Now, he stared up at the house darkened except for shadows near the front entrance.
He went to the back entrance with a bar he had brought along to pry open the door and, when he reached out, the latch was locked.
He put pry marks into the wood, separating the metal from wood, working to get the lock free.
Earlier in the day when the footman had left, Brandt had pretended to ask directions. Then he’d discovered Katherine Wilder was the niece of a duke.
He paused. He had to take care. He knew why she hadn’t turned to her uncle. A self-righteous man who refused to let his servants turn their backs on him or raise their eyes when he spoke with them. He doubted Miss Wilder could ever get on well with the man.
Lifting the bar, he slipped inside. He walked the hall until he found a stairway and quickly got to the upper floors. Even if someone heard him, he’d be undetected unless they saw him. Footsteps would be attributed to a servant, or to Miss Wilder herself, or to the master of the house. It would be assumed someone moving about was answering a bell pull.
He found a doorway which he thought paralleled the window he’d watched.
The door opened easily, with only a small click. The first thing he noticed was the flounces. No man could sleep in a room decorated like a petticoat.
He took five paces and stood beside the bed.
His breath caught.
She lay so still. Beautiful. Innocent. And still as death.
Memories flooded back, choking him. He turned to the window, stepped closer, and pushed back the curtain until it stood wide. He felt the burning in his eyes.
He was locked inside his own past.
The covers rustled as she turned away in her sleep.
She’d caused the flood of thoughts. The strength of them. She needed to wake and he didn’t want to touch her. But he wanted to shake her, rail at her and curse her. She wasn’t Mary and she’d brought the pain back to his mind, and he didn’t have drink enough to cover it because he had to be here, with her, instead of sitting at the tavern.
Afraid of what memories would stir if he touched her, Brandt picked up a book from her bedside table. He nudged her arm with the volume. She didn’t move.
‘Wake.’ He spoke insistently and this time the book was forceful.
She sat up, slapping at him before her eyes were open. He watched as she tried to see in the darkness.
When he saw the mussed look of her hair and the innocence of the white clothing she wore, he clenched his empty hand into a fist. He slammed the book on to the table, uncaring about the noise.
‘Come on. Get up. Your chariot is waiting. Her name is Apple.’ He reached for Miss Wilder’s arm and pulled her to a sitting position.
She jerked her arm away and her eyes flooded with recognition.
‘You are trespassing.’ The whisper hissed into the room. ‘You’re in my bedchamber, and I am not some person who might appreciate a man’s night-time attentions.’
As easily as lifting a child, he grasped her arms and pulled her from the bed and to her feet. He stepped back.
He moved away, giving her a graceful bow and pointing to the door.
‘It is not tonight, you fool. I have not packed yet. There are no witnesses,’ The whisper ended on a hiss. ‘He will merely think I have run away.’
Fool, she had called him.
How well she knew. He hadn’t controlled his world enough to keep this one out of it with the reminders of another life she forced into his head.
This had been a mistake. He’d thought years passing would give him strength. Would have made him able to face what he was about to do. No.
He’d hoped, like a fool, he had strength to look at his past without dunking his head in a bottle.
He wanted to swim to the bottom of a pool of brandy and not return to the surface. He embraced the murky depths and they held him. That would be the only touch he would ever again need. And he’d had to forgo it to keep a clear head so he could keep his feet clear on the direction to her house.
The Miss stood glaring at him.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She kept her voice low. ‘This kidnapping is not so important to you that you’re able to put aside the drink for one night and attend to it. You are not following my direction, either. Now leave my bedchamber.’ She pointed a finger just as he had done, directing him away. ‘This is not how I wish to be kidnapped.’ Her whisper hardly sounded, but he could hear her well.
‘I could be in a warm tavern.’ He gritted his teeth and fought to ignore the soft purity of her skin. She bombarded his senses with the air of womanliness which swept from her to cover him. ‘You’re not staying in your warm bed.’
Brandt reached for the satchel and pulled out the trousers and shirt. He handed them to her. She had to look like a young man. That would be his salvation.
She stared at him, her arms crossed over the cotton clothing at her chest.
‘You simply cannot follow orders, can you?’ she whispered. ‘And how did you find me?’
She acted as if unaware she was standing in front of a man in her bedclothes. He wasn’t. Without the bonnet and the cloak, she seemed half the size she’d been before. Or maybe it wasn’t that she was smaller, just that being so close to her caused something inside his chest to feel stronger. His heart beat faster and not because he was scared.
He needed to concentrate on the task, not the woman.
He moved his nose closer to hers and muttered. ‘I merely asked people direction to the lady’s house who wears disgustingly big bonnets.’
‘My bonnet was of no particular size.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Now, leave or I will scream. You’ll be hanged.’
She tried to stare him down.
‘You may be right,’ he said softly, and grabbed the shirt from the floor. ‘But I am here and we are both leaving. A kidnapping in the daylight is too risky.’
He saw the mouth open and knew her next words would be raised.
He covered her mouth with his hand. A sharp intake of breath and she stumbled back, sitting on the bed.
‘Don’t draw attention to us yet,’ he rasped in her ear. ‘Or I’ll have to return these clothes to the dead man they were taken from.’ He slowly took his hand away.
‘Vile,’ she muttered and slung the shirt at his shoulders, keeping one sleeve in her hand.
He reached to pull it from her, but she scooted back on the bed.
‘You’re going to wear the shirt,’ he said. She tried to wrestle it from his hands.
He moved to hover over her and tried to secure her hands to keep her from slapping his face again with the shirt.
Both her wrists were locked in his hands.
‘Do you wish to be kidnapped?’ He put his nose nearly against hers and kept his words low. He released her hands and moved back, sitting beside her.
She glared. ‘I’m considering it.’
‘I’ll leave if you wish me to. I’m sick of this house and I’m sick of you.’ He released the shirt. ‘Your choice. It’s now, or someone else. If I leave tonight without you, I want a promise you will never, ever seek me out again.’
‘I’ll go.’ She held