My Forbidden Duchess

by Minger, Miriam

  “Something amuses you, my lord?” she said softly, not surprised when he shot a glance at the door.

  “I believe we might have awoken our neighbors. Or at least, you did.”

  “Me?” A blush fired her cheeks though she knew he teased her. “What of you, husband? I heard that roar of yours and I’m certain the rest of the inn did, too!”

  He laughed and bent his head to kiss her, Marguerite’s hands reaching up to cradle his face. Not a ravenous kiss or a lusty kiss, but so sweet and loving and gentle that she felt a swelling of emotion unlike anything she’d known before.

  How she loved him! Might he feel the same way about her, too? She prayed it was so, dear Lord, she prayed it was so!

  Yet when he raised his head to stare down at her again, this time he shifted his hips and to her surprise, she felt him swelling hard within her.

  “Did you think once was enough for me, wife?”

  His husky query made her shift her hips, too, which made him suck in his breath and begin to move slowly…oh so slowly, in and out of her.

  “I’m quite new to this, my lord, but I like it very much. If anyone’s left sleeping, shall we wake them?”

  Her low giggle was silenced by his kiss, not gentle at all this time but as wild and impassioned as the way she kissed him back.

  Chapter 11

  Walker stepped quietly into the bedchamber, not surprised that Marguerite still lay asleep.

  They’d had a very busy early morning until they had both collapsed from exhaustion, Walker allowing himself only a couple hours of sleep before arising to fetch them a late breakfast. He gestured for the young serving maid to carry in a tray loaded with tea, scones, wild blackberry jam, and butter, and set it upon the small table beside the bed.

  He also gestured with his finger to his lips for her to be as quiet as possible, which she did other than the china teacups rattling just a little. He wanted to wake Marguerite with a kiss…and not a lot of clatter. The serving maid bobbed him a curtsey and then hurried from the room, while Walker followed to shut the door behind her.

  Then he moved closer to the bed, awash in sunlight from the chintz-curtained window. Marguerite lay on her side facing him with only her bare arm and shoulder above the quilt, her lustrous auburn hair tousled upon the pillow, her breathing soft and steady.

  His beautiful bride. Who would have ever thought he’d see such a morning? Not him, certainly. The vast changes in his life were coming at such a rapid pace, yet he’d never felt more grateful in that moment for what fate had brought him.

  A father.

  A dukedom one day.

  And most precious of all, a woman who endlessly amazed and fascinated him.

  Damn, she could shoot! And how she’d met him measure for measure in bed earlier that morning had been the stuff of any man’s dreams.

  Staring at the tantalizing curve of her breast, Walker felt a stirring in his loins that regrettably would have to wait for another time. He hated to wake her, but he wanted to resume their journey with plenty of daylight to make their way past that stretch of road where the highwaymen had attacked them.

  In fact, he couldn’t wait to return to London, where he planned to announce their wedding to one and all, the consequences be damned!

  Walker went around the bed and bent over Marguerite, savoring a few last moments to gaze upon his sleeping wife.

  His sleeping beauty that he must awaken with a kiss.

  He almost laughed at such a romantic sentiment, but Marguerite made him feel like he never had before. Emotion so deep that it seemed almost a physical pain. He hadn’t yet said he loved her, but he knew he did…completely and forever. And he would protect her with all the breath and strength he possessed—

  “Dammit, man, just kiss your wife,” he murmured to himself, not surprised at how utterly she had bewitched him. He crooked his finger beneath her chin to gently turn her head. From the moment he’d first seen her that perilous night in Roscoff…

  Walker pressed his lips to hers, knowing she had awakened when she reached up to tunnel her fingers in his hair. Then the sweetest, most contented sigh escaped her, Marguerite smiling against his mouth.

  “Is it a habit of yours to talk to yourself, husband?”

  He smiled, too, realizing that she must have been feigning sleep from the moment he entered the room. With her sharp instincts when it came to firing a pistol, it wouldn’t surprise him that she’d heard that rattling of teacups.

  Walker pulled back to find her looking up at him with teasing in her eyes that shone more green than brown in the sunlight streaming across the bed.

  “Only when I’m so captivated by my new wife.” He couldn’t resist, lowering his head to kiss her so thoroughly this time that he found himself coming very close to stripping off his clothes and rejoining her in bed. Yet all he had to do was think of the danger they’d encountered on the road to make him reluctantly lift his head.

  “I’ve breakfast for us, Marguerite, and soon they’ll be bringing in a tub for you and hot water so you can bathe.” He straightened, groaning inside when she sat up and the quilt fell from her perfect upturned breasts.

  Ah, God. With all the strength he possessed, he left her and went around the bed to where the serving maid had deposited the laden tray. He focused on pouring them both tea though he could hear Marguerite shifting in the bed to come closer. When he looked up, he saw that she’d wound the linen sheet around herself…though her disheveled beauty stopped his breath.

  Cursing inwardly that they didn’t have more time, Walker decided then and there it would be best for him to leave the room though he’d intended to eat with her. He handed her a cup and saucer and then downed some tea himself and grabbed a scone.

  “I’m going to see that all is ready with the carriage—”

  “What did you mean, Walker, when you said that I was your wife and that we’ll not hide it?”

  He sighed heavily and set down his cup, though he wasn’t surprised by her question. They had been so occupied by their lovemaking and then catching some much needed rest that they’d had little chance to talk.

  “I don’t intend any longer to keep our marriage a secret. We’ll take whatever consequences that might come…though I believe once my father meets you, he’ll be glad we wed, I’m certain of it.”

  “Truly?” Marguerite stared at him so soberly, her voice unsure. “I would never wish you to grieve him because of me…and he’s so very ill. I can’t bear that our marriage might cause him pain. We can wait—”

  “Ah, woman.” Walker dropped the scone onto the plate and took her untouched tea from her to set it upon the tray. Then he sat down on the bed to draw her into his arms. “If my father sees me content and happy, he will be, too.”

  Now tears glistened in her eyes. “You’re content?”

  Her query almost a whisper, Walker hugged her closer. “Completely.”

  “Happy?”

  “More than I’d ever thought possible. Are you?”

  Her quick nod reassured him, her womanly curves pressed against him wreaking havoc with his senses. He wanted so acutely to stay with her, but right now he wanted them safely back in London even more. A sharp rap at the door made him kiss her cheek and then release her and rise from the bed.

  “Yes?”

  “The lady’s bath, Lord Summerlin.”

  He glanced at Marguerite, who had drawn the quilt more tightly to her breasts, and then back to the door. “You may come in.”

  Lord Summerlin. As a pair of serving maids carried in a large metal tub, followed by several more with buckets of steaming water, Walker knew he must grow accustomed to that title just as Marguerite to Lady Summerlin.

  So their marriage certificate had been inscribed, his name entered as Alexander Scott upon it. Yet to himself—and Marguerite, who had always called him by his American name—he would remain Walker Burke.

  “I’ll return within the hour to fetch you. Will that give you enough time to get
ready?”

  Marguerite nodded, which made him head to the door behind the maidservants whom he imagined were hurrying to fetch more hot water. At least she would enjoy a decent bath before the grueling journey ahead of them—

  “Walker!”

  He turned around to find Marguerite running after him, nearly stumbling over the quilt dragging at her feet.

  “Your scone.”

  He couldn’t help grinning at her, glad at least that she no longer looked distressed.

  He took the scone and pulled her against him to give her a rousing kiss. Then he left the room before the tantalizing thought of her glistening wet skin made him stay to share that bath with her!

  ***

  “I’ll come back as soon as I fetch that last bucket to rinse yer hair, milady. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, no, everything’s lovely,” Marguerite murmured, sinking deeper into the tub of warm water that felt more wonderful than she could have imagined.

  The maidservant smiled and curtseyed, and then left the room and quietly shut the door behind her. Marguerite closed her eyes and breathed in the fragrant rose-scented steam.

  She’d already soaped herself and washed her hair and had two bucketfuls of heated water poured slowly over her, but she wouldn’t say no to another one. Not when she had a long two-day journey in front of her with no more time at the coaching houses than to find a privy and hopefully, a basin of water to soak a cloth and wash her face.

  She felt as if she were in heaven after a breakfast of fresh-baked scones spread with jam and butter and several cups of tea and now this lovely bath. All provided for her by Walker, her husband. Her husband!

  Giddy at the thought, Marguerite shifted in the tub so the water covered her breasts, though her knees had raised higher. She knew she couldn’t linger too long, though the maidservant would be coming soon with that last bucket.

  Walker had said they would be leaving Gretna Green within the hour and she needed to dress and make sure everything else was packed in the trunk. Her clothes and his clothes as a wife might do—yes, she was a wife now! Wedded and bedded quite thoroughly by the man of her dreams…

  Oh, Lord. Her cheeks suddenly burning, Marguerite splashed some water on her face as heated memories of earlier that morning enveloped her.

  Yet there had been poignant moments, too, when she’d seen for the first time the scars upon Walker’s back.

  Felt the healed ridges of flesh when she’d gripped his powerful shoulders in the throes of ecstasy. She’d said nothing to him about it later when, both of them sated, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

  She knew from Lindsay’s letters—and from what Corie had shared with her—about Jared’s impressment aboard a British man-of-war and time spent in a West Indies prison, which had been endured as well by Walker. There would be time enough for him to tell Marguerite himself of all he had suffered.

  She sighed heavily, tears biting her eyes that life had been so cruel for him, but thankfully that had changed. Life had become so sweet, so very sweet for both of them…

  The door suddenly creaking open made Marguerite sit up higher in the tub, anxious to finish her bath now that the water was growing tepid. One last bucketful of warmer water streamed over her head would feel so lovely—

  “Oh!” Marguerite had no chance to utter anything else as she was shoved forward violently and pushed facedown into the water before she could take a breath.

  Powerful hands gripped her, holding her down, dear God, someone trying to drown her!

  She thrashed wildly, trying not to inhale water as her lungs screamed for air. As if from a great distance she heard a piercing scream and a thud, then whoever held her suddenly let her go.

  Coughing and sputtering, she surfaced—and heard the door slam and the lock being thrown. Then heavy footsteps pounded back toward her even as she struggled, gasping for breath, to rise from the tub. She had only an instant to glance behind her to see her attacker—a big man, burly and russet-haired—before she was shoved back into the water.

  “Bitch!”

  His voice guttural, cruel, she knew then he intended to kill her. Her head pushed roughly once more beneath the water, Marguerite knew, too, she had to do something—anything!—to try and save her life.

  Donovan’s voice came to her, “If anyone grabs you, fight! Fight hard!” Yet already she felt as if blackness was very near to enveloping her, precious little air left in her lungs.

  No, no! With every last ounce of strength she possessed, she turned her head and latched her teeth upon her attacker’s thumb to bite him. Hard! She heard him roar in pain as he released her, which allowed her to jump from the tub in a spray of water and fall to the floor on the opposite side.

  Gasping for air, she cared nothing for her nakedness but dodged first one way and then the other as the man tried to come around the tub to grab her. God help her, she had nothing for a weapon—nothing save her wits and her tongue!

  “Get out of here while you still can!” she screamed at him while yet he lunged to try and catch her. “Or my husband will kill you!”

  “Your bloody husband is already dead if Oliver’s done his job,” the man grated, squatting down to grab hold of the tub. “Fair retribution, I’d say, for winging him last night in the shoulder—dammit, wench, the baronet paid me to see you dead, too, and I’ll not be thwarted!”

  With a great heave as Marguerite watched in horror, her attacker upended the tub and spilled water across the floor. Then he hurled the empty tub into the wall with a crash and lunged at her again, his arms outstretched to catch her.

  She screamed. He howled in fury, a terrible sound that suddenly became a curse of surprise when he seemed to slip on something and pitched forward, losing his balance.

  Marguerite had barely an instant to twist out of the way as he crashed into the coal stove behind her, hitting his head with such force that she heard a sickening crack.

  He was dead, she knew it, before his heavy body hit the floor. Tears streaking her face, Marguerite could only stare in shock as she sank to her knees.

  Walker…dead? Dear God, she could not fathom it. Please, please tell her it wasn’t true—

  “Marguerite!”

  Walker’s roar made her gasp as he kicked open the door with a crash of splintering wood. She gaped at him, such relief swamping her that she began to sob uncontrollably.

  Even when he pulled her from the floor into his arms, hugging her fiercely, she could not stop crying.

  As if mocking her, the dead man’s eyes stared unseeing at her, his face contorted into a terrible grimace. Then Walker turned her chin to look at him, his voice ragged, his gaze tortured.

  “God help me, woman, I didn’t know what I’d find. First a bastard with a knife attacking me in the carriage house and then a serving maid screaming that you were being drowned—”

  “He told me his friend had killed you…that-that you were dead.”

  “Not dead, but here with you. Thank God, here with you.”

  Walker kissed her then, her forehead, her cheek, her mouth as she clung to him, Marguerite no longer crying though her attacker’s words rang in her head.

  The baronet paid me to see you dead!

  Only when he drew back from her did she see it, the wedge of rose-scented soap on the sodden floor near the dead man’s boot.

  “He…he must have slipped on the soap,” she murmured, once more meeting Walker’s gaze. “He said a baronet paid him to see me dead…and you. A baronet, Walker.”

  She felt him stiffen. His darkening expression was truly ominous to behold, his eyes grown as black as she’d ever seen them.

  As three maidservants and the proprietor and his wife came spilling into the room, gasping and staring wide-eyed at the carnage, Walker swept up Marguerite into his arms and carried her to the bed. He gently set her down and covered her nakedness with a quilt, his countenance only grown more thunderous.

  “Summon the constable,”
he ordered the ashen-faced proprietor, who bobbed his head and hastened from the room, his wife wringing her hands and running after him. The maidservants had already righted the tub and grabbed towels to mop up the water.

  Walker turned back to Marguerite to stroke her damp hair from her forehead. “If I had lost you…” He didn’t finish as if the words had choked him, while Marguerite felt her throat tighten, too.

  “If I had lost you…” She couldn’t finish, either, but took his hands to lace her fingers with his. For a long moment they simply stared at each other until at last she voiced a query to which she already sensed his answer. “The man with the knife?”

  “Dead. I didn’t miss this time.”

  She’d never heard him sound so grim. Again she glanced at the corpse, the maidservants sopping up water around him, yet she quickly looked back at Walker.

  “He said the man that attacked you had been shot in the shoulder last night. Those two riders on the road weren’t highwaymen at all, but paid to murder us.”

  Walker didn’t answer, his jaw tight, his fingers laced with hers grown tense. She knew he shared her thoughts that only one baronet had motive to order a deed so foul.

  Sir Russell Scott.

  “Would your cousin do such a thing?” she voiced for both of them, a chill running through her when Walker nodded.

  “He was to inherit from my father, but now there’s me and you,”—Walker pulled her up from the bed into his arms—“and perhaps a babe already on the way.”

  Marguerite drew in her breath, never having considered that she might have conceived a child this morning. Walker only held her more closely, protectively, his voice lowering to a harsh whisper.

  “By God, he will pay! He must have followed me to Jared and Lindsay’s town house the other day when I thought him abed—or paid someone to follow me. Whoever it was saw us leave together, you unchaperoned, a trunk loaded onto the carriage. Lindsay bidding us goodbye. Russell must have guessed where we were bound—”

  “Oh, Walker, do you think he would have gone to question Lindsay? Or his paid man? She’s all alone but for the servants.”