My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "So, what's your pleasure, wife?" He set her down on a stool at the worktable and went to the food cupboard, peeking inside. "Boar's tripe and herring?"

  She pretended to gag.

  He looked into the cupboard again, feigning seriousness. "Blood sausage with thyme gravy?"

  She stuck her finger in her mouth, grimacing. "Bread and honey. Just bread and honey."

  "I know, I know. I have it!" He pulled out half a pie. "A slice of eel pie with mint jelly?"

  She threw herself onto the table that was sprinkled with a fine layer of flour and pretended to be in the throes of death.

  A minute later, Duncan appeared at her side with a loaf of the day's bread and a jar of honey. He put a pot of water on to boil, and the two shared bread and honey and tea and laughed and talked for another hour.

  Finally, Duncan extinguished the candles and, together, hand and hand, they retired to their bedchamber to make love.

  Daphne studied the ivory chessboard. "You'll break her heart, you big fool."

  Duncan crossed his arms over his chest, defensively. He had dreaded having this conversation with his grandmother, and rightfully so. Still, he felt he owed her an explanation. "It's best for her and the child."

  "Stuff and nonsense!" Daphne picked up her rook, then replaced it in contemplation. She glared across the game table at him. "Better for them or you, grandson?"

  "The Colonies are not a place for delicate women."

  "Jillian? Delicate? The same delicate woman who crawled beneath a collapsed scaffold to save your sorry arse?" She gave a snort of derision. "Besides that, a woman's place is with her husband. She can keep him out of trouble that way."

  Duncan shook his head. "You don't understand, Grandmother. The supplies are short. The winters are harsh. She would have little female companionship."

  "So take Bea. Marry her off there. Or I could go. I've been contemplating it. I think I'd like to see this blessed Maryland of yours." She picked up the rook again, this time setting it down precisely in a new position.

  "With all due respect, madame, the thought is absurd. You don't understand the hardships. I'd ask that you would trust me in my saying my wife would be better left here in London caring for you."

  "Horse shit." Daphne slapped the gaming table. "You're a coward, Duncan Roderick. I hate to say it, but it's the truth of the matter!" She pointed a ringed finger. "You're running."

  He laughed without humor, glancing away. "I never intended to take my English wife back to the Colonies. It was never my intention."

  "You thought you were going to marry some bit of fluff, get her with child, and forget her. You thought you were marrying Beatrice. I understand. Many an Englishman has done the same. They've been doing it since time began. Some run off on their adventures across the oceans. Others just ship their wives to the country, only visiting them for an annual breeding."

  "Grandmother—"

  "Don't you grandmother me! Hear me out. You may well have intended to leave your wife. It would have been wrong then, but acceptable. But I'm telling you, boy, you leave this wife, you leave this redhead, and you will never ever put your life back together. You will never forgive that bitch of a mother of yours, and you will never heal."

  Duncan rose out of his seat angrily. "You'll not change my mind."

  "Then you're a bigger fool than I thought." She frowned, shaking her head of red ringlets. "I don't know why you're so afraid. Jillian loves you."

  He exhaled. "She doesn't love me. She's infatuated, perhaps. But she doesn't know me. She doesn't know the things I've done."

  "Martyrdom can be a lonely life, child." Shaking her head, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her rouged lips. "She loves you as no woman will ever love you. And if you weren't walking around with your head tucked under your wing, you'd realize you love her, too."

  He started for the door. "This is a pointless conversation. I came to inform you of my departure out of respect for you, madame. I am the head of this family, and you all will do as I see fit."

  "Fool! Fool!" the dowager called after him, fluttering the handkerchief. "You think you have regrets now? Just wait. Your only chance at forgiving yourself, forgiving Constance, is with Jillian and the life you could have with her."

  "Good day, Grandmother. It will still be a fortnight before I sail." He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. "I'd like to tell my wife myself, so I'd ask that you not discuss the matter with her or her sister until I have."

  Then Duncan went out the door and closed it softly behind him. But rather than immediately starting down the hallway, he leaned against the wall. His hands were shaking, though why, he couldn't fathom. The dowager meant well, he knew, but her words echoed in his ears like a Tyburn Hill death sentence.

  Of course he didn't love the chit. He was fond of Jillian. She was amusing; she was entertaining. But he didn't love her, damn it. He would never love her, or any woman again.

  Images of the day he was captured flashed through his head. He smelled his sister's warm blood on his hands. He heard a small boy call for his mother. He saw the Iroquois brave running straight for him.

  Duncan squeezed his eyes shut violently, balling his fists at his sides, forcing the memories back into the recesses of his mind.

  Love Jillian? Certainly not. He'd made that mistake once.

  He'd neither love nor trust another female again.

  Jillian rested on her side beneath the warm coverlet, reading a book, waiting for Duncan to come to bed. He seemed preoccupied tonight, not himself. The emotional bond she had sensed for the last week felt strained. He was distantly polite, inquiring about her health, concerned for her wellbeing, but cool and detached.

  Jillian reread the same paragraph from Chaucer's Book Of The Duchess for the third time and finally gave up. She marked the book with a blue ribbon and set it on the side table beside the bed. She needed to be able to concentrate to read Chaucer. "Duncan."

  "Yes?" He didn't look up from the charts spread across his small desk.

  "Could I ask you a question . . . a personal question?"

  She heard him exhale. "I suppose."

  "Will—"

  "I said I wasn't interested in discussing Galloway."

  "No. It's something he said. He referred to a her. He said he wouldn't betray you. He said he wasn't her."

  Duncan looked up at the wall ahead of him, apparently lost in thought.

  "Whom was he speaking of, Duncan?"

  After another moment of silence, he replied. "My mother."

  "She died in the Indian attack with the rest of your family, right?" she probed gently.

  Duncan blew out his candle and came out of the chair, wood scraping wood. "No."

  Jillian blinked. She could have sworn Duncan said they were dead, they were all dead. "She's alive?"

  He began to disrobe. Still, he made no eye contact with her. "Aye. She lives in Maryland with her husband and other children."

  "You have half-brothers and sisters? You never told me."

  "I'd rather not speak of this, Jillian."

  Jillian couldn't resist. "Duncan, what did Will mean when he said he wasn't your mother? What did she do?"

  He blew out the candles on the mantel and came to the bed, leaving a trail of clothing behind him. "Put out the candle. I said I don't want to talk about this."

  Jillian opened her mouth to speak again, then closed it. Again, she sensed when she had penetrated far enough into his past. Bit by bit, shred by shred, she was piecing Duncan's life together. She sat up, blew out the last candle, and then snuggled beneath the warm blankets beside her husband.

  She lifted his arm and ducked beneath it, drawing close against his chest. She refused tonight to let him withdraw as he often did when his past was discussed. She kissed his shoulder blade. "I missed you today," she whispered in the darkness. "I thought you'd never come home from the shipyards."

  He said nothing.

  Jillian sighed, stroking his bare ches
t, thinking of the multi-colored tattoos beneath her fingertips. She had finally come to the conclusion that it was not the tattoos that he hated as much as what they represented. What that was, she didn't know, but she could feel she was drawing closer to the truth.

  "Duncan?"

  "Please, Jilly. No more talk tonight." He smoothed her hair.

  Jillian could feel him reaching out for intimacy, not just sex, but real intimacy. He needed her. Even if he didn't know it, she knew it.

  So there was hope.

  She lifted up on her elbow to look at him in the darkness. Slowly, she lowered her mouth to his. He didn't respond immediately; but when he did, it was with fierce abandon.

  Duncan threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer, thrusting his tongue between her lips. Jillian sensed he was angry, but not with her. He ran his hand over her bare back, her buttocks.

  When they parted to breathe, she dropped her head to his chest, pressing hot, fervored kisses to the muscular plane.

  "Jilly . . . Jilly . . ." She heard him murmur.

  She slid her leg over his and boldly climbed on top. So many times Duncan had comforted her with his body, why couldn't she do the same for him with her own?

  She kissed his mouth; she kissed the tattoo on his cheek. She nibbled his earlobe. She pressed warm kisses to the pulse of his throat, all the while moving her body against his.

  Kissing him solidly on the mouth, she straddled his hips, already feeling him growing hard beneath her. The feel of his hot flesh against hers ignited the familiar flame of desire in her. She leaned forward and he raised his head, his mouth meeting her nipple.

  Jillian moaned softly. She liked this being astride.

  He sucked one nipple into a stiff nub, then the other. Despite the chill in the air, Jillian flung back the blanket, feeling nothing but the heat of their passion.

  She was stroking him now, her thighs against his. She could feel him throbbing, hard and hot against the softness of her woman's place. And she could feel her own body growing hot and slick with want of him.

  He kneaded her buttocks with his callused hands. She lowered her mouth to his male nipple and suckled as he had suckled her.

  She heard him moan and call her name.

  She kissed him again and again, moving her body against his. "I won't leave you," she whispered. "I would never betray you, do you hear me, husband?"

  The she lifted up, and guiding his shaft with her hand, she took him inside her.

  As Duncan moaned with satisfaction and Jillian struggled to catch her breath, her veins pulsed with desire, desire that demanded release.

  Duncan rested his hands on her hips, and she began to move to a rhythm that was only theirs. She could hear their labored breathing, mixing as one, as they drove closer to that pinion of pleasure they both knew was somewhere in the distance.

  Jillian flattened her body against his, molding her soft contours to the male hardness of his frame. She stroked him, stroking herself, calling his name. Faster they moved, closer to sweet ecstasy.

  Jillian suddenly attempted to slow the rhythm. She was losing her concentration on pleasing Duncan. Her own throbbing need was overpowering.

  Duncan caught her hips, refusing to let her slow down. Another stroke and Jillian's world burst into a thousand shards of glorious light. A heartbeat behind her, she heard Duncan groan and felt him thrust one last time in release.

  Jillian's muscles contracted and relaxed again and again in ultimate pleasure. A moment later, she found herself on the bed beside Duncan, cradled in his arms. He was brushing the damp hair off her forehead, holding her close, kissing her face.

  "I love you," she whispered, her eyes still closed.

  He pressed his finger to her lips, still breathing heavily. "Don't say it," he answered softly, his voice choked with emotion. "Please don't say it, Jilly."

  She opened her eyes, looking up at him, sensing his withdrawal even as she spoke. "But I do, Duncan. I love you."

  He sat back on his pillow to stare up at the ceiling, no longer touching her.

  She rolled over, refusing to let him separate them so quickly. "I know you don't love me, not yet. But that's all right. Right now I have enough love for the both of us. But someday . . . someday—"

  "Jillian, you're not going." His voice was cool and distant.

  "What did you say?" She stared at him in the darkness, knowing she must have misunderstood.

  "I said, you're not going to Maryland with me. You never were."

  Jillian grabbed a bolster from beneath her and hit him as hard as she could across the face. "You son of a bitch!"

  Sixteen

  Giving him a shove, Jillian leaped out of bed. "You lied to me."

  He threw the bolster and it soared through the air, hitting the floor and sliding under his desk. "I didn't lie." He sat up. "I never said you were going! Never."

  She padded, naked, to the fireplace and thrust a candle into the flame. She wanted to see his face. The bastard! He was going to leave her. The wick of the candle flared, and feeble yellow light shadowed the room. "Every time I mentioned our going to the Colonies, you never said any differently. You let me believe I was going! You even said Bea could go with us!"

  "I didn't want to argue with you." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I wanted you to be happy with the time we had together."

  "What?" She dropped a hand to her still-slender waist. "You didn't think I would notice when you went off and abandoned me?"

  "I am not abandoning you! Don't say that." He gritted his teeth. "My tobacco plantation is in the Colonies. That's where I belong. You belong here with the fine house, money, and servants that I'm providing for you. Why the hell did you think I let you spend that bloody fortune to repair the house? So you would be comfortable. So you would be happy."

  She refused to be diverted. "You never told my father you intended to leave me here in England. He'd not have permitted the union if he'd known you would be leaving me."

  Duncan sat up and swung his bare feet over the side of the bed. "Your father had no choice. He could never have repaid his debt to my family."

  She stared at the floor. "Son of a bitch," she whispered. Then she looked up at him. "I won't stay here. I don't care about the hardships, or the Indians. I don't care if I have to live in a dirt-floor cottage, milk my own cow, and make my own butter. I want to go with you," she shouted fiercely. "I want this child to be born on the land you love."

  "It's out of the question, Jillian." He walked around the bed and picked up her night rail. "It's cold. Put this on."

  "Don't touch me." She snatched the flannel robe from his hand and slipped into it, covering her nakedness. "Why won't you even discuss the matter with me?" She knotted the tie on the robe securely. "Why do I have no say?"

  He removed a man's silk banyan from his clothes press and tugged it on. "You have no say because you are my legal wife. A man's wife must follow her husband's bidding; it's her duty."

  "And what, pray tell, is the husband's duty?" she fumed.

  "To protect and care for his wife and their children."

  "Saints in hell, Duncan! And you think you're going to be able to do that from thousands of miles away?"

  "I'm protecting you by leaving you here in London with my grandmother. You couldn't possibly cross the ocean in your condition."

  "So, we'll go after the baby is born."

  "No. You're not going." He shook his head. "You were never going."

  She thrust the candle into the candlestand and threw up her arms. "This is absurd. It's an absurd conversation."

  "Jillian, there's no need for a conversation. The decision was made before I arrived in London. Don't you hear what I'm saying? I never intended for my wife to accompany me to Maryland."

  Jillian was afraid she might cry, but she was too angry for tears. "I cannot believe you'd do this to me." She shook her head. "I thought you cared for me. I thought maybe . . ." She wiped at her eyes. "I thought that maybe i
n time you would come to love me."

  He stood at the door, his face a mask. He shook his finger. "I never promised that, Jillian. Never."

  She turned her back to him, a sob rising in her throat. "I was never anything more to you than a brood mare."

  "That's not true. I care for you. That's why I'm leaving you here where you'll be safe. I'll be back in two or three years. You'll have the child to keep you company."

  She whipped around. "And what of the child? You don't want to be here to see him or her grow up?"

  "I'd make a poor father. I think we both know that." He put his hand on the doorknob. "I'd make as poor a father as I have a husband."

  He was running from her and her love again. But this time he would cross the ocean to escape.

  He turned the doorknob and the paneled door swung open.

  "Duncan," she whispered, she was at a loss. She didn't know what to say or what to do. She didn't know how to stop him. She only knew she must.

  Jillian started after him. "You're abandoning me."

  He stiffened visibly. "I said, don't say that!"

  "You are. You're leaving me. You've got some fear of people abandoning you, so you just drive us all off. Your grandmother, Will, me . . . you're abandoning us before we have the chance to abandon you."

  "Don't say that!" he shouted, his voice reverberating off the plastered walls. "You don't know what you're talking about! You don't know what she did."

  Jillian took another step toward him. He was losing control. She knew she should back off, but damn him to hell and back, she was tired of always tiptoeing around this mysterious past of his. "You're right, I don't know what happened. So, tell me! It was your mother, wasn't it?"

  He was shaking his head back and forth. He no longer seemed to be entirely with Jillian. His thoughts were at another place, in another time.

  "When the Mohawk came," he said in a voice that sent a chill down her spine, "my sister and I were playing a hide-and-find-me game." He looked at Jillian, but she knew he didn't see her. "She must have gone outside. She cheated."

  Jillian wanted to reach out to Duncan to comfort him. Her heart ached for the boy he had been, yet she feared she would break the spell if she touched him. She stood her ground. She had to know the truth. She had to know so that she could help him.