My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

Duncan swore foully under his breath. "Where is he?" His hand came to rest on the hilt of his dagger.

  "At your mother's."

  Duncan stared at the dowager in angry astonishment. "At Constance's? What's he doing there?"

  She clasped her hands. "He—he's been staying with her. Since we got word of your death."

  "I don't understand," Jillian said, sliding across the bed to sit up.

  "Why is he staying there? If he thinks I'm dead, this is his home."

  The dowager swayed slightly, and Duncan reached out to steady her. "Tell me."

  Jillian didn't know what was going on. Only that the dowager obviously knew something Duncan didn't.

  "Grandmother?"

  "A seat," she said softly. "Get me a seat, boy."

  He left her side for only a moment, bringing her a straight-backed chair. He helped her into it. "Tell me."

  The old woman hung her head. "I'm ashamed."

  "Grandmother, tell me!"

  The old woman sighed, looking up. "I swore I wouldn't. I swore to your father before God that I would never speak of her."

  Duncan knelt before his grandmother, taking her trembling hand in his. "You swore to my father you would never tell about whom? "

  She bit down on her ruby-pasted lower lip. "Your mother."

  Jillian slid further onto the edge of the bed so that her feet touched the floor. She was confused, too. "You swore to Constance?"

  The dowager shook her head no. "His real mother," she whispered. "I swore I wouldn't tell. I swore I would take the truth to my grave."

  Duncan let go of his grandmother's hand. "Just tell me. Constance isn't my real mother?"

  "No," Daphne answered, defeated. "Constance is not your mother. It's a strange tale. They say nothing's stranger than fact."

  "I'm waiting . . ."

  Jillian wanted to reach out to Duncan because, despite their troubles, she still loved him. But she sat where she was. "Just tell us what this is about, Daphne."

  The dowager took a deep breath. "Your father, Duncan, was a good man, but he . . . he enjoyed the company of the ladies. Your Uncle Hamlet was wed to a young woman who came to his marriage bed already with child." She paused. "Your father was the father of the child."

  "Who was the woman?" Duncan demanded. "Who was the child?"

  "The woman was Constance. The child, Algernon."

  "Algernon is my elder brother?"

  "Half-brother. It was a terrible family scandal."

  "Go on, Grandmother."

  "Your father married a short time later. His wife gave birth to a son."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, my dearest." The dowager patted his hand. "She gave birth to you whilst your father was attending his brother's deathbed. Hamlet fell from his horse, hunting, and broke his neck. He only lived a day."

  "The day I was born?"

  Daphne nodded, patting her lips with her scented handkerchief. She seemed so much older than she had only a few moments before. "The birth was a hard one. We sent word to your father." She stared off, as if lost in her memories. "She wouldn't stop bleeding. The poor child was Catholic. I thought what harm would it do, bringing a priest to the house?" Her eyes filling with tears, she looked up at Duncan. "Jane was dying, barely seventeen years old and dying in childbed . . ." She shook her head. "I didn't realize how angry your father would be. I didn't understand how deeply his hatred for her Catholic religion ran."

  "You're not making sense, Grandmother—"

  Daphne lifted her tear-filled gaze. "I called the priest to give Jane her last rites. Your father arrived. I went to greet him. When we returned to Jane's room, the priest was baptizing you!"

  Duncan chuckled, but without a glimmer of humor in his voice. "My mother had me baptized Catholic?"

  "She said it was the only way to save your soul. Those were her last words. Then she died." Daphne sighed, gaining control of her emotions. "Oh, how your father ranted and raved. He sent the priest away. He made me swear I would never tell."

  "About the baptism?"

  "Any of it. No one was ever permitted to speak Jane's name again in the household. That's how furious he was."

  "And then he married Constance?"

  Daphne nodded. "And she became your mother. Of course he couldn't claim Algernon as his eldest."

  "Because he was a bastard," Duncan murmured, walking to the window. "It all makes so much more sense now . . . my entire childhood." He spoke as much to himself as to Jillian and Daphne.

  "That's why Algernon always resented you."

  "Because I was the heir, though he was the oldest of our father's children. I had the money, the title . . ."

  "And his mother," the dowager offered.

  "That son of a bitch!" He strode toward the door.

  "Duncan!" Jillian rose out of the bed, walking stiffly toward him. "Where are you going?"

  "You know where I'm going. Get back in bed!"

  "Duncan!" she pleaded, following him. "Look at this from Algernon's point of view."

  "He knew we were brothers, and yet he still tried to kill me! That makes his offense even more dishonorable!"

  Jillian grabbed Duncan's arm. "So, now that you know the truth, you're going to kill him? You're going to murder your own brother?"

  "Get back in the bed." He pushed her gently aside and went out the door.

  "Duncan!" she called down the hall. "Duncan, please don't!" But he was already gone. She hurried across the room to look out the window at the ground below. A moment later, he burst through the front door onto the open porch.

  "Get me that horse, David." She heard his shout through the paned glass windows.

  A man appeared leading a horse already saddled.

  "Good to see you, sir," the man said, obviously flustered. "I—I thought you were dead, sir."

  Duncan slung himself into the saddle. "Do I look dead to you, David?"

  "N—no, sir."

  "Out of my way!" Then Duncan sank his heels into the horse's flanks and the mount leaped forward.

  Jillian spun around. Daphne was headed for the door. "Where are you going?"

  "To stop him," she answered. "If Algernon was responsible for the attempts on Duncan's life, then the courts need to tend to the matter. I know Duncan. If he kills Algernon in anger, knowing he's his half-brother, he'll never forgive himself."

  "I'm going, too." Jillian hobbled toward the door, lifting her petticoats high.

  "Stuff and nonsense! You shouldn't be about!"

  Jillian passed the dowager in the doorway. "If he were your husband, would you go?"

  The two women's gazes met.

  "I'll, get the dogcart," Daphne conceded finally. "It's only a few miles to Constance's."

  Walking stiffly with her splinted leg, Jillian followed the dowager down the servants' back staircase, through the kitchen, and out of Duncan's house. Before they were across the back lawn, a stable boy came bursting out of the barn. "Help him! He's gonna do it! He's gonna do it!" the frightened boy cried.

  Daphne reached for his flailing arms. "James, calm down and tell me what's wrong. Is it your master?"

  James shook his head. "Master Duncan rode off."

  "Then what is it?"

  The boy could only point in terror toward the barn.

  Daphne lifted her black skirts and dashed off, moving faster than Jillian imagined possible for a woman her age. Jillian ran after her, limping.

  Daphne threw open the barn door and halted in shock.

  Jillian came up directly behind her, staring into the dimmer light of the stable.

  What she saw made her blood run cold. It was a man . . . a man standing on a barrel, a noose thrown over the rafters and fastened securely around his neck.

  A man she knew . . .

  Twenty-nine

  "Atar," Jillian said softly for fear she would startle him. "Atar, why are you doing this?"

  Duncan's manservant stood stiffly on the barrel, dressed in his impeccable red coat, his hands on t
he noose at his neck. "My master . . ." he mumbled.

  "He's alive, Atar." She moved slowly toward him. "He didn't perish on the sea. The claims were false. It was Algernon, he was the one trying to kill your master.

  Atar trembled. "No . . ." He put up his hand. "Don't come closer!"

  Jillian halted. "It's true. It was Algernon. Duncan went to find him now. To kill him, I fear."

  "You don't understand." Atar's upper lip curled in a sneer. "I did it."

  Jillian blanched. "What?"

  The dowager moved up behind Jillian slowly. "What are you talking about, Atar?" she snapped. "Get off that barrel. I don't know what you want, but you'll not get it threatening suicide."

  His brow creased. "You don't understand; none of you understand. I did it. I tried to kill him. I failed."

  "You tried to kill Duncan?" Jillian whispered.

  "Yes."

  She believed him. It was the look on his face, the tone of his defeated voice. "Why? Why would you try to kill a man who was so good to you? He freed your father. He was going to free you, Atar."

  "And who is he to give me my freedom?" Atar mocked venomously. "Who is he to have all when I, when my people, have nothing?"

  He moved on the barrel, and Jillian's breath caught in her throat. "But he didn't die, Atar. You don't have to do this. If what you say is true, you only attempted to kill him. It's not the same thing."

  "Same thing to a slave. They'll hang me the same." His mind seemed to wander as he steadied his footing on the barrel. "It was her fault, you know."

  "It was whose fault?"

  "The white bitch. She promised to pay me handsomely. 'What good is freedom without coin?' she asked. She said she understood the oppressed. She said she wanted to help me." He adjusted the thick rope around his neck. "Of course, she didn't. She only wanted me to do what her cowardly son couldn't."

  "Atar, you don't have to do this. Duncan is a reasonable man. You were his faithful servant for years. He won't forget that."

  "Only one way out for a slave—"

  Jillian anticipated his move, but a second too late. She screamed and reached into the air as he leaped off the barrel.

  Atar's neck made a sickening crack as it broke.

  "No," Jillian whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.

  The dowager grabbed her by the shoulders. "It's all right, child," she whispered. "You couldn't stop him. He was crazy."

  The stable boy came running in through the door, leading the old black man, William. "No, no," the man moaned, going down on his knees in the clean straw. He clasped his hands in prayer, swaying. "Not my son. Not my boy."

  Jillian rubbed her abdomen where she felt a sudden tightening. She made herself open her eyes, knowing she had to get hold of herself. Someone had to take control; someone had to be in charge.

  Atar hung from the rope, swaying.

  "Cut him down," Jillian ordered, turning away. "You!" She pointed to a young man who appeared in the barn. "Get someone to help you." She turned to the half-grown stable boy. "I want the dogcart hitched," she ordered.

  The boy stared at her with frightened dark eyes.

  "Now, I said." She took a deep breath, fighting what she assumed must be another contraction. But it was too soon for the baby. It would pass.

  Jillian turned to Daphne. "We have to stop Duncan before he kills Algernon. Atar's story rang true."

  The dowager nodded gravely. "It did, indeed."

  A few minutes later, the stable boy led the dogcart, hitched to a dappled mare, to the barn's entrance. Jillian climbed in with his assistance.

  "Are you all right, child?" Daphne questioned, sitting beside her.

  She took another deep breath, not wanting the dowager to be suspicious. "Fine."

  "I can do this alone. They're my grandsons, my responsibility. You should be in bed."

  Jillian pushed the reins into the dowager's hands and handed her the buggy whip. "Let's go. We have to get there before Duncan kills him. He won't listen to Algernon, and it would never occur to him that Constance and Atar were responsible for the plot to kill him."

  The dowager loosened the reins, and the dogcart rolled off, headed south.

  "Not there, here, twit." Constance reached out and slapped the serving girl across the cheek.

  The servant jumped, still clutching the cut-crystal brandy decanter.

  "Here," Constance insisted "How many times must I tell you simpletons where I want my refreshment?"

  Fighting tears, the girl pushed the glass across the small table and set the decanter beside it. "Anything else, mistress?" she whispered, remaining an arm's length from Constance.

  "No, you're dismissed. Get out!"

  Algernon stepped aside to let the girl pass. He had come to see his mother because he'd been told she'd taken ill. He smoothed his thin mustache with his thumb and forefinger nervously. "Is . . . is there something I can do for you, madame? You seem vexed."

  She leaned back in her chair and propped one heel on her footstool. "And why shouldn't I be?" She took a sip of brandy. "Peter came to me last night. He hasn't in weeks." Her lower lip trembled.

  His mother didn't look herself to Algernon today. She was dressed in a floral silk banyan, her yellow hair covered by a matching turban. Her rouged cheeks were smudged, the kohl eye pencil smeared black beneath her lower eyelids. In the strong sunlight that poured through the windows, she looked older, less vibrant.

  "I see," Algernon commented, not knowing what else to say.

  "He came to my bed, wanting me . . ." She took another drink from the glass, then sneered, "He came to my bed smelling of another woman's perfume! Bastard!" She reached for the decanter, and glass clinked against glass as she removed the stopper. "It takes a lot for a woman my age to hold a man like my Peter, you know."

  "Of course," Algernon answered, drifting toward the door.

  "He gambles. It takes a great deal of money to keep him happy. To keep him here. That's why I need some of your inheritance, son, just a few hundred pounds a year. Just to keep him happy. To keep him from straying too far."

  Algernon reached behind him to touch the doorknob. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't care about money. All he cared about was Mother. "I'll just leave you to yourself now, madame. Perhaps we can sup together tonight if you're feeling better." He tried to turn the knob, but it was yanked from his hand. The door swung open, and Algernon turned in surprise. "Duncan?" he croaked.

  Duncan charged into Constance's bedchamber. He had hoped the ride would clear his head, alleviate some of his anger. He didn't want to kill in anger; he wanted to kill in revenge, in defense of his family. One glimpse of Algernon's face, however, and the rage returned.

  "Surprised to see me?" Duncan feigned a smile. Algernon paled to the hue of milk glass. "And, dear mother—" He swung around "—what of you?"

  Constance fluttered a painted fan, her face as ashen as her son's. "You . . . you're alive. The report," she gasped. "They said you were dead." Then she threw out her arms with all the drama Duncan knew she was capable of. "My beloved son, come home to me!"

  Algernon had begun to inch toward the door. Duncan intercepted him, putting out his arm. "Not so fast, cousin. You and I have a matter or two to discuss . . . brother."

  Algernon gasped.

  "What do you know of the attack on my ship?"

  Algernon's eyes widened. "N—nothing. O—only what was said in the message. What . . . what madame told me."

  "You had no prior knowledge of the attack in the Caribbean? Will died in that attack. The pirates killed him, thinking he was me."

  "How horrid," Algernon breathed, seeming genuinely upset. "I—I liked Will."

  "I don't want to hear about that!" Duncan snapped in disgust. "Just tell me how you did it so smoothly. I left a week early on a different ship than intended. Did you have someone watching for me in the Canary Islands? Was word sent on to the pirates when we put in those two days for water?"

  Algernon was trembling from
head to ribboned foot now. "I—I didn't do it; I swear I didn't!"

  Duncan lunged forward, grabbing Algernon by the throat. "You little, cowering bastard. Just admit it! At least die with honor!

  "Tell him!" Algernon screamed to Constance. "Tell him what happened, Mother. Please . . ."

  Duncan's gaze met Constance's. She had the same blue eyes that Algernon possessed, something he had never noticed until this moment. "Tell me what?" Was Constance in on this as well? Nothing would surprise him at this point. He had been naive, entirely too naive. He tightened his grip on Algernon's throat, and Algernon began to gasp.

  "Tell him," Algernon begged.

  "Tell him what?" Constance arranged the folds of her silk banyan, as cool as Duncan had ever seen her. As cool as she had been that day in the field when she had turned around and ridden away, leaving him to the Mohawks. Of course she had left him behind. He wasn't her child.

  Constance sighed. "I wanted to protect you, Algernon. You know I wanted to save you if I could." She looked at him sadly. "Because of the past, of course. But the game is up." She lifted her manicured hands in a helpless motion. "I can do no more."

  "Mama, please . . ." Algernon pleaded.

  "He did it, of course." Constance looked at Duncan. "I was wrong not to have tried to stop him, but what is a woman to do? I was here; he was so far across the ocean."

  "Mother . . ."

  "He wanted what he could never have." She went on faster with her confession. "He wanted your title, Duncan; he wanted your money, your respect."

  Algernon was crying openly now.

  Constance glanced away. "I suppose you shall have to kill him. How else will you be safe, Duncan?"

  "No!" Algernon moaned, tears running freely down his cheeks. He struggled against Duncan's grip, clawing at the hands at his neck, begging for mercy. "She's a liar. It was her idea!" he bawled. "She wanted me to do it. I didn't want to kill you. I just wanted to make her love me."

  Duncan stared into Algernon's frightened eyes. Something about the tone of his pitiful voice made him believe him. He wouldn't put it past Constance to play a part in his attempted murder. She had left him for dead once before, hadn't she? "So you did it for her?" he questioned.

  "Yes," Algernon sobbed. "No . . . I . . . I didn't do it. I knew about it, but I didn't do it."