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They arrived at his estate just before nightfall. A modest strip of land with a quaint two-story cottage, it was about an hour’s drive from the nearest village, from civilization. The air was crisp, and the initial slight breeze rapidly strengthened into a mighty wind. Thunderclouds ahead signaled a storm. The sharp burst of air swept up her hair, tugging her small frame in the direction it desired.
Holly cast a nervous glance to the clouds. Storms were not uncommon in these parts, but they did wreak havoc with the terrain, known at times to even demolish houses not built sturdily enough. Her gaze drifted to her temporary home in a skeptical frown.
She stumbled over her feet when another gust of wind propelled her sideways. A solid arm snaked around her waist then, hefting her tightly against his rock-hard body. She’d never been so grateful for the wind—or the support.
Locked together, they dashed for the house, her shorter strides battling to keep up with his long, stronger ones. A loud curse rang in her ears, and she was lifted, much as she imagined a sack of potatoes would be, and deposited over his shoulder.
Holly did not even squeak a protest as Brahm ran with her into the house. Indeed, she enjoyed the contact. It was jarring—to say the least—but his hand gripped her thighs just below her buttocks, leaving a warm imprint.
Too soon he lowered her to the steady floor of the parlor.
His eyes blazed as they boldly roamed her before he nodded once, turned on his heel, and ran for the door.
“I need to secure my horse,” Brahm said. “The coachman refuses to stay, he is returning to the village.”
“Is he mad? He might not make it back in this weather!”
“Tell that to his stubborn hide,” he shouted over his shoulder, as he disappeared into the tempest.
With a sigh, Holly circled the parlor, inhaling the musky scent of the uninhabited space. All men were stubborn, it seemed.
She wandered to the drawing room, noting that some but not all of the furniture had been covered with white sheets. This made her think that no servants had occupied the home for some time.
The sudden sound of her stomach rumbling gave her pause, drawing her attention to her hunger. And with it came a more pressing question. Did they have any food? And if not, did Brahm mean for her to survive on her own, picking berries and hunting rabbits?
Holly would never kill a rabbit or pluck feathers from a bird. About the only thing she could do was bake bread. Or rather, knead the dough that one used to bake bread. Would Brahm at least show her how to use an oven? If he even knew how to use one.
Then it struck her, like the sudden clap of thunder outside that illuminated the entire room.
They were alone for the night.
With a storm brewing outside!
The eventual downpour might rage for days, or it might pass after the night. But it was the perfect opportunity to seize the moment. Or attempt to.
Holly loved storms, the wildness of them. She even marveled at the loud booming sound that crackled through the sky. Come to think of it, it reminded her of Brahm, with his often-dark countenance and crackling voice.
A sudden idea formed in her mind.
Brahm was not aware that she loved storms. And if one thing had become clear these past few days, it was that the surly marquis could not resist assisting a damsel. It was in his nature to protect. And that, as it so happened, provided the perfect footing to get closer to him without spooking him off.
So how to awaken his protective instincts?
Holly considered venturing outside and then pretending to be overcome by distress. Most people were frightened by thunder, right? But did she honestly wish for him to perceive her as a mad, hysterical girl?
She shook her head, disregarding the idea.
But what else could she do?
Just let fate take its course.
Yes, yes. But she had trusted fate once before. With St. Ives. Dare she do so again with Brahm?
When it came to matters of the heart, Holly was now more convinced than ever to fight for what she wanted. How had the poet, John Lyly, expressed his sentiments: “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.”
And indeed, she agreed, they did not.
She was determined to unravel the promise their futures might hold—together. And yes, perhaps she was a tad theatrical in her approach, but for Holly, this was the way with love. Indeed, she would not give up until she had done her best to break his stubborn, aloof exterior. Let them both go up in flames one way or another. At least then she’d know.
The thudding of oncoming boots running toward the house signaled that her time had run out.
Her head swiveled around the room, and she dashed to one corner only to turn and bolt to another one.
Think, Holly!
The front door opened and shut.
“Miss Middleton? Holly?”
Startled by the unexpected call of her name colliding with the crack of thunder, Holly jumped and let out a little shriek. Another role of thunder brightened the sky, and Brahm appeared in the threshold, his face illuminated by silver light.
Well, it’s too late do anything now.
“Holly? Christ, are you all right?”
Er, yes . . . ?
“Bloody hell.”
What was this?
He reached her in four strides. Thunder now shook the room as lightning tore through the night, the storm picking up momentum.
Brahm’s expression tightened. His eyes bore into hers. “You should have told me you’re afraid of storms.”
At first, Holly was so dumbstruck she didn’t know what to do. Did she just stand there, gazing up at him, or did she set him straight? Holly Middleton, afraid of storms? Not likely.
But then as his arms gathered her close against his firm chest, and the earthy smell of his scent filled her senses, Holly knew exactly what to do.
She wrapped her arms around him and embraced him back.
In one fluid motion, she was gathered up in his arms and carried from the room.
Finally.
Was it too much to ask to remain in his arms forever?
Holly sighed in pleasure.
Of course, that was not how he interpreted the sound.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, his strides quickening.
And then he surprised her by starting up a hum, a low melodious tune meant to calm her. And, sure enough, the sweetness of the action weaved a spell over her heart.
Too soon they reached the bedchamber, and she was set down on the bed.
“I’ll light a fire for the cold,” he murmured, moving away from her.
She watched as he kneeled down before the hearth, the motion of his body hypnotic as he stacked wood. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him any concern.
The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war, she reminded herself when a pinch of guilt surfaced.
Her gaze flicked over the orange wallpaper covering the walls. She wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t the dreamy sunset kind of orange but the kind that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be yellow or red or something else.
Not the stuff of romance.
Whoever decorated this room possessed a deplorable sense of taste.
Her eyes were still wide from the color shock when Brahm turned to her, a fire now crackling in the hearth.
Gah! More orange!
Of course, though she had completely forgotten her hunger, her belly chose that moment to protest at the lack of food.
He rose to his full height. “There should be provisions in the kitchen; I will be right back.”
He returned with an assortment of bread and cheeses just as lightning struck and illuminated the chamber in a fine dazzling color, casting his stark features in brilliance.
Their eyes locked. Time seemed to stop.
For a long moment, they stared at one another. Orange faded from her vision. Something—the cottage, the bed, the entire world—shifted. And shifted. And shifted.
And then the spell passed.
He strode forward, five steps exactly, and stopped. Holly’s eyes never left his as he lowered his head to hers. Then they drifted shut as she felt him place a soft kiss on her temple.
She was in heaven.
He lifted her chin, his fingers lingering against her skin. “I just realized,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “that had there been a storm on the day of your wedding, you would have sprinted down the aisle instead of from it.”
Little did he know, she would have gladly darted into a storm to escape her wedding.
“Maybe,” Holly murmured, not wishing to lie outright. “But perhaps I would have taken my chances with violent gusts of wind and thunder.”
“And perhaps the storm would have welcomed you for the tempest you are in your own right,” he said, letting her go and spreading the food he brought from the kitchen on the bed.
“A tempest? I have never been compared to a storm before.”
“Quite apt, I should say, since you whirled your way into my life.”
He sounded suspiciously annoyed by that.
What Holly really wanted him to say was that she had whirled her way into his heart. But for now she would settle for being compared to a wild storm. She quite liked that.
The unexpected warm brush of his fingers against her cheek caused her to jerk in response. Misinterpreting her reaction, he pulled away from her and tugged back the covers.
“You will be warmer beneath the quilt,” he muttered, ushering her underneath.
To her disappointment, he settled on the mattress beside her but remained on top of the covers.
“What do you do when there are storms at home?”
What, indeed, she inwardly mused. “I . . .” she paused, her mind racing with possibilities. What did one do if one were scared of storms? She had no idea. She and her sisters delighted in them—loved them. “Poppy once built a fort of blankets, and Willow read novels to us the entire night.”
There. Not a complete lie. They had done that once, and a storm had raged outside at the time.
“Sounds interesting.”
Holly nodded. “But let us not talk about that. Tell me about your life,” she urged, hoping to venture away from the topic of her deception. Of course, he would eventually discover the truth. Just not tonight, she hoped.
“Have you always had such an inquisitive mind?” he asked, but then said, “Never mind, I see that you have. In any case, by some good fortune, my life is fairly ordinary.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “I was a boy when my parents’ death left me to act as the surrogate father and mother—the latter a much more impossible task—to my sister.”
So he had been guardian to Josephine that long? No wonder he was so protective. That was a tremendous task for a youth to take on. But he’d done well, Holly thought. Josephine was happily married now to the Marquis of St. Aldwyn, a task that Holly herself had helped with thirteen months ago. And she adored her brother, even if she enjoyed driving him mad more—Holly knew that much.
“That sounds anything but ordinary.”
He was an extraordinary man to think so.
His lips twitched. “Perhaps not. Josephine is every bit as stubborn as my mother. I heard a tale about how she had once refused to be left behind on a hunt and so donned the attire of a boy to fool my father into taking her with them.”
“Did the disguise work?” Holly asked, shocked.
“No, but he took her along anyway.”
Holly smiled at the pride she heard in his voice. The adoration in his tone overshadowed the fierce scowl that knitted across his brows. It was quite clear that their family had been close.
Snatching up a piece of cheese, she considered him. Brahm was sorely misunderstood. Most steered clear of him because of his booming voice and blustering temper—and she suspected he preferred it that way. But his moodiness, at least for her, paled in comparison to the apparent evidence of his unfailing love and dedication to his family.
“You miss your sister terribly, don’t you?” she asked, quietly.
“Is it that obvious?” He helped himself to some bread.
“Glaringly so. You even cast your lot in with me because you missed her shenanigans.”
His chest vibrated with laughter. “That I have.”
Quelling a most peculiar shiver, Holly lifted her head to stare at him. He planned on leaving her as soon as the storm cleared, but she could not think about such depressing things just now.
“I don’t remember much of my mother,” she said after a while. “But I see her every day in the love my father feels for her still.”
“It must be a painful sight to behold.”
“On the contrary, it is the sort of love I have always been searching for, the kind that cannot be extinguished, even in death.”
Holly felt him tense beside her. Her heart drummed in her ears as she waited anxiously for him to say something. Anything.
For a long disquieting moment, silence stretched between them, and she thought it might reach into eternity. So when he, at last, spoke, his words—in a thick drawl that slid right into her, filling her with languid warmth—settled right in her soul.
“You deserve nothing less.”
Those words were, in a sense, deeply romantic. Hardly anyone would agree with him. Society argued that it was not a lady’s duty to be happy and certainly not to find love. Procuring a good match was all that mattered. Love was reserved for books and fairy tales. That fact had never stopped Holly from defying society and its absurd beliefs.
“Everyone deserves it,” she murmured, settling deeper into the covers.
Outside, the storm raged, lightning flashing and thunder booming. Inside, they were safe and warm—and together. She felt it then. That driving force that always had her searching, hoping, wishing. She wanted love. She wanted happiness. She wanted it all.
And she wanted it all with Brahm.
If only they could agree on that.
“Not everyone is as lucky as those who achieve it,” Brahm said, interrupting her thoughts.
Holly turned her head to stare at him. “Achieve it? One does not achieve love. Love, in all its magical properties, achieves us.”
“That is a romantic sentiment, Miss Middleton, and implies that love is sentient, reactive.”
Ah, Miss Middleton again, am I? She must have gotten close again.
“Or just magical,” she pointed out. “Would it not be marvelous to think of it as such?”
“It would certainly confuse plenty of people.”
“I believe that confusion is the point of it all. One begins to question life and its meaning when one gets confused.”
In the distance, more thunder rolled, as if nature agreed with her statement.
“You have an answer for everything,” Brahm muttered.
“A woman’s trait.”
He grunted. “I sent word ahead from London. A maid and a cook should arrive once the storm lets up. They will stay for your duration.”
Her heart burned in protest, even though her lips remained sealed. “You are a strange man, Brahm Tremont.”
“I told you, I’m the most ordinary man you’ll ever meet.”
“If by ‘ordinary’ you mean a moody lord whose voice can raise the dead, then yes, you are the most ordinary man in the world.”
He shot her a look as if to say, “I am not a bloody moody lord.”
She bit her bottom lip. He really was.
He rose to gather the remaining provisions that they’d left uneaten, and the loss of his warmth was immediate; she felt it deep in her bones.
Holly swallowed the objection gathering in her throat. Would she feel this way every day if she failed to win his affection? She had never felt such a longing for a person before.
A deep ache in her chest left her breathless for a moment.
Holly saw the truth then, glimpsed the possibility of the same future that haunted her father awaiting her if she did not win Brahm’s heart . . . The thought was too awful to contemplate.