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

  She had certainly not come downstairs—he’d put Mary to work guarding the hallway whilst he’d gathered his offerings.

  He could wait no longer. Even if she was prancing around in her shift by candlelight, singing out of tune, he had to speak with her. Juggling the platter, the flowers, and the book, he eased down the door handle with an elbow and barged open the door with his shoulder.

  Shit.

  She was gone.

  On the made bed, two dresses were splayed out. The fire remained lit and candles warmed the room. His heart pressed fiercely against his chest. He’d have to run after her, have to hunt her down. He could get Mary’s brothers to help he supposed but they thought Mary worked for a nearby family. Or get Tommy—the lad who delivered the food—to assist him. He’d send word to Russell too. No one could evade Russell.

  Even if it meant they’d have his head and he’d probably be kicked out of The Kidnap Club.

  Damn, bugger, blast.

  He shut the door behind him, and Claude darted out from behind the bed. He scowled. She wouldn’t go anywhere without Claude.

  And the window remained closed. No sign of ropes made of bedding either.

  A little sniffle came from the other side of the bed. He let his shoulders sag and stepped around to find her on the floor, her back pressed against the bed frame, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She must have heard him, but she didn’t look up.

  “Grace,” he said softly.

  She kept her head bowed and made another snuffling noise.

  He hated himself. He’d done this to her, made her cry. Was he not meant to be looking after her? Ensuring her every need, emotional and material, was met? What an utter failure he was.

  He lowered himself to the floor, sliding in next to her and leaning back against the bed. “I am sorry.”

  Some time passed and he remained next to her, waiting. Eventually, she lifted her head a little and looked sideways at him. Even in the candlelight, he saw the redness in her eyes and the little damp tear tracks. His heart panged painfully.

  Her brow furrowed. “What is that?” She nodded to his hands.

  Nash gave an embarrassed shrug. “Offerings.”

  Her frown deepened.

  He put the plate on the floor. “Cold beef for Claude.” He glanced around for the cat who had yet to sniff out the meat. “Flowers for you.” He held them out. “They were all I could find at this time of year, but I think they’re quite pretty.”

  She peered at them as though he were offering her a giant bunch of squirming snakes. He held them out for a few moments more then put them on the floor by her feet.

  “And a book.” He held it out.

  God, what a fool he must look. Offering piddly little flowers and a book she’d probably already read.

  Grace eyed the book then gasped, making him jolt. She snatched the book from him and flicked it open. “A History of Cats.” She looked up at him. “Wherever did you find this?”

  HIS BASHFUL SMILE softened her heart. Even though she knew it was not physically possible, Grace swore she felt an actual softening, as though the muscle was turning to mush.

  She flicked open the book and scanned a page, unable to keep the smile from her face. Apparently, Claude had softened toward him too and come out of wherever he was hiding to nibble on the meat. She closed the book, took the flowers, and inhaled the sweet fragrance.

  “They’re beautiful, thank you.”

  He shrugged. “I would have rather purchased a bouquet from a florist, but it was all I could do in a rush.”

  She peered at him. “You picked them yourself?”

  He nodded, that bashful expression pulling at his lips again where usually a cocksure smile sat.

  “Thank you,” she repeated.

  “I know I was an ass,” he said quickly. “I didn’t even try to understand what you are going through, what you’ve had to run away from.”

  “I was not exactly forthcoming about it.”

  “I realize you are scared but I was also scared. I did not want any harm to come to you.”

  She reached up and set the flowers on the table at the side of the bed then rested back against the bed frame. “I know you have a duty to protect me and I am sorry I did not think you could.”

  “Grace,” he muttered, “it’s more than damned duty. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  She stole a sideways look at him. Did he mean it? Was she more than duty? Did he perhaps care for her even a little? She mentally shook herself. He was no fool or idle gentleman as she had said but he was just here because he was being paid to look after her and she would do well to remember that.

  “I won’t leave.”

  “Are you just saying that so I let down my guard and you can escape?”

  She shook her head. “I know you are right. I would not survive on my own for long. That was one of the main reasons we needed your help. I have no one to go to and I was scared my aunt would come to harm should it be known I ran away voluntarily.”

  “Your uncle is that bad?” She caught him flex a fist out of the corner of her eye.

  “He is selfish and cruel. He has never laid a hand on my aunt or I but there are many ways he could punish her. She lives on little but gives most generously, whilst he hoards everything and continues to accrue debt.” He stiffened slightly beside her. She twisted to face him. “If I married Mr. Worthington, my uncle would take some of the inheritance as payment. I overheard him talking about it when Mr. Worthington first started calling on us.”

  “Bastard,” he muttered.

  “He isn’t, technically,” she pointed out. “He is of good stock. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “And this Worthington? He’s harmed women before?”

  “Of course it is only murmured about but he was known to discipline his wife. Then, one day, she was found at the bottom of the stairs—dead.” Grace suppressed the shudder the image created. “It was said she tripped and fell but everyone believes he pushed her.” She wrapped her hands around her waist. “I am not the easiest person to get along with. I have never been prepared to be a wife nor do I have any desire to cow to a man. How long would it be before I ended up at the bottom of the stairs?”

  “I can see why you’d be afraid, but I promise you, Grace, so long as there is breath in my body, I will not let you come to harm.”

  She looked into his eyes and the mush that had become her heart sprung back to life, beating fiercely like a war drum. In the candlelight, he was more than beautiful. She could liken him to a work of art, yet she had never seen a portrait like this. The candlelight warmed his skin and brought out the sheen in his dark curls. A faint scar she had never noticed before curved down by his lip. She reached out for it before she had realized what she had done.

  He flinched and she snapped her hand back, curling it protectively in the other. She wanted to touch his face again. Her fingers tingled with the need.

  “How did you get that scar?” she blurted out. There was more she wished to ask. So many questions. But she feared scaring him away and right now, there was nowhere she wanted to be more than at his side, sitting on the floor by her bed.

  His lips curled. “I lived a rather salubrious life in my youth. This was the result of quite the fight.”

  “You are strong, but I never pictured you as a fighter.”

  Nash’s lips quirked. “You are quite the flatterer, Grace.”

  She frowned. “Did you wish me to say I could see you as a fighter?”

  “I hope you never have to see me fight. It was not the prettiest of pictures. However, my ego will not let me ignore that you have noticed my strength.”

  “I do not see how you could enjoy such words. It is fact and you must know it.”

  He shook his head with a grin. “How little you know of men. We always enjoy compliments from pretty women.”

  Opening her mouth, she fought for an answer, then gave up and shut it ag
ain.

  “You can say it you know, whatever it is you are feeling.”

  What she was feeling? Sweet Mary, she hardly knew. Her limbs were strangely weak, her head swirling with a strange sort of fog, thicker than the yellow smog that covered London in the morning. How could she possibly fathom what she was feeling?

  “Grace?” he prodded.

  “I...I suppose I like that you called me pretty.”

  “There, see. We both enjoy flattery.”

  Her gaze caught on his and she froze. Not a single muscle would respond to any commands, even more so when his gaze flicked down to her lips. The fog lifted, leaving a hot, brazen wash of air to sweep through her. She knew what this was. Logic dictated exactly what was to happen. His eyes had darkened, he was leaning in. Nash’s gaze kept falling to her mouth.

  She was going to be kissed.

  Grace let her eyes flutter closed. She waited, breath held. Moments passed by and she heard the slight rustle of clothes and Claude nibbling on his food. She swallowed hard.

  Something tapped her hand and she snapped open her eyes. Nash patted the back of her hand again and offered a slightly apologetic smile.

  “It’s late,” he said, hastening to his feet. “I had better...” He stumbled over the edge of her blanket in his rush to get to the door.

  She rose to her feet and watched him dash out of her room.

  “Goodnight,” he said, quickly ducking his head and not bothering to shut the door behind him.

  She clapped a hand to the side of her face. What on earth had she done wrong to make him run away from her?

  Chapter Twelve

  Grace ticked off the little lines scored onto her notes with her fingers. Five, ten, fifteen…she frowned. That couldn’t be right. Did she arrive here on the twelfth of February or the thirteenth? She looked over to Mary while she busied herself tugging off the sheets of Grace’s bed.

  “Did I come here on the twelfth or the thirteenth?”

  Mary peered around the large white sheet. “I would ask Nash. I’m terrible at dates.”

  Grace made a face. Not that she did not wish to see Nash, but she did not want to ask him because if she did, he would ask her why she wanted to know, and she would have to explain why.

  She was deathly bored.

  By her calculations, she still had twenty days left here. Twenty long days. If only Nash had a calendar or something somewhere. Losing track of the days as one merged into another was driving her slightly addled.

  “Is it Tuesday?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Mary said, slightly out of breath. She flung the sheet down onto the bed and grunted with effort as she tucked it in around the corners. Grace rose and helped with the other side.

  “Twenty days then,” she murmured to herself. Then she could leave and be independent and…and… “Oh.”

  Never see Nash again.

  “What’s the matter?” Mary asked.

  Grace shook her head. “Nothing at all. Do you need some more help? I could help make Nash’s bed.” She wrinkled her nose. “If that is not too much of an intrusion.”

  “I doubt Nash will mind but I have already done it.”

  “Perhaps there is some food I can help you with? Or dusting perhaps? Maybe I could chop something.” She made a chopping motion with her hands.

  Mary laughed. “I’m afraid I have prepared everything for dinner already, but you can help me tomorrow. Do you have much experience cooking?”

  “Not really,” Grace admitted. Though, she should get some experience, even if she would be able to afford a cook once she gained her inheritance. She had always thought she had quite a varied knowledge but after her time here, she realized it was rather limited to intellectual pursuits rather than practical. It might be quite pleasant to know she could do a few things for herself. Maybe she would not feel so vulnerable then.

  “Well, I can guide you but I’m afraid that shall have to wait. Once I am finished here, I must return home. My brothers are bound to fight over the chores if I am not there to stop them.”

  “Do you like working here? And on the farm?”

  Mary cocked her head. “Why? Are you looking for a job?”

  Grace knew it was ridiculous, a woman like her even considering physical labor. And she wasn’t, not really. But in some ways, she envied Mary. She came and went as she pleased and always seemed content. “I was just curious.”

  “I enjoy cooking. Cleaning, not so much. But Nash pays me well and it gives me a little bit of independence. As for the farm, it is hard work, but it is ours, and will be our children’s one day.”

  “I understand. Having independence must be nice.”

  Mary smiled. “You shall have it soon enough.”

  But what would she do with it?

  “If you are bored, why do you not ask Nash if you can go for a walk or something?”

  “I’m not certain he will let me,” she said, knowing it was an excuse. What if someone spotted her? What if her uncle’s men had somehow discovered her location and snatched her and took her back home?

  “He is not an ogre.” Mary made a shooing motion. “Go and ask him.”

  Grace trudged out of the room. She did not think for one minute Nash was an ogre. He always seemed quite chipper. The fact he had ever spent time fighting still baffled her. She had thought to make a note of the fact but at this point, her notes were so wild and jumbled, she could not make head nor tail of them.

  Nash remained a great mystery to her.

  She found him outside, tugging on some of the vines that were crawling across one of the front windows to a room he kept closed off. She went onto tiptoes to peer in but could only see sheets covering various bits of furnishings.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He ceased pulling on the vine and swiped his hands down his trousers. “Thought I might make myself useful. These vines are beginning to swallow the place.”

  His slightly bashful expression had her insides doing that funny thing again, turning to liquid then to something warm and strange, flowing down into her limbs. She eyed his gloved hands where they curled firmly about the weed then followed the line of his arms, up to his rolled shirtsleeves.

  Arms were just, well, arms, but on Nash they seemed to be a whole different thing. They were slightly sunkissed, probably from riding, she concluded, and covered in fine, dark hair. Probably soft to the touch.

  “Did you need something?” he pressed.

  She snapped her gaze back to his face. “Oh, I was just...um...looking for something to do.”

  “You can help here if you wish. Though you might want to change.”

  She glanced down at her plain muslin. “I realized the other day when I went to pack that I didn’t bring anything with me. It is either this or that dress Mary gave me, and I think this is not as fine.”

  “You’ll get dirty,” he warned.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Take this bit then.” He handed over the length of vine. “And I shall pull from behind you.”

  She nodded, licking her dry lips and catching her reflection in the dirty window. She spotted him behind, towering above her, his body lined up behind her. The image made her stomach twist and dance and she smelled his cologne, a fresh, spicy scent which made her skin prick. He was close, so close. Just a little move backward and she would be in his arms.

  What a far-too-delicious thought that was.

  NASH SHOULD HAVE declined. Said no. Told her to scram. Nein. No. Nyet.

  It would have been easy enough. But, no, he had to ask her to help and put himself in such a position that he was struggling hard to control his body.

  He peered at the top of her head. There was nothing exciting about the top of a head, he told himself. In fact, Grace went out of her way to make the top of her head exceedingly dull. He never once saw her with an elaborate hairstyle or some curls gracefully touching her skin. Her dark, glossy hair remained tied tightly in a no-fuss sort of a knot and a
parting down the center, revealing a pale line of scalp.

  Exceedingly dull really.

  However, being so close to her was anything but dull and no matter how much he considered how unexciting her hair was, his body would not listen.

  Drawing in a long breath, he gripped the vine in his gloved hands. He’d had some thoughts that doing a little physical labor might dampen his needs but even after an hour of ripping and pulling at weeds, his desire would not be abated.

  And there was no denying it now. Hell, he’d almost kissed her the other night. She’d been ready for it too, eyes closed, lips pursed. It would have been so damned easy to take what he wanted.

  “Hold it firmly,” he ordered, groaning inwardly at the image that created. “And give it a little tug at first.”

  Good Lord, what the devil was wrong with him?

  He closed his mouth and they pulled on the vine together. The stubborn plant refused to give way, so he let go and used his knife to cut away some of the smaller offshoots that clung stubbornly to the window.

  “This is harder than I thought,” she commented.

  He stared at her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Nash shook his head and took up his position behind her again. The woman had no idea what she was doing to him. First, he’d nearly broken his promise to the others that he would never, ever touch any of the women in his protection, and now he had taken up manual labor in some odd bid to impress her. The fact was, her words still grated—the idea that he did nothing aside from sit around and play the country gent.

  Of course, her words still grated because they were somewhat true. He did whatever he could for these women and was not unproud of helping them but his role as protector had never meant doing much. He’d certainly never had to worry about awful uncles or violent fiancés potentially chasing them down.

  He could not help but wonder if, perhaps, his father had been right too. He hadn’t done much with his life and would have continued to remain aimless had they not fallen out.

  Nash clenched his jaw and pulled hard on the vine. It gave way too quickly, and Grace stumbled backward with a squeak. The air flew from Nash’s lungs when his back struck the ground and a sharp elbow landed in his gut.