by Devon, Eva
Drake paused then cocked his head to the side. His tone of voice was light but there was also a strange, challenging edge to it. “Who is your wife, then?” Drake asked. “Is she a wealthy woman? A woman of title?”
Tristan bit back a quick retort. Drake was no fool. He already knew the answer. The question was rhetorical.
“I think ye already ken the answer to that, Drake,” Tristan replied easily. “I’m sure a man of yer intelligence has already discerned that Annabelle Winters is no’ generally the sort of lady a duke weds.”
Drake nodded is confirmation.
“You’re correct. I do know who she is,” Drake said softly. “And the history that she comes with.”
That surprised Tristan. He barely knew who she was. In fact, he had not had the courage to ask who her father truly was. It astonished him now that he might learn such a thing from his friend, and not from his wife.
He should have known Drake would come armed with such information. Drake knew most everything about everyone, as did Raventon. But if Drake and Raventon had put their minds together, there was absolutely no question that they would know almost everything that there could possibly be known about Annabelle Winters, now the Duchess of Ardore.
The question was, did he wish to know?
Harley stepped forward and said kindly, “You needn’t look so frightened, old boy.”
“Fear,” Tristan scoffed. “What do I have to be afraid of?”
“A great deal really,” Raventon said tightly.
Tristan swallowed.
It wasn’t the reply he’d been hoping for.
“Richard Heath is coming soon,” Drake said with a solemn tone that did not match his usually irreverent persona.
Richard Heath.
Richard Heath ruled the London underworld. He was a duke in every sense except for title.
He had the power. He had the funds. He even had extensive lands. The man knew every important secret there was to be known in the East End of London and, in that, he also knew most of the important secrets of the peerage.
He kept them, too.
For a fee.
If Richard Heath was coming, that meant that his dear Annabelle, his wife, was somehow connected to the London underworld. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Her uncle was a notorious gambler and a dangerous man.
“Will he have the information that I need?” Tristan demanded.
“It depends on what you think you need, of course,” replied Drake. Drake’s eyes narrowed slightly as if, for once, choosing his words with care. “If you wish to know that your wife is a good woman who has never done anything that might cause one to cringe, no, you will not wish to see Richard Heath. For Richard Heath knows where she’s from. He knows what she has done. He knows who she has sold herself to, and he knows who still owns her.”
“I own her,” Tristan ground out. “By the law of the land, she is mine, even if my beliefs doona truly adhere to the idea that she is no more important than an ox, or a house, or a coach, or a horse. I canna own another person. No one can.”
Drake smiled ruefully. “Oh, Tristan. You always were an idealist. Your name truly does suit.”
Tristan grimaced. It was true. He had struggled his entire life to shed the innocence of his childhood and the innocence of his name. Oh, Tristan in the story, of course, had run away with another man’s wife, but it had been for love.
It had not been for power, or for greed, or for money. It had been for love. And the truth was, all his life he had had a heart that had been meant for love.
That heart had only been hardened with the sudden, shocking death of his father, and then with the ruination of his sister. If those things had not had happened, he still likely would think the world was a good and wonderful place full of wonder.
But he was not such a fool now. He knew the world to be dark and sinister. He had seen the cavernous halls of women and children used and abused, destroyed by men like himself and others. He knew the darkness of men’s souls now.
He had seen the blood sport. He had seen animals tear each other apart, and he had also seen the illegal betting which would give most nightmares for the rest of their lives. No, he was no innocent fool now, despite what Drake might think. No. That Tristan was gone.
“What the bloody hell am I going to do?” Tristan abruptly demanded, at a loss.
Drake cocked a smile. “Well, my friend, there’s really only one thing we can do at the moment. Get drunk.”
And Tristan agreed.
At this moment, there was nothing he could do but pass the night with his friends, regaling them with the tale of how he had met his wife. And he’d have to damned well pray a solution came that would suit him over the brandy. A solution that would also suit Annabelle. . . and still gain him the vengeance he so fiercely desired.
Chapter 18
Annabelle had been left largely on her own. It was a most strange thing. Almost all her life, she had someone watching her, whether it was first her mother, then the guards at the workhouse or finally her uncle and his staff.
She’d never been allowed truly to be free without fear of observation and censure. She’d always had to watch and see what others might make of her actions. Now, as she slipped through the shadowy, candlelit corridors of the ancient castle, she felt remarkably unhampered.
It was an astonishing sensation.
Still, she did not feel at ease.
In fact, her freedom almost frightened her. At least there had been some sort of security in knowing she was being watched. She’d known the rules of that game. Now, she had no idea what to expect.
At present, she was uncertain of Tristan’s desires. Did he truly wish her to be free? It was impossible to say, but as her feet pattered along the Axminster rug lining the long hall, she drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to remain calm.
This was a beautiful place to live. It was a place where one’s soul truly could soar, but there was no questioning the fact that dark things had happened in this castle.
It permeated the very air.
It surrounded her.
The sadness touched the stone walls and the tapestries and the portraits lining the hall.
She looked at the faces of those long-lost dukes, of the men who had fought for Scotland and had fought for their clans. They were matched in adjacent portraits of their wives, beautiful women in sumptuous clothes, bedecked in glimmering jewels.
Yet, there was an undeniable sadness to their gaze and a fierceness as well, as though their strength would always outmatch the depth of the tragedies that they had seen in these glorious lands.
And it was clearly true, for the Dukes of Ardore had survived.
Unlike so many, they had not fallen.
The Clearances had not touched his lands.
Tristan was still an all-powerful duke. Yet, there was no question that something was not quite right in this castle.
All that power had not protected Tristan from being touched by tragedy.
What could he possibly wish for in destroying her uncle and the men that were so close to him? He had to have been brushed by their cruel touch to seek them out so deliberately.
What could have caused Tristan such anger that he would be willing to risk everything to destroy her uncle and Caxton?
She paused before a portrait hanging in the long corridor.
It was of a beautiful young girl standing next to Tristan.
Annabelle leaned forward and studied it carefully.
It was a summer painting.
The two were playing in the Highlands and the purple heather glistened and seemed to be waving in the wind. Sunshine bathed the girl’s yellow gown in a buttery soft tone. Her dark hair was piled upon her head and her blue eyes danced merrily as she gazed at Tristan. In this picture, her husband was perhaps not even twenty years old. Perhaps not even eighteen.
He looked so innocent, so kind, and full of happiness. She did not know that man, that man was gone.
Trist
an did not look like a man full of kindness or innocence any longer. Oh, he clearly had compassion, but he was not innocent.
She peered at the faces before her.
Who was the girl beside him?
She looked greatly like Tristan and, because they were together, it seemed she could be only one person, his sister.
Yet, Tristan had never mentioned a sister. If he did have one, where was she now and why did he not speak of her? Was she dead?
It seemed the most likely conclusion. It was so easy to die, whether of illness, accident, or simple chance. Even the wealthy were not protected from death.
The girl she’d seen on her walk into the bens. . . she’d looked like Tristan, too. Only, she was much older than the girl in the painting. But it was clear from Tristan’s age in the portrait that many years had passed since it had been made.
There was something else unquestionably different though.
The young girl in the painting was. . . happy. She had not a fear or worry in the world. Laughter danced in her eyes and her lips were curved in the most delightful of grins, as though she had never been touched with sorrow’s brush.
The young woman she had seen, her cloak whipping about her gaunt frame, had looked as if she had peered into the abyss of hell and only barely survived the sight.
Still, it struck Annabelle that they were the same person.
Could it be true?
Was it simply a coincidence?
There was no ignoring the fact that it was odd that Tristan had not mentioned a sibling.
She’d not known him long enough or well enough for him to have mentioned any wandering, tortured young women that frequented his lands.
Annabelle sighed at her own thoughts.
Why would he mention it?
He barely knew her and he certainly didn’t trust her.
But this. . . this was no ordinary young woman.
As she gazed at the portrait, at the happiness of her husband and the unknown girl caught in that moment, she shivered. The sadness that crept through her was most unexpected. For she had grown used to unhappy ends. Likely, it was because she’d never known joy or real happiness.
Somehow, seeing Tristan and this girl so alive and so full of hopeful promise broke her heart.
A creak behind her grabbed Annabelle’s attention.
She whipped around, her heart pounding. Suddenly, the dark corridor felt as dangerous as any London alley. For she had no idea who might be lurking in the shadows.
“Show yourself,” she commanded.
She all but held her breath as she waited for a reply.
Another floorboard creaked but, this time, the sound of retreating footsteps filled the air.
Those light steps headed down towards the east wing.
Annabelle hesitated for only a second and then, driven by some impossible and inexplicable need to follow, she ran after the sound before she could stop herself.
She’d known danger all her life and she wasn’t about to start living in fear in her new home.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she sped along the moonlit hall. “Stop,” she called loudly.
But whoever she was pursuing did not cease in their flight.
Just as Annabelle was about to give up, she caught a glimpse of a yellow skirt flicker around a corner.
She renewed her speed and whipped around the corner only to be met with a dead end.
She frowned.
How was this possible?
A tapestry hung upon the stone wall at the end of the hall. The image of a lady fair lounging beside a silver stream while a knight knelt before her had been artfully stitched into the hanging.
Annabelle frowned.
She knew she wasn’t mistaken. This was where the footsteps had gone. They’d been light, fleet. Almost childlike.
She stilled before the tapestry. Quickly, she glanced about the stone walls, looking for any sign of a secret door. When at last she found nothing, she knew there was only one recourse.
Tentatively, she took the edge of the heavy tapestry in her fingertips and pulled it to the side.
A narrow wood door with black hinges and a black latch stared back at her.
She bit her lower lip. She knew she hadn’t been mistaken. But did she dare open it and venture to discover what lay beyond?
Perhaps she should ask Tristan first.
But he was engaged.
She had heard the sound of several male voices gathered below, earlier. And she was in no mood to wait, no mood to be subservient as she had always been forced to be.
So, she grabbed the black latch with her free hand and pulled it.
The door opened swiftly and quietly to reveal a set of winding, narrow stone steps.
The steep steps themselves were deeply grooved with the hundreds of feet that had tread upon them over the last several hundred years.
She peered up, but the stairs curved tightly and she could see nothing but the faint glow of firelight bathing the stones.
Annabelle swallowed then, without looking back, she lifted her skirts and began the climb upwards and into the mystery of her new home.
Chapter 19
Bloody hell. He was married.
To a woman who was the neice of one of the most evil bastards in England.
The brandy poured down Tristan’s throat like water. All the dukes had gone up to sleep. All save himself and Drake. And here, in front of the fire, in their silence, he could at last confront the events that had befallen him.
After the last several days of racing away from Annabelle’s uncle and the failed chance at killing the man most responsible for destroying his sister’s life, the fact of it had crashed down upon him.
Here in Drake’s company, before the roaring fire, bottle and snifter in hand, he allowed himself to truly accept it. Much to his amazement, he wasn’t dismayed to be married to Annabelle. Och, no. He liked her all too well. It was the situation that had caused their marriage that drove him mad.
“Christ, Tristan,” Drake said. “I can see it on your face.”
“What do ye see?” demanded Tristan.
“You’re bloody tormented,” Drake replied.
“Och. Tormented,” Tristan mocked. “That’s a bit dramatic, isna it?”
Drake lifted his snifter and took a long sip of the brandy. “Is it? I don’t think it is. I’ve known you for years. I’ve known the way you’ve never been able to keep secrets, at least not from me.”
“No, ye’re the true master of secrets,” Tristan agreed.
Drake quirked his devil may care smile. “It’s true, but I’ve had a great deal more practice than you.”
“I’ve gotten quite good at it, ye ken,” Tristan replied.
“Oh, I’m certain you have,” Drake agreed. “You’ve had good reason for it in the last year.”
“I have,” Tristan agreed without pride. “But now. . .”
Drake stared at him. “You like her. In fact, you feel something for her. Now the question is, what are you going to do about it?”
Tristan hesitated. “I’ve married her.”
“That doesn’t really mean anything,” Drake replied. “You can stuff her in a castle somewhere, farther north even than this. You never have to see her again. You never have to talk to her. You can give her to the prince if you want to. There’s really nothing that’s tying you to her except for feelings of noblesse oblige, old boy.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps some of us are more noble than ye.”
Drake threw his head back and laughed. “Well, we few know that I don’t come from honorable beginnings. I’m self-motivated, and I’m self-centered. And secret of secrets, I don’t have an ounce of blue blood in my veins.”
Tristan sighed. “Drake, ye’re the bloody most noble one of us all.”
“Am I?” Drake mocked. “I’m not quite so certain about that.”
“Well, I am,” Tristan returned. “Ye might wish the world would think ye a total rogue
, but I ken the truth. Yer heart is the best of all of us.”
Drake groaned. “Oh, hell and damnation. You’re going quite foolish on me, aren’t you? To say such a thing is bloody romantic, and bloody dramatic, and something that only you would say. You don’t know me at all.”
“I ken ye verra well,” insisted Tristan, refusing to give in to his friend’s poor view of himself. “I ken ye far more than ye wish to admit. We all do, every single one of us in the club.”
Drake rubbed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll accept that. That’s true. I let you all in slowly, every single one of you. You all seem to give me no choice. And it was wonderful, finally having friends, finally having people who didn’t care that my parents hated me or that I grew up with a stutter. But I see that you are facing a great demon inside of you.”
Drake drew in a long breath. “Now, what are we to do about that? Do you love her?”
Tristan drew out a long breath. He tried to answer, but he couldn’t. Love her? He barely knew her.
Such a thing would be absurd to even consider. But then again, he couldn’t deny the fact that his feelings for her were exceptionally strong.
From the moment he met her in the dark that night, outside of her uncle’s house, he had felt a kinship to her, an affinity. He had wanted to take her in his arms even then.
But when he’d discovered who she was, he’d thrust her away, certain that she was a devil herself. Even so, he’d been fascinated by her, drawn to her, and he still was.
He could have turned down the prince’s offer.
He could have condemned her to a horrible fate, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d married her. He’d whisked her away and taken her to Scotland. And he was now protecting her, and still trying to decide how he could best protect her from the cruelties of the world.
There was no escaping the fact that Drake was absolutely right. He could just put her in a castle somewhere in the north, or he could still give her to the prince, and there would be little thought to it. After all, it had been done time and time again.
The wives of great men had been given to royalty over and over with little said about it. In fact, if he did, as promised by Brunel, he might just secure more land, more fortune, more titles, and more prestige for himself.