Anyone But a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  Blast his infernal hide, he was deluding to himself if he thought he couldn’t love anyone but—

  Love?

  If she hadn’t been lying down, she would have dropped like a plank.

  She was falling head over heels in love with Arthur Michael Randolph Graham.

  * * *

  Arthur’s night was no more restful. He paced his room as his mind raced. He couldn’t get Sarah out of his head. His entire life was in chaos and all he could think about was kissing her, touching her, making love to her. Even if she returned his feelings and they acted on that desire, where would they be? He could hardly expect a young woman of her age and status to consider a man whose future and fortune had been signed away and whose past was bizarre enough to send any respectable family into spasms.

  In the library tonight he’d been a stammering idiot. What was it about him that made it hard to find words when words were the most important thing in the world?

  “But, you’re so much younger than me and you’re Daisy’s sister . . . you’re so much more than I deserve.” He shook his head in chagrin. “And I’m crazy about you. I’ve been all around the world searching for my heart and soul and I come back to find them right here at Betancourt.”

  Why the hell was that so hard to say?

  As the sun was coming up, he bathed and shaved . . . during which he stared at himself in the mirror. Years of exploration and deprivation had carved any refinement he might have had out of his face and frame. In his usual garb, he could be mistaken for one of the outlaws plaguing Betancourt. Except for his “girlie hair.” He had a flash of memory of Sarah curling her fingers in it and was tempted to—no, something had to be done with his hair.

  Forced to dress once again in his rescued shirt, riding breeches, and boots, he thought about the clothes he’d left behind and headed down the hall to his old room. In his chest and wardrobe he found trousers—the waist was too big. And coats—his shoulders strained the seams. And shoes that fortunately still fit him. There were even some small clothes. But no shirts. With his stomach growling, he headed for the kitchen and the servants’ hall.

  He met Mazie in the upper hall and asked if there was a tailor in the village who might be able to take in his old trousers and see about his coats.

  “Sikes.” She paused to think, which must have been painful considering the way it screwed up her face. “Nary a shop, sarr. But Ol’ Bertie were a seamstress back in the day. Still ’as eyes like an eagle. She’s a wonder, she is.”

  He nodded, taking it under advisement.

  Breakfast was underway in the servants’ hall, but Old Edgar put down his napkin and rose unsteadily the minute Arthur entered their dining room. The old fellow glared at the servants who remained seated until they, too, rose in their master’s presence.

  Arthur was stunned. It took a moment for him to realize that word of Red’s confirmation of his identity had spread through the staff. God bless them, they were responding as if he were still the duke. Instinctively, he nodded to recognize their gesture.

  Then Edgar astonished him and everyone around the table with a half-mumbled, “Welcome back, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Edgar.” His throat tightened. “It’s good to be home.”

  A moment passed before Young Ned realized he had to step in. “We’ll see to your breakfast straightaway, Your Grace.” The underbutler ushered Arthur back out into the hall and hurried to the kitchen to inform Cook.

  Arthur’s breakfast was served minutes later, in the breakfast room. As the morning brightened and he fortified himself with eggs, sausages, scones, and coffee, Old Edgar’s words rumbled around in his head until they penetrated every layer of his being.

  Your Grace.

  The old butler and even Young Ned addressed him—saw him—as the lord of Betancourt. They seemed pleased to have him back.

  It struck him like a thunderbolt: Why wouldn’t they? He had been their duke . . . and until Ashton showed his arse on the property, he still was their duke.

  Betancourt needed a duke, damn it. Yesterday proved it. There were destructive forces about, and the estate needed someone to take the situation in hand. Sarah was determined and clever and had the gumption of three men. He wouldn’t put it past her to go after the outlaws with six-guns blazing. But she had no regard for the odds in a fight—he’d seen her take on four men without blinking. And who knew how many they would face before that gang was rooted out and security was restored.

  He, on the other hand, had judgment and fighting skills honed by experience. More importantly, he felt an obligation—no, a genuine love for his birthplace, his home. He owed it to Betancourt to step up and fulfill the responsibilities he was born to, no matter what the future might bring.

  And he owed it to Sarah. He had handled that business last night with about as much grace as a water buffalo bollocks-deep in mud. He was so worried about making promises he couldn’t keep and compromising her that he ended up making an arse of himself and embarrassing her.

  Well, he had already made her a promise, a big one, about her horse. And he had to start fulfilling it straightaway. Fortunately, he had an idea of where to begin.

  * * *

  Betany was stirring as he rode into the village and stopped by the inn to learn where the prisoner was being kept. Bascom escorted him to Pankhurst’s barn, where a brick storeroom was used by the county constables for detentions.

  The padlock on the door was formidable and the openings to the storeroom—the heavy oak door and one high window—were secured by iron bars. When Pankhurst turned the key and scuttled back, Arthur braced and opened the door.

  Against the far wall of the small room, the man known as Steig was sprawled on a straw-stuffed mattress. His beard had grown, his hair was shaggy, and he was rumpled and irritable looking.

  More than a week in such confinement had taken a toll on him. But he sat up, blinked at the light streaming in the door, and growled.

  “You.” He propped his arms on his upraised knees. “Whadda you want?”

  “So much for introductions.” Arthur stepped inside the room, settled his feet a shoulder’s width apart and propped his fists on his waist. “You want out of here?”

  “Does a hawk want to fly?” he answered. Then he studied Arthur for a moment. “It was just a friendly little dustup.”

  Arthur sighed. Negotiating already. This Steig knew the game well enough.

  “I’ve got questions,” he said. “If you’ve got answers, you might talk your way free.”

  Steig studied him with a scowl, clearly suspicious of that offer. “Where’d you learn to fight?” he asked.

  “Shipboard under a captain as rotten as they come. Where’d you learn knife work?”

  “Shipboard.” Steig gave a rueful grin. “Royal Navy. ’Til I got tired o’ rotten hardtack, pissed-in grog, and sweet navy discipline.”

  “And since then?”

  “Tried a bit of bare-knuckle fightin’ in London.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Ended up back on the docks.”

  Arthur nodded, assessing the man and the information.

  “You want to take a swing at me?” he offered, testing the waters. “Free and clear, to square things up? I got a little help at our last encounter.”

  Steig sat straighter, eyes narrowing. “You gonna pay me for it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Steig relaxed back. “Then I’ll pass.”

  Arthur leaned back against the door behind him, crossing his ankles and tucking his arms over his chest.

  “Who were those men you were with that night at the inn?” he asked.

  The big man shrugged. “One calls hisself Gil, the other answers to Mace. I was in a tavern, keepin’ the trade friendly for the barman, when they offered to buy me a drink and said they needed a head or two cracked. They offered me money and said there could be a tidy bit more.”

  “Did they say where or why?”

  Steig gave a dark chuckle. “I didn’t ask
and they didn’t say. Best not to know, in my experience.”

  Arthur nodded. He’d met a number of men with that same philosophy. Not bad men, per se; just survivors who did what they had to in order to get by. “That pair’s not smart enough to plan anything on their own. You know who they work for?”

  “Just signed on to get paid.” He rose slowly, using the wall behind him for support. “That tavern fight was my first job. A man’s gotta eat.”

  “Yeah, but a man needs more than food,” Arthur said, catching Steig’s gaze and probing it for the core of the man. He saw hard times, resilience, stubbornness, and no small bit of pride. Interestingly, the big sailor didn’t flinch or attempt to evade this inspection. He stood as if before the mast, making his own assessment as he waited for Arthur’s judgment.

  It wasn’t long in coming.

  “If I let you out, I’ll have to vouch for you to the magistrate. Since Bascom here and I are the principle witnesses against you, he’d have to take our word anyway.” Arthur glanced back at Bascom, who gave him a shrug from the doorway. He turned back to Steig. “You willing to go to work?”

  “Doin’ what?”

  “I need someone with judgment and experience . . . someone who doesn’t mind bruising knuckles when the occasion calls for it, but also knows enough not to pick a fight for fighting’s sake.”

  “What’s it pay?” Then Steig cut a look at Bascom’s earnest, law-abiding face. “Forget that—is the food any good? I ain’t had a proper meal in three damned weeks.”

  Arthur glanced at Bascom and together they broke into grins.

  “You’ll be living at Betancourt, where the food and company are both better than you and I deserve. As for pay . . . we’ll see what you’re worth.”

  If there was any question in Arthur’s mind about the course he had set, it was settled when Steig stepped forward and met his outstretched hand.

  “I’m yer man, gov’nor.”

  “Nah, yer not,” Bascom inserted as he watched them shake hands. “Yer the duchess’s man now. She’s the one what runs things up at the manor.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dew was still on the grass when Sarah strode out to the stable that morning, dressed to ride . . . tall boots, split skirt, and a western hat. She was going to choose another horse and go after Fancy. Of the horses trained to saddle, Harley suggested a big, coal-black five-year-old that had shown both sense and speed. Midnight Mercury was clearly one of Dancer’s direct offspring. She noticed Arthur’s mare missing and the old stable man told her he had ridden out earlier in the direction of the village.

  It was just as well, she thought. She wasn’t ready to face him.

  While they saddled Mercury for her, she went to check on Nero’s and Nellie’s puppies. Poor Nellie looked frazzled; she was besieged by seven hungry mouths. She welcomed Sarah with a wagging tail and didn’t seem to mind when Sarah picked up one of the puppies. Sarah cooed and petted the little one and nuzzled her. All seven seemed eager to explore, so on impulse she enlisted Eddie to help her carry them out to the front lawn where they could feel grass for the first time and practice running. Nellie followed anxiously.

  Her other dogs shot out the open front doors to join them. Sarah knelt to play with the puppies and introduce them to Gwenny, Lance, and Morgana. Nero appeared on the path from the stables and came running to see what was happening. He bounded over to nose his babies, and with him in the mix, Nellie’s anxiety melted.

  The parents crouched before the pups to tease and draw them first one way and then another, in a joyful game of keep-away. The little ones rolled and tumbled over each other as they followed their parents around the lawn. The other dogs grew bored with that game and came back to Sarah for attention. They settled on her lap and all around her.

  She was so preoccupied that at first she didn’t see the men walking a horse up the long drive. Play between parents and puppies halted as Nero spotted them and stationed himself protectively between them and his family.

  Arthur paused a few steps from Sarah with a tentative smile.

  “I see you’ve brought them out,” he said, focused on her face.

  “They need exercise,” she answered, looking up, giving the hulking man beside him a critical eye. “Who is this?”

  “Our new employee, Steig.” He turned to the big man. “Meet the duchess of Betancourt. You’ll want to stay on her good side.”

  “I can see that.” Steig’s gaze was glued to the guns on her hips.

  Arthur followed Steig’s stare to the same sight and his jaw dropped as she stood up.

  Just then Red came limping from the house, calling, “There you be. Shoulda known I’d find ye in a pile of critters.” He approached with a grin. “Those belong to that big beast of—whoa, Nellie.” He stared at the revolvers she wore. “Those are my guns.”

  “They were,” she answered, meeting Red’s scrutiny with her own. “You left them in London. I thought they might come in handy, and it appears I was right. A woman has to look to her own protection these days.”

  “I’ll do the protectin’ around here,” Red declared. “Hand ’em back.”

  “Come an’ get ’em.” She crossed her arms and glowered, daring him to try retrieving them.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Red looked to Arthur. “Don’t get in her way, son. She’s got a mood on, an’ she does a mean quick-draw.”

  “I can imagine.” Arthur tried to gauge the seriousness of the glint in her eyes. “I’ve seen her shoot.” Then he crossed his arms and stepped closer to her. “Just what the hell are you doing, duchess?”

  “I’m going after Fancy,” she said with determination that registered in all three men’s faces. “And don’t call me duchess.”

  Arthur stiffened and an instant later risked life and limb to put an arm around her and pull her a distance away from the others. She stopped, wrenched free, and faced him with rising ire.

  “Don’t ever set hands to me like that again.” Her tone was fierce.

  “You can’t strap on guns and go rampaging about the countryside.” His arms twitched with the urge to do something she had just warned him not to attempt. “Much less, alone.”

  “I’m going to get Fancy back.”

  “No, I’m going to get Fancy back, as I promised. What do you think I hired Steig for?”

  She looked at the hulking brute who was engaged in a stare-down with Nero, and then at her uncle, who was glowering at her. Just as she was about to loudly declare her independence from their blasted opinions, Arthur bent to catch her gaze in his and said the most disarming thing imaginable.

  “I’ll risk life and limb to bring him back to you. I know how much he means to you.” His voice lowered and softened in a way that made his words unmistakably genuine. “I hope that’s enough to convince you not to risk yourself unnecessarily, because that’s all I’ve got.”

  “You can risk yourself, but I’m not allowed to?” she said, looking into his dove-gray eyes and feeling her anger fading.

  “Risking myself for this place is my destiny, my reason for being born.” He had the grace to look a little chagrinned. “It took six years and a lot of knocking around to get it through my thick head, but I’ve finally figured it out. Betancourt needs protection and that’s what I was born to do. But protecting you is my choice. I don’t want anything to happen to you . . . you’re too . . . too . . .”

  “What?” She was not about to let him stammer his way out of telling her how he felt this time, for good or for ill. “I’m too what?”

  “Precious.”

  Dear Lord. It was like a giant hand squeezed her chest. For a moment she couldn’t get her breath. When she could draw air, her heart began racing and she felt prickles at the corners of her eyes. After a long minute, she delved into her skirt pocket, produced a hoof knife, and thrust the handle at him. She could see in his expression that he understood that she was handing over Fancy’s welfare to him, including care of her handsome four-legger’s injured ho
of.

  Without another word, she unbuckled the gun belt and headed for the house. As she passed Red, she thrust the guns into his hands.

  * * *

  Her shoulders were back, her head was high. The Queen of Egypt couldn’t have looked more regal as she entered the house. Arthur’s heart ached and his chest felt swollen; it was hard to draw a breath. He looked at Red and Steig.

  “Don’t know what you said to her, son,” the old prospector said as he wrapped the gun belt around his revolvers. “But th’ next time I have to meet with bankers, I’m takin’ you with me.”

  He looked at Steig, who was still watching Nero closely.

  “He gonna take my arm off if I touch one o’ his pups?” the big man asked.

  “Hard to say,” Arthur said, watching the standoff. A ridge of hair on Nero’s back was standing upright. “He’s taken me to the ground before.”

  “Had me a dog when I was a kid. She had a litter—it’s been a while since I saw pups.” He looked up with a wry expression. “A bit soft on dogs.”

  Arthur and Red grinned at each other.

  “You landed in the right place, old son.” Red broke into a laugh.

  Arthur put a hand on Steig’s shoulder and urged him toward the side of the house and the kitchen door.

  “Let’s get you some food.”

  * * *

  Arthur introduced Steig to Old Edgar, Young Ned, and Cook, who eagerly fulfilled Arthur’s request that she feed the big man a good breakfast. News of the addition to Betancourt’s staff spread quickly and the servants all found reason to return to the servants’ hall to meet him.

  He caused quite a stir, especially among the female staff. Cook was fascinated by the amount of food he could put away and Dolly couldn’t stop staring at his big hands and broad shoulders. Mazie and Deidre argued over who would show him upstairs to his room and help him find the necessaries.