Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three
Alcott Hall: Chapter 66

As soon as Madeline and Warren entered the hallway, she slid to a stop. “Oh, god—” She spun to face him, placing a hand on his arm. “My father is here.”

He gazed down at her, his dark brows lowered. “What?”

“My father,” she repeated. “Viscount Raleigh. He found out I was here. He came all the way from Town, dragging my poor cousin with him. He traveled through the storm to take me away, John. He’s here in the house. I can’t—I don’t know what to do—”

“Easy,” he soothed, cupping her cheek. “Do you want to leave with him?”

She shook her head. “No, but I fear I’ll have no choice. Charles won’t—he hasn’t—”

“He will,” he replied, his voice firm. “He loves you, Madeline. When he gets back, we’ll settle this once and for all.”

They made their way downstairs to the small library off the drawing room. Warren settled her on the end of the sofa before the fire, stoking the flames and adding wood until they had a happy blaze. He brought her a glass of whiskey, all but placing it in her hand as she gave in to her exhaustion.

He brushed his hand over her shoulder, his fingers catching on her hair to gently rub her golden curls. “When is the last time you ate?”

Her mind felt muddled. She took a sip of the whiskey, savoring the smooth, spicy taste. “I hardly know. This morning perhaps?”

He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her brow. “I’ll go scrounge up something from the kitchen.”

The man moved so silently for someone his size. She hardly heard the door shut. And then she was alone. The fire warmed her face, the flames casting out a bright golden light that danced on the walls and across the rich blue carpet.

She wasn’t alone for more than five minutes before there came a soft knock at the door. It opened and Patrick peeked his head inside.

“M?”

“Oh, Patrick,” she said on a sigh, setting her glass aside.

“The footman said you were in here.” He slipped into the room, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and braces. “I’m so sorry, M. I had to tell him where you were. They were starting to talk about declaring you dead.”

She rose to her feet, holding out her arms. He hurried to her, wrapping her in an embrace. It felt so natural to hug him, though they rarely indulged in the act. They were of such a similar size, she could actually place her chin above his shoulder. With Warren and Charles, it was always more of a press against their warm chests.

Patrick smelled so different from them too. He’d taken a bath, washing the long hours of travel away. Now he smelled like her rose oil soap, his hair still slightly damp.

She pulled back, placing a gentle hand beneath his black eye. “I am so sorry for this, Patrick.”

He raised his hand, covering hers. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Rory did this to you?”

He nodded with a grimace. “He didn’t have to be quite so gleeful about it. Uncle Richard didn’t even tell him to do it. They were questioning me, and he decided I needed more motivation.”

“He’s a bully,” Madeline muttered. “I cannot bear a bully.”

“Well, he learned from the best,” he said with a shrug. “Our fathers are quite the pair of unpardonable bullies.”

She nodded, dropping her hand to his shoulder. It felt good to stand here so close, feeling his comforting presence after the harrowing events of the day.

“Well?” he said, a smile quirking his lips.

She blinked up at him. “Well, what?”

“Was our mission successful? Are you engaged to the captain? I asked a footman, and he said Renley is here. He arrived back a few days ago—”

“No, Patrick,” she said with a soft laugh. “I am not engaged to Captain Renley.”

“Not yet—”

“Not ever,” she said, slapping his chest. “He is quite content in his bachelor life. And I am convinced we are better as friends,” she added softly.

“Well, I am sorry for it,” he replied. “You only have a few days left. Is there no one else?”

Madeline stilled, focusing her gaze on the open “v” at his throat.

“Madeline…”

She pursed her lips, shaking her head.

“There is,” he said on a gasp. “You wily little minx, you found someone else. Look at the way you blush. Who is it then? Mr. Burke—”

“No,” she cried. “You are incorrigible.”

“And you are evasive,” he countered, gripping her by the elbows as he lowered his face before hers. “Tell me, you little she-devil. Who is the lucky man I will soon call my cousin? Is he a peer? A tradesman? Don’t tell me you’ve found yourself a pirate or a highwayman.”

“Patrick,” she said on a laugh, trying to tug free of his grip.

That just encouraged him to tease her harder. His hands dropped to her sides as he dug in with his fingers, tickling her. “Tell me, M. You know I’ll winkle it out of you!”

“Stop,” she gasped, slapping his hands down as she laughed.

“Tell me—”

“No!”

“What the hell is going on?”

Madeline gasped, turning towards the door, eyes wide. Charles stood there, his eyes narrowed at her. She suddenly had an image of what he must be seeing. She stood in Patrick’s arms, his hands at her waist. She slapped them down and he let them fall but didn’t step back.

Charles pressed his way into the room, his caramel curls a wild mess, slicked with sweat at his brow, and his cheeks burning red from the cold. “Madeline, who is this?” he growled, the possessiveness in his tone doing unspeakable things to her fluttering core. Was it wrong to admit that it felt good to see mild-mannered Charles Bray discomfited?

“I—”

Behind her, she could all but feel Patrick’s grin. He was worse than a dog on the hunt when it came to teasing out an intrigue. The devil put his hands back on her waist. “And who is this dashing gentleman, M?” he cooed in her ear.

Madeline followed Charles’s gaze as he focused on the placement of Patrick’s hands at her waist. She gasped again, slapping at her cousin. “Will you stop?” she hissed.

He had the audacity to laugh, slinging his arm around her shoulder instead.

“Madeline,” Charles said again, closing the space between them.

“Won’t you introduce us, dear?” Patrick teased.

“Will you get off me,” she huffed, shrugging his arm off. She spun back to Charles. “He is my cousin,” she blurted out. “Mr. Charles Bray, this is my fool of a cousin, Patrick Blaire.”

Charles paused, his gaze softening somewhat. “Your cousin?”

She nodded.

“Yes, I am indeed her cousin,” said Patrick. “But more than that, I am her confident, her safe harbor, her dearest and oldest friend. We are more siblings than cousins, really. Twin flames. So, when I say the following, please know that I do not mean to be indecorous, sir, but who the hell are you?”

Madeline stifled a groan. This was so not how she envisioned this meeting going.

Charles narrowed his eyes again. “I am—”

“He is Mr. Bray,” she repeated. “As I’ve already told you, Patrick. He is a curate. But soon he takes up a position as vicar in Bredbury.”

“A vicar, eh?” said Patrick. “And is he the one then?”

Madeline’s cheeks flamed with heat. She was sure they must be as crimson as Charles’s weather-battered face. “Will you hush,” she hissed, poking him in the ribs.

But it was too late. Charles raised a brow at them. “The one?”

“Aye, the one my cousin is so clearly mad about,” Patrick went on with a grin. It looked garish with his blackened eye. “Strictly speaking, M is not the sort to form any kind of attachment on a man. But the moment I started questioning her on the identity of her mystery beau, her eyes positively lit up. If it is you who enlivens such a passion in her, you are to be commended, sir. For there is no finer catch in all of England than my dearest cousin.”

“I will end you,” she hissed, jabbing him again.

He laughed, inching away from her. “So, tell me, Mr. Bray. Is it you who has stolen her heart away? Will you sweep her off her feet with a romantic proposal of marriage?”

“Like bloody hell he will!”

All three of them spun around. Madeline’s eyes went wide, taking in the furious face of her father.

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