Liz Tyner - Saying I Do To The Scoundrel

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Katherine could not marry Fillmore. As her stepfather blocked her escapes, Fillmore’s long fingers kept inching closer to her.

She had called the one in front of her a beast. But she feared marriage to Fillmore would uncover the true meaning of the words.

Her stepfather had plans for the banns to be read for her marriage—even though she hadn’t accepted his nephew. She couldn’t imagine any woman desperate enough to marry Fillmore without force.

Fillmore wore the tight buff pantaloons—very tight buff pantaloons—and on occasion those breeches concealed little more than what she’d glimpsed on the heathen’s bed. He would sit across from her and sprawl his legs longer, tightening the fabric. And then he’d snicker, and she’d want to leave, and Augustine would make her stay and listen to him talk.

The thought of Fillmore’s rolling flesh pressing against her body and his grasping fingers reaching for her, and she never again having the right to move aside...

She’d seen the flash of pleasure in Fillmore’s face when she’d stepped away to excuse herself and he’d somehow always managed to be between her and the door. It was a dance of sorts then. He’d grasp her hand to raise it, pulling it near his lips to brush a kiss above, but it wasn’t the kiss she avoided—it was the trousers. They always brushed against her skirts. Always. His smile sickened her.

Fillmore would not have turned his back if she’d walked in on him without clothes on. Never.

She’d seen the irritation in this man’s face and that had convinced her he was safer than Fillmore. Her jittery stomach calmed and she appraised him.

He didn’t know how much she needed him and she didn’t think he cared. He kept looking at her as if he had the secrets of the universe and she had nothing but pretty parasols—of course, she did have pretty parasols, but he had no right to sneer at her so because of it.

The man was a scoundrel—but she inspected the fingers clenching the bottle. Normal, sturdy fingers. Clean and trim.

She looked at him and smiled, and she knew, if she had one bit of perfection about her, it rested in the pleasantness she could emit with the evenness of her teeth and the upturn of her lips.

‘They don’t hang well-born women.’ She let her words fall to little more than a murmur. ‘We are not smart enough to think of unseemly acts. All our days are spent thinking of ways to beautify ourselves so we may please a man.’

She raised a hand as if she’d just set her tea cup on the tray to be removed by the maid. Her words flowed into the room. ‘You would not double-cross me. And, if you did, my tear-stained face as I huddled in the magistrate’s office, pouring out my heart—’ Her voice hardened. ‘I assure you if the money were gone, my emotions would be truly distraught—I would be able to convince anyone of my innocence while I pointed a delicate finger right at you.’

‘We can’t talk without an agreement on equal shares,’ he spoke. ‘I can’t think why you would go to the rot of kidnapping anyone for a sum as small as that. It’s foolish to risk your neck for so little.’

He frowned. The chair was askew from the table and he straightened it and sat, showing no more interest than if he were sitting at the tavern to discuss whatever men discussed when they had nothing to talk about.

‘I’m not greedy.’ She put both gloved hands on the table. ‘And, this is a personal matter as well as a kidnapping.’

When she said personal, his gaze bounced to the ceiling and back. She gave him another of her haughtiest glares.

‘Half-share for me, at least. Assuming we agree.’ He scratched at his whiskers, his eyes never leaving her face. Even as he bargained, his eyelids drifted down as if he wanted to fall back asleep.

She blinked several times.

He scratched again.

She gave a silent sigh and a condemning glance at his beard.

‘Half-shares,’ he repeated.

She reached out and delicately tapped the brandy bottle on the table. ‘You may raise the ransom another five thousand pounds for yourself. I know you need funds to finance your efforts to keep the tavern owners from starvation.’ Her eyes settled on his chin. ‘And you do fear wearing out a razor strop so I suppose your coin doesn’t stretch for ever.’ She waved the words away, letting him know the money wasn’t worth a squabble. ‘I would hate to see you perish for lack of liquid,’ she grumbled.

‘My dear well-bred miss.’ His eyes half-closed. ‘You must learn to snort with your mouth shut. It’s more becoming a lady.’

‘Perfectly acceptable for a Nigel, though.’ She gave a toss of her head.

‘And don’t worry about me running out of good liquor.’ He let his eyelids drop again. ‘Or bad.’ He looked at the shelf. Various shapes. Ready to be taken back to the tavern to be refilled. ‘My hand is never far from a bottle. Or a barrel.’

He didn’t plan to kidnap anyone. For one thing, among many others, he didn’t see her being able to keep her mouth closed. He could see her at an event, leaning to another flowery sort and whispering, ‘Did you happen to read about the kidnapping in The Times ? Let me tell you, I have quite the criminal mind and I’m such a good judge of character I had no trouble finding a disreputable kidnapper. Would you like his name in case you have need of him?’

He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he didn’t want her running the streets searching out someone who would actually agree with her plan and somehow separate her from her chaperon and abuse her. Apparently the drink hadn’t clouded his mind as much as he’d thought.

‘You know you will have to tell me the particulars.’ He rubbed his hand across his eyes, wishing he were rested. He thought it ironic he would always feel exhausted and still have to fight to sleep.

‘Are we in agreement?’ She stretched her arm out and for a moment he expected her to touch his hand. He tensed. He wanted no closeness with her. Something inside himself warned him not to let her touch him.

‘Surely it’s not someone of aristocratic birth you would want kidnapped?’

And for the first time, she looked guilty.

‘That’s frowned upon, you know.’ He could not believe he was having this conversation. Only his curiosity kept him speaking to her. He’d never abducted anyone. He’d spent too many years keeping his distance from people. The last thing he’d do was capture another person whom he might have to feed and water occasionally.

She nodded. ‘I said I had a personal reason and I assure you it’s a just one.’

‘Someone in the royal family?’ he asked, eyebrows lifted.

‘Do not jest. Anyone could have listened to what I’ve said and figured out who I wanted kidnapped.’ She interlaced her fingers, letting them rest on the table.

He paused, scowling. In this strange dream he was having he must have slept through one of the important parts.

She touched her chest and leaned towards him. ‘Me.’ She spoke softly. ‘I need you to kidnap me.’

Chapter Three

He moved his head sideways, but his eyes remained on her. He stated, ‘You’re kidnapping yourself for the money?’

He saw the prim set of her shoulders. The clothing she wore, too much warmth for the weather, hadn’t been cobbled together by a person saving on expense. The ridiculous lace around the edge of her cloak and her ribbons didn’t come without a price.

‘Yes. It’s only a pittance of what I should have. My stepfather’s taken it all.’

‘You believe he’ll pay the ransom?’ He was more than curious. He was interested.

‘Yes. He wants me to marry his nephew, Fillmore.’ She leaned closer. ‘My stepfather does just as his nephew says. They are closer than a father and a son.’ She waved her gloved hand.