by Devon, Eva
“You always did belong in the gutter, Annabelle.”
“Perhaps. But now I am free of you.”
And with that, she turned and strode from the room, no longer required to heed his orders. As she headed into the hall, she placed a hand on her middle. She was to be wed to a man she didn’t know. A man who wasn’t petty or emotional like Caxton. Oh, no, the Duke of Ardore was cold and dangerous, of that she was certain. But he wasn’t a monster.
And soon, she was to be in his bed.
And then. . . a prince’s.
She stopped, unable to draw breath as the reality of her situation truly descended upon her.
It seemed she was to be a whore after all.
Chapter 10
Tristan’s footsteps crunched on the groomed drive, his body tense, anger at his failure humming deep within his soul.
Frigid, dawn fog swirled about him as he waited for the coach that had followed him from the town. The blue light of early morning only added to his dim view of his life.
What the hell had he done?
Why the hell had he allowed himself to be taken in by her?
He ground his teeth together as his coach and four thundered down the drive and came to a slow halt, his stallion having been found, ridden by a groom.
He wrenched the handle above his family crest and vaulted inside. Ready to get away from this house. From his foray into idiocy.
She had consumed him in a way that no woman ever had done. And now, he was paying the price. Everything he’d worked for had vanished.
He sat, ready to close the door and pound on the roof. But before he could, a pair of slim, black-gloved hands grabbed on to the doorway and pulled.
Without even having unfolded the coach step, Annabelle Winters had pulled herself up and thrown herself into the seat opposite him.
She met his gaze, unapologetically, head high, eyes fierce.
“Get out,” he growled, rage pumping through his body. His response to her was unwarranted and irrational but, at this moment, he was still furious at Caxton escaping his death.
Tristan’s fault. This was his fault. He knew that. He was the one who had strayed from his own path. Yet, that didn’t change the fact that he had been saddled with a wife when he had but one goal in his life.
Revenge.
And she had foiled that revenge.
It was she who had stopped the duel. She had stopped the pistols from being shot and the lead ball bursting into Caxton’s heart.
For it had been she who had caught the eye of the prince. And that. . . that had sent him hurtling onto a new and hellish road.
For she was his and not his. She was the prince’s.
“I am not getting out,” she said evenly.
“I doona wish company at present.”
“A pity since we are to be wed.”
“Even so, we needna share company.”
“No company but a bed?”
He eyed her carefully. He wouldn’t be distracted from his fury, even as the sudden vision of her naked, pale, outstretched limbs on his bed welcoming his cock into her soft flesh flashed before him.
He snapped his gaze away. “Company isna required of husband and wife. And I’ve no intent to breed ye.”
“Breed me,” she echoed.
“That’s all it could ever be,” he said tightly.
Instead of taking offense, she nodded. “But we are to be wed, so I will go with you.”
“Ye should stay here until the wedding.” Even as he said it, he knew he did not mean it. It was impossible. If only she could understand his desperate need to avenge his sister and how she had destroyed his attempt.
“I would rather die,” she replied simply.
“Fine then.” He slammed the coach door shut and pounded on the roof. “Accompany me.”
The coach jerked then started down the long drive.
He studied her again. She was bold but, given her life as her uncle’s accomplice, she had to be.
Women who were not were crushed. . . and sometimes even their own boldness led to doom.
Would she survive the wild path she’d put them both upon?
He swallowed and looked to the window. The tangled, old trees flew by in a blur as his driver cracked the breakneck pace he’d instructed.
To his shock, Brunel had pressed a special license into his palm this morning. Somehow, miraculously as in the fashion of princes, it had been obtained in the black hours of night.
When a prince desired something, anything was possible.
So, now, he could wed the woman he hated at any time he wished.
The sooner the better, no doubt. Much like when a bone had come out of joint, the best thing was to wrench it back in one, agonizing blow. A quick wedding on the road was the best way.
Did she know that?
It was temping to tell her now. To shock her. But such logic was idiotic. Annabelle Winters would not be easily shocked. Likely, she did understand, which is why she had hauled herself into his coach, turning her back on her uncle forever.
He couldn’t send her back. Even if he desired her gone from his life. Gone from his thoughts. Gone from his hot desires that tempted him to sway from the only thing he longed for now since his life had been so irreversibly destroyed.
No. He couldn’t send her back. But he did know exactly what had to be done. And now, he would do it without delay and without regret.
As they raced past the gates of her uncle’s estate, something strange occurred. He noticed it almost immediately. The tension in her body lessened. Her face relaxed.
Her whole person seemed to suddenly hum with. . . hope.
Oh, God. Hope. Hope was a dangerous thing.
Hope could be dashed to the earth and destroyed like a porcelain bowl, never to be recovered.
Yet, he found he couldn’t be the one to crush that hope so newly shining on her features.
Perhaps, she would find her new circumstances more appealing than her old ones.
Perhaps, she was so used to hell that any change at all was a promise of relief.
He swallowed.
Could no one live free of pain and shadow? Were all touched by its gruesome brush?
Perhaps. It seemed that a few of his friends had achieved it, escaping the pain.
Well, now she was his to protect. And when it came time for the prince, what then? He couldn’t kill a prince to keep her from being manipulated by the whims of powerful men.
He stared out the window, his veins icy cold at the thought.
No, murdering a future monarch was beyond the pale. . . even if that monarch dabbled in the dark circles that groomed men like Caxton.
Somehow, he would have to find another way to free her.
Free her.
Was that what he was going to do?
Good God. When had that thought entered his mind?
He should hate her for stealing his vengeance.
He snuck a glance at her. She looked so much lighter now, miles from her uncle’s estate. Despite the slight red welt on her cheek. A weight had been lifted off of her.
No. As he stared at that welt, he couldn’t hate her for escaping her life.
And there in the coach, he made a promise to himself. He would never become one of the men who had hurt Annabelle Winters. He would never be like the men who betrayed women as easily as they arose and broke their fasts.
Never.
Of that he was sure.
Chapter 11
Annabelle’s eyes snapped open, only to see the dark shadows of the coach. The vehicle had come to a halt and he had left her alone. Surely that was what had awoken her.
It had seemed as if they would drive north forever, stopping only when strictly necessary.
How much of England had they raced across?
It felt as if he were on some sort of mad dash with her. Driven.
Yes. He was driven.
She leaned forward and pulled one of the thick, brocade curtains back from t
he mud-stained window.
There, her tall, dangerous duke stood speaking with a much shorter man. . . before a small stone church.
A church.
Her stomach churned.
Could it be? Were they to be married tonight? In such haste?
He turned towards the coach and she gasped as his hard eyes met hers.
There was no hint of kindness or mercy there. Only determination burned in his gaze.
He nodded at the shorter man, swathed in a heavy cloak. Then the duke strode towards her in the dark, lit only by the coach lanterns.
The door swung open and he held out a gloved hand. “Come.”
Her heart pounded so heavily she could feel her pulse at her throat but she knew that, in some ways, she had chosen this new life of not knowing what would transpire. So, she seized his hand and hurried down.
Her feet thudded against the packed, early-spring earth and she tried not to think of the feel of his strong hand guiding her. No. She could not allow herself to be enthralled by his mere touch.
She couldn’t afford to ever be enthralled. Wasn’t that how her mother had been doomed? By having her head turned by a young man? By losing everything for love?
So, Annabelle swallowed and steeled herself to him.
Instead, she followed his determined pace to the small, stone church and the cloaked man who had gone to the wooden door and hauled out a large iron key.
Within moments, they were over the threshold and in the icy nave.
The stones were bare, no paint to cheer them. In the darkness, it was a cavern. It didn’t feel holy. It felt cold. Empty.
Yet, she had little doubt that she was about to be married in the eyes of God.
Ardore said nothing as he strode down the aisle, keeping her beside him.
The man in the cloak pulled a book from his pocket, cleared his throat then opened it.
Ah. The vicar.
The strange man, his forehead a map of waving wrinkles, glanced towards the footman and coachman in the back.
The witnesses.
After all, there had to be witnesses. Her new husband’s servants were expedient if questionable.
Still, she was there willingly. As any woman in her circumstances would be.
The Duke of Ardore faced the vicar, his body towering above them both.
It seemed to her that he was a mountain of a man. Hard, unyielding, and unshaken by the mere goings-on of mortal men.
Yet here he was, a victim of whim. For even a mountain must yield to his prince.
The vicar spoke quickly and she felt her thoughts scatter. This was her last chance to turn and to walk away. To run.
To steal out into the darkness and be free of them all.
But she knew where that road led. Her mother had been on it. It had destroyed her.
It destroyed most women who took it.
No. She wouldn’t end up selling herself in some dark alley where she’d die of the cold or disease.
She couldn’t allow that. She’d come too far to fall so cruelly. Unlike her mother, she would be a duchess.
So, when the time came, she found herself uttering, “I do.”
The moment the vicar proclaimed them man and wife, she swayed ever so slightly. Not knowing what to expect.
Ardore’s hand tightened about hers then pulled her towards him.
His gaze burned with promise. “I will protect ye,” he whispered. “But I can promise nothing more. Do ye understand?”
The fierceness of his voice sent a chill down her spine and she nodded. What else could she do?
She refused to be afraid. So, she squeezed his hand back and didn’t flinch. “I understand,” she said firmly.
“Good,” he replied. Then, without another word, he whisked her back to the coach.
The deed was done.
And once again, they were racing off towards some unknown destination. Towards their fate.
They were wed.
It was done.
Well, not quite done. The words had been spoken. The papers signed. But. . .
He jumped down from the coach as it rolled to a halt in the inn’s courtyard.
The muddy ground gave way beneath his boots and he glanced to the swinging sign. The Rest.
Did the innkeeper understand the meaning that might be taken from that name? Perhaps not.
Rest.
How glorious.
To sleep. Perchance to dream. The age old question of anyone who sensed the pain of this world.
No, he would never choose self-slaughter. He’d take up arms against his sea of troubles and he’d persevere.
Hamlet had always seemed a prisoner to Tristan. A prisoner to cowardice. And Tristan wasn’t a prisoner. No. That was something he would never be.
And he wouldn’t allow pain to bury him.
So, he’d keep moving forward and the next step forward lay in a room in the inn with his wife.
Blowing out a harsh breath, he turned back to the coach and offered her his hand.
She’d been silent. Something he’d appreciated, and yet, he knew her thoughts had been as active as bees in their hive.
He’d virtually heard them as they had buzzed in her head.
He couldn’t blame her.
But he also admired her determined stillness. Her calmness in the face of the calamitous last hours.
“Come,” he said.
She obeyed without question.
He doubted obedience was in her nature, but she was clever. Of that, he was certain. She’d do whatever necessary to preserve herself.
That. . . that was something which tasted foul. Yet, he couldn’t disparage her for it.
As her gloved fingers slipped into his, he looked away.
The feel of her slight hand fitting so beautifully into his was not to be lingered on.
He ground his teeth together then started for the arched doorway.
As soon as they’d crossed into the old building, a man bustled from one of the back rooms.
Short, and slightly paunchy, the silver-haired man wiped his hands on a fairly clean apron. His eyes darted over them and, immediately, he bowed. “My lord?”
“Yer Grace, point of fact,” he said without arrogance. “We require a room and my servants need a place to sleep.”
The innkeeper’s eyes all but bulged with the honor of having a duke in his establishment. “The stable is free for them and, tonight, my best room is available.”
“Good. Send up food and wine.”
“Would you care to rest before our fire downstairs?” ventured the innkeeper. “The common room is—”
“My wife is tired,” Tristan cut in, feeling no desire to while away a few hours before curious stares.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the innkeeper said with a bow. “Let me show you the way. You have no bags?”
“No,” Tristan replied tersely. He wasn’t about to explain.
The man merely nodded then headed for the dark wood stairs.
They climbed in silence.
Somehow, the servant sensed commentary wasn’t to be welcomed.
And so it was, he found himself hand in hand with his wife, striding down a narrow hall then through a black wood door.
The old man gripped the door handle. “I’ll send a maid to start a fire—”
“No need,” Tristan cut in abruptly, wishing for this strange moment to end. “Just send up food and wine.”
“If you say so, Your Grace. Anything you wish—”
“Thank ye.”
The innkeeper tugged on his forelock then quickly shut the door, leaving Tristan and Annabelle standing in silence in the large room.
She slipped her hand from his and strode forward.
Her dark head turned to the empty fire then to the large, four-poster bed.
She walked to it then traced a hand down the blue brocade hangings.
“So, this is to be it then,” she said softly.
“What?”
She tu
rned to him with a dry smile. “The way I lose my virginity.”
He frowned. It had occurred to him without much bother that she wasn’t a virgin. In fact, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d rather hoped she wasn’t untouched. He did not wish her to feel something special towards him. . . being her first.
It almost seemed impossible that she had survived her uncle’s nefarious house a virgin.
And. . . suddenly, he found himself relieved that somehow. . . she had not been so thoroughly hurt as so many women were.
It was odd, the conflicting of his feelings.
“I am glad to hear ye havena been. . . put into a harrowing position.”
She stared at him then burst into laughter.
He frowned. “What caused yer laughter?”
“Oh, Your Grace.” She pressed her gloved hand to her mouth, stifling her laughter, even as her eyes danced with amusement. “You are so naive.”
“I hardly think so,” he drawled.
She tsked. “You think because I am a virgin that I have avoided harrowing positions?”
His mouth dried.
A glint, like flint striking stone sprung to life in her gaze. “Since I was a little girl, I have fought tooth and claw against those who would use me. I will not stop now.”
“I wouldna use ye,” he said softly.
Her brows rose. “Would you not?”
How did he answer that? He hoped he would not.
“Oh, don’t distress yourself, husband. For I am using you, I suppose.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw. Yet he felt a hint of relief that at least she, too, could acknowledge the nature of their relationship.
“But make no mistake,” she assured him as she braced her back against the carved bedpost. “I have seen hell. I have pulled myself up from its depths and I will not go back.”
“I wouldna have ye do so,” he replied softly, sincerely.
“I’m glad.” She nodded. “Then we can understand each other.”
“We can.”
Hard as marble, she turned to him slowly, oh so very slowly. She lifted her hand to the ribbon of her cloak then pulled. The fabric whooshed to the floor.
“Then let us get to why we are here,” she said.