Heartless Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  “Your true name, madam,” he pressed, taking advantage of the moment.

  Perhaps she would slip.

  “Jane,” she said on a hum of delight as he stroked the base of her skull, finding taut muscles there in her neck and kneading them. “Palliser.”

  Irritation surged. He had shown her more kindness than he had even supposed he possessed. He had carried her to her bath, washed her, and yet she still maintained the wall of misinformation she had erected. He removed his hands, allowing her to slip beneath the bath water.

  She emerged a second later, sputtering and coughing.

  Outraged.

  She spun about in the large tub, facing him, her black hair sleek and flattened down her back. Her eyes were wide, incredulous. Burning with fury. “You villain! Do you mean to drown me?”

  “I mean to make you honest,” he drawled, not feeling a moment of guilt for sending her beneath the water. He had bent for her. Made exceptions for her. By God, he had not sent her directly to prison as he should have done—and true, that was for his benefit more than hers, but she did not know that—and yet she clung to her lies. She gave him not a crumb of truth.

  It made violence burn within him. The need to punch something. To slam his fist into something. Anything.

  She watched him with wide, defiant eyes. “I will never give you what you want, so you may as well resign yourself to it, Your Grace.”

  More anger seared him, and he welcomed it, for it was far better than desire. “Your bath is over, prisoner,” he announced, then stood and hauled her unceremoniously from the water.

  Carrying her like a babe, he deposited her on the nearest surface, which happened to be his bed. Also a grave error, for the sight of his prisoner, wrists bound before her—naked, wet, and utterly at his mercy—did strange things to his body. Uncontrollable things. Possession roared through him. Need. Desire. Want.

  Closing his eyes against the vision of her nude on his bed, he toweled her dry before realizing there was no means by which he could wrangle her fresh, new chemise—a replacement for her stinking sickbed smock—over her body without first unbinding her wrists.

  And this, he refused to do on principle. Instead, Leo brought her his dressing gown, fashioned of luxurious silk, and hung it over her shoulders, belting it over her bound hands. “Back to your chamber.”

  “What will you do with me?” she asked, her eyes burning into his.

  “I do not know,” he answered honestly. “That depends upon you, Miss Palliser.”

  Chapter Eight

  Several more days would pass before Bridget saw the Duke of Carlisle again. Six, to be precise. Not that she had been counting.

  Very well.

  She had been counting.

  Trapped inside the chamber he had given her.

  Six days at the mercy of Annie, who, as far as Bridget could see, possessed no mercy at all. Which meant Bridget had been forced to beg for future baths. She had not been treated to the delicious, full tub soak she had experienced in the duke’s chamber. Instead, she was given a pitcher and bowl, a cake of soap, a cloth. The water had been cold. Old experience had guided her as she performed her ministrations all the same.

  Her hands continued to be bound, but Annie’s knots were not nearly as solid as the Duke of Carlisle’s, which meant Bridget could sometimes escape her bonds and enjoy her freedom in the locked chamber she had been given before she heard footsteps on the stairway and hastened back into her bindings.

  She had not been told where the duke had gone or why. One moment, he had been carrying her back to her chamber, wrapped in his dressing gown, and the next, the door had closed upon his back.

  And so it was that the sixth morning of his absence saw her freed of her wrist bindings once more, thanks to Annie’s ineptitude at knot tying, standing before a westward facing window, watching the birds fly about in the verdant summer grasses and leaves beyond. Wondering what would become of her.

  Did Carlisle intend to keep her here, waiting, until she could not stand a moment more and confessed everything she knew to him? Or did he intend to instill a deep and abiding fear in her—the fear of the unknown, of him, of what he would do to her, prolonged by his absence?

  She could not be certain.

  All she did know this day, without doubt, was that by the time she heard the first creak in the hallway, it was too late to dive back into her bed and her bindings. And at that point, she was not even certain she cared. Her time in Purgatory needed to come to an end, one way or another.

  And so she remained where she was, tensed but committed to her decision, as the door opened.

  “You are free of your bonds, madam.”

  The voice, deep and low and velvety, a delicious rumble to her senses no matter how much she disliked the man, sent heat into her belly. Here he was at last, ready to face her. She turned to find him hovering on the threshold, tall, dark, and dangerous.

  A menacing figure, formed of well-hewn muscle and jaded flesh.

  The door snapped closed at his back.

  “Yes,” she agreed, returning his hard stare with one of her own. “I am free of my bonds. I am also healed of my wounds, and I grow weary of remaining in this place, Your Grace. Take me to wherever it is you intend. Deliver me to prison. See me hanged. I care not.”

  He moved then, striding inside the chamber, dwarfing it with his large, powerful presence. His hands were clasped behind his back. This morning, like the other day she had seen him here, he was stripped of his finery, wearing only solid black trousers and a white shirt. Not even a necktie or a waistcoat to provide him the trappings of his ducal authority.

  “I have told you before, madam, and I shall tell you again: give me the information I need, and in turn, I will do my best to aid you.”

  How very tempting an offer that was, but doing so would mean betraying everyone close to her. Betraying Cullen. Leaving him to be sent to the gallows as he would certainly be sentenced. Dear God, but the mere thought of it—the noose tightening upon his young throat—made her ill. Made her cough into her hand, regaining what remained of her composure.

  “I cannot.”

  “Who do you protect?” he demanded, as if he could read her thoughts, see straight through to the heart of her.

  She wanted to look away from him, but she could not. His gaze trapped hers. “I protect myself,” she lied.

  For that wasn’t true, was it?

  Indeed, she was not the one who had started down this treacherous path, though she felt strongly and firmly in favor of Irish Home Rule. Her homeland’s people, who knew it best, deserved to be responsible for creating and upholding its laws. Certainly not an English parliament that outnumbered the Irish and ensured they would remain at the mercy of England indefinitely. But it had been Cullen who had first involved the both of them with the Fenians.

  Bridget had never imagined they would commit murder.

  But they had.

  Nor had she ever imagined Cullen would be in prison.

  But he was.

  And in the interim, the Duke of Carlisle was approaching her, his expression fierce. “Who is Cullen O’Malley to you?”

  Just hearing the name on Carlisle’s lips was akin to a blow to the gut. It meant he was close to unraveling the tangled webs of deceit she had been spinning for the last year. It meant he was as intelligent and formidable an opponent as she had been warned, for she had revealed nothing that would provide him a connection between herself and Cullen.

  “I am sorry,” she lied with a bravado she did not feel. At least this time, she was not clothed in only a thin chemise. Today, she wore a simple day gown offered her by Annie since her wound had healed well enough to enable her to dress herself. “I have never heard of such a name.”

  He stopped when he reached her, towering over her. His lip curled, and she knew an ill-timed memory of his kisses. His mouth moving over hers. His tongue sliding inside to taste her. To tempt her. His scent was intoxicating: the outdoors and his
musky soap. She had never smelled anything better.

  You must arm yourself, Bridget.

  You must be strong.

  You cannot afford to weaken for this man.

  “More lies.” His cold voice hit her like a lash.

  She stared back at him, defiant, silent, vowing she would give him nothing.

  “Is he your lover?” he asked silkily. “Your husband?”

  Bridget ran her tongue deliberately over her lower lip, provoking him. “Are you jealous, Duke?”

  His nostrils flared, the only sign he was affected. “As I said before, if I had wanted you, I would have already had you, darling.”

  Though he used the endearment in cutting fashion, Bridget could not stay the reaction it produced in her, a blossoming warmth. A frisson of that same, confounding desire he alone lit within her.

  “It would have been force,” she taunted, fighting against it, “for I would never willingly lie with you.”

  His eyes darkened, becoming almost obsidian. “Another lie. I wonder, madam, have you any truth in you?”

  She stepped closer to him, drawn to his heat. His menace. The urge to shake him was strong. To prove he was not indomitable. “Here is a truth for you, Duke. You want me, and you cannot have me.”

  His jaw tensed. “I’ll not fall for your wiles, banshee.”

  Banshee.

  Yes, for him, she would wear that name. Bridget laid a hand on his chest, absorbing his warmth through her palm. His muscles flexed beneath her touch, reminding her of how strong he was, how capable of doing her harm. Oddly, she felt safe with him. He had shot her, but out of necessity, she knew. If he had wanted to do her harm, he’d had ample time and opportunity by now.

  She stared at his mouth, remembering the possession of his kiss. Wanting more in spite of herself. “But you already have, Your Grace.”

  Those beautiful lips lifted into a smirk. “I have done nothing of the sort.”

  “Prove it,” she dared.

  Before she could blink or even take the next breath, his mouth was on hers, his hands cupping her face, his lips demanding her complete and utter surrender. She had no defense against his onslaught. Her arms went around his neck, undeterred by the dull pain in her wound, clutching him closer to her when she should have used the opportunity to take action. Strike him. Shove him away. Show him his touch and his kiss were both unbearable to her.

  But she was his captive in more ways than one, and instead of taking a stand against him, she gave him everything he demanded of her and more. This—their physical connection, the undeniable attraction between them—was the only yielding she would grant.

  It had been weeks since his mouth had last owned hers, and he did it again now with hungry skill, opening, forcing her response. She could not remain unmoving. Could not be invulnerable as she wanted to be. Because everything else fell away when his lips moved over hers, when his tongue slipped inside her mouth.

  He tasted of the bitterness of coffee and his own indefinable, irresistible flavor. Any ability to think, to question the wisdom of her taunt, was vanquished by his kiss. She made a frantic sound born of greed and desperate need.

  She wanted more of him. All of him. Nothing mattered. There was no future, no past. No boundaries, no opposing sides, no danger, no destruction, no fear or loss. There was only seduction and sin and this glorious man, and all her stuttering mind could think was that she never wanted it to end. Even if he was the Duke of Carlisle and her sworn enemy.

  She must not forget who and what he was.

  Be stern, she admonished herself. Be strong, Bridget. You can find one hundred other men to kiss if you choose.

  Ah, but that was the problem. Her stubborn, ridiculous, wrong heart only wanted to kiss this one. The cold, hard, heartless duke. Her jailer. The author of her downfall. The man who would send her to prison.

  Somehow, not even that last, jarring reminder stopped her. She was kissing him back, tongue inside his mouth now, fingers in his hair. The Duke of Carlisle’s hair was smooth and thick. Some wildness within her prompted her to grab fistfuls and give it a gentle tug.

  A growl emerged from him, and he kissed her harder, guiding her backward until she met the wall. He pinned her there, his mouth traveling down her throat. He found her wildly thrumming pulse with his tongue. And then, his fingers were upon the fastenings lining the bodice of her gown, plucking each button from its placket. Beneath it, she wore no corset, nothing but a fresh chemise. Her breasts spilled into his palms and he cupped them as her nipples stiffened into rigid peaks.

  She could not stifle the moan that escaped her. His touch robbed her of the ability to think. Resistance was no longer an option if indeed it ever had been. Instead, she arched into him, her mound connecting with his thigh, separated by only three layers of fabric. The friction felt good. It felt freeing. But something within her also felt taut. Exquisitely tuned. She was an instrument ready to be played.

  And without her needing to speak the words aloud, he somehow knew. He dragged her chemise down, exposing both her breasts to the air and his scorching admiration. His dark head bowed, and he sucked her nipple into his mouth. She had never before been touched so intimately. Indeed, it had never occurred to her that a man would do such a thing. In her world, a woman’s breasts existed to suckle babes, and certainly not for pleasure but this…sweet Lord and all the angels above…this was…oh.

  There did not exist a word for it in the English language. At least not one Bridget knew. Faoi dhraíocht. Spellbound. Her body was a spring, tightly coiled. She was hot and pulsing. Aching and needy and ready. Each ravenous drag of his mouth upon her nipple sent an answering undulation of something wicked and wonderful to her core.

  She made the grave error of glancing down at him, of watching his handsome face nestled against her breast, his teeth gently nipping and tugging, his tongue swirling over the hungry pink flesh. It was the most erotic, exquisite scene she had ever beheld. His hand was beneath her skirts now, fingers tracing a path of sensation up her thigh. He found the slit in her drawers with unerring certainty.

  A gasp tore from her. He skimmed her seam once, twice. Thrice. Parted her folds, dipped inside to find the bundle of flesh that ached most. Where she was desperate for him. For more. For release.

  All the while, he continued to suck and tease her nipples, alternating between breasts. When he stroked her, she jerked, white-hot sensation rocketing through her. His forefinger moved, the pressure glorious, the rhythm intense, the friction everything she wanted. Wanton and desperate, needy and voracious, she lifted her leg, hooking it around his waist. He obliged her by making short work of the cumbersome fall of her skirts with one hand while continuing his torturous pleasure with the other.

  It was too much.

  Not enough.

  It was everything she had never known she wanted and needed.

  She bit her lip, stifled her cry, too proud to admit how much she wanted him. To concede she had been bluffing. That she longed for him. That she had to have him. Only him. It mattered not who he was, who she was. She was an animal, consumed by her base lust. By the sensations he evoked in her, by his finger on her slick, swollen flesh. Working her. Making her come undone. Winding her up. Building the pleasure until she could take no more.

  She required him. This. He was air. He was life. He was…

  He rubbed her harder, increasing the pace and pressure. And just when she was about to lose herself completely, he tore his mouth from her breast and kissed her. It was a kiss that plundered. That ravaged. That took and transformed. That shook her to her very core, and she never wanted it to end.

  A few more deft swirls of his fingers over her flesh, and she was lost entirely. She was his. At his mercy. Ready. Her eyes closed, head falling back to the plaster with a thump. But just when she was about to splinter into a thousand tiny shards of herself, he stilled.

  “Look at me.” His voice was rough, low. All command.

  She obeyed, eyes open. He fi
lled her vision: his high cheekbones, the blade of his nose, those beautifully sculpted lips. Whiskers stubbled his strong jaw, lending him an even more dangerous air than he already possessed.

  “Tell me, banshee,” he said softly, “is this force?”

  She wanted to answer with the rebelliousness on fire in her soul. To lie to him, to tell him yes, that he was the last man she would ever want to touch her. But it wasn’t true, and she could not make her tongue give voice to the words.

  Bridget opened her mouth.

  His fingers resumed their delicious movement. Slow circles at first, then faster. Harder. He was kissing her again, their breaths and lips and teeth clashing. They kissed violently, like two people at war. Her eyes closed once more.

  “Answer me,” he urged against her mouth. “Is this force, or do you want me?”

  She tugged his hair and gave him a bruising kiss of her own in response, jerking against him, wanting his clever fingers to finish their torture. For a few moments, he allowed her to take the reins. She controlled the kiss, opened to him, slid her tongue between his lips. She demanded and he gave.

  But then, the cord snapped.

  He tore his lips from hers. “Open your eyes. Tell me now, have I fallen for your wiles?” His fingers quickened, knowing just what she wanted, needed, without asking or growing hesitant. He gave it to her, everything she wanted and more, and she fell apart in his arms, release ricocheting through her body with beautiful force. “Or have you fallen for mine?”

  She opened her eyes, locking on his gaze. Pleasure seized her, took her breath. Took her ability to speak. She came in a thousand shards. Came with a thunderous force. Wetness leaked from her sex, running down her thigh. Shudders racked her body, and had he not held her pinned to the wall, she would have melted into a puddle at his ducal feet.

  Bridget could not answer him. Dared not answer him. For he had just proven her a liar in the most visceral sense. She wanted him. Against logic. Against sense and reason. Against her inner sense of self-preservation. Strangely, it only heightened the moment for her. She wanted to be at his mercy.