Between the Duke and the Devil

by Devon, Eva

  It both stole his breath and alarmed him. After all, he’d warned her. He’d told her the sort of woman she’d need to be to be accepted here. . . and suddenly, there she was.

  He blinked.

  Gone was the cold, austere tilt of Annabelle’s head. The icy aloofness evaporated and her lips parted in a lighthearted smile. Her head took on a jaunty tilt and her spine, which usually appeared as straight as a cane, curved invitingly.

  The coach door opened and she beamed down at the footman. . . beamed.

  Stunned, Tristan quickly jumped down then offered her his hand.

  She took it lightly and, without hesitation, ventured down the coach step and onto the mist-covered cobbles.

  Smiling brightly in the lowering dusk, she glanced about with sheer delight.

  To his shock, he could not tell what was feigned and what was true.

  Annabelle took in the castle as if nothing could give her greater pleasure. In fact, from her merry stance and sprightly air, one would have assumed it was her greatest, lifelong wish to live in the Highlands amidst the Highlanders.

  His butler, MacLiesh, stepped forward, his kilt swinging about his strong legs. The iron-gray beard and mustache framed a face which knew the lay of the land, and how to handle the most difficult of people with a well-placed look.

  MacLiesh was more than a butler. He was a warrior at heart and took great pride in keeping the castle running to perfection.

  Tristan held his hand towards the older man. “This is MacLiesh, my dear. He is why the castle still stands and is in perfect order.”

  “Welcome, Yer Grace,” MacLiesh said firmly with a bow to his new duchess. He and the castle were obviously well prepared with the note that had been sent in advance warning of Annabelle’s future presence. “We hope ye shall be verra happy here.”

  She inclined her head in a small return bow. “I cannot imagine finding greater happiness anywhere else but here. For I have never seen any land or castle more stunning.”

  And then she glanced up to the now purple-blue night sky.

  Tristan followed her gaze, wondering what the devil she was up to.

  But then she said, “MacLiesh, you strike me as a man who knows a good deal. Do you know the stars?”

  MacLiesh gave a nod. “Aye, that I do, Yer Grace.”

  She pointed to a particularly bright, unblinking light. “What is that?”

  “Och, that, Yer Grace? Ye’ve a good eye. That’s Mercury, Yer Grace. Do ye care for the night sky?”

  She sighed as if transported. “I cannot convey how much.”

  “Then this is the place for ye. No greater stargazing in the world. His Grace kens the stars well, too. Any true Highlander does,” MacLiesh said warmly. “For we navigate by the night sky.”

  “Do you?” she asked with wonder.

  “Och, yes. When they are no’ covered with clouds.”

  She leaned forward slightly, unable to hide her enthusiasm. “Will you teach me?”

  The butler beamed at the importance she had given him. “Aye, Yer Grace, if ye wish it. But ye must be braw to go out into the Scottish night.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I do think I can be braw if I try.”

  The servants all waiting in line to meet her shared smiles and surprised looks.

  No doubt, many had thought the fine English lady would never venture outside and spend most of her time at her embroidery.

  As Tristan gazed at his new wife, he instantly knew just the opposite was true. Annabelle was a wild thing who hated a cage. He wagered she’d spend most of her life out of doors if given half the chance. He’d give her more than half. He’d give her free rein.

  With that, she easily greeted the rest of the servants.

  He had no idea how she did it, but she spoke to each one as if they would be vitally important to her. As she entered through the great doorway of carved stone, the servants were all grinning, as stunned as he was by the English lady who had won their approval so very quickly.

  But Tristan could not help but wonder if any of what she had done was true. And if she could change herself so quickly, what horrors had she endured to learn to please anyone at any given moment?

  Many, he thought. Many.

  If he had his way, her horrors were at an end. . . but the future was too unsure for him to promise that. He’d long ago learned the dangers of this life.

  His sister was living proof.

  Annabelle was living proof.

  And there was still a promise to a prince and vengeance to be had upon Caxton.

  But here. . . in the Highlands, perhaps she could have a respite from it all. They both could. Perhaps here, he could learn who the real Annabelle Winters was, if she would let him.

  If.

  As he followed his wife into the ancient abode, he could not shake the dark feeling that had taken hold of his heart.

  Annabelle was pursued by a host of old ghosts and it would take a great deal of sea, glen, and Highland stars to exorcise her of them, if they could be exorcised at all.

  Chapter 15

  Annabelle stretched slowly and smiled. Feelings of contentment slipped over her like a warm, secure embrace.

  She jolted. Her eyes snapped open.

  Something was wrong.

  In all her life, she’d never once awoken to such a feeling.

  She couldn’t breathe. Holding as still as possible, she surveyed her situation.

  The strong, warm body of a man was beside hers. His naked, outstretched form of carved sinew angled around hers protectively.

  The soft linen and feather bed, held her like a gentle cloud.

  The high canopy of the bed was a rich burgundy, embroidered with golden flowers.

  Exquisite, butter-yellow sunlight danced over the bed, pouring in through tall, narrow windows to her left.

  The remaining embers of a fire glowed in the tall hearth. The scent of oak and sea surrounded her.

  She forced herself to draw in a long, calming breath.

  As if he sensed her pulling away, Tristan’s strong arms wrapped about her and urged her back into his embrace.

  It was tempting to try to extricate herself but, instead, she gave in to the feeling, determined to understand it.

  Was this. . . was this what safety felt like?

  It was such a rich, pleasant sensation, causing her to soften.

  All her life, she’d awoken ready to face hell. For she’d never known what fresh new difficulty might meet her eyes once she opened them.

  But somehow. . . here in the Highlands, she’d been at ease.

  And the most powerful sensation swept over her.

  She was home.

  Tears stung her eyes at the thought. Absurd! The very idea was absolute madness. She had no home. She never had and she never would. The only home she’d known had been over a tavern in cheap rooms with rotten walls, paid for by her criminal father.

  Then she’d been on the streets. . . before they’d locked her away.

  And yet, as she laid there in the duke’s arms, in their ducal room in an ancient castle, she felt. . . a song inside her heart. A song that had been muted since she was the tiniest of girls. In fact, she wasn’t certain she’d ever truly felt it.

  It was the song of belonging and home.

  It terrified her. Yet, her instinct had always been exceptional. Could she trust them now?

  Logic told her that all good things ended. Abruptly and usually cruelly. So, she would not think this was her home.

  She wouldn’t allow herself. To risk the pain she’d known so long ago when she’d once hoped for a home when her uncle had come to collect her. . .

  Swallowing back the sadness at such memories, she instead focused on the delicious scent of lavender and wood smoke that surrounded her.

  There was a gentle knock at the door and the panel swung open to reveal a plump and rather short young maid, her mob cap bouncing about a freckled face.

  The girl entered the room, bearing a heavy tray
as though it weighed no more than a feather.

  She placed it easily on the long dark wood table that looked as if it might be from the time of James I himself.

  “Good morning,” Annabelle decided to say quietly from the bed.

  The maid jumped then turned, her lips curving in a cheeky grin. “Good morning, Yer Grace. Mrs. MacGregor thought ye might have a fierce hunger this morn.”

  “Why, thank you,” Annabelle replied kindly. “I have.”

  The girl kept on as if being in the room with her master and mistress in bed together was the most normal thing in the world.

  “I’m to be yer personal maid.”

  “How wonderful. Your name?” Annabelle asked, feeling her way in this new territory, determined to get along with all that she could.

  “Mairead.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Mairead grinned, keeping her gaze slightly averted. “Can I fetch ye anything, Yer Grace?”

  “I don’t have a clean robe.” After all, she had all but bolted from her uncle’s home.

  Mairead frowned but then she beamed. “I’ll fetch one of His Grace’s. I doubt he shall mind.”

  “I agree,” Annabelle replied happily.

  The maid pattered quickly to the giant armoire at the end of the room and dared to invade the domain of the duke’s manservant which meant that he couldn’t be a holy terror as her uncle’s man had been.

  Mairead easily whipped a dark green robe from the vast cupboards and brought it to the bed.

  “Would ye like assistance?” Mairead asked, though she looked a bit flummoxed as how next to proceed.

  “No, Mairead,” Annabelle assured, tucking the blankets about her. “But I was hoping you might help me organize my room later.”

  “Yer room?” Mairead asked with a blank stare.

  “The duchess’ room,” Annabelle clarified.

  Mairead blinked. “Och. I doona think there is one.”

  Well, that was a rare thing and a surprise. She had not realized she would dwell with Ardore and not be sent to her own room most of the time. She found the idea. . . welcome.

  “I see,” said Annabelle with a smile.

  Mairead nibbled her lower lip. “I can always ask, Mr. MacLiesh.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I shall be very happy here.”

  Mairead sighed with relief, clearly worried she’d disappointed her new mistress. “I’ll have yer laundered things brought up soon. Will yer trunks arrive this week?”

  Oh, dear. Of course. They’d assume her things would be arriving. How on earth would she explain that she came to the marriage with nothing but a single change of gown and the clothes on her back?

  She wouldn’t. It was as simple as that. She’d brave it out with a laugh.

  “I’ve left all my things behind.”

  The maid cocked her head to the side, her strawberry curls bouncing about her face. There was a moment as if she considered what that might mean. “Och. And isna that the best? A new land, a new life, a new wardrobe.”

  Annabelle couldn’t stop the sudden laugh that bubbled from her throat. “I’m so glad you agree.”

  “Good morning to ye, Mairead,” a sleepy, gruff voice said from beside Annabelle.

  Mairead’s cheeks bloomed red, and she chirped, “Good morning, Yer Grace.”

  And with that, the girl bobbed a quick curtsy and dashed out the door.

  “She’s gone?” Ardore asked from beneath the blankets.

  “Yes. Did you scare her?”

  “I doona think so,” he said, tugging the goose down quilt from his face. “But even Mairead might no’ wish to speak with a naked duke.”

  She quirked a smile at her beautiful husband. “Whereas I have no such qualms.”

  “Glad I am to hear it.”

  She eyed the tray across the room. “However, I am starving. So. . .”

  “Mmmm.” He nuzzled her neck. “But the bed is so deliciously warm.”

  “So is whatever is on the tray,” she pointed out, knowing that if they started now, they would be in the bed for a considerable time.

  “A wise point, wife,” he said, as he quickly pulled back the blanket entirely from his hard frame and swung his naked legs over the side.

  He stood and crossed to the tray.

  Watching Ardore move was really quite a marvel.

  He was perfectly at ease with his nakedness. All sinew and strength, he looked like a lazy cat, but likely with the power of a lion.

  “Come then, lass. Join me,” he urged as he unceremoniously poured himself a cup from the coffee pot.

  Her stomach did a most unladylike rumble, a thing she could not recall it doing since the days in which she’d known starvation. Over the years, she’d become accustomed to self-denial. But now, it appeared her body was beginning to awaken.

  Taking herself in hand, she slipped out of bed and pulled his robe on. It dwarfed her and surrounded her with his scent. For one moment, she longed to simply hold it close about her and feel. . . safe.

  Which was also madness. She couldn’t trust her husband. She knew so little about him. Only that he hated the same men she did.

  As she neared the tray, she eyed the plethora of choices and felt overwhelmed.

  Her uncle had been very strict in what she was allowed to consume.

  All her life, she’d been controlled in one way or another, grasping at freedom wherever she could.

  Now, as she stood looking down at the array of food, she hesitated.

  At all the inns, he had selected the food to be sent up to their rooms. Oh, he’d asked her what she preferred but, given her experience, she quickly asserted that she preferred he choose.

  Now, there was toast with a colorful assortment of jams. Fruited scones sat upon a delightful, flowered porcelain plate. Muffins had been browned to perfection. There was a small jug of cream. Several bowls of preserved fruit also nestled in amongst the offerings.

  Tea and coffee were both there.

  “What would ye like?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “I-I don’t know.”

  The words should have felt so simple but, instead, they were momentous. Because truthfully, she did not know.

  Where should she begin?

  All her life, she’d known so little choice.

  To be overwhelmed by a tray of breakfast items? How foolish!

  He stared at her carefully, his coffee cup freezing midair. “Annabelle?”

  She forced a smile and snatched up a scone. “Yes?”

  “Something is amiss.”

  “Of course not,” she protested with too much cheer.

  He gazed at her with a look so kind it was almost her undoing.

  “Ye doona have to discuss it,” he said softly, “but I will listen if ye’d like me to.”

  She shook her head and quickly took the smallest amount of butter and spread it smoothly over the scone. Slowly, she took a bite, ensuring no crumbs fell.

  There must never be crumbs.

  As the sweet notes of the bready food touched her tongue, she nearly swooned. It was. . . heaven.

  Slowly, she chewed, savoring every moment before she allowed herself another bite.

  Suddenly, she realized he was still watching her.

  “Am I so very fascinating?” she asked.

  “Yes.” His brow furrowed. “I doona think I have ever seen anyone eat with such care.”

  Then again, he’d never met many starved people. She said nothing. Instead, she smiled and took another bite. She wasn’t about to tell him how she’d been caned for eating too quickly when she’d come to her uncle’s house.

  Or how, as a girl, she’d scraped spilled porridge off a floor to eat.

  No, he did not need to know those things.

  Those things were secrets she would never whisper.

  “Tea or coffee?” he asked.

  “I have never had coffee. Ladies don’t—”

  “My mother adored co
ffee,” he said brightly.

  She bit down on her lip before she disparaged his mother, finding herself at sea. “Oh?”

  “Mmm.” He nodded, his dark hair caressing his brow boyishly. “Now, of course, if ye wish tea, here it is. But doona be afraid of trying this. It gives one surprising verve.”

  Verve.

  “Well, if you recommend it,” she said, forcing a smile, even as her insides fluttered with the surprise that a mere breakfast could bring.

  “Och, I canna say enough.”

  Much to her shock, he took the silver coffee pot and easily poured the dark liquid into one of the delicate porcelain cups.

  “Now, lass, I take mine black but some say they canna. So, they supplement it with cream and a touch of sugar.”

  “I think I should try it unadulterated,” she said quickly. “After all, one should know the substance of a thing before they go about changing it.”

  He lifted his brows. “Well said. One might say that about life.”

  “An unadulterated life?” she queried, accepting the cup from him. “Is even such a thing possible, Your Grace?”

  “Tristan,” he said softly. “Ye must never call me Yer Grace again.”

  “Surely Ardore will do,” she replied, suddenly feeling that to call him Tristan would be an intimacy far greater than sharing a bed with him.

  “I thought we were to try things unadulterated,” he reminded her, his voice a gentle rumble. “Tristan is my most true name. My closest name to self.”

  “Named after a man who risked all for love,” she said suddenly. “Is it apt?”

  He was silent and, to her shock, she realized that, yes, yes it was. Tristan was a man who would die for those he loved. He would die for his beliefs. Before coin, before power, he would protect those he loved and it took her breath away.

  Chapter 16

  Annabelle did the unthinkable.

  She snatched up her bonnet and, without a hint of hesitation, she dashed down the worn stone stairs of the great castle. She headed through the great hall, which led to the foreboding portcullis. And once she had crossed through that ominous-looking entrance, she headed out into the cold air.

  Several servants looked up from their work at her with a great deal of curiosity. After all, it wasn’t usual for duchesses to go out unattended, but she needed to be alone just now.