Not the Duke's Darling

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  She simply couldn’t imagine.

  “Harlowe,” she whispered, laying her head against his chest, hearing his heartbeat and glad for the sound. “How did you survive?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Many didn’t. They put us in toward evening. There was space only to stand. And then night fell. It was hot—so damned hot—and we had no water. One of the men near the window implored the guard outside for a cup of water and, when a cup couldn’t be found, handed out a hat for the water to be poured in. But so many grabbed for the hat when it returned that all the water was lost before any tasted it.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I remember now, reading an account of it.”

  He sighed. “I’ve read the accounts as well. They’re written by agents of the East India Company. They blame the Calcuttans in an attempt to justify their own actions.”

  She lay, listening to his heartbeat for a minute before she gathered the courage to ask, “What happened to Sophy?”

  “I failed her,” he said. “I failed her and she died.”

  * * *

  He felt as if he were suffocating.

  Christopher closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing, but the dark and the walls were pressing in on him.

  He shook his head and concentrated on the terrible tale he was relating to Freya. “People started to panic in that small, hot prison, almost at once, but it got worse and worse as the night wore on. Men shoved other men. Some wept in fear or horror. Some fell and were trampled. Sophy was against a wall. I’d tried to get her to the window, but no one would move to let us by.” He winced at the memory. The heat and the smell of packed, frightened bodies.

  Because that was all they became in that hole: bodies. Sweating. Weeping. Pissing. Shitting. Just bodies, all the soul and mind that God had given them gone.

  But he didn’t tell that to Freya. Some things should never be said aloud.

  “I tried to guard her—to protect her with my body. I stood against her, facing outward, bracing myself as they pushed and pushed. She wept behind me. She was so frightened. Until the pressure of the bodies in front of me pushed me back against her.” He opened his eyes, remembering the weight against his chest. “Until she stopped weeping and made no sound.”

  “Oh, Kester,” said the woman in his arms.

  Freya was soft and small, but her spirit was made of iron.

  He plucked off her cap, running his fingers through the hair beneath. He couldn’t see it, but he knew she burned with fire.

  He bent his head and laid his cheek against hers, inhaling honeysuckle, the scent of his boyhood. If he closed his eyes perhaps he could pretend he was in the rolling hills of Scotland, the wind in his hair.

  Pretending hadn’t worked in Calcutta.

  It didn’t work now.

  He drew in a breath and continued, “I couldn’t move until dawn. Until they opened the doors finally. Out of all who had gone into that hell, only three and twenty lived to see the sun rise. We were surrounded by corpses. And when I turned I found Sophy dead. Suffocated by the bodies. Suffocated by me.”

  “No, no, no.” She shook her head against him, her voice urgent. “It wasn’t you who killed her.”

  Her fierce defense of him warmed him somehow.

  Still he replied, “If not me, then who?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t think it was anyone’s fault—not even the people who panicked. They didn’t want to be there. They didn’t want to lose their sense. The whole thing was awful, but you said yourself that you meant to protect Sophy.”

  She was so certain, but how could she be? He’d let her brother be maimed, had been gone for years. Perhaps he’d grown into a monster, a murderer of women.

  He shook his head now. “I don’t understand you.”

  “What don’t you understand?” she asked, sliding her fingers through his. For some reason the feel of her small hand in his steadied him.

  “Why do you believe me?” he asked helplessly. “You don’t know me—not anymore. And what you do know you hate.”

  She was silent for a moment, her fingers drifting over the palm of his hand, tracing the base of his thumb, delving between his fingers, encircling his wrist with both her hands.

  Finally she said, “The first time I saw you again after all those years, you offered help. Even though we’d invaded your carriage. Even though you didn’t recognize me. Even though you had no idea what I was doing with a maid and a baby. You saw us, you saw the men chasing us, and you made the decision to help. In my experience that is not usual.”

  He felt her fingers drifting over the back of his hand, delicate and light, like the brush of muslin. “What were you doing?”

  She huffed, perhaps in laughter. “I was helping the widow of an earl take her only child from her villainous brother-in-law.”

  He opened his mouth to chide her for bamming him, and then closed it because he had the sudden overwhelming feeling that she wasn’t. “Freya?”

  “Yes?”

  “What have you been doing while I was in India?”

  “That,” she said, “is a bit of a tale.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I?” Ash’s purple eyes widened. “Now why should I help you, Princess? The King of the Fairies is a powerful being, and ’twould be most foolish of me to cross him.”

  Rowan lifted her chin. “I’ll give you a purse of gold coins.”

  “What use have I for such?”

  “The ring upon my hand?”

  “No.” He stepped closer—so close that Rowan realized no heat came from his body—and smiled into her eyes. “Again. What can you give me for my trouble?”…

  —From The Grey Court Changeling

  The sun must have set, because the well house was so dark Freya couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. “I suppose everyone is at supper by now.”

  “Yes.” Harlowe wasn’t frantic anymore, but she could feel his body tense around her.

  “In the normal way of things I wouldn’t miss my supper, I think. But when it’s been taken away I suddenly feel ravenous.” She sighed. “And thirsty.”

  “Sit up,” he commanded. She scooted forward and heard the sounds of him getting to his feet. “We are in a well house.”

  “Do you think it still has drinkable water?” she asked, simply to give him her voice in the darkness.

  “Maybe.” She could hear his shoes scrape on the stone floor, and then there was a rattle. “Here it is.” More rattling. He must be drawing a bucket up. “Damn. It’s dry.”

  Her heart sank. “That’s a pity.” Would they die of thirst? How long did it take to die of thirst? She had no idea.

  His shoes scraped on the stones again, and she called, “I’m over here.”

  And then his hand touched her head. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting beside her but close enough to bump shoulders with her.

  She was surprised to find that she rather missed his arms about her.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened to you after that night at Greycourt?” His voice seemed somehow warm in the darkness.

  She realized suddenly that if she had to be locked in a well house she was glad that it was he with her. Her brows drew together. When had her attitude toward him changed? When had he gone from an enemy to something very close to a friend?

  “Freya?”

  His voice brought her back to the well house and his question.

  She sighed. “Ran was ill after the beating. You know that. They’d crushed his right hand and infection set in. That led to fever. He was very badly off.” She stared into the darkness, remembering days of fear and tiptoeing around Ayr Castle. Hearing the servants weep and low voices behind closed doors. The important stride of the doctors as they came and went.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Only a week ago she would’ve scoffed at his apology. Would’ve railed against him and replied with the cruelest words she could muster.

  But that wa
s a week ago. “I know,” she said quietly, and felt his shoulder relax a fraction. She inhaled. “A day after the doctors had to amputate Ran’s hand, Papa died.”

  She heard him swallow. “I hadn’t realized the old duke died so soon after the beating.”

  “I think”—she inhaled shakily—“that Papa died of a broken heart. Ran hadn’t yet woken fully from the beating, and the doctors weren’t sure he would survive. Mama died when Elspeth was born, of course. That left Lachlan as the next eldest of us children. It was he that the men of business and the vicar consulted. He was fifteen, and if Ran had died he would’ve inherited the dukedom.”

  “But Ran didn’t die.” He was tapping one foot against the floor. It must be torture to be locked in such a small, dark space after what he’d endured in Calcutta.

  “No. He survived, though it was months before he rose from that bed. He limps still when he’s tired.”

  “So he became a duke at eighteen,” Harlowe said gruffly. “Damn me. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  Freya turned toward him, though of course she couldn’t see him. He sounded weary. Resigned. He did not sound as if his own dukedom had brought him any joy.

  She cleared her throat. “Ran was the Duke of Ayr, yes, but he was also in disgrace. He became a recluse. Lachlan continued to manage the estates and the dukedom. He still does.”

  “And you and your sisters?”

  “We needed someone to take care of us. Elspeth was only six—she hardly remembers before the tragedy. Caitriona was ten and I twelve. My father’s sister, Aunt Hilda, came for us.” Freya’s lips curled. “We’d never met her before. She was a tall, thin woman with burn scars on her face and she came stomping into Ayr Castle. I think she thoroughly scandalized the butler and housekeeper. We girls really should’ve been scared of her—she was a daunting woman—but I think we were just so grateful to have someone to take charge that we clung on to her. Aunt Hilda lived in the north of Scotland, and she took us to live with her.”

  “She left Ran and Lachlan behind?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was disapproving or simply curious. “Yes. Ran was still not well, and Lachlan needed to see to the dukedom. Aunt Hilda was the daughter and sister of dukes. She understood duty and why the dukedom had to be maintained. I think she would’ve lived with us at Ayr Castle but for the burn scars that disfigured her face. She didn’t like people staring.”

  The tap of his foot was rhythmic in the darkness. “You grew up there? In the north of Scotland?”

  “Yes.” She tilted back her head, remembering a house full of women. “It was actually quite lovely. There were hills to roam around in, beautiful streams, winter nights by a roaring fire. Aunt Hilda was our tutor, and she had friends who would stay with us to teach us things she couldn’t.”

  “Fencing?”

  She laughed. “Yes, fencing. Aunt Hilda thought it a wonderful exercise, and since it was only we three girls, there was no one about to disapprove. Not that she would’ve cared for anyone else’s opinion.”

  “She sounds like a tartar.”

  Was he smiling? She wished she could see. “She could be. Aunt Hilda had very definite ideas. She believed in rising early. Porridge for breakfast and plain mutton or fish for supper—not any fancy English dishes, as she called them. She thought children should exercise every day. That we should know how to shoot and fish. We learned Latin, French, and Greek and all the names of the Roman emperors. And every week we read a philosophical book or tract and debated it amongst ourselves on Sunday.”

  “Impressive,” he said. “You had a better education than many men—certainly a better education than I did.”

  She turned to him in the dark. “But you were at Oxford.”

  “Only for a year.” His voice was wry. “Your aunt Hilda sounds as if she was a strong-willed lady. I think I would’ve liked to have met her. Is she…?”

  “She’s dead.” Freya cleared her throat. It had been nearly a decade and the sharp edges of her grief had worn down, but it was still there. Would always be there. “When I was eighteen. She had been in a fire—that was what caused the scars she was so self-conscious about. But the fire and smoke also hurt her lungs. Every winter she would cough terribly. One winter the cough took her.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  There was a pause and she shivered. With the sun down, the temperature had dropped. If they were here all night it was going to be very uncomfortable soon.

  Next to her, Harlowe inhaled. “Is that when you got a position as a companion?”

  “No.” She wrapped her arms about herself, trying to keep warm. “I came to London when I was two and twenty.”

  “Then why—”

  She shivered again, rather violently.

  “Damn it, you’re cold.” He moved, something rustled, and then she felt his coat drop on her shoulders. “There. Better?”

  She should protest, but honestly she was so grateful for his coat she didn’t bother. It was much too large for her, of course, but that meant she could tuck her hands in the sleeves. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Come here now,” he said, his voice husky and close in the dark. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close. The heat of his body was lovely.

  She groaned in appreciation.

  He bent his head so that his voice was right in her ear as he said slowly, “I don’t understand why you took work.”

  She couldn’t tell him about the Wise Women, so she gave him a partial truth. “After Papa died, Lachlan found that the dukedom was in debt. My grandfather invested heavily in the Darien scheme to found a Scottish colony in Panama. When it failed, most of the Ayr fortune was lost.”

  “I never knew that,” Harlowe murmured.

  “I think Papa made sure it wasn’t common knowledge,” she replied dryly. “Lachlan has said that from the records he’s seen, Papa spent his lifetime trying to regain our moneys with various ventures. When he died, his creditors called in his debts, and because of the scandal, because they thought Ran a murderer, no one would extend further credit.”

  “And that’s why you needed to find work,” he said, his breath fanning the back of her neck.

  She didn’t reply. Because of course it wasn’t. She’d come to London to be the Macha. The de Moray funds had been depressed, but not enough that she had to work.

  She’d lied and prevaricated many times in the last five years and never felt a bit of guilt. Now, though, she was uneasy. She wished very much that she could tell Harlowe the truth.

  Which was foolish. It was unsafe to tell anyone that she was a Wise Woman.

  But she had an urge to trust Harlowe, when days before she’d called him enemy. Was it just the intimacy of the darkness and cold?

  Or was there another reason she felt, deep in her chest, that she could trust him?

  “And when I first saw you in Wapping?” he interrupted her thoughts. “How did you come to be rescuing a baby?”

  She cleared her throat. “Aunt Hilda always said it was the duty of every lady to offer assistance when she saw those in need of help. The girl was a maid and the baby was the Earl of Brightwater. His father is dead and his father’s brother had imprisoned the child, keeping him from his mother. He hoped in this way to control the earldom and its assets. The countess asked for my help, so I helped her.”

  “By kidnapping a child.” His tone was careful.

  “Yes.”

  His chuckle in her ear was unexpected. “You really are a firebrand.”

  “Am I?”

  “You know you are.”

  His admiring tone brought a glow to her heart. She’d never before met a man outside her family who considered a woman’s willingness to act on her own decisions a good thing.

  She could feel the press of his body against her back. Now that she was no longer thinking of how to keep him calm or how to explain her position in London, other things crept into her consciousness.

  The strength of his arms keeping her warm.
The rising and falling of his broad chest.

  The scent of his male musk enveloping her.

  He was a compelling man, and he made her feel very…female.

  “Shall we lie down?” she whispered.

  For a moment he made no movement.

  Then he pulled her to lie on the ground next to him.

  She turned to face him, and he let her use his arm as a pillow.

  They lay face-to-face in the darkness. She could feel his breath on her lips. She leaned a little forward and touched her mouth to his.

  When they had embraced before it had been like dueling—hard, swift, and angry. Not really a kiss at all.

  This was different.

  She hadn’t kissed many men in her life. And none had ever let her control the embrace. But Harlowe lay still as she brushed her lips against his.

  She pulled back a little, waiting.

  But he did nothing.

  She opened her mouth and kissed him again, tasting his lips with her tongue. She found that her limbs were trembling. How could that be? From such a simple touch—one little kiss?

  She curled her fingers into the back of his neck, feeling his hair brushing against her hand and the strong muscles of his shoulders.

  His lips parted under hers and she licked into his mouth, angling her head. Wanting more.

  His tongue brushed hers. Teasing. Tangling.

  For a moment she forgot everything: who she was, who he was, where they were. All she could do was feel. A rising heat. A promise of all her binds unraveling.

  It was that very loss of self—of control—that finally made her pull back, her lips parting from his reluctantly.

  “I…” Her voice broke and she had to clear her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offer something I won’t give.”

  “No.” His voice was rough. “It’s I who should apologize.”

  “Why?” She asked part irritated, part frustrated. “I was the one who kissed you.”

  He chuckled quietly. “So you did. But I am a gentleman. Such things are always the responsibility of the gentleman.”