Yes. He was.
Was it wrong?
Yes.
Did he need to keep the troublesome banshee in a location near to him so he could monitor her?
Absolutely.
His decision had nothing to do with his inappropriate attraction to the woman. Not one single, bloody thing.
“The doors adjoining the chamber are locked.” He frowned at Trent. “Where else am I to put her? In prison?”
The duke raised a brow. “There are half a dozen chambers that would be more suited. Tongues will wag, as you know.”
His irritability, already heightened, exploded. “Which tongues? You and your wife are the only ones who are aware of her presence here. My domestics are accustomed to the depths of my depravity. If they do not blink at opium rooms, orgies, and nude women laid out as makeshift serving platters, they will not wonder why I have placed a strange woman in the duchess’s chamber. If they do, I shall personally disabuse them of their curiosity.”
“She is an unwed woman, and the sister to a duchess,” Trent observed.
“She is a Fenian who masqueraded as a governess in an attempt to abduct my nephew,” he returned heatedly. It was the same argument he made to himself every day, ad nauseam, when he reminded himself there was no reason for him to be attracted to her. No reason for him to want to touch or kiss her. No reason why his cock would get so goddamn rigid at the mere mentioning of her name or the thought of her.
“You said yourself the gun she used in the abduction was not loaded.”
“Perhaps it was an oversight on her part,” Leo said blackly. He had a cockstand. At half past ten in the morning. Whilst he was sitting in his study, facing one of his former agents. A man he considered a friend.
And it was all because he had thought about her.
“I think not.” Trent frowned. “She went to Harlton Hall with one purpose, and her disguise was impeccable. It fooled even you. Do you truly believe she would have been too careless to load her pistol before taking the young duke?”
No, damn it, he did not.
And he did not like realization one bit, for it meant Bridget O’Malley had spoken the truth to him on at least one occasion, when she had said she refused to hold a loaded weapon to the head of an innocent child. It also meant he could not hold as much anger toward her as he wanted.
The anger kept the desire leashed.
As leashed as it could be, anyway, which—given the debacle of the day he had stroked her pussy until she came—was not terribly under control.
Hell, who was he fooling?
It was not under control at all. He wanted her. He also wanted to hate her. But the former was rendering the latter increasingly impossible, and here he was once more at a stalemate between control and duty, want and need.
“It makes no sense,” he growled, because if he answered Trent’s question truthfully, he would reveal himself and the unacceptable weakness he had for Miss Bridget O’Malley.
“Or it makes perfect sense.”
He scowled. “Whose side are you on, Trent?”
“My wife’s,” he answered without hesitation, grinning like the fool he was. “When I left the League, I pledged my allegiance to her instead.”
“Good God!” Leo was horrified. “Allegiances are to one’s Crown and country, Trent. Not to one’s wife.”
If the last word emerged like an epithet, he could not be blamed. The Duke of Trent’s devotion to his duchess was unusual, irritating, and downright perplexing. Leo himself could not imagine being so consumed by a woman she overpowered his every thought, word, and deed.
Thank Christ all he felt for Bridget O’Malley was lust. Pure, unadulterated, sinful lust. Nothing else. Not one single hint of something else.
“You will understand when you have a wife of your own,” Trent said, raising a brow.
“I’ll not have one.” His answer was succinct. Certain. He neither wanted a wife nor imagined ever saddling himself with one. It would be an unnecessary encumbrance. A burden.
Much like Bridget O’Malley.
No. He would not think about her one more time.
Not about her mouth beneath his. Not about her nipples. Not about her cunny, how slick she had been, how perfectly she had tasted.
No, none of it. Blessedly, he was not so afflicted.
“I look forward to the day you do.” Trent was smug. So smug Leo wanted to plant him a facer in that moment. “Then, I will have you repeat that sentiment and see whether or not you still regard it as true.”
“Then we are fortunate indeed, because I will never wed.”
The door to his study burst open in the next instant, before Trent could muster up a response. The Duchess of Trent appeared with his beautiful, raven-haired prisoner in tow.
“I know what must be done,” the duchess announced to the room. “Carlisle, you must marry my sister.”
What in the name of all that was holy?
Bridget gaped at Daisy. At her utterly mad half sister.
What had she just said?
Surely Bridget had misheard her. For the words she thought Daisy had just uttered made no sense. They were a foreign language she did not speak.
Marry and Carlisle did not belong in the same sentence in relation to Bridget O’Malley. She was already at the mercy of the scoundrel far more than she would have preferred. She would sooner accept prison shackles than bind herself to her enemy.
“I’ll not be marrying that banshee,” Carlisle denied.
“Banshee?” Daisy demanded, sounding outraged on Bridget’s behalf.
“It may be the answer,” the Duke of Trent offered, the only calm voice amongst them.
“No,” Bridget shouted over the din. Eyes swung to her, so she continued. “I do not even like him.”
“You like me, banshee,” he drawled, as arrogant as ever. His eyes glittered with frank remembrance.
And she would be lying if she said she did not instantly recall the wicked sensation of his long fingers stroking her flesh. But she was made of stern stuff, and though he knew his way beneath a lady’s skirts, that did not mean he wasn’t the epitome of English suppression of Ireland.
“Not in the sense a marriage requires,” she parried, before she could think better of it.
His eyes blazed into hers, and she knew she had revealed far too much. She had also taunted him. Tempted him. The Duke of Carlisle was not the sort of man who would allow a challenge to go unanswered, and she supposed she ought to have learned that about him by now.
“I beg to differ, madam. Need I remind you why?”
“Carlisle,” Daisy chastised, her tone aghast. “Tell me you have not compromised my sister.”
That seething gaze descended upon her sister, and Bridget was glad of it. Relieved for the respite. Her heart still thumped madly, and the bothersome heat that rose within her each time she was in his presence refused to cool while he looked upon her.
“She is my prisoner,” Carlisle said, rather than denying Daisy’s request.
“He shot me,” Bridget added.
His scrutiny returned to her, a lone brow raising to mock her. “You were holding a pistol to my nephew’s head at the time.”
“The pistol was not loaded,” the Duke of Trent said in a cheerful tone that almost suggested he was enjoying this.
“Bridget would never have hurt the boy,” Daisy added with a confidence that could not help but touch Bridget’s heart.
She had done nothing to warrant her sister’s steadfast loyalty, but she could not deny it pleased her. “I would never have hurt him,” she affirmed. “I was told to bring him back to London. It was what was asked of me.”
Carlisle’s stare was alert, intense. “Who asked it of you, Miss O’Malley? Give me a name.”
“No.” Daisy stepped before her, fashioning herself a living shield to momentarily block out all sight of Carlisle’s determined glower. “She will tell you nothing until she is protected. I’ll not allow it.”
; “Protected,” Carlisle repeated, his tone grim. “And why should I wish to protect the woman I am about to see cast into prison for her crimes against the Crown and her efforts to incite outrages in England?”
“Because the information she possesses is worth far more to you than her imprisonment would be,” Daisy responded calmly. “Bridget has been caught up in these dangerous plots through no fault of her own.”
It was not entirely true, but Bridget kept that knowledge to herself. The truth was far murkier. She believed in Irish Home Rule, and she believed in forcing England to rectify the wrongs done to her homeland. But John had changed. He was not the man she once knew, and when the cause had grown more dangerous, the stakes climbing—when dynamite and death plots surfaced and her own brother had become imprisoned—it had been too late for her to extricate herself.
And now she could not, for Cullen’s life depended upon her, and her alone.
“The information she possesses can be discovered by other means.” The iciness of Carlisle’s tone cutting through the chamber sent a shiver through Bridget.
She dared to steal a glance at him from around Daisy’s protective shoulder. His gaze instantly caught hers, boring into her. His expression was rigid. Unyielding. Irate.
“She is a woman, Carlisle,” the Duke of Trent objected. “You know as well as I do that none of those imprisoned thus far have been female. This is a delicate matter, and I suggest you tread with caution.”
Bridget sidestepped her sister, for she would hide behind no one. Regardless of what it was, she would face her fate, head held high, without cowering. “I will be treated the same as any of my fellow countrymen. If the Duke of Carlisle wishes to imprison me, then imprison me he shall.”
“No,” Daisy said firmly, placing a staying hand on her arm, “he will not. After all the mayhem you created for Sebastian and I, Your Grace, aiding my sister is the least you can do to atone for your sins.”
“I’ll not fall on my sword by marrying a traitor,” Carlisle growled. “Nor will I discuss this nonsense a moment more. I will not be marrying Miss O’Malley, and that is final.”
“And just as well, for I would never marry you either,” Bridget returned, stung in spite of herself by his vicious response.
It was precisely what she would have expected from him. After all, she was the enemy. She had attempted to abduct his nephew, a kind and innocent young lad, in an effort to help her brother’s plight. She had lied to Carlisle at every turn, and the ring of men with whom she had become embroiled was dangerous and bloodthirsty. She was no good for anyone, including herself. But hearing Carlisle denounce her as a traitor, calling the notion of marrying her nonsense, hurt nonetheless.
Carlisle turned the full force of his frigid glare back upon her. “Marrying me would hardly be as horrible a fate as you would pretend, madam. You could do no better.”
“That is not saying much for myself, is it?” she asked, unable to resist the jibe. “But then, I am a traitor and a criminal, am I not?”
“No, you most certainly are not.” Daisy gave her arm a warning squeeze.
Bridget wondered again at her sister’s game. They had discussed none of this—not one mad word of it—in the chamber earlier. She glanced back at Daisy, frowning. Daisy arched her golden brows, her expression clearly saying trust me. But Bridget had never completely trusted anyone. Not in the entirety of her wretched existence on this earth.
“I am afraid I must disagree with you, Carlisle,” said the Duke of Trent then, drawing all attention back to him. “Marrying Miss O’Malley is in the best interest of the both of you. It will protect her in that you cannot be compelled to offer testimony against her. And it will protect you in that the Home Office will not question why you kept a prisoner in your various homes for a fortnight, rather than commending her instantly to prison.”
Carlisle’s nostrils flared, the only outward sign of his fury. “Trent, I called you here as a courtesy. Not so you could meddle in my affairs.”
But the handsome Duke of Trent was unrelenting, and Bridget had to admit she was rather beginning to like Daisy’s husband, Englishman or no.
“As you meddled in mine?” he asked.
“Is this your sick idea of retribution?” Carlisle’s voice was grim. “I did you a favor, Trent. Look at you, a maudlin fool for your wife, so much so that you would stoop to threatening your superior in the name of abetting a traitor.”
“My former superior.” Trent appeared unmoved by the duke’s angry accusation. “And no, this is not my idea of revenge, though I imagine there is a long line of poor sods who want nothing more than vengeance upon you. This is how I take care of my own. Miss O’Malley is my family now, and she is under my protection. Nor is it a threat, but rather a promise.
“You will procure a license, and you will marry her as hastily as possible, and if you do not, I will go to the Home Office with the information I have in regard to your secreting of Miss O’Malley. Arden has been hungry for your position for years, and he will have no qualms replacing you. When she is no longer in danger, you may annul the marriage as you wish. For now, our first priority is making certain she cannot be dragged off to prison by you or anyone else.”
Yes, Bridget liked the Duke of Trent indeed. Except for his awfully, severely misguided notion she must marry the Duke of Carlisle, everything he had just said was lovely.
“I will not marry him,” she protested again to the room at large.
Daisy took her hands, her expression softened with sympathy. “I am so sorry, Bridget dearest, but you must. It is the only way to keep you safe.”
Something inside her shifted. It was not slow and meandering, not a gradual change, but fierce and sudden. It was a bolt of lightning in a summer sky. A deluge of rain pouring unexpectedly from the clouds rather than a fine mist which turned into a steady torrent.
She stared at Daisy, and the awful realization hit her.
Marrying the Duke of Carlisle could be the best—perhaps even the only—way she could save Cullen. If she was cast into gaol herself, she had no chance of aiding him at all. But if she remained free, she could still see him freed as well.
For her brother, she would do anything.
Even if it meant wedding the devil himself.
Chapter Ten
Leo had never been less inclined to celebrate an occasion in his life. Indeed, he had been at funerals which held a more joyful air. And for all that, he may as well be attending his own for the implications of what he had just done.
The wedding breakfast consisted of ten courses, and only because Brodeur, his French chef, had lost his head upon being informed of his employer’s imminent nuptials. Leo did not touch courses one through seven—all that had been served thus far—for he had no appetite.
The woman at his side, Jane Palliser-turned-Bridget O’Malley-turned-the Duchess of Carlisle, did not seem any more eager to eat. She had been wringing her hands in her lap for the past hour, and for the time before that in the carriage ride following their hasty wedding, and for the time before that as she had faced him and spoken her vows.
Her expression continued to be that of a woman who had just witnessed a death. He knew the feeling well. He had witnessed deaths, after all. Had caused them in the name of the Crown and his own self-defense. Every action he had taken in the years since he had been at the helm of the Special League had been without regret, without remorse. It had been done knowing he had no choice, that what he did was in the best interest of his queen and his country.
What he had done today had been selfish.
And stupid.
He had married Miss Bridget O’Malley, a Fenian colluder, a liar, and God knew what else, and he had done so to save his own skin. Because Trent, a man he had previously counted a friend, had been correct. The Duke of Arden wanted the League for his own, so badly the man would leap at the chance to supplant Leo should word of his misconduct with Miss O’Malley be revealed. And the League had been everything to him fo
r so long it was like a part of him, as inseparable as a limb.
He would do anything to continue leading it, including sacrificing his honor.
His own weakness where Miss O’Malley was concerned had done him a favor. His deceptions with the Home Office concerning her death had left him free to do as he wished. Even when he had returned to London to conduct his investigations, he had not revealed the reason for his inquiries. Which meant keeping his misconduct a secret would be terrifyingly easy. All he needed to ensure was the silence of the Duke of Trent, which he already had, and his brother Clay.
Leo winced at the thought and reached for his wine goblet. It wasn’t whisky, but it would do. He dreaded informing Clay of what he had done. Even now, he felt as if a dagger had been slammed between his ribs. He had betrayed his best friend to protect himself. What manner of man was he?
Another course was removed.
Words reached him, dimly at first, as if arriving from another chamber, so consumed had he been in his own burning thoughts.
“…and of course, you shall come and stay with us,” the Duchess of Trent was telling Miss O’Malley.
Christ. Strike that
She was his wife now, was she not?
And despite the bile rising in his throat, he could not stay the swift surge of lust such a thought inevitably brought. His body did not know what a traitorous banshee Bridget O’Malley was, and it had plans all its own. Plans he would not deign to acknowledge.
“No,” Leo bit out, slamming his wine back onto the table with so much force it sloshed onto the pristine linens.
Three sets of eyes swung to him. The Duke and Duchess of Trent had been the only others present to witness his ignominy. His mother Lily would have his hide when she learned of what he had done, and that she had not been invited. The haste—and the awful deception and nefarious choice of bride—had precluded him from extending such an invitation.
“No?” The duchess’s eyes narrowed upon him, and he was once again revisited by the distinct impression the lady did not hold him in high regard. “But my sister and I have been separated for so long. Surely you can part with her for a bit to allow us to make up for our lost time.”
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