The Writer and the Rake Page 3

  “It’s my business because that’s my son, but he was bound for the priesthood.”

  She covered her dropping jaw. “Rab? Rab, you never told me. Mind you, I daresay you’d like the communion wine, eh?” She gave him a friendly dig.

  “Whatever he told you, his name is not Rab.”

  “But he’s always said it—”

  She swallowed. Actually, this man looked about thirty. Unless he’d fathered Rab at the age of six, he couldn’t be Rab’s father. She glanced sideways. As for her doing it again? How could she? With a flaxen-haired, doe-eyed, pimply-faced schoolboy of sixteen. She couldn’t have. She’d be put on the sex offender’s register. Her stomach lurched.

  “Well, it’s not. However, let’s not argue. When you’ve done me this enormous favor, what can I say but thank you, Miss . . . Miss?”

  Unless she was dreaming? Yes. That was it. This wasn’t Sebastian’s spare room, not anything like it. This was a room to match this man. Stately. She hesitated to say ancient. Certainly it was aristocratic, like these places she’d sometimes visited on holiday when she’d nothing better to do for an afternoon. Was this even Newport-On-Tay? If it was, she’d be sure to know about it. About there being a very strange man dressed like this. An interactive tour guide perhaps? She swallowed the knot in her throat.

  “Just . . . just call me Brittany, darling. And yours is?”

  He swept a disdainful gaze over the hand she held out.

  “Don’t insult me by telling me you don’t know.”

  She tried flicking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart thudded. Her throat dried. If this was a dream, it wasn’t just any old dream, it was a dream she could surely use in her next book. Even though she only ever wrote Vikings, she could, provided she remembered it. She licked her lower lip.

  “I— don’t. But that’s not a problem. I can make one up. How would you feel about—oh, just let me think, you know I’ve never had the chance to ask a character that before—Duncan? Or Melbourne? Or, how about—”

  The son leapt up, yanking the bed sheet with him. “Father. Father, I swear I never. I have never seen this woman before in my life. I don’t know who she is.”

  “There’s absolutely no need to shout. Look, don’t worry about it.” She patted the pillow, pulled the mask back into place. “I’ll just lie back down. It helps me remember and lets you two fight this out. Just don’t get violent. I really can’t write things like that. Sex, yes. Violence? No.”

  “Father, get her out of here. I swear to you she just appeared.”

  “Please don’t push me like this,” Brittany said. “What did I just say about violence?”

  “Son, it’s fine.”

  “I hope you think so,” she muttered, grasping the edge of the bed.

  “Just damn well be honest about it for once in your life,” the man continued, ignoring her. “Where it will stand you with your Aunt Christian though? Well . . .”

  “No. No. You don’t understand, I’m not lying.”

  “Except in bed with her?”

  “Boys, what did I say about fighting?” Brittany meant to keep quiet but her voice rose. The mattress was juddering beneath her, the son trying to push her onto the floor.

  “Father, I have no idea how she got here. Admit it, she’s one of yours and you put her here—”

  “Mine? Tut tut.”

  “From the Swan, or London, any one of these places you go to and you’ve paid her to sneak in here and ruin me. Yes, you have.”

  “I’m afraid you overestimate me, my boy, although it’s high time someone did ruin you. If I was to choose someone to ruin you though, Fleming, this wouldn’t be her.”

  “Excuse me.” She pinged the sleep mask up. This was better than anything she wrote but her jaw still dropped. “Can I ask you why?”

  “Why?”

  The hypnotic gaze flitted, an exotic wing, across her turbaned head, over her rumpled dressing gown, her bare feet, then back up the inches of her legs, flitted so her throat dried and she’d to resist the urge to drag her dressing gown down over these same inches, when they weren’t even bare.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “I can figure it out, of course. But it would save me time.”

  He cocked an arrogant brow. “Then, let me ask you, is this the latest fashion, Miss Darling?”

  “Darling? Oh, I see. Are you meaning my attire?” She patted the towel into place. “Well . . . Now you come to mention it . . .”

  “Because if it is, then I’m surprised it’s caught on.”

  “Really? Well, I don’t much care what you think, darling. You’re not exactly for real.”

  He stepped closer.

  “I’m for real all right, as Christian will have told you when she hired you. You can tell her she needs to get out in the world a little more. Unless this outfit you’re wearing was the best you could come up and she made the mistake, Miss Darling.”

  “Carter. The name is actually, Brittany Carter. But don’t worry about it. Go on.”

  “I’m not worried.” The shrug was the most eloquent she’d ever seen. He pushed his thumbs into the pockets of his embroidered waistcoat, strolled to the window. God, this was brilliant. Look at him standing there, his face as deadpan as his voice, a picture of arrogant indifference. She couldn’t have made up a character like this. Despite all her plot charts and character trait forms, her characters were flat as pancakes. This man was perfectly at ease with the brutal, uncompromising arrogance that was stamped all over him and he was mesmerizing with it. While the son was the complete opposite. Open faced, nervous.

  “You’re the one who’s been caught red-handed. All it begs is the question of how you got in here.”

  “Yes. You’re quite right. How did I?”

  “Perhaps you flew in the window?”

  “No. Darling, I’d have to be Bird Woman for that.”

  “No, she never.” Fleming clutched the flapping sheet tighter around him. “If you never let her in, she must have climbed in it from down below.”

  “Me? Oh don’t be so silly, darling. I couldn’t have. I don’t have a head for heights. In fact, I get dizzy climbing the stairs. No we need something better, more in keeping with me, like—”

  “All to be with you, boy? Well, well. What is she then? Desperate?”

  Brittany’s jaw dropped. Brilliant? This was beyond that. The room with its pale muslin drapes, faint smell of lavender, the scattering of plush rugs on the marbled floor, the spindle chairs with their simple cushions. Father and son at one another’s throats. And the bed. She must remember the bed.

  A fag would help. She raked in her dressing gown pocket, pinged the lighter, bent her head to the flame. Her nostrils filled with the smell of smoke, as gorgeous as the scene, room, man. Fame. Success. Riches. Mort was right. She’d told him in your dreams and it was now one of hers.

  “Father.” Fleming coughed.

  “Oh for God’s sake, darlings, what’s wrong?” Feeling the weight of both their stares, she paused mid-drag. “The world and its Aunt Fanny would think you’ve neither of you ever seen a woman having a ciggie before. I mean, you have, haven’t you? Oh, all right. What a drag. I tell you what. Why don’t I just nip outside? I’ll be right back, so don’t go away, whatever you do.”

  She rushed to the door. Generally she glided, but this was too good to miss and she could wake up at any time. Who knew what she’d find outside too? Maybe another whole part of the story? Plotting had never been her strong point. But this? This was a gift.

  “Wait.”

  “Heavens. How masterful. The way I imagine you to be standing there, having swung round to stop me. Your thumbs in your pocket. Is that so? My God. this gets better.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know if it does, or if I am, or not, Miss Carter, but Fleming will be the one who will be leaving. Not you.”

  “Really?” Brittany’s heart gave the tiniest skip. And yet, what the hell was there to fear from a dream? Apart from the fact she might forget it?

  “But, Father—”

  “Don’t be tiresome, boy. Go on.”

  “But, this is my room.”

  “And this is my house. I mean, I am permitted to live in it and while I am, you, being my son, will do what you’re told. Go on. Wait outside. I’ve things to say to Miss Carter.”

  “Oh, nonsense, darling.” She held her ground as she turned round. She held to her cigarette too. It always gave her confidence, wafting white smoke wreaths. When she didn’t smoke, she bit her nails. Right now they were at the quick. “Do let me be the one to leave.”

  “No. You will stay exactly where you are. Let’s just say there’s a pressing matter I desire to discuss with you.”

  “Me?”

  Was she being ridiculous to imagine what that might be? What kind of dreams did she have for God’s sake? Ones in which he took off his clothes and made mad, passionate love to her on the patterned rug there and she woke up in the throes of ecstasy? A married man? Her heart pounded. What if the mother to his father came in and caught them?

  “Yes. It won’t take a minute.”

  “Oh, that’s what they all say. Or, maybe you’d rather I said, what a pity?”

  “I’d rather you said yes. You can leave when I’ve finished.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Mitchell Killgower attempted to smother the urge to walk to the door and propel Fleming though it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his son. No. He detested him. Almost half the boy’s life had been spent whining, complaining, living like a bloody puritan and siding with even the bloody trees against him. The woman–Mitchell deliberately let his gaze roam over her enigmatic grey eyes yet utterly composed face—was possibly the final straw.

  Short of her breaking into the house, how the hell had she got here? As for Fleming having her in his bed and doing nothing? Mitchell let his gaze drift to the brandy decanter on the side table—untouched, of course. Yes, as always the boy was a fool. Or was he? Was Fleming the kind of son he actually could have produced? There was more, much, much more, to this. Women didn’t just appear out of the air.

  He waited—patience was his middle name—for the door to click shut.

  “Didn’t you hear me, boy?”

  Click.

  Good. Fleming might as well have been christened Obedience Killgower. Or was Back-stabber more appropriate?

  “So?” It was time to speak calmly, dispassionately, as if none of this mattered and he could wait till kingdom come, enduring every cat and mouse game under the sun, to have what was rightfully his. “Is Christian paying you?”

  “Paying me?” The look she shot him said he wasn’t the only one who was first cousin to an idiot. “Don’t be bloody ridiculous, darling. Have you any idea of how broke I am? Paying me? Even in my dreams I should be so lucky.”

  “And so will you be if you don’t start talking, Miss Carter. This is 1765. There are penalties for housebreaking. Severe ones. Would you like the world, the London one anyway, seeing your pretty little neck being stretched at Tyburn?”

  The cigar she kept wafting froze half way to her lips.

  “My God. That’s London, isn’t it? So this isn’t Newport-On-Tay?”

  He strode noiselessly to the leaded decanter. Did the fact she was trying to make out she’d no idea where she was, make her more suitable, or not? She’d obviously bollixed this up. Still, he’d never heard of Newport-On-Tay, so it was an excellent recovery on her part. He set the stopper down on the tray.

  “It’s High Wycombe as I’m sure you’re perfectly well aware. Now, unless you’ve escaped from somewhere—it would certainly explain your attire—I advise you to stop playing the fool and answer the question.”

  “1765? 1765. Not Newport-On-Tay. High Wycombe. High Wycombe. Right. And you want to know if Christian is paying me? For what exactly?”

  He sloshed a tumbler full of brandy. There were only tumblers in Fleming’s room in the hope the boy would see sense and stop behaving like a prig.

  Mitchell took a satisfying mouthful.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Good. Because, whoever is paying you I will match it. You look the kind who is open to offers.”

  “Darling, that very much depends on the offer.”

  “Don’t be tiresome. The fact you’re here when you shouldn’t be means one thing. You’ve messed up. If you think Christian won’t want her pound of flesh, then you don’t know her. My room’s the one at the other end of the passageway by the way.”

  “Can I ask? Is your wife in it?”

  “You see? That’s the thing that makes you good.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Succulently bold uncertainty flickered in her eyes. Her throat fluttered as if he’d said something salacious and she was considering how to deal with it. It made it harder for him to continue but continuing was also his middle name. The offer he was about to make wasn’t great. Piss poor in fact. He knew better than to show the least trace of nerves about that when the iron that was in the fire, scorched. Besides the woman didn’t exist who had ever resisted him. Apart from Gabriella. He wasn’t fooled by this one pretending she didn’t know who he was.

  “Now, I can’t pay you immediately, but when I inherit I will. In the meantime you can have what hospitality the house has to offer. I will add, with Christian in charge of the purse strings, that’s not much. She’s even in charge of the food we eat, the drink we drink, the candles we burn, and she’s not generous about it, whatever she may have told you.” He wrinkled his nose. The smoke from that white thing she kept dragging on was rank. “So long as you put out whatever that damned cigar thing is you’re smoking. What do you say? You really can’t go back to Killem House and tell her you’ve failed. Shall we drink to it?”

  A powered ash storm flickered to the marbled floor.

  “That’s all very nice, but it isn’t going to happen darling, I might as well tell you now.”

  “When your back’s to the wall, Miss Carter? I doubt that very much. I meant every word I said about the housebreaking. You being here is the final straw. Christian probably knows I’ve been celibate for months. So, would you mind telling me why your obliging me isn’t going to happen?”

  She flicked what she was smoking into the empty grate. “Because I’m going back to bed. I’m going to close my eyes and when I wake up, I expect to find you and your son, gone. But thank you darling, for giving me the story of my life.”

  Chapter 5

  Was that a key clicking in the lock, locking her in? Not that it mattered. Seeing as the towel was on her head, the sleep mask covered her eyes and the quilt was drawn up to her chin, she could draw breath, calm her fluttering heartbeat. Soon she’d wake in Sebastian’s.

  Should she be writing hardcore porn though? Who was Christian? Was it a threesome with his wife? It would be interesting to find out, but Brittany needed to count sheep. Tiny, black-coated. On a sliding scale of one to ten, one being nice and ten a complete shit, that man must be the family flock to want to pay for services she could only guess at.

  Two sheep. Three. Was it taking forever to drop off because she was in Sebastian’s? She shoved the sleep mask up, flung the quilt back. She pressed her fingers gingerly to the tapestry on the wall, silky as the diaphanously dressed maidens on it. Real.

  She padded across the floor, trying to ignore the cold sweeping up from the marble tiles, the way her heart bumped against her ribcage. If she could write her name in the dust on the writing bureau in
the corner, if she could pick up a dust bunny, squeeze it between her fingertips, hold it to her nose, sneeze, then obviously it was also real. The fireplace her fingertips left a greasy smudge on? The soot flecks on her hand? The lavender scented candle in the brass holder she sniffed? Chair, gilt picture frame, soft curtain, ticking carriage clock? Real.

  The shock and fear that crept across her scalp like a spider wasn’t just real, it was something that no amount of touching, or sniffing, or rubbing, could stop, chase, or squash. This wasn’t a dream. If it wasn’t a dream, but these things were all real, it meant one thing. She was dead. How could she be dead? She gulped. Because that damned swine Sebastian, had murdered her. That was how. Smothered her in her sleep, or something, seeing as she wanted her name off that mortgage. When she was in the very prime of her life with everything to live for. How could anyone be so cruel? Please don’t tell her this was heaven. She’d die if it was.

  She grappled for a cigarette in amongst the crumbs and bits of paper in her dressing gown pocket. Rab. Where the hell was he? Also cut up in bin bags under Sebastian’s sink? Dumped in a field somewhere? Thrown into the River Tay? Her breath quickened as she held the lighter steady. And her? What had Sebastian done with her body?

  Something rumbled outside the window. She flew to it and peered out. Beneath it stood four black horses, plumes quivering, sweat glistening, and a very fine, black carriage with some kind of ornate crest on the door. The kind of carriage that took you straight to hell.

  She gasped. Because she’d pulled a few random guys and wanted her name off that mortgage? If the devil got out of the carriage, she was definitely dead whether she’d pulled random guys or not. The door swung open. And there he was, that bloody shit of a man who had propositioned her, striding forward to help whoever was in the carriage down the steps. What was he? The gatekeeper?

  Her breath caught her throat. That bastard hadn’t just imprisoned her. He was about to bring some fiend up here to cart her to hell.