Only You: Duke of Rutland Series III

by Elizabeth St. Michel

  Her eyes widened in horror. Were those hair pieces? No wonder there was only one small window. The room was a torture chamber.

  He laughed, rubbed his ballocks. “Trophies, pickled and preserved. Like dumb neglected lap-dogs, the whores fawned over me never realizing their fate. I scalped them, just like those savages I draw inspiration from in the Colonies. When I’m alone, I come in here and toss myself off by grabbing my cock and pretending I’m slamming it in you, Lucretia.”

  He had mentioned his fascination with the Indians at the ball. She inched closer to the oil lamp lay on the table. She pressed down into the mattress. She could do this. She survived the Santanas, a hurricane, an island. She stretched her hand. Damn. If only she could reach the lamp. “What happened to the second prostitute?” She wiggled provocatively beneath him, felt his arousal.

  She strained and stretched her free hand, while he recanted his sick story with zeal. Tears came to her eyes. She condemned self-pity. Surely, her arm would detach. Her fingers seized upon the bottom of the lamp, pulled it closer.

  “When I finished with her, I scalped her alive. You should have heard her screams,” he panted.

  Alexandra knew what he had planned for her. She grabbed the middle of the lamp and smashed it on his head. Glass shards exploded everywhere. He went limp on top of her. She shoved his body off her. Fire spread with oil across the bed and him. Hands shaking, she searched his pockets for the key, the flames whipsawing and burning her hands. The room filled with smoke.

  Dear God, she’d be trapped in an inferno. She swallowed the sour taste in her mouth, searched his breast pockets. Nothing. Bending further to explore his inner pockets, she heard him moan. Hurrying, she searched his pants pocket, nearly weeping when she found a set of keys.

  Reaching the door, she pushed the key in the lock. Turn. Please open. She heard a scream behind her. Saw him get up, a fiery blast, coming to her.

  “Lucretia,” he screamed just as she flung open the door and ran out. She heard a thump behind her and turning, saw Cornelius writhing on the floor, screaming. He deserved what he got, but she couldn’t just let him die like that. She grabbed a rug from the floor and beat on him to stop the fire. But when it was out, he lay there, a charred corpse. Fire licked up the drapes.

  She tossed the rug over him, and ran to the next room. Keys jangling, she rammed one by one into the lock. The last one turned and Rachel opened the door. She hugged her. We must go in different directions in case one of us is caught by a guard, the other can still escape. Rachel disappeared toward the left wing and Alexandra pivoted to the right. She passed one hallway after another. The manor was vast. Men’s voices snarled below.

  She tiptoed down the stairs and peeked around the doorway. Nicholas, Anthony and Duke Richard were held by seven armed men. Alexandra grabbed a candlestick in the hall. Just then, one of the thugs came out of the room. She brought the candlestick up high. When he moved past her, she swung with all her might and hit him over the head. He slumped to the floor.

  Smelling smoke, a cold shard of fear jagged up Nicholas’s spine. But then he saw her by the doorway. His heart leaped nearly out of his chest. Alive. Thank God, she was alive. A wave of relief washed over him…but her face looked purpled and bruised on one side and she was wearing only her chemise. His blood boiled into a heated rage. He’d kill that bastard Cornelius.

  His relief dissolved as quickly, and he warned her away with his eyes to stay hidden. But a guard came out the door next to her. That was when he saw the candlestick in her hand and the deadly look on her face when she swung the candlestick. The guard went down, out cold. Or dead.

  Now, the fool woman was trying to take down Westbrook’s men. And she was going to get herself killed.

  Nicholas turned to the guards holding him. “Just six of you this evening?” Never a problem.

  One of the thugs smacked his toothless gums together. The edges of his beard and moustache were yellowed with his drool. “What do you mean, just six?”

  “Can you do subtraction? Your other companion is obviously rendered useless.”

  “I don’t understand,” said the runt of the litter. He was short, narrow shoulders, long arms that dangled and feet that might serve for shovels.

  Nicholas growled. “Anthony, do you remember the night in London near Hyde Park and Piccadilly?” The night we pummeled six hoodlums who attacked us.

  “With pleasure,” Anthony said.

  “I told you blokes to keep yer mouths shut,” the giant said. The wart on his face was spectacular. Could be where his brain was stored. He put his gun down on the desk.

  Dimwit. Westbrook didn’t hire the brightest. A little more intellect and the giant could be a cabbage.

  “Now,” shouted Nicholas.

  Anthony leaped like a panther, taking care of the two thugs closest to him.

  Nicholas zeroed in on the three in front of him. They formed up like an advancing line of slovenly soldiers, hands loose by their sides. In the middle stood the giant with long ape-like arms, feet thick like cotton bales, his neck as wide as a man’s hands splayed side by side, and his shoulders, wide enough to hold a double oxen’s yoke. His two flanking companions looked like children, folding out in front. They’d receive his first line of attack. Easy enough. The giant would need trimming.

  His father grabbed the gun off the desk and swung it on the sixth man.

  The thug to the right dropped an iron bar from his sleeve, ready to hit Nicholas. Before he raised his hand, Nicholas hit him with a right hook. The bar clinked on the wood floor and the thug fell face first on the planks. Nicholas kicked the iron behind him for his father to pick up.

  The other runt gaped, seeing the fate of the first thug crash to the ground in front of his eyes.

  He who hesitates is lost.

  Nicholas slammed him with a full-on punch. He crashed over his companion’s body.

  The surprise was over, and the giant wasn’t a total idiot. No, this guy wanted to use his brute strength which meant he believed he was superior. The remedy for hubris was always a humbling defeat and this man’s head was held too high, trying to breathe from his own vapors. Like Damiano who was divided in two and met his watery grave. Except there was no ocean nearby for the giant to fall.

  Nicholas and the giant stood linked together in a hushed, unchanging rectangle, tense, rocking a little, staying loose, staying limber, eyes locked on each other.

  Did the giant wonder why he wasn’t retreating? Come right ahead and find out.

  The giant came, his wart beet-red and with just a trace of uncertainty in his face. His legs braced, his elbow rising, his intention easy to read. He was going to launch himself at Nicholas and bring his fist down on Nicholas’s head.

  Nicholas charged, a long, fast stride, aiming to finish a helpless opponent, and in less than a second, all the giant’s previous certainty disappeared. He collapsed out of a storming move into a defensive panic. His back arched and his elbow raised. With his momentum, Nicholas shoved the giant’s arm up, making the big man’s punch useless. Nicholas swung high and hard, and with the flat of his knuckles, caught the giant’s jaw. He must have smashed into his back molars, assuming he had any, and the hinge of his jaw hung limp. The giant grasped his jaw, unable to speak turned tail and ran.

  Alexandra screamed.

  Nicholas looked up. Lord Westbrook? He looked like a charred piece of meat…and he had Alexandra in his grip and his gun leveled at Nicholas heart. “I’ve deadly aim, Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas, Cornelius is the one behind everything.” Alexandra fought him. Cornelius gripped her around the neck. Alexandra choked, tore at his arm with her fingers.

  “She’s right. I bribed the guards at Newgate to get Percy Devol and Cuthbert Noot out. We hated all of you.”

  “You, sick bastard,” said Duke Richard Rutland.

  Nicholas took a step closer to Westbrook. He had to get to Alexandra. “All these years, you’ve harbored a grudge against our family?”<
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  “Stop, right there, Nicholas. I’ll shoot her first,” Westbrook warned. “Isn’t it obvious? You had my Lucretia. I have her now. I will kill all of you.”

  Nicholas sweated, inched closer. Lucretia? Alexandra had told him how Cornelius called her the name of his long dead mother. His obsession with Nicholas’s mother never left him after all these years. Alexandra had been uncomfortable about Cornelius from the start. “You have one shot. After that, I’ll kill you.

  “I trusted you, loved you like a father. Why?” said Nicholas.

  “To entice you, to gain your trust I placed a card shark in your path to put you in debt. Your father never knew so heavy in his mourning. I set up the conflicts at Eton so I could bail you out of trouble. The rest was made easy by your propensity for brawling.”

  Silence combed the air. Her misery choked him as he watched blood drip from her head wound and a bruise swell on the right side of her face. The impulse to murder raged through Nicholas’s veins.

  Cornelius waved his gun. “I’ve waited ages for this moment.

  “My late father, the imperial Duke of Westbrook,” Cornelius said, sneering, “had paternal feelings during his last days. Reversed his banishment of me. He never should have.”

  “Why shouldn’t he have ended your banishment?” said Duke Richard.

  A bizarre look gleamed in his one good eye. “Because I killed him.”

  “You killed your father?” Anthony said, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Why shouldn’t I have? Never could please the bastard. I lured him by becoming the penitent son.” Cornelius rasped.

  Nicholas’s father and brother were distracting Cornelius. Good. Smoke curled from the upper floor. Was the house on fire? That would explain Cornelius half-baked appearance. Nicholas crept closer.

  “I smothered the bastard with a pillow. Everyone thought he’d died in his sleep.”

  As Alexandra tried to break away, Cornelius snapped her back, jamming his gun right next to her temple. Alexandra’s whimper went straight to Nicholas’s heart.

  “There is one more,” bragged Cornelius.

  “One more what?” said Duke Richard. Anthony edged from the other side of the room.

  Cornelius rasped out a breath. “Joshua, your son. I have a man in America whom I’ve paid handsomely to kill him. Joshua will die soon.”

  “Who did you send to kill Joshua?” said Duke Richard.

  Nicholas dove onto Alexandra, shoving her out of the way, and then pitched his body into Cornelius. They grappled on the floor, Cornelius possessing the strength of a madman, Nicholas pummeling him with his fists, months of anger released. The men rolled with Nicholas on the bottom. Cornelius clutched his gun and jammed it on the side of Nicholas’s head.

  A shot fired off.

  Cornelius fell to the right, clutching his heart. Smoke curled from Duke Richard’s gun.

  Anthony shook Cornelius. “Who did you send to kill Joshua?”

  “He’s dead, Anthony. I should have killed him years ago,” said the Duke of Rutland. “He’s wreaked enough evil on this family. I will alert Abigail, your sister and Captain Thorne in Boston to warn your brother, Joshua.”

  Nicholas stood and pulled Alexandra into his arms.

  “Oh, Nicholas, I thought you were in London and I thought I’d never see you again,” she said.

  “I have an indefinable instinct for danger. The letter I received hailing my father and I to London was suspicious. Partway there, we returned to discover you and Rachel were missing, never dreaming you would go against my wishes and leave Belvoir. The Rutland driver and guard told us of your bravery that helped them escape and returned to Belvoir. They had recognized the Duke of Westbrook’s coach and we rode here.”

  Alexandra turned in his embrace, her hands flat on his chest. “The note I received was from you, wishing for me to visit Lord Banfield and was penned in your perfect scrawl. Cornelius must have had the note forged.”

  “No doubt.” Nicholas wrapped Alexandra in his coat.

  “Where’s Rachel? said Alexandra glanced around.

  “I’m here,” said Rachel, rushing into Anthony’s arms. “I had made it outside when I heard the shooting. I peeked through the windows and saw everything was under control.”

  “Are you all right, Rachel?” Anthony scrutinized his wife.

  “I’m doing fine. Just get me home.”

  Nicholas smoothed his hand down Alexandra’s back to ease her trembling. How about you? Did Cornelius hurt you?”

  “No. I hit him over the head with an oil lamp.”

  He whispered into her ear, “And the baby?”

  “We’re both fine,” she smiled.

  Fire had reached the upper balconies, smoke and flame now charging through the house, crackling and popping.

  “Let’s get out of here. The whole place will be a tomb of embers,” Anthony said.

  Duke Richard pushed past them and ordered his men from the outside. “Go in and drag out these thugs. Tie them up. We might be able to get answers out of them about who Cornelius sent to the Colonies to kill Joshua.”

  Nicholas picked his wife up in his arms and carried her to the Rutland coach. “When you disappeared, when you were snatched in that madman’s grip, I thought I had lost the sun, the moon and all the stars. I despaired and feared of losing you, not two emotions I want to repeat.”

  “In my heart, I knew you’d come. I love you, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas gazed down at her, nestled up against him, her tousled head resting trustingly against his chest. “How I love you.”

  Epilogue

  Beneath the joyous pealing of church bells, Alexandra clutched Nicholas’s arm as they passed through a cheering throng of well-wishers. The new Lord and Lady Rutland made their way to a white and gold open coach, decorated with hundreds of roses, and drawn by four prancing white horses. Alexandra clutched her bouquet of lilies and roses and was handed into the carriage by Duke Richard.

  “I am very proud to have you in the family, Alexandra.”

  Nicholas’s father touched her heart. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

  Did the proud duke wipe a tear from his eye?

  As the train to her gown of white embroidered satin and lace was tucked in behind her, she turned and waved. Everyone she loved was present except for the King who made his regrets. Aunt Margaret dabbed her eyes. Anthony and Rachel smiled and waved. Samuel, who had given her away, beamed with pride. He had moved from Deconshire to oversee the Sutherland estate with Bainey. The archbishop, Lady Dabney and her son, John were there to cheer them on. Her heart clenched for Nicholas. They had not been able to learn the name of the assassin the Duke of Westbrook had hired and who treacherously sought Joshua in the Colonies.

  Vicar Thompson and his children surprised her, traveling all the way from Deconshire. Of course, Nicholas had kept that a secret. Jay, so fine-looking, had been bribed with cake to wear his new suit. Sylvia and Juliana, her flower girls, took to their job with earnest, by throwing rose petals at them.

  Nicholas whispered into her ear. “At least it’s not apples they are throwing.”

  Alexandra laughed and gazed at her wedding ring. Nicholas had taken the black pearl he had given her on the island and had it set in a nest of winking diamonds.

  She looked at her new husband and her heart burst with pride. Nicholas, handsome in his black velvet frockcoat with gold trim, black breeches and snowy white stockings looked like a prince.

  He patted her hand when he caught her admiring him. “Is this the fairytale wedding you dreamed of, Alexandra?”

  “Yes, it is my fairytale wedding.”

  The horses were tapped and the carriage moved forward.

  “I have a wedding gift for you. Open it up.” He presented her with a rolled parchment.

  “You have given me too much.” She looked at him quizzically, and then untied a ribbon and unrolled the stiff translucent parchment.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “A special d
ecree through the King. There is an island in the Caribbean named, ‘Alexandra Island’ and it belongs to you.”

  She dropped the parchment on her lap and clasped his face with her hands. “Thank you, Nicholas, but what I really want is…you…Only you.”

  Author’s Note

  During the eighteenth century, commerce in the Caribbean was plentiful and so were the wicked hurricanes that downed ships and sailors, plummeting them into watery graves. What if you were like Robinson Crusoe and cast ashore a deserted tropical island? Would you know how to survive with nothing else but your strength and knowledge?

  In Only You, I took artistic license, and blended a mix of Caribbean Islands including, St. Croix, St. Thomas, Dominica, Jamaica, and of course, my beloved Bahamas—the latter of which, I drew most of my inspiration. The Caribbean bursts with adventurous activities, clear waters, and stunning natural sites. The Bahamas is known for its rich history, stunning views, gorgeous turquoise waters, intriguing cays and caves to explore. Of note, are the people, always offering a friendly smile, and warm and welcoming hospitality. So, a delightful story unfolded…

  Acknowledgements

  Most books wouldn’t be written without the help of some special people. I would like to acknowledge Caroline Tolley, my developmental editor and Linda Style, my copy/line editor. Their insight and expertise were indispensable. Hugs also to my spouse, Edward, five children, eight grandchildren, Eugend Dollard, Dr. Marcianna Dollard, Nancy Crawford, Brenda Kosinski, Paula Ursoy, Gabriele and Peter Lorenz, Andrew Albury, and posthumously, Loretta Bysiek−your love and comfort surround me.

  Many thanks to the gracious support of Western New York Romance Writers Group.

  Finally, a special note of gratitude to my readers. You will never know how much your enthusiasm and support enrich my work and my life. You are the best.

  About The Author

  Elizabeth St. Michel, the best-selling author of the Duke of Rutland series (of which Only You is the third installment), has received multiple awards for her work.