  “Why do you live here?” She glanced around the gardens.

  He knew what she saw. Overgrown vines, dead rose bushes, uneven trees, stone benches crawling with ivy. A far cry from the grand place it once had been.

  “It is a long story.”

  “We have time,” she pointed out.

  “A boring one then.”

  And not really all that long but the last thing he wanted to do was moan about his father or admit his past discrepancies to her.

  He frowned. Why though?

  Gads, for some inane reason, he wanted to impress her.

  Nash indicated down the path that led between tall, unkempt box trees. “Shall we explore together?”

  “I...” She blinked at him a few times. “Yes, that would be acceptable.”

  “Excellent.” He grinned and clasped his hands behind his back. “I can protect you from Priscilla should he decide to renew his interests.”

  “I do not know why he did not like me.”

  “As I said, he liked you too much.”

  “I always felt I had an affinity with all of God’s creatures,” she admitted. “I suppose I have not met them all, but I have never met one that I could not charm.”

  Rather like him and women but Grace had yet to fall for his charms. Perhaps she was his Priscilla. Though, she was certainly not putting on bright displays. In fact, rather the opposite. Her quiet, methodical ways were a far cry from how women usually behaved around him.

  They strolled between the trees. Overgrown grass caught on the hem of her skirts and she lifted them slightly, giving him the faintest view of a stockinged ankle. He moved his gaze swiftly. He’d managed to resist many a woman staying here and this one would be no different.

  So why the devil was a mere glimpse of a tiny ankle—a tiny, fabric covered ankle—making him feel all hot and bothered?

  GRACE FROWNED. WHY had his gaze darted away like that when she’d glanced at him? His posture stiffened too. Had she said something wrong? It would not be unusual for her. Thanks to her uncle’s miserly ways—at least when it came to her and her aunt—she seldom socialized and her father had been keen for her to spend her time studying at his side rather than watching the local ladies go to tea and don pretty gowns. So her ability to indulge in light conversation was at a minimum.

  Still, she did not think she had said anything too odd.

  She peered up at the overgrown trees surrounding them. She had so much to ask. She wanted that long story behind why he had come to live here, why it was so unkempt. In a way, it was the most marvelous house she had ever seen. The wild vines, the old, broken trees, the green-tinged windows, and the tired furnishings all held such a story and it interested her to no end.

  But despite seeming easy to converse with, Nash was surprisingly reserved when it came to talk of himself. She had managed to summon the courage to pepper him with questions at dinner last night, but he had evaded most of them.

  She opened her mouth then shut it. How did a man like Nash come to be involved in such an odd arrangement? Sadly, she understood all too well the need for women to disappear. Now she knew of this strange group of men, she had to wonder if they had been involved in the few disappearances of society ladies from miserable marriages.

  What a history they must have! And why oh why did they even start such a thing? She wished she’d brought her notepad with her so she could jot down some notes, perhaps glean something from the small amount he had told her.

  Maybe if she asked Mary, she might be able to find something for her to write on. She always did her best thinking on paper—much, much easier than talking aloud. She always thought how much easier it would be if life could be conducted fully by letter. She’d like to give her uncle a good scolding and tell him what a nasty toad she thought he was. Unfortunately, in person, she could never summon such courage.

  “How is Claude settling in?” Nash asked.

  “Mary gave him some fish this morning and he seemed content indeed. I’ve left him in my room. Cats need time to discover their surroundings or else they have a tendency to get lost.”

  “I thought cats were the easy-to-care-for sort?”

  “Well, I hardly think shutting him in my room is hard work. Besides, he will sleep quite happily all day.”

  “So long as he doesn’t decide to urinate on anything else.”

  “He was just trying to make himself comfortable.”

  A dark brow rose. “If I urinated everywhere I wanted to make myself comfortable, I would be banished from most places.”

  “He has some straw to do it on now. He’s quite clean, honestly. I taught him myself.”

  “Did you also teach him to piss on curtains?”

  She opened her mouth again. Then shook her head.

  “Forgive my poor language. I did not mean to shock you.”

  “Oh no, I am not shocked. Actually, my father espoused the use of crass language. He imagined it to be a sign of intelligence. Besides, when one limits one’s language, surely one is limiting one’s thinking ability too?”

  He eyed her, his lips curving. “I’m not certain about that but I suppose I never saw the harm in the odd curse or two. Most ladies do not appreciate it, however.”

  “Oh.” He must have forgotten he was with a lady. She was no-one special, but she had good breeding and her uncle was well-respected. Once she had her inheritance, she would be considered to have middling wealth—enough for a few people to pay attention to and certainly enough for her to live comfortably with her aunt for the rest of their days.

  But she was not like other ladies, so she did not blame him. She had no charms, no tricks with fans, no coquettish looks or assets with which to attract him.

  Not that she wanted to. Good Lord, no. It was ridiculous enough that she was having to pretend to be kidnapped to escape Mr. Worthington. Thinking she might somehow lure this man with whatever she had to offer was verging on insane.

  And, of course, she had no desire to lure him. Or anyone for that matter.

  “You can cry if you want.”

  Grace paused and cocked her head. “Cry?”

  “If you want.” He tugged out a handkerchief and offered it to her. “I can even offer an embrace if you’d like. I’ve been told I’m quite good at them.” His cocky smile made her scowl.

  “I do not understand.”

  “Most women cry. When they come here. It is a trying time for them.”

  “It is a strange thing to be sure but...”

  “Perhaps running from your fiancé has been upsetting. I would completely understand.” He offered the handkerchief again.

  “He is not my fiancé. At least not to my mind. I never once accepted him,” she said firmly.

  His brows rose. “I see.”

  “And if I were to be so weak as to cry over such an awful man, I should be angry with myself indeed.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I am not weak, no matter how I appear.”

  He held up both palms. “I did not think it for one second.”

  “Oh.”

  “I just thought you
might need some comforting. You seemed a little out of sorts.”

  She let her shoulders relax. “I am often out of sorts, Nash. I am afraid this is just the way I am.”

  “So...no crying?”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Never.”

  He studied her for a moment, running his gaze from her head to her toes then back again before shaking his head. “Well, let us continue our tour then.”

  He continued on, forcing her to snatch her skirts and hasten to catch up. Why did he shake his head? Did he not like something he saw? Was it something she said? She suppressed a sigh. How she wished she understood the opposite sex.

  How she wished she understood this man.

  Chapter Six

  They’d shared four evening meals exactly now. Well, five including this one but Grace did not include this one as they were only part way through the main course of partridges. How Mary cooked such meals on her own, Grace had yet to fathom but the woman clearly loved to cook. The last time she had eaten like this was when her father was alive.

  Every time she arrived for dinner, she was tempted to seat herself all the way at the end of the long table. The polished wood gleamed, set with a single candelabra and slightly rustic cutlery.

  She had placed herself to Nash’s right every one of those five nights. Eating practically miles away from one another would be ridiculous and she was yet to ask many of her hundreds of questions. But now she had paper and a pencil, and she had already noted several of her questions.

  She glanced at the notes she had spread surreptitiously in her lap. She’d been so excited when writing them that they were not particularly legible, and the meagre light made them hard to read but she could fathom a few of them. Tomorrow, she would write them out neater and keep them on her person in case there were more chances to ask him questions.

  She squinted at the first. It was the one that was plaguing her the most, she supposed, but the one Nash seemed least inclined to answer. Who was he and how did he come to be here? She shook her head, shoved in a forkful of meat, and paused while considering the second question.

  There was no delicate way to ask these questions. Or at least, she had a complete inability to be delicate.

  Once she had finished her mouthful, she fixed him with her gaze, waiting.

  Still waiting. He ate a full three forkfuls before noticing her gaze upon him.

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you involved in this?” she blurted out.

  “In this?” He glanced around. “Dinner? Well, I am rather hungry and—”

  “No, I mean the kidnapping.” Grace wrinkled her nose. “My aunt said she had heard it called...The Kidnap Club?”

  He chuckled. “I have heard it called that too though we do not think of it as anything official.”

  “Oh good.”

  “Good?”

  “Well, if it were me, I would have come up with something much more interesting to call it.”

  He lowered his fork and leaned forward. “Like what?”

  She pursed her lips. “The Capture Club, perhaps?”

  “The Capture Club?” he repeated. “How is that better than The Kidnap Club?”

  She let her shoulders drop. “I suppose it isn’t. But I’m certain, given time, I could think of something much more appealing.”

  “We’re not overly interested in being appealing, Grace,” he pointed out. “It’s not like we’re vying for members.”

  “How many of you are there exactly?”

  “Three main members. Then we have Mary.” He ticked his fingers off. “Tommy who sneaks in the fuel and food. We also have Hamper who aids with travel when needed and Mrs. Richmond when needed.”

  “And they all have specific roles?”

  “Well, you met Russell. He’s the kidnapper and escort I suppose. The others help out when needed.”

  “And the third?”

  His brows lifted. “Your aunt did not tell you of him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Guy is the leader of this all. He put it together.”

  “But why?” She tilted her head. “That is what puzzles me the most. Is it for coin? Because surely risking death or the wrath of husbands or a potential duel isn’t worth whatever you earn?”

  Nash leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. “You would have to ask Guy why he continues down this path. Same with Russell. For me, it’s an interesting way to pass time and, as you can see, I can do with the coin.” He gestured around the dining room.

  “Your family must have some wealth.” She eyed the dusty portrait hanging over the fireplace. The man in it looked like an older version of Nash and from his clothing, it could only have been painted some thirty years ago. Had that been Nash’s father? Had he passed away and left him without a penny? Perhaps that was why he avoided talking of it. She had been young when she lost her father, but she still remembered the pain.

  She slid a hand across the table, leaving it near his fingers. “You can cry if you wish.”

  “Cry?”

  “That is your father, is it not?” She nodded to the portrait.

  He stiffened and she saw the muscles in his jaw work. “It is.”

  “I lost my father when I was eight. I cried for a long time. Sometimes, I still have moments when I miss him painfully.”

  Nash shook his head vigorously. “I do not miss my father.”

  “I see.”

  He picked up his fork and stabbed the meat forcefully. “You see nothing, Grace. There is nothing of which to talk.”

  “I see.”

  “Damn it, stop saying that.”

  The words burned on her tongue, so she took a bite of dinner to mask them. She did see though. See that there was a lot of pain where his father was concerned. Had he been a horrible man perhaps? It was so hard to tell with Nash. He was all charm and wit, but the substance remained hidden. Gosh, how she wished she could scrawl some notes quickly. Usually, she liked to study animals, but Nash was as fascinating as any creature she’d ever seen.

  HE SHOULDN’T HAVE snapped but at least now her questions would cease. He didn’t consider himself to have many secrets but good Lord, he was tired of thinking about his father and his betrayal.

  A few moments of blessed silence passed. He finished his dinner and dabbed his mouth with the napkin. Grace glanced at her lap several times and a crease appeared between her brow. Had her napkin slid off her lap perhaps? Maybe she had spilled something and was embarrassed.

  “I know we are dining in a grand house—or what was once a grand house—but you do not need to feel as though you must behave formally,” he assured her. “You are going to be here for some time, and I’d like it if we could be friends.”

  “Formal?” she repeated. “Friends?”

  “Yes, you seem a little uncomfortable.”

  Her gaze shot up from her lap and she shook her head. “No.”

  “No to being friends or no to being uncomfortable?”

  “I will admit this is strange to me, but I am not uncomfortable.” She lifted her shoulders as though she had just taken in a deep breath. “I don’t really have friends so I suppose...that would be nice.”

  With any other woman, he would have thought this as some false modesty or a way of trying to draw compliments from him. However, he didn’t think she had a false bone in her body.

  “You must have a best friend at least. Every girl has a best friend.”

  “Not me. Unless you count my aunt.” She paused. “That sounds rather depressing, though my aunt is lovely indeed.”

  Her expression brightened at the mention of the aunt. It was about the first time he’d seen her smile. If it could be counted as a smile. The slight curve of delicate lips would certainly put the Mona Lisa to shame in its allusivity.

  “Your aunt raised you?”

  “Since I was eight,” she confirmed. The smile broadened slightly. “She is the kindest woman in the world.”

  “She sound
s wonderful.”

  “I miss her,” she admitted. “We have hardly spent a day apart since I came to her.”

  “Does she not like you spending time with other people?”

  “Oh goodness, she would love it if I could make friends, but my uncle...well, let us just say he makes life difficult and I am not practiced in making friends.”

  “Your uncle is the one forcing the wedding, is he not?”

  “Yes,” she said tightly.

  “You can say it you know.” He leaned forward, searching her gaze. He saw it when she’d muttered his name. So much anger there and yet she was holding back.

  “Say what?”

  “Whatever it is you are feeling about him.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...because saying things as a woman is dangerous. We cannot speak out.”

  “You can speak out here. You are entirely safe.”

  She cast a glance about the room as though there were spies in every corner, just waiting to hear whatever it was that was going on in her head. She opened her mouth then closed it.

  “Say it,” he urged.

  “Well, I...I...” She lifted her chin. “I hate him.”

  He grinned at the vehemence behind the words.

  “I hate him,” she repeated more aggressively. “He is vain and stupid and greedy. He...he’s a big, ugly old lummox.”

  “Good, good.”

  “And I hate his room. With his ugly red chair. And all the dark wood. And those horrible red curtains. I hate him and I hate his room.”

  Nash chuckled, enjoying the way her eyes sparked and how her cheeks bloomed with color far too much.

  “I hate how he treats my aunt. Oh Lord, I hate it so much.” She dropped her face to her hands and several heartbeats of silence passed before she lifted her face. “I think I might need that cry now.”

  Nash practically jumped from his seat to come to her aid. He slipped into the chair beside her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. She dropped her head to his chest so hard he feared she had done some damage to both of them, but the pain passed as he rubbed her shoulders while her tiny body jerked, and she smothered little sniffles against his chest.