Wolfsgate (3 page)

The scent of flowers mixed with that of warm skin stirred a forgotten ache within Brandon.

He unglued his eyes and was met with the face of a woman. He took in the full, dark lashes, contoured brows, the elegant nose. Long, thick, springy locks of coppery brown hair tickled his shoulders and his cheek. Her heart beat swelled in his ear, her bare arms were draped around his shoulders sheltering him in her warm embrace. He was pressed fully into her chest, the tops of her smooth breasts peeking up from her bodice rose and fell with each breath under his very lips.

Fantastic.

Where the hell was he?

Aside from the beautiful young woman holding him close, he was in a bed with clean linens. That was certainly unusual. Well, both situations were unusual, actually.

The woman stirred under his weight, and he pulled his head back to focus his still-dazed vision on her face. Her fetching pink lips pressed together then released on a small breath and fell slightly apart. Her body squirmed under his, flexing, stretching. He was mesmerized.

Her eyes opened, and they looked directly into his. His lungs squeezed together. Rich brown eyes, the color of the finest French molten chocolate he had drunk once in Paris as a boy. His mouth watered for that smooth, lush richness right this very second. Maybe if he…

He knew these eyes.

There was something familiar about them, about her, something he had an instinct to preserve. He pressed his body into hers, the need to keep her soft warmth close overwhelming, to absorb more of it, more of her. She stiffened, her dark orbs widening under his unfiltered examination. They stared at each other as his hand traveled up her waist, her lower back arching in its wake. Her sensuous lips only parted further. He leaned in closer to her face, barely an inch from that mouth, his gaze riveted on those lips.

“Such hospitality,” he murmured.

She squirmed and planted a hand on his chest. “Brandon!” she stuttered. He blinked up at his name. “Do you not recognize me?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, no.” His nose moved along her jaw, his lips brushed her skin. He was an animal sensing her blood, her heat, her aroma. Delicious. His veins pounded. “But we can surely remedy that.” He nipped the side of her throat, and her body jolted in his embrace. She twisted in the other direction, but she only revealed more of that delicate throat to him. His hand cupped the fantastic swell of her breast, and a sigh escaped him. So soft, so very perfect. She pushed against his chest with both hands.

“Brandon—” She struggled to catch her breath. “I’m Justine. Your Uncle Richard’s stepdaughter.”

His body stilled. “Justine?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

The last time he had seen Justine, his little step-cousin with the shy smile and easy laugh, she had been a young, budding girl. He studied her face once again. “Christ.” He exhaled and released her from his grasp. “You’re all grown up, aren’t you?” Was he expressing surprise or admiration? He wasn’t sure. Maybe both. His body was at full attention, that was certain. Yes, definitely admiration.

“It’s been a very long time,” she murmured.

His gaze flickered down her torso. “Obviously,” he muttered sinking back onto the pillow. She wriggled out of the bed, the mattress shifting, and a chill swept over him right away. A sudden heaviness settled in his limbs as he watched her smooth down her skirts. Something sharp pricked his shoulder. Four hairpins lay on the pillow. He held them out to her as she tucked the blanket around him. She bit her lip and plucked them from his fingers.

A gold ring on her left hand caught his eye. “You’re married?” Her gaze snapped up at him, and she stopped fiddling with the blanket. “Your ring,” Brandon said gesturing to her hand. “Damn, I’ve been gone a very long time then.” She didn’t answer and only collected the remaining hairpins that were on the bed.

“How long has it been, Justine? What’s going on?” His lips pressed into a hard line. God, my head is killing me, actually my whole body is killing me, every joint, every muscle.” His palms rubbed over his eyes.

Justine cleared her throat. “You were in a shipwreck coming back from Jamaica. We thought you were dead, but you survived. You’ve been in hospital in London for quite some time.”

His breath tightened in his lungs. Broken images swarmed through his brain—shouting, battering wind and rain, wood cracking, breaking apart, huge waves of icy sea water squashing him, engulfing everything.

The end of the world.

He let out an involuntary gasp. “Define ‘quite some time’ would you?”

“You’ve been missing for almost two years.”

The blood drained from his head. “Two years?”

“Mr. Davidson, the estate manager, and I came to get you and bring you home. We arrived at Wolfsgate almost ten days ago. The physic they were giving you at hospital made you ill.” She averted her gaze.

“What does that mean?”

“You had serious injuries and have been in a lot of pain over a long period of time, and they gave you a special remedy for it, too much of it. Over time, your body became accustomed to it.”

“Accustomed to it?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of special remedy?”

Justine exhaled, her hands clasped together. “Opium.”

Opium?

He clenched his jaw and moved to sit up, grunting with the effort. Justine wrapped her hands around his bicep to help him. His penetrating gaze darted up at her, and her skin heated again.

“And why did you come? Where are Father and William?”

“They’re in Edinburgh on business. They’re due back shortly,” she replied.

He sat up and finally noticed the heavy green velvet drapes hanging from the bed canopy, a woman’s looking glass sitting upon a toilette table next to a large Jacobean chest that looked like it might contain forgotten treasures. An old cane-backed armchair that had seen better days with a small table next to it, and a worn green velvet chaise with a blanket tossed carelessly over it on the other side.

“Is this your bedchamber?”

Justine only nodded, her tongue darted out and swiped at her lips.

“Why in the hell—?”

The door shoved open and Davidson entered holding a tray with a steaming bowl of broth. “Ah! You’re a fine sight, that you are Master Brandon!” He grinned. Justine took the tray from him and placed it on the table. Davidson grabbed Brandon’s arm and squeezed it.

“Davidson,” Brandon murmured.

Davidson grinned. “You’re doing well, my boy. Very well.” He glanced at Justine, his eyes squinting at her momentarily. Justine’s hand went to her hair which now swirled around her shoulders. She stood up straighter and pushed the unruly, heavy locks behind her ears.

“I’ve brought you some food. Had some meself downstairs,” said Davidson.

Brandon scowled. “What is it?”

“A simple broth, nothing extraordinary,” said Justine. “You need to eat Brandon.” She brought the tray to his bed. His dark gaze darted to the murky liquid.

“I doubt you tucked into this, Davidson,” Brandon muttered. Davidson only smirked.

“Come now,” Justine said. “Molly cooked it just for you.”

He leaned his head back against the headboard, his eyes trained on her. “What will you do if I don’t eat it?”

A delicate smile crept across her lips. His stomach dipped at the sight. “Oh, I’m glad you have the energy to display your wit today,” she said.

“I haven’t woken up next to a pretty face and such an appealing body in a very, very long time. Maybe that has something to do with it.” His heavy gaze locked with hers. “Lucky man, your husband.” Justine’s face flushed scarlet, and a flicker of warmth spread through his body at the sight. She returned her attention to the bowl, stirring the spoon in the hot broth.

“What are you on about?” asked Davidson from the armchair at the other side of the room.

Justine grinned as she held a spoonful of soup to his lips. “He’s being cheeky.” His nerve endings tingled as her face lit up. He took the spoon between his lips, and she dipped it in his mouth.

Davidson chuckled. “Then we are well on the road to recovery, I should say.”

Justine held a cloth underneath his chin as he swallowed the warm liquid. “Not very horrible, I hope.”

He made a face, his lips tipping up. “A little horrible.”

“Oh good, more then.” She grinned as she lifted another steaming spoonful of broth from the bowl. His pelvis stirred under the quilts. He could do this all day with her.

Brandon managed to eat half the soup and a few bites of the crusty bread. He took the napkin and wiped his mouth. He stared at her as he settled back on the pillow, his eyelids drooping.

Hours later after he woke from his nap, he surrendered to a bout of nausea. Justine sat at the edge of the bed wiping his brow with a cool, wet cloth, keeping his damp hair away from his face.

“Perhaps you’d like to take a turn about the room, get accustomed to moving and walking once again?” she asked.

“You’re trying to sound very bright and positive, I must say, Justine.” He coughed, adjusting himself back on his pillows.

“Could you try? Davidson and I will help you steady yourself.”

He studied her face again. “You are a woman on a mission, eh?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You have been stuck in this bed without much regular exercise. Your body needs to move again. I don’t like seeing you like this Brandon, and I’m sure you don’t like how it feels, either.” She pulled back the bedcovers. “You need your strength back. Let’s try. Please.”

“So polite, how can I refuse?”

“Too right. I wouldn’t if I were you, sir,” Davidson said. He came to the other side of him. He and Justine held Brandon by the arms and around his middle as he put his weight on his feet. He inhaled a deep breath and his body swayed. His foot took one step forward, then another. He teetered and leaned heavily on Justine. Darts of pain shot up his right leg, and he let out a hiss.

“Take a moment, take in a breath,” Justine said. “We’re not going to let you go.”

Brandon took in her determined gaze and sucked in air again. He took another heavy step forward, then another, letting loose a string of curses as the three of them hobbled around the small room. He shifted his weight and winced.

“We can get you a cane for this side, just until you’re stronger,” said Justine.

“Won’t that be the height of fashion, though?” Brandon grimaced as they led him back to the bed. Suddenly he stopped, his body stiffening. “What the…”

Justine met his gaze. He stared at his reflection in her small mirror. He tilted his head left then right assessing the damage. He released his arm from her shoulder and traced over the two long scars that ran from his temple down his right cheek with trembling fingers.

“Your souvenirs from the shipwreck,” said Davidson.

“The gashes were once quite deep, but they’ve healed,” Justine said her hand firmly around his middle. “The doctor in Cornwall did a good job. Over time, they may become less prominent.”

Brandon only shook his head at his strange, foreign reflection, his eyes clouding. He turned from the mirror. “They are harsh reminders of a life lost.”

“Yes, but you are found, Brandon,” Justine said.

Brandon still erupted into a charge of unpredictable highs and lows, exploding into a fierce rage then later lapsing into a brooding melancholy. Justine had sent Davidson out to purchase a smart cane for him to use, which he hated, but soon enough admitted it helped. He hobbled about the bedchamber at regular intervals. Then he finally left the room and conquered the long hallway. Eventually he tackled descending the staircase and then later on, plodded back up the staircase.

Thankfully the worst of his recovery had passed, for there was another sort of storm ahead of them.

Justine crossed the front hall carrying a tray with a pot of tea and cups to bring into the parlor in time for Brandon’s morning descent downstairs. As she crossed the hall, she glanced up at the top of the staircase and her breath caught. The twenty-six year old man towering before her was more the Brandon Treharne she remembered. He was not quite bursting with the vitality of his charmed youth, but it was Brandon, fully dressed, hair neatly pulled back in a tie, with his cane in one hand. He managed the stairs on his own without stopping, only some wincing, three curses, and his eyes on her all the while.

She smiled at him, her fingers tightening around the handles of the tray.

The front door burst open behind her.

“Bloody hell!”

She flinched, scalded by the the acid tone of the deep voice exploding behind her. Justine dropped the tray on the oak sideboard. Brandon froze at the bottom of the stairs.

Her stepbrother, William stood in the entrance hall, his cold, black gaze sweeping over her. Her stomach hardened as his dark eyes shot to Brandon, then back to Justine.

“What have you done, you little idiot?” William’s voice thundered.

Luck was no longer with her. Indeed, luck had fled the premises altogether. She took in a deep breath, forcing her herself to unscramble.

Brandon’s eyes trained on the choleric figure before him. “William, you’ve come to welcome me home?” Justine grinned. It was oddly comforting that Brandon’s wit had not faded after all these years.