A Heart Worth Loving (The Marriage Maker Book 24) Read online

  Kyla drew a breath. The man certainly looked a beast—in every delightful sense of the word. Her eyes caught and lingered on the corded muscle of his neck.

  Overhead, the trees rustled as the rain began to pour.

  “Please, take shelter,” he repeated.

  Her mother bustled inside but poked her head out and said, “We are right pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Eleanor Brodrick, and this is my daughter, Kyla. We live over the hill from the abbey. Are you headed back? Surely, it would be no hardship if you were to—”

  “I would be delighted,” the viscount interrupted with a curt nod.

  Kyla smothered a smile as her mother huffed and disappeared inside. Kyla stepped around the curricle to the carriage and he extended his hand. She placed her hand in his. Strong fingers grasped hers lightly. They were warm, just like his expressive, brown eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Samson and Delilah,” she blurted.

  His dark brows rose again. “Pardon?”

  Kyla’s cheeks warmed. “The horses. I must—”

  “I will bring them,” he cut her short.

  So, the viscount was in the habit of interrupting, was he? His brows furrowed into a deeper line. Rain dripped from the rim of his hat and from the ends of his long, dark hair. Only then, did she realize she stood there like a bumbling fool. Quickly, she allowed him to hand her inside.

  He closed the carriage door and, in five long strides, reached the curricle. He gave the wheel a cursory glance then, as Kyla watched, he unbuckled the horses from their harnesses and tied them to the back of his carriage. The next moment, he jumped back into the coachman’s seat, and the carriage rolled forward.

  “A rather grim man,” her mother murmured as she unpinned her hat and shook rainwater onto the carriage floor. “Still, we are fortunate.”

  Grim? Kyla hid a smile. Not with those warm brown eyes. Nae, she thought him mysterious. No wonder he’d set the village women gossiping. The broody, quiet types always did.

  As her mother chattered, Kyla locked her gaze out the window.

  Bare minutes seemed to pass before they turned down the carriage drive lined on either side with trees, their branches filling with late spring leaves. The manor house at the end of the drive was modest compared to most of the nearby estates, but respectable. Still, Kyla surveyed the gray-stone building with a critical eye. The roof would need repairing, soon. At the entrance, the carriage stopped and shifted as the viscount jumped down, then the door opened.

  “Mrs. Brodrick,” came the polite murmur as he extended a hand.

  “Do come in for a spot of tea,” her mother suggested as she disembarked.

  “Another time,” the viscount replied as she hurried up the steps to the front door.

  In short order, Kyla found herself handed down and deposited on the carriage drive. She’d barely murmured, “Thank you, sir,” before he’d strode to the back to untie Samson and Delilah.

  As he led the horses forward, Kyla met him halfway. “I will take them, sir.”

  Again, the soulful, dark eyes locked on hers. His lips curved upward slightly as he offered her the reins. As their fingers brushed a second time, Kyla couldn’t help but notice his warmth.

  A little rattled, she dipped a quick curtsey. “Thank you, sir, for the aid.”

  “My pleasure.” He tipped his hat, then sprang back into the driver’s seat.

  Kyla watched as he maneuvered the drive, then disappeared down the road. How could a man appear so grim, yet be so polite and warm?

  “Do hurry with the horses,” her mother called from the safety of the front door. “You will catch your death, Kyla.”

  Kyla blinked. Was she really standing in the rain staring at a man? With a snort, she pulled the horses forward. “Come, Samson and Delilah.”

  She rounded the corner of the house, then halted at sight of the limp rag tied on the fence post. Green. Her stomach tightened. Why, of all nights, had Mister Mallatratt chosen this night to collect her father’s cargo of smuggled goods from Blackstone Abbey?

  Chapter Two

  Ewan draped his sodden coat across the back of the chair in the library. It was late. His younger half-brother, Liam, lay slouched, asleep, in a leather chair before the dying fire. Ewan paused and eyed him. Liam was far too talented an engineer to languish in the dark halls of an abbey. Ewan stalked to his brother’s side and jiggled the chair with a booted foot. Nae, Liam didn’t belong here—besides, he wanted the chair.

  “Up,” Ewan grunted.

  Liam opened a lazy eye. “You’re back,” he muttered before turning to seek a more comfortable position.

  A sketchbook fell to the floor. Ewan scooped up the leather-bound book and flipped through a few pages. Aye, the lad belonged at university.

  “Up,” Ewan repeated as he dropped the sketchpad onto Liam’s lap and jiggled the back of the chair.

  With a groan, Liam took up his sketchbook, rose and, with a scowl, vanished into the hallway. Ewan tossed more logs onto the flames, then settled into the warm leather and stretched his legs out before him. Of all rooms in the abbey, he preferred the open airiness of the large library. Few books lined the shelves as they must have when the abbey had been used by the clergy, but they would eventually fill the shelves. His only dislike of the room was its distance from the refectory, where he often sat and stared out over the hills to the north. He still couldn’t bear close quarters, any more than he could the sight of a pistol. Tonight, however, the patter of rain struck the windows in a soothing rhythm. His eyelids grew heavy.

  A crack of cannon fire he stood in a small courtyard imprisoned with his men in France.

  The French captain pressed a pistol into his hand. “Shoot,” the man gave a mean laugh, “You might save a life.”

  Ewan couldn’t see out of his swollen left eye, and could only squint through the right eye, but he clearly saw the six men—his men—lined up against the wall.

  “Ready,” the French captain shouted.

  The French soldiers lifted their guns…aimed.

  The captain forced Ewan to life the hand holding the revolver. Ewan tried to shove the hand away, but beaten and scarcely able to stand, his strength failed as the man closed Ewan’s fingers around the gun and—

  Ewan bolted upright. For an instant, he still felt the captain’s fingers around his, then the room snapped into focus. He jumped onto unsteady legs and headed for the mantle with its bottle of whisky.

  ***

  The mantle clock began to strike midnight.

  Kyla closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her bedchamber door. She could wait no longer. In half an hour, Mister Mallatratt would expect the door to Blackstone Abbey’s secret storeroom to be open so he could retrieve her father’s goods. Generally, the opening of the storeroom was her father’s domain, but in his absence the responsibility fell to her.

  The last of the twelve chimes faded away.

  Her father should have returned last week. Kyla pushed back the worry that rose. This wasn’t the first time he’d been late and, according to him, the reason was always the same: an irresistible opportunity crossed his path. Kyla was no fool. She knew that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes, he was avoiding the authorities.

  Her mother’s snores drifted to Kyla from the room across the hall. Kyla’s heart squeezed with the desire to unburden her fears. But that wasn’t possible. Her mother preferred to pretend that her husband was a shipping baron.

  Kyla opened the door and hurried down the hallway. “You only have to open the door and leave,” she muttered as she started down the stairs to her father’s library.

  She reached the room and eased the door open. Moonlight streamed through the library windows. Paintings of all sizes adorned the walls. Her mother loved art and fancied herself a collector, but there was little rhyme or reason to her collection. The ticking of the grandfather clock sounded more like a church bell as Kyla opened the top drawer of her father’s desk, slid her hand over t
he bottom and probed for the hinge of the hidden compartment. At the soft click of the catch, a door popped open. Quickly, she retrieved the keys to the lock he’d installed when he’d begun using the deserted abbey as a hiding place for his stolen goods.

  “Blast Mister Mallatratt and his fear of small places,” she muttered. If he wasn’t such a coward, Mister Mallatratt would have the keys and could open the door himself. But that wasn’t true. Her father entrusted only her with the key.

  Two minutes later, she grabbed her cloak from the coat rack near the front door and slipped into the night. Blackstone Abbey lay half a mile from the manor house, accessed through a small wooded area, then down the hill. She glanced skyward. The storm had passed and the three quarter moon lit the path well. At least fortune had granted that small boon. Still, her stomach knotted tighter than it usually did when she was to meet Mister Mallatratt. The storeroom was an outbuilding, so she needn’t sneak inside the abbey proper. But the thought of stumbling upon Ewan Fraser in the dead of night…

  Kyla quickened her pace along the path, shivering in the chill air. Her father—when he returned—would be displeased to discover Blackstone no longer abandoned, but she prayed that would provide the impetus for him to finally abandon his smuggling activities.

  Kyla emerged from the woods. At the bottom of the hill, the abbey loomed in the darkness, a hulking stone structure against the bright moon, its buildings, for the most part, intact, and built on a hill that sloped toward the valley on the opposite side of the property. The new owners had restored the outbuilding nearest the chapel, but they’d yet to touch the small structure outside the refectory.

  She scanned the windows. A flicker of firelight came from the hearth in the second-floor library. The rest of the abbey stood dark. Trepidation hummed in her stomach. Had the fire been left to burn out, or was one of the inhabitants unable to sleep? Kyla shook off the dread. She would enter through the refectory, far from the library.

  She hurried the final distance to the abbey gate, then veered left around the main chapel and darted through an archway into the courtyard. She picked her way forward. At last, she reached the refectory door only to discover someone had stacked barrels there.

  “Tarnation,” she swore under her breath.

  Why had the new owners blocked entrance to the refectory? Had they discovered the contraband stored in the secret room? God help her father if the Beasts of Blackstone Abbey had discovered their new home was a smuggler’s storage house. Kyla hesitated. Should she meet Mister Mallatratt around the back and tell him to go home? They could wait until her father returned, then let him decide how to proceed. But she knew that wouldn’t do. Mister Mallatratt would never leave without the goods. She didn’t want to think about the fuss he would make. The man wasn’t bright.

  She peered through the refectory window into the room. Moonlight shone several feet in, then gave way to darkness. She tried the window and her heart fell when the window swung open. If there had been no way in, Mister Mallatratt would have been forced to leave. Knowing him, he would have moved the barrels from the door—and he would most certainly not put them back.

  Heart hammering, she climbed through the window and touched down on the stone floor. She held her breath and discerned no sound. Arm outstretched, she hurried forward into the darkness, then inched her way across the middle of the room until her fingers contacted the wall.

  She slowly edged left. As hoped, her hip bumped into the table placed near the door. She edged around the table, then her fingers brushed the wood panel where the secret door was located. She pushed the panel. The wood sprang open and she pulled the keyring from her pocket. The soft chink of the keys resounded in the empty abbey. Kyla froze. Silence reigned. With a slow breath, she inserted the key into the keyhole and turned. The lock clicked. She hastily withdrew the key, then slid the door aside.

  Kyla slipped the keys into her pocket as she stepped into the entry, then felt her way along the wall to the stairs. Grip firm on the rope banister her father had installed on the wall, she descended the too-familiar, narrow, winding stairs. Not for the first time, Kyla cursed her lack of fear in tight, dark places. Had she had the presence of mind to feign that fear when her father first brought her to these stairs, she wouldn’t be here now. She descended the full level to where the hidden room was built against the slope of the hill and lit the taper stored on the shelf to the right.

  With a sigh, she crossed the large room to the trapdoor. She shoved the trapdoor bolt aside—not for the first time, cursing whoever designed the door to be opened only from the inside. Mister Mallatratt stared down at her. Her taper illuminated the displeasure written on his mutton-chop, whiskered face.

  “Are you trying to see me hanged?” he grated as he jumped down onto the floor beside her. “What took you so long?”

  “The abbey is no longer empty,” she hissed.

  He let out a low whistle. Two heads peered down at them from above.

  “Tom. George. Be quick, now,” he ordered.

  The men dropped through the open door and began tackling the crates and barrels stacked against the walls.

  Mister Mallatratt smiled, showing a row of crooked teeth. “Oh, I have something for you.” He fished in his coat pocket and withdrew a letter. “From your father.”

  A letter? Kyla reached for the paper.

  Mister Mallatratt held tight.

  Kyla frowned and tugged harder. She was in no mood for games. With a twist of her wrist, she snatched the letter from his grasp and ignored his laugh as she broke the seal.

  The letter consisted of one short line: I will be home soon, take care of your mother and sister.

  Relief flooded her. At least, he was alive. When he returned, she would make him understand the abbey was no longer a viable option for hiding his stolen goods. That, she prayed, would be enough to cause him to give up smuggling for good.

  Kyla tucked the note in her cloak pocket. “I will leave you to your task, Mister Mallatratt.” She started to turn.

  The man held out a blocking arm. “No need to run off, now, lass. What about locking the trapdoor after we leave?”

  Kyla halted and looked at him. With her father gone, he’d been behaving differently. She didn’t care for his forwardness. God willing, her father would put an end to his association with the man, as well.

  “As we will no’ be using the abbey again, it makes no difference if the door remains unlocked. I must be going,” she said firmly. “I cannot risk my mother waking and finding me gone.”

  “Aye, well, ye had better hurry home, then,” he said.

  She considered leaving through the trapdoor, but had the sudden worry that Mister Mallatratt would take that opportunity to corner her alone on the abbey grounds. He despised the narrow stairs that led back to the refectory, which made that the safer choice. She hurried back the way she’d come. She emerged into the refectory, closed and locked the door, then turned. A large figure stepped into her path, an arm’s length away, a low burning taper in hand. Kyla’s heart jumped into her throat. She barely repressed a cry and recognized the man from his sheer size. Viscount Kilbreck.

  He gave a low laugh.

  “I-I was out for a walk,” she blurted.

  Ninny. Out for a walk, half a mile from home, inside his abbey?

  “Ghost or no, you are beautiful,” he replied his Scottish burr deeper than she’d remembered.

  Kyla blinked. “Ghost?” Was he mad?

  He didn’t move.

  She hesitated. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  If she inched sideways, she might succeed in darting past him. Before she could move, he set the candle on the table and yanked her into his arms.

  “Damn, but ye feel real,” he murmured.

  Kyla opened her mouth, but his lips covered hers before she could cry out. The scent of whisky filled her nostrils, sweet, but strong. Blast the man, he was drunk. She knew just how rowdy men got when they were drunk. She pushed against his chest, but
he held fast.

  She lifted her foot to stomp down on his foot, then froze when his tongue traced the seam of her lips. His hand slid up and fisted a handful of her hair, gentle but firm, and held her head in place as he sucked on her bottom lip. Her heart skipped a beat. This would not do at all. She shouldn’t allow him such liberties. So why was she melting against his broad chest?

  Oh, Father, yet another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.

  The arm around her waist tightened and she drew a sharp breath when his hard length dug into her belly. He was—he was aroused! It had been a mere moment since he’d grabbed her. She had to—

  He abruptly released her. Kyla staggered back two steps.

  “Be gone, beautiful apparition,” he said. “Even you deserve more than I can give.”

  Kenna stared for two heartbeats, then turned and fled.

  Chapter Three

  Ewan slowed in his walk toward his favorite window in the refectory. He concentrated on listening beyond the pounding in his head. He was sure of it, a noise emanated from the refectory wall. Suddenly, the wall panel slid sideways, and a small, cloaked figure emerged two feet in front of him.

  He shook his head, but the apparition remained. She stood before him, a vision in the light of the taper he held. She reminded him of someone. He frowned, unable to recall where he’d seen her before, but then, sanity returned. No flesh-and-blood woman walked these crumbling halls. It had been too long since he’d shared a sweet lass’s bed. For too brief a moment, his cock pulsed at the thought. Then, he blanched. Real women deserved a hale and hearty man, not one tortured by horrors of the past. He gave a low laugh. A ghost was better suited to his tortured soul.

  Had she said something?

  “Ghost or no, ye are beautiful,” he said.

  “Ghost?” she whispered.

  A most pleasing ghost, to be sure. She stepped forward and he set the candle on the nearby table, hooked an arm about her waist and pulled her close.

  “Damn, but you feel real,” he murmured, then kissed her.