Renegade (28 page)

“Do you love me, Becks?” he asked again, and she closed her eyes on a shudder.

“I don’t want
you
to marry
me
, Mac.” She didn’t want him to be forced to marry her. She’d been the one to seduce him, the one to bring them together. He shouldn’t pay for her sin.

But she couldn’t bring herself to say, “
I
don’t want to marry
you
, Mac,” because that would be a lie. And she’d long ago vowed to never lie to herself, at least.

“Too bad, honey. I’m
going
to marry you, and make this right.” He kissed her then, but it was nothing like the ones she’d come to cherish; this kiss was hard and fast and full of anger, and she didn’t like it much. She felt like he was somehow sealing their fate, and she wanted to cry. Both of them pushed into a marriage neither wanted. Or at least, he didn’t want, had never wanted.

She might have had a chance to fight it, had her mother supported her. But instead, Eugenia stood off to one side and pressed her lips together to hide her smile. Becks wasn’t fooled.

And so, she was married. It wasn’t the wedding she would’ve imagined, had she been the type of little girl to imagine her wedding. Pastor What’s-His-Name stuttered through the vows and skipped the sermon altogether. Holt gave her away, while her mother beamed, and Pearl stood beside her and sniffled into a handkerchief occasionally. Robert stood on the other side of Mac, who vibrated with anger and said nothing at all until he was called on to repeat after the Pastor.

When it was done, Eugenia gave a falsely cheerful laugh, and Mac kissed Becks. It wasn’t the kind of kiss she’d come to love from him; this one was hard and stiff and over far too fast. In spite of all of her anger and hurt she’d felt over the last hour, he still left her wanting more.

And then he left.

Without saying anything to her, he just collected Robert with a glance—Robert at least had the decency to nod politely to her—and stalked out of the room.

Wasn’t there supposed to be a fancy meal after the wedding? That’s how various cousins’ weddings had gone. But today, Holt—still beaming like Mac had pleased him greatly—just had Bennett arrange for a light supper and rooms for everyone.

Becks pleaded exhaustion and bid her goodnights. She fully intended to retreat to her room and hide until her embarrassment—at being forced to marry a man who didn’t want her—wore off. Pearl seemed to understand; the hug her sister gave her was sad. They didn’t have to say anything, but Becks knew Pearl would be in later to talk about… well, about everything.

Holt himself escorted her to the room Bennett had made ready for her. When he offered her his arm, she hesitantly placed her fingertips on it. Surely it was her imagination that made him feel so cold and hard? Or was she just comparing him to his brother?

They walked stiffly, with Becks trying not to touch him more than was necessary. He had a limp that made it difficult to match his pace, and she wondered if it was related to his injury in the War. Any time she risked a glance at him, she caught sight of the ruined side of his face, and quickly looked away. They’d already turned down the long hall with the bedrooms before he spoke again.

“I know that you must resent me right now, but I want you to know that I would’ve made this decision again in a moment. You are undeniably a good match for my brother.”

Becks couldn’t help the way she snapped, “It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Why are you so upset? You obviously care for Mac, even if you haven’t told him. Don’t you think you’d be happy with him?” They’d reached a door, and Holt pulled to a stop. She dropped her hand from his forearm immediately and took a step away.

“I think that
he’s
going to be miserable. He
hates
being told—” Angrily, she cut herself off. Mac wouldn’t appreciate her explaining.

But she didn’t have to. “Hates being told what to do.” Holt’s voice was even quieter than usual, and he wasn’t looking at her. “Yes… I know.” There was a wealth of history in that sad statement.

Becks tried to calm her own expression. “Then you must know that he’ll never forgive either of us for this.”

Holt turned the full power of his ice-blue gaze on her, and she was struck by the warmth there. No, not warmth, exactly. There was a reason those eyes were icy; she’d thought him cold and hard when she’d first met him a few hours ago. But now, he seemed…to melt, somehow.

“I think he’ll one day thank me.” And then he glanced away. “I
hope
one day…” And then he cleared his throat. “And I think that he’ll be able to make you happy, even if he doesn’t realize it yet.”

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, finally able to admit the truth to herself. “I think that he could make me
very
happy, but I’m unwilling to sacrifice his happiness for mine.”

“The fact that you care for his happiness and that you know him so well, tells me that I made the right choice for him.”

Becks turned away to open the door. “It shouldn’t have been your choice to make.”

And as she closed the door behind her, she heard him whisper, “I shouldn’t have
had
to.” And then, once the door was shut, “Goodnight, Mrs. Baird.”

She dropped her forehead to the cool wood and managed not to groan. What had just happened? She’d been so happy just a few hours ago, and now she was married? Against her will?

No, not entirely against her will. After all, she could’ve said no or refused to answer the Pastor’s questions. But that secret part of her she’d been hiding for the last week loved the idea of being able to spend the rest of her life with Mac. But the rest of her, the more logical part, refused to be yoked to a man who didn’t want her, who didn’t want to be married at all.

But perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. They were married, yes, but her life didn’t have to change. She could go home to Beckett and continue as she’d been for years, and he could continue his own life and no one need ever know they’re married. Or even if she
did
take his name, they could just live separate lives: a marriage of convenience.

Her heart sped up at the idea. And maybe, in between his shipping and smuggling—she refused to dwell on that, still irritated beyond belief at that damn
lace
—he might stop by Beckett every other month or so. Maybe she’d still be able to see him, occasionally.

Too exhausted and emotionally drained to do anything other than lock the door and fall into bed, she clutched that thought close to her heart for comfort. Maybe this “marriage”
could
work, and she’d still have him as a part of her life, too.

She fell asleep pretending that seeing him occasionally would be enough.

Because somewhere along the way, despite her best intentions, she’d fallen in love with her renegade.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It would be an understatement to say that Holt was surprised when he pushed open the door to his study to find his brother slouched in one of the big chairs in front of the empty hearth. Mac hadn’t turned the lamp back up and sat there in shadows, chewing on one of the cinnamon sticks from Holt’s liquor cabinet and fingering a glass of what looked like brandy.

Slowly shutting the door behind him, Holt limped to the lamp, mainly to give himself something to do. He’d have expected his brother to be long gone. Knowing the way Mac hated authority, knowing what Holt just put him through, Holt honestly expected his brother to have collected his crew and be past the Harbor on his way to the Caribbean by now.

Not to say that he wasn’t pleased to see Mac here, no matter the brooding glare the younger man was sending his way. They’d seen less and less of each other over the last few years, and he was beginning to suspect that he didn’t know his younger brother as well as he’d thought. Maybe Mac had changed more than he knew.

He watched Mac for a few minutes, but his brother wouldn’t meet his eyes. Rather, he seemed to be staring through Holt, and he knew that meant that Mac was thinking hard about something. It was disconcerting to see his normally passionate brother so reserved. After the third time that cinnamon stick made its way from one side of Mac’s mouth to the other, Holt sighed and crossed to the liquor cabinet.

As he was pouring himself a generous portion of whiskey, he thought he heard his brother say something. He twisted sharply, attempting to bring his good ear into play, but Mac was now staring at the old fireplace.

Holt rolled his eyes, tired of waiting for his brother to speak. “I’ve just come from your bride.”

That at least got a response. Mac’s gaze flashed towards him and then looked away just as quickly. Holt almost took a step back at the rage he’d seen in those metallic eyes; he remembered seeing Mac look at their father that way. Back when both brothers were young and whole.

Sometimes Holt felt that same anger, but directed at himself. As much as he loved his brother, Mac reminded him too much of himself when he was handsome and idealistic, too.

So maybe his voice was sharper than called for when he snapped, “Another man would’ve call me out for that remark.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed, and he slowly turned his gaze back toward Holt. “Have you been getting lazy in your old age? You need a fight to get your blood pumping?”

Remembering the last time they sparred, Holt flexed one fist. “You’re welcome to try.” Mac might be two years younger and more agile, but Holt had an inch and thirty pounds on his brother. They were well-matched, and both used to come away bloody when they sparred.

Maybe Mac was remembering that, because one corner of his mouth raised in what might have been a slight grin, and he took a sip of the brandy. Holt grimaced, thinking of his good brandy mixing with the cinnamon, and limped over to sit in the other big chair.

“Becks is a lovely young woman, Mac. She seems a good match for you.” Mac turned back to the fireplace as if to say that he didn’t want to hear about her. But Holton continued anyhow. “And since I just left her in your bedroom, it seems to me that your wedding night would be better spent with
her
than guzzling my ridiculously expensive brandy.”

Mac glanced down at the glass in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time, and then quirked a brow at his brother. “If you bought from me, I’d cut you a deal.”

“If I bought from you, I’d be drinking that disgusting dark rum.”

“You’re the only man I know who prefers whiskey.”

“That’s because I’m the only one you know with any taste.”

Mac took another big gulp, just to be ornery, Holt was sure. He sighed and continued. “I’m pretty sure I heard her lock the door.” The good Lord knew that his hearing wasn’t the best, but some things could be assumed. “But I can’t imagine that would be a hindrance to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that I remember you having some skill with a lock pick. I’d suggest you use it tonight, to see
your bride
.”

“And you think she’d be happy to see me?”

Ah
. Holt sat back, resting the whiskey on the arm of the chair.
There it is.
In Mac’s defiant words, he’d heard the hesitance, the uncertainty. Mac might have meant the question as flippant, but it masked the truth.

“I think she would be.”

His brother looked at him then, all pretense slipping away, and his tortured eyes met Holt’s. And in that moment, Holt understood the truth, even if Mac didn’t.

“You love her,” he breathed, “but you’re too stupid to realize it.” When Mac scowled and took another gulp of the brandy, Holt’s brow rose. “Or maybe you
do
realize it.”

“What the hell would you know about it?”

Holt regarded his brother over the lip of his whiskey glass long enough to make Mac shift uncomfortably. Then finally, he spoke. “I think that you
wanted
to marry her. But your orneriness and refusal to bend to society’s rules meant that you couldn’t just ask her.” He took a sip and, as always, enjoyed the burn against his throat. “So you thoroughly compromised her and then showed up here, where you knew I’d make you do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” Mac’s laugh was more of a bark, dripping bitterness.

“You and I were raised the same way.” Not that it’d turned out particularly well for either of them. “You know how to be honorable. How to do your duty.”

“And you think being married to me is the right thing for
her
?”

Remembering the tortured expression on Becks’ face in the hallway outside her door, Holt nodded. “She cares about your happiness, and I think she understands you better than any of us ever did.”

That
must have hit a nerve, judging from the way Mac suddenly turned his gaze back to the fireplace and chewed furiously on that God-awful cinnamon stick.

Mac was married now. He had a chance at happiness and the years had taught Holt that such a thing shouldn’t be passed by. All he had to do was push his brother a little more, to make him realize that he had a future with Becks, whether it be here at Baird’s Cove where Holt had always wanted, or on Edisto Island, or even on that damn boat. Mac had a future, something Holt had lost long ago, and his brother would be an idiot to pass it up. “I think—”

“Believe it or not—” Mac’s eyes were angry again when he snapped upright, obviously intent on changing the subject. “I didn’t come here to find out what
you
think about my wife
.
”

Holt carefully sat back again, hoping that he’d at least planted the idea in his brother’s head. Hoping that Mac would take the chance he deserved with Becks. “Very well.” He gestured with the whiskey. “Why are you here?”

“To tell you to expect trouble soon.”

Holt hadn’t anticipated that. “At Baird’s Cove?”

“Pretty sure it’ll follow me. Or at least, I wouldn’t be surprised…”

“You want to explain that?”

Mac downed the rest of the brandy, put the glass on the small table beside him, and started fiddling with the cinnamon stick. “Major Creel is apparently in charge of figuring out who’s been smuggling lace up into Charleston from the south.”

“
Hmmm.” Holt should’ve expected this conversation, frankly, but he was surprised to be having it on his brother’s wedding night. “He
was
.” Mac raised a brow, a mannerism disturbingly similar to their father. “Since Hayes called the army back, he’s no longer in charge of that force, or that… vendetta.”

“You think
he
knows that?”

“He should. Has he said otherwise?”

Mac was silent for a moment longer, chewing contemplatively. “The evening I told Creel I’d be marrying Becks, he swore he’d be back to arrest me. He was bringing in men from Charleston to do it.”

“For smuggling.” It wasn’t a question.

Mac nodded once, quickly. “I shouldn’t have gone along with Eugenia’s scheme.”

Holt couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. “You’re blaming
her
for—”

“No.” Mac chewed harder. “I’m a grown man. But I shouldn’t’ve let her talk me into using her people like that. Becks pointed out how much danger they were in because of me.”

“You’d never considered that?” The pain in Mac’s eyes—glowing eerily in the lantern light—answered Holt’s question. And in that moment, Holt knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Becks was the woman for his brother. She matched him perfectly, and Holt couldn’t help the slow smile that pulled at his left cheek.

“So, Creel or no, is Baird Shipping going to continue to move through Beckett?” He’d known about Mac’s illegal activities since almost the beginning; it was damn near impossible to keep a secret from Bennett, and Bennett told Holt everything. He’d been perversely proud of his brother, too. The war had given Mac scars, but they were inside. He’d needed to lash out against the government that imposed the rules… the same way he’d lashed out against their father. So Holt didn’t approve, but he understood. And he didn’t object to Mac moving his goods through Baird’s Cove and down to the city for sale.

“No. I’m not putting any more Beckett people in danger. I’m not putting Robert in danger anymore, either.” The cinnamon stick crossed to the other side of his mouth. “I’m quitting.”

If he’d meant to shock his brother, it worked. Despite the time he spent at sea, Mac had had twelve years to get used to his brother’s new facial expressions, and he saw surprise in Holt’s eyes and in the way his bushy brows rose slightly. “You’re quitting…what, exactly?”

“Robert asked me to think about quitting the smuggling business a few months ago. Before we left Beckett we agreed that this was our last run.”

Holt shifted slightly, crossing one booted foot over the other. “And Baird Shipping?”

Mac shrugged. “You know I wasn’t doing it for the money.” It was—had always been—just a way to keep score. To prove that he wasn’t going to blindly follow the new laws. “So it was stupid to keep risking others’ necks for more money.”

He watched his older brother finish his whiskey and then pick up his pipe and tobacco pouch from the small table beside him. Over the last decade, Holt had weaned his dependence on laudanum but developed a fondness for drinking and smoking. Mac didn’t like the way the older man became lethargic and uncaring but knew veterans with much worse dependencies. As he tamped down the tobacco, Holt cleared his throat. “Well, I won’t tell you I’m proud of you—”

“Thank you.” He hated when Holt acted like he was smarter, just because he was two years older.

“—but I appreciate your decision. If you weren’t thinking about the danger the Beckett people were in, you probably never thought of the danger you put your own people in.”

Mac’s brow rose. “What danger?” He’d never put any of the Baird’s Cove people in danger as far as he knew. Eugenia’s man drove the barrels of lace to Baird’s Cove, and he picked it up to sail it back down the river a few days after he paid proper tariff on the barrels of rum.

“Well, what do you suppose would happen to
me
when Creel came asking around?”