Saying I Do To The Scoundrel. Liz Tyner

finding someone else.’

      ‘You do not have time to waste, yet you are appearing on my doorstep?’ he asked, quietly. ‘Perhaps you should be at—your home—not wasting time there?’ he said.

      Her shoulders rose and her chin jutted, but her eyes didn’t follow through on the confidence. ‘I am here to offer you employment.’

      ‘Do I look as though I want employment?’ His lips turned up.

      ‘I have set myself on a course and I will see it to the end. Goodness knows it cannot get any worse.’ She adjusted her bonnet.

      ‘Whatever that end may be.’ He forced the words through his teeth. ‘I must compliment you on the bonnet. No one would ever notice you about in such inconspicuous wear.’

      She eyed him as if he were untouchable. ‘This bonnet was made by Annabel Pierce and is of the finest quality in the world.’

      ‘La-de-doodle.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you think she might make one for me?’

      ‘She would not let you step foot in her fine establishment.’ She tightened her shoulders ever closer. ‘Are you considering the plan?’

      He might as well let her have her say. He’d not fall back asleep easily when she left and he’d be lying, looking up at the ceiling and thinking about her, and wondering what she’d wanted.

      ‘How much money is to be made?’ Soft words from hard lips.

      She appraised him, then she moved to the chair, sitting as if she prepared for a portrait.

      He slid into his seat, then gave a twist, making the legs scrape slightly against the floor.

      ‘What’s your name, Love?’ he asked the woman as she sat across from him.

      She slowly blinked and looked at him. ‘You’ll find out if—if—I decide to hire you.’ Her chin dropped. She placed her palms flat on the table, and leaned forward. ‘And do not call me love.’

      ‘Well.’ He clasped his hands behind his head and pushed back. ‘You kind of look like a Nigel to me. So you can keep your name secret for ever, for all I care. I’ll just think of you as Nigel and, if the magistrate catches me risking my neck for you, I’ll be able to say I owe it all to Nigel.’

      ‘Do not call me that.’

      ‘You know my name, do you not? Surely you found out while you were asking questions.’ He looked at her and she averted her eyes and a hint of blush stained her cheeks. He grinned.

      Her words were stronger. ‘Brandt is all I know of your name.’

      He looked down, dismissing her, and let the front legs of his chair thump to the floor.

      ‘Do you want to listen or not?’ The voice rose at the end, a note of panic in it.

      He shrugged, put his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand.

      She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘It’s simple really. You’ll do the kidnapping in the morning. The footman should be no problem. Try not to kill the older man—very important as he will pay the ransom. You’ll handle a ransom note. Collect the blunt. Take a thousand pounds of it, give me nineteen thousand pounds and be on your way.’

      ‘Kidnapping. I could work in a quick nab as I walked to the tavern. Nothing to it.’ He smiled, leaning towards her, his eyes shining. ‘Aren’t you being overly generous?’ he asked, pretending puzzlement. ‘And—’ he raised his head high and put his palms flat on the table ‘—how greedy I feel. For a woman such as you, a man should risk his life for no coin. A simple kidnapping. How much effort can such a thing take?’

      She raised her chin, tilted her head sideways a bit and took in a breath, then looked to the reticule. ‘I have the details worked out exactly.’ She spread the ties and lifted a folded piece of paper. Then she looked at his eyes and flinched. She lowered her hand, slipping the note away. ‘You’ll just have to follow my guide. I believe I have the mind of a master criminal.’

      ‘And what crimes have you committed in the past, Nigel?’ he asked, his voice softening. She didn’t raise her eyes.

      ‘Surely you are jesting.’ He stood and walked to the bed, knelt on one knee. He felt under the bed and pulled out a shirt, or what was once a shirt, and tossed it into the corner.

      He pushed himself back to his feet and frowned, then he leaned down, tossed another garment aside and found an extra bottle, thankful he’d remembered to bring home some breakfast.

      He held the liquid towards her, raising his brows. She grimaced and he popped the cork and put the neck to his lips.

      He caught her eyes as he lowered the drink, his gaze flickering across a shelf decorated with empty bottles. And another peg with a new coat. He’d forgotten about that coat.

      She spoke, her eyes on the wall. ‘I’m sincere about this kidnapping. It has to be done. It will be done.’ She shrugged. ‘There is no alternative.’ She pulled at her bonnet.

      ‘Look, Nigel.’ He held the cork in one hand and the bottle comfortably in the other one. ‘No blackguard worth hiring is going to do all the work and let you have more than half the bounty. You’d be lucky to get a pound. Who are you going to complain to if you don’t get a penny?’

      ‘I’ll report them to the magistrate,’ she challenged him with her voice.

      ‘They hang women as well.’ He put the bottle on the table in front of her, keeping his fingers around it. ‘Breaks up the monotony.’

      * * *

      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