My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Duncan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if trying to get rid of a bad taste in his mouth. "How can I? How can I believe anything you say?"

  Will turned away. "I don't understand. What of that tolerance you said the savages taught you?"

  "It's not that and you know it!" Duncan pointed, his voice barely restrained. "It's not the sex, damn you! You could have confided in me. I'd not have loved you any less for that. I'd not have approved, but I'd not have condemned you!"

  "Then what is it?" Will was openly crying now, tears spilling down his ruddy face.

  Jillian had never seen a man cry before. She wanted so badly to go and comfort him. She knew his heart was breaking.

  "Jillian, let's go." Duncan yanked her cloak off the wall peg.

  Jillian came to him without hesitation. Instinctively, she knew when to resist and when he needed her.

  "Answer me, damn you! You and I are practically brothers!" Will wiped his running nose with the velvet sleeve of his doublet. "You owe me an answer!"

  Duncan dropped the cloak over Jillian's shoulders and pushed her in front of him, out the door. "You betrayed me, Galloway. You abandoned my friendship for his."

  "It wasn't like that. Surely you know—"

  "You and I—" Duncan swept a hand through the air. "—we are no longer brothers. Let's go, Jillian."

  "You can't do this, Duncan." Tears ran down her cheeks. She reached for his arm. "I believe Will when he says he knows nothing of the shooting. Don't part like this. You have to forgive him."

  Duncan glanced over his shoulder. "Do not set foot on my step again, do you hear me, Galloway? Do it, and I'll kill you."

  Then Duncan grasped Jillian's arm and led her down the narrow staircase, leaving Will to stand alone.

  Duncan entered the front hall of Breckenridge House, slamming the door behind him. The stable boy had informed the earl that his cousin had arrived only a few minutes before.

  "Algernon?" Duncan boomed, headed down the hall toward his cousin's apartments.

  "Is something amiss, my lord?" Atar called after them.

  Duncan glanced over his shoulder at his faithful servant. "Not a thing, Atar. You're dismissed. I'll not need you again until tomorrow."

  The black man hesitated in the dark hallway, then he was gone.

  Jillian hurried behind Duncan. "You've got to get control of your temper," she warned. "You have no proof it was Algernon. The archer died with the evidence. You kill Algernon, and you'll be the one hanging from the gallows by your neck."

  "His life is forfeit. The little bastard knows it. Why do you think he skulks about? I have the legal right to take his life." Duncan's muddy boots pounded on the freshly polished floor. " 'Twould be in self defense."

  "You don't have to kill him. We're going to the Colonies. He can't harm you there," she reasoned, grasping for straws. She didn't want Algernon's death on Duncan's conscience, a conscience she feared was already burdened by the past.

  Duncan halted in the hallway at the door that led to his cousin's two-room apartment. Jillian had never been inside.

  "Go to our bedchamber and wait for me there."

  She reached out to him. "Think before you act. Promise me. Have him arrested. Let the courts be the condemners."

  He brushed her hand aside. "Wait for me upstairs, damn it, woman!"

  Before Jillian could answer, he had burst through the door and slammed it behind him, shutting her out.

  "Algernon!"

  She heard Duncan's voice clearly through the paneled door. She didn't care that he had ordered her to return to their apartments. She couldn't tear herself from the spot. She wanted no blood shed in her house, certainly not family blood.

  "And where do you think you're going?" she heard Duncan say.

  Algernon's voice was lower, a meek whine. She couldn't make out his reply.

  Suddenly there was a loud crash and the sound of splintering wood. Jillian winced.

  "No you don't, you cowardly swine," came her husband's voice.

  Jillian pressed her ear to the door. She could hear Algernon whimpering. She couldn't make out what he was saying, only that he was protesting.

  They must have moved farther from the door, because now she could only hear snatches of the conversation.

  "New Forest . . ." Duncan intoned.

  She heard swearing and the mention of an arrow in his gut.

  Algernon was denying the entire incident.

  "And what of the scaffolding . . ." came Duncan's voice. " . . . unfortunate accident, too . . ."

  Jillian leaned against the door, her hands clasped in prayer. "Don't kill him," she whispered. "He's not worth it."

  Suddenly the room behind the door burst into a cacophony of shouting.

  "Took what was rightfully mine . . ." Algernon babbled. "Stole my inheritance . . ."

  "Kill you right now . . ." Duncan threatened. " . . . be done with your lousy pelt before supper . . ."

  There was another scuffle. Jillian heard what sounded like a table turning over. Glass shattered.

  She wondered if she should go in. Not yet, she decided. She had begged Duncan to control his temper; and actually, for him, she assessed, he was doing quite well so far. He'd not shot Algernon with his pistol yet, nor run him through with his sword.

  Duncan was right about what he said, of course. With even the slightest proof that Algernon had attempted to kill him, the courts would deem the Earl of Cleaves had possessed the right to kill his cousin in self-defense. But Jillian didn't want it to end that way. For Duncan's sake.

  There was more shouting, Duncan's voice booming over Algernon's weak whining.

  At some point Algernon must have attempted to escape Duncan's grip, because Jillian heard running footsteps and the sound of Duncan's heavy boots pounding on the wood floor. They moved even farther away, into Algernon's sleeping chamber she guessed, and now she could hear nothing but the rumble of Duncan's voice.

  "Please," Jillian prayed, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. "Don't let him kill him, God. Save Algernon's skin, and I swear I'll work harder for our marriage; I swear it, dear Lord. I'll rescue Duncan from his inner torment."

  One minute stretched into two, then three, then five, and still Jillian couldn't tell what was going on behind the door. Just when she'd made up her mind to go in, she heard hurried footsteps in the apartment.

  Jillian jumped out of the way of the door just as it swung open with a bang. Algernon ran out, dragging a leather traveling bag behind him. He was half dressed, wearing only one shoe. His neat periwig was cocked to one side, his nose bloodied.

  Algernon never saw Jillian as he raced down the hall, sobbing, dragging his belongings behind him. "Not right, not fair," he repeated over and over again.

  Jillian met Duncan in the doorway, and they turned to watch his cousin retreat.

  She looped her arm through Duncan's, hugging him around the waist. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for not killing him."

  Duncan, who held his purple veil in his hand, reached up to replace it and cover the bear claw tattoo. "I should have killed him, but I decided it wasn't worth the time the inquiry would take."

  Jillian could feel Duncan's entire body trembling with rage.

  "Where's he going?" she asked gently.

  "France. Switzerland. Denmark? I don't give a fat rat's ass, just as long as he never sets foot in Mother England again," he shouted down the hallway after him.

  She looked up at her husband, proud of his restraint. She did love him. "You're not going to have him prosecuted?"

  He dropped his hand to her shoulder, actually seeking her comfort. Algernon was gone. "No. I told him I wouldn't bother. My goldsmith will send his allowance to him. If my dear, loyal cousin sets foot here on English soil again, I'll have him killed—and not without pain. He's running scared now. He knows I'll do it. He won't be back."

  Jillian stared down the empty hallway, a strange sinking feeling in her chest. Duncan was so sure of him
self and of Algernon's fear of him that she knew she should trust her husband. Why would Algernon come back at the risk of his life for such false claims? He wouldn't.

  Why then, was she suddenly afraid this was not the last they would hear of Algernon Roderick?

  Fifteen

  "Are you certain?"

  Jillian set down the paperwork and looked up at Duncan, who sat across from her, reading a book. Her kitten curled into a tighter ball on her lap and purred harmoniously.

  It was a cold night in mid-December. Outside, the wind moaned, the shutters rattled, and branches of a tree scraped window glass somewhere in the house. After supper with Beatrice, Jillian and Duncan had retreated to the warmth and intimacy of their own chambers. Beatrice had gone to sit with the dowager, who was ill with a touch of the quartan ague.

  It had been quiet the last two weeks, too quiet to suit Jillian. Algernon was gone to France by now, and there had been no word from Will Galloway. He had made no attempt to seek out Duncan; and no matter what Jillian said, Duncan refused to reconsider his judgment of his friend.

  She looked at her husband, her amusement plain on her face. "Of course I'm certain." She laughed, pleased that he was pleased. "Why is it that men always ask that question? Every man since Adam has asked his wife if she were certain she was with child when she said she was."

  He was smiling, too. "Well, it's such a mystery to men, I suppose. The idea of one human being growing inside another. We can't fathom it." He had let his book fall shut on his lap. "And honestly, women sometimes lie about such matters."

  "Lie?" She laughed. "Why would I lie?"

  "I didn't say you would lie, Jillian. I said some women. Women lie to get husbands, sometimes to keep them."

  She grew serious. She studied Duncan's face, realizing she barely noticed the bear claw tattoo anymore. It was a part of him, a part of her now. "Was it necessary that I get pregnant with your heir in order to keep you?"

  He came out of his chair to kneel before hers. He pushed the cat out of her lap. Sarah mewed in protest as she skittered across the cold floor.

  "When I spoke my vows before God almighty, they were forever, Jillian." He took her hand in his, turning it, studying it. "With or without an heir, I'll be your husband unto death. I'll always provide for you and always keep you within the protection of my name."

  Jillian leaned forward to kiss him.

  "Of course, a son will be nice," he murmured playfully against her lips.

  She looked directly at him, lifting a feather brow. "And what about a daughter?"

  "A son to inherit, a daughter to spoil with my riches."

  Their laughter mingled.

  "Oh, Duncan, we're going to be all right, aren't we, you and I?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. "I feared this marriage wasn't going to work. I feared it would make us both unhappy. But it hasn't, and it won't, will it?"

  He made no response but to return her embrace. After a moment, he broke away. He got up and crossed the room to his linen press. "I have something for you. I've been saving it for just this occasion."

  Jillian remained in her seat, watching him dig through his clothing. He was handsome, this husband of hers, and frighteningly masculine. Just watching him made her tingle with desire for him. But it wasn't only his male body that attracted her. It was the sensitivity beneath his rough exterior that drew her, that made her love him.

  God knew the man was frustrating. He behaved irrationally at times, such as how he'd dealt with Will. He could be abrupt and harsh with servants. Yet there were other times when she was in awe of his caring, his understanding. His giving her the kitten had been a small gesture, yet it had touched her heart. He treated Beatrice, the woman who should have been his wife, with the utmost respect. They had grown familiar enough with each other that he even dared to tease her. He was making inquiries into finding her the husband her father couldn't find.

  Then there was the case of their French servant's daughters. In passing, Duncan had heard one of the maids speak of her daughters living in poverty in the slums of Paris. Not only had he fished enough coins from his breeches to pay for the girls' passage to England, but he had offered to find them both employment, if not in his household, then nearby.

  Duncan growled and grumbled, yet he was a good man. He brought Jillian gifts; he read to her; he played her favorite card games by the hour. When they made love, he seemed more concerned with her pleasure than his own. He made her laugh. He made her think as no man had ever required. How could Jillian not love him? Now if only he would love her back, Jillian's world would be perfect.

  Duncan returned, a small wooden box in his hand. "It was my Grandmother Daphne's, but she gave it to me to give to my wife." He offered her the box, acting awkward—as he often did when he gave her things. "The story is that it belonged to an Irish princess a long time ago. She had red hair and eyes of midnight. Supposedly, her husband gave it to her on the eve of some great battle, saying that as long as she wore it, he would be safe on the battlefield. The Irish woman's husband was gone three years, and for three years she wore it."

  Jillian sat perched on the edge of her chair, staring at Duncan, awed by the strange tale. "And did he? Did he come home to her safely?"

  "He did. And they lived to grow very old together."

  Jillian took the box from his hand and opened it. "Oh, Duncan," she breathed. Carefully, she lifted his gift from its black velvet-lined box. It was a necklace, shaped like a collar, made of hundreds of emeralds and diamonds. Hanging from the center was a rectangular-cut-emerald larger than her thumb nail. She looked up at him, hoping she wasn't going to tear up. Duncan hated tears, even of happiness. "It's beautiful."

  He put out his hands. "Want to try it on? I knew it would look beautiful with your hair."

  "In my night clothes?" She laughed at the prospect.

  He shrugged. "Why not?"

  So she rose from her chair, dressed in a silky blue sleeping gown, covered by a white flannel-and-lace night rail. On her feet she wore warm flannel mules. She spun around. This was one of the reasons that she could bear Duncan's tirades. He made her feel special in a way that no one had ever made her feel before.

  He held up the hair that fell loose down her back and kissed the nape of her neck. Then, gingerly, he placed the necklace on her, fastened it, and let her hair fall down over her back again.

  She spun around to face him. "So, what do you think?" Her fingers spanned the green jewels that sparkled in the firelight.

  "Beautiful," he murmured. "You're beautiful. I thought so the day I found you in your father's garden."

  She frowned. "The necklace, I mean. Does it suit me?"

  He took her hand, leading her in a circle around him. "It becomes you. I think the next time we're invited to Whitehall to sup with the king, you should wear it . . . with the sleeping gown of course."

  He sounded so serious that it was a moment before Jillian laughed. Then he swept her into his arms and her heart swelled. She was going to have Duncan's baby. He was going to take her to the American Colonies; they were going to have many healthy children. And he was going to love her. She was certain of it.

  He brought her close to him and nibbled at her earlobe. "Shall we go to bed, wife?"

  She rested her hands on his chest, looking up at him. "Actually, I thought I'd call for a bit of bread and honey. I'm terribly hungry."

  "After what you ate for supper?" he teased.

  She gave him a push. "Well, I'm not just eating for myself now, my lord. I have to think of your son."

  "Or daughter," he corrected.

  She nodded. "Or daughter."

  He waved. "Don't call for Atar or a servant." He took her hand. "I'll make you something to eat."

  She let him lead her to their bedchamber door. "You will? I've never seen you set foot in the kitchen since I came here. I wasn't aware you knew where it was."

  He grabbed a lit candle as they went through the door and into the da
rkness of the cold hallway. "No need for me to cook here. But in Maryland—"

  "Ah, yes. The land of milk and honey. The land of glory and riches," she teased. "The promised land . . ."

  He swatted her backside as they went down the steps. "In Maryland," he went on, "I cook my own meals often."

  "You've no servants besides your man?"

  "In the house?" He led her down the dark staircase, holding her hand tightly. "Only one. Most everyone else works in the tobacco fields. Labor is shorthanded there. That's why I'll be taking bondsmen back with me."

  "It's a woman?" she asked, wondering if some things were better left unsaid. Will had once inferred that Duncan had a leman back in the Colonies.

  "Yes. Her name is Morning Glory."

  "An Indian?"

  "Mm-hm."

  "And she cleans your house and cooks?"

  They turned at the bottom of the steps, headed for the kitchen wing. "Out with it, Jillian. Ask what you wish."

  "Does she only cook and clean or does she . . ." Jillian searched for a lady-like word, then exhaled. "Hells bells, Duncan! Do you sleep with her?"

  He tightened his hand around hers. "Yes."

  They walked down the hallway in silence for moment. She was trying not to feel jealous. Duncan was older than she was; he'd been alone a long time. Of course, he had sought the release of a woman. "Well," she said finally. "At least you're honest, which is more than I can say for most men. My cousin Elizabeth hadn't been married three months when her husband had two of her maids pregnant." When Duncan didn't say anything, she looked at him. "Children?"

  "No. I have no living children, illegitimate or otherwise."

  Jillian wanted to ask him what would become of Morning Glory when he arrived in the Colonies with a pregnant wife. But she didn't. She would bide her time; and once she arrived in Maryland, Morning Glory would simply have to seek employment elsewhere. That would take care of that!

  They entered the kitchen and Duncan lit the candles on the great candelabra that hung over the center of the room. The kitchen was warm from the fireplace with its banked coals. The entire room smelled of cinnamon and flour.