by Darcy Burke
“Where the devil is Mercer?” he said.
“Bluidy weasel,” Will said. “We’ll search the ship. He can’t have gone far.”
They rounded up the free guards and split the search through the vessel. Accompanied by Cooper, Alaric went to the lowest deck. His shoulders brushed the walls of the narrow corridor, his muscles bunching at each creak and rattle of the aged ship. He and the guard searched each cabin along the way—no sign of Mercer.
Mid-ship, he heard a scuffling from below. He gestured to the trapdoor in front of them.
“He’s down in the hold,” Alaric mouthed to the guard.
Cooper nodded. Crouching, he yanked the door open by its iron ring.
The shot punched the guard against the wall. Blood spurted from his upper arm. With a curse, Alaric dragged Cooper out of harm’s way and ascertained the damage. Luckily, it appeared to be a flesh wound; he bound it quickly with his cravat.
“This’ll hold until the others get here,” he said.
“You should wait for them, Your Grace—”
Ignoring the guard, Alaric approached the trapdoor again. He stopped at a safe distance and unhooked his watch fob. Taking aim, he tossed it through the open hole, heard it skitter down the steps—
Another shot blasted from the hold.
The next second, Alaric launched himself through the trapdoor, landing in musty darkness. His gaze swung left and right, caught the limned outlines of crates, barrels, sacks—Mercer.
He lunged at the earl, who was fumbling to reload. He tackled the bastard, slamming his opponent’s body against a crate. The pistol clattered out of sight, yet Mercer fought back with feral desperation. The bastard landed a low blow, and stars streaked across Alaric’s vision.
His grasp loosened, and Mercer wrestled free. As Alaric sought to regain his breath, he saw something flash in his opponent’s hand right before Mercer charged at him, knocking him to the ground. He thrust his hands out, catching the earl’s arm, blocking the downward arc of the blade. The lethal point hovered inches above his throat; his muscles strained against the other’s maniacal strength.
“I’m going to slit your throat open, you ignorant Scot,” Mercer shouted.
Like bluidy hell you will.
Power surged through Alaric. Leveraging his lower body, he gave a mighty shove, rolling over and taking his enemy with him. Now with the upper hand, he grabbed the other’s wrist, gave it a sharp twist, and Mercer released the blade with a cry of pain. Bloodlust took over, and Alaric drove his fists into the other’s face, bone crunching against bone. He didn’t stop until the other lay bloodied and insensate.
Only then did Alaric rise, his chest heaving.
“Alaric!”
He turned to see his brother descending into the hold.
Pistol in hand, Will said tersely, “All you all right?”
“Aye,” Alaric said between breaths. “Everyone else?”
“Cooper’s getting bandaged by Miss Emma and the dowager.” Will paused. “I’m not surprised by Miss Emma’s fortitude, but apparently our aunt has got a spine of steel as well.”
“Patrice is stronger than she looks.” Alaric grimaced as he tested his knuckles.
“Must run in the bloodline. For a duke, you held your own.”
“For a little brother, you didn’t do so poorly yourself.”
A pause. They grinned at each other.
Alaric said, “Let’s get some rope and tie up—”
“Behind you!” Will shouted.
Alaric pivoted in time to see Mercer rushing toward him, face bloody and demented, hand raised and wielding a knife. On instinct, he went low, kicking out, and the earl flew forward, crashing headfirst into a tower of crates. One by one, the wooden boxes toppled onto him.
Alaric and Will approached, the latter with his pistol aimed at the prone figure. Cautiously, Alaric pushed the heavy containers off Mercer; with his boot, he rolled the earl over.
Mercer’s gaze was unseeing. Scarlet bloomed around the stem of steel in his chest.
The bastard had fallen on his own knife.
“A fitting end,” Will said.
“Aye.” Alaric exhaled. “It’s over.”
Together, the brothers left the bloody scene and went to join the others.
Chapter 34
A week later, at an intimate gathering of family and friends at his townhouse, Alaric mused over the changes that the last few days had wrought. His enemy was dead, his life no longer in danger. Yesterday, at the meeting of the United Mining venture, Alaric and Tremont’s expansion plans had received unanimous support from the shareholders, and the price of stock was soaring.
Most important of all, Alaric had publicly announced his engagement to Emma.
He watched as his betrothed mingled with their guests in the drawing room. Tonight was their engagement supper, and she was radiant in a cerise silk gown that draped enticingly over her curves and slender waist. The choker he’d given her circled her throat, and now a matching pink diamond ring glittered on her finger.
She was, every inch, a duchess. His duchess.
He could hardly wait the eight weeks until she walked down the aisle of St. Paul’s toward him. Lady Patrice had insisted that two months was the minimum acceptable time for an engagement; any earlier would cause talk about the reason for the haste. He knew that Emma was anxious about getting on in the ton, and for her sake, he wanted no blemish on her reputation.
He was determined that, this time around, his marriage would be free of scandal. He wouldn’t rush into anything. The key to contentment was to remain in control.
“She’ll make a fine duchess, Strathaven.” The dowager came to stand beside him. She adjusted her feathered turban, her ring catching the glimmer of the chandelier. “I must confess I had my doubts, but now I understand your interest in her. She is unlike any lady of my acquaintance. Her family is rather ... unique as well.”
Alaric stifled a smile. Over supper, the Kents had proved to be an entertaining, lively bunch. Presently, Dorothea was playing the pianoforte in one corner, and he noticed that his friend Tremont appeared quite captivated by her performance. Violet and Polly were at a card table, the former drawing chortles from a curmudgeonly earl with her card tricks. Surrounded by eager bucks, Primrose Kent held court at the center of the room.
All in all, Alaric thought he could grow fond of Emma’s family.
“Indeed, Aunt,” he said.
“No wonder you are besotted. Don’t bother denying it,” Lady Patrice said, wagging a finger at him, “for your heart is fairly hanging on your sleeve.”
Alaric flicked a sardonic glance at the pristine black velvet arm of his jacket. “I’m sure you exaggerate, Your Grace.”
“I’m sure I do not. The entire ton is agog with how the mighty have fallen. You’re on the road to proving that adage true: reformed rakes do make the best husbands.”
Heat crept up Alaric’s jaw. It was one thing for him to admit to himself that he desired Emma—quite another for the beau monde to snigger behind their fans about it. Especially since these were the selfsame gossips who’d labeled him a faithless rake during his last marriage.
“Is it the past that disquiets you, my boy?” The dowager’s inquisitive gaze searched his. “I do not think Miss Kent will betray or manipulate you as Laura did.”
Alaric said stiffly, “I don’t wish to discuss the past.”
“I’ve upset you, haven’t I? Forgive me. I don’t mean to say the wrong things. You must know I want only your happiness.”
At the glimmer in his aunt’s eyes, he sighed inwardly and bowed over her hand. “I know. If you’ll excuse me, I must circulate amongst my guests.”
“Don’t worry about me.” The dowager gave him a small smile. “Be happy, my boy.”
He wound his way through the drawing room, stopping to accept felicitations from various guests, including the Blackwoods, on his engagement. He finally reached his betrothed, who was chatting with thei
r respective brothers and sisters-in-law. He slid a proprietary arm around Emma’s waist as he joined the circle.
“Enjoying yourself, pet?” he said.
She smiled up at him, and the warmth in her tea-colored gaze dispelled the unease triggered by the conversation with his aunt. Emma is nothing like Laura, he told himself.
Since their engagement, they’d managed to steal only snippets of privacy. The last such occurrence had happened after he’d escorted her to the Opera, and Mrs. Kent had obligingly allowed him to take Emma home.
Those hot, steamy minutes in the carriage rose up now, fogging his brain, making another part of his anatomy stiffen in anticipation for his wedding night. Christ, to feel her luscious sheath clench around his cock the way it had his fingers, his tongue ...
Another eight weeks of this would be pure torture.
But he would bear it—because he could. Because he was in control. Mostly.
“We were just talking about wedding plans,” Emma informed him, “and the importance of details.”
“I don’t think Alaric gives a damn about the flowers,” Will said knowingly.
Alaric narrowed his eyes at his brother. Just because they were getting on these days didn’t mean that Will couldn’t be a pain in the arse.
“Did you notice the flowers at your own wedding?” Alaric said with cool irony. “As I recall, the entire affair passed in a flash. You pushed your guests out of the house before cake was even served.”
Annabel turned rosy, but Will merely grinned and draped an arm around his wife. “I had the wedding I wanted—with the lass I wanted it with.”
Alaric couldn’t fault that. In a way, he envied his brother’s freedom, unencumbered as it was by a dukedom and the accompanying expectations. Will’s wedding had been small and intimate, a dozen guests or so; Alaric’s would number close to a thousand.
“My apologies for mixing business with pleasure,” Kent spoke up, “but I thought you should know that I received a message from Lugo today.”
Despite Mercer being dead, the African investigator continued his quest to find the missing maid. Kent and Associates did not leave loose ends. Alaric respected that.
“Any new developments?” he said.
“Miss White apparently attracts admirers like bees to honey. Lugo has been following a trail of broken hearts,” Kent said dryly. “He thinks he’ll have her soon.”
“Please convey my gratitude for his persistence,” Alaric said.
“And please tell Mr. Lugo that he is invited to our ...”
Emma broke off, her gaze drawn to the gentleman who’d just entered the room. The fellow bore an incongruous mix of characteristics. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had the fit build of a man who enjoyed physical activities. At the same time, his wire spectacles and rumpled hair and clothes gave him the absent-minded air of a scholar.
Frowning, Alaric said, “Who is that?”
“Emma,” the stranger said simultaneously.
In disbelief, Alaric watched his fiancée run toward the newcomer, flinging her arms around him. Her embrace was returned with equal enthusiasm. The pressure in Alaric’s veins shot up dangerously.
“Harry!” Violet bounded up to the pair. “You made it! I wasn’t sure when my letter would reach you.”
Harry Kent—Emma’s brother. Alaric’s fists loosened at his sides. As the Kents gathered around their newly arrived sibling, he saw that the family resemblance was unmistakable.
“I left Paris for London as soon as I received it,” Harry Kent said. “When I got home, Pitt gave me this address, said you were all here.” Frowning, he studied his eldest sister. “Are you all right, Em? Vi wrote that you’d been abducted—”
“I’m perfectly fine. I’m sorry your studies got interrupted, but I am glad to see you. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Taking her brother by the arm, Emma tugged him over to Alaric. Beaming with pride, she said, “This is my brother Harry. Harry, this is the Duke of Strathaven, my fiancé.”
Harry blinked owlishly at his sister. “You’re getting married?”
Alaric bowed. “Your sister has bestowed a great honor upon me.”
Hastily, Harry returned his courtesy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir—I mean, Your Grace.” The look he shot Emma clearly said, You’ll have to fill me in.
“Welcome home, lad,” Kent said. His eyes shone with pleasure as he shook his brother’s hand. “You’ve sprouted even more since we saw you last.”
“You’re just in time, too,” Mrs. Kent said, smiling as Harry kissed her cheek. “There’s much to be done for the wedding—starting with fittings at the tailor. You and Ambrose must make a trip to Old Bond Street on the morrow.”
The Kent brothers looked at each other … and groaned.
Emma’s heart could not be fuller. The evening was going swimmingly, and Harry’s appearance had been the icing atop the cake. Surrounded by family and friends, she brimmed with joy. Her engagement party was everything she could have wanted.
Yet as Thea began a haunting rendition of Master Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Emma became aware of a stirring restlessness. She realized that she hadn’t seen Alaric for at least a quarter hour; scanning the room, she saw no trace of him. Following impulse, she slipped out to find him.
The door to his study was open, and she saw him standing by the windows, looking out into the dark garden. Phobos and Deimos were at his feet, the deerhounds’ feathery ears perking with interest at her arrival. She entered, closing the door behind her.
His jade gaze locked on her, and she was struck anew by his masculine beauty ... and by wonder. At times, it felt like a dream that this wickedly attractive duke wanted her. She could scarcely wait for their wedding day—and night—to arrive.
“I wondered where you’d gone,” she said.
“I just wanted a moment to myself.” His smile was rueful. “I’m not used to being around so much … family.”
“I understand,” she assured him. “Shall I go …?”
“No, pet. Your presence is welcome.” He held a hand out to her, and when she went over, he pulled her into his embrace. Pleasure hummed through her as he nuzzled her earlobe. “I miss you, Emma.”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I miss you, too.”
His answer was a scorching kiss, one that instantly kindled her desire to an overwhelming flame. She tangled her tongue eagerly with his, pressing into his lean, hard length, wanting to be even closer. His hands cupped her bottom, molding her to him, lifting her against the virile bulge that she could feel through the layers of her skirts. She rubbed herself against him with unabashed hunger, her core fluttering with emptiness, a wanton need that only he could fill.
“Christ, I want you so badly,” he said in ragged tones. “I don’t know how I’m going to wait eight more weeks to make you mine.”
The realization burst inside her. In truth, the seed had been germinating ever since she’d been kidnapped by Mercer. Life was too short, too precious and tenuous, to waste.
“I don’t want to wait,” she whispered.
He gazed at her, his slashing cheekbones ruddy with arousal. “I’m not taking you until we’re wed, Emma. I’m going to do this right.”
She loved him for it. Loved how he treated her, the effort he was making with her family and his own, how determined he was to give her the wedding of any woman’s dreams.
I love him so much, she thought wistfully.
She was tempted to tell him so—but she had decided to wait until their wedding night, to seal that special moment with a declaration of her feelings. She didn’t know how he would respond; he’d been honest about his views on love, after all. Yet in her heart she believed that he cared for her, and she felt confident that one day soon he would return her words.
Taking a breath, she said, “Then let’s get wed.”
“Pardon?”
“Let’s elope,” she said simply. “Gretna Green is on the way to your estate, isn’t it? We cou
ld have our honeymoon at Strathmore.”
Desire flared silver in his eyes, yet he shook his head—as if to himself as much as to her. “You deserve a grand wedding, and you’ll have it.”
“I deserve you,” she said, kissing his jaw, “and I don’t want to wait.”
“Your family—”
“They’ll be happy that I’m happy. We can invite them to visit us at Strathmore, can’t we?”
“Our home is theirs. But sweeting …”
He trailed off when she linked her arms around his neck. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered against his ear, “Please? I don’t want to waste another moment. I need to be yours, Alaric.”
She saw shadows flicker in his eyes, his shoulders stiffening as if he were fighting some inner battle. Surely propriety couldn’t mean that much to him?
Then his arms closed hard around her, crushing her to his chest.
“You are mine,” he said roughly. “Oh, Emma, you are.”
Around noon the next day, Marianne found her husband in his study working on a report. As he scribbled, he absently rubbed the back of his neck, a habit she found endearing even after all these years of marriage.
He rose immediately when he saw her, the smile in his eyes softening his somber mien. “You’re a welcome sight. Did you get enough rest, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” Going over, she straightened the lapels of his coat. “Last night’s party didn’t go that late.”
She was stalling … and cursed herself for her foolishness. She was known for her directness. Yet this was Ambrose, the man she loved, and she knew he wouldn’t take well to the news she had to deliver.
“I wasn’t referring to the party,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her cheek.
Her skin warmed at the memory of their private celebration after the party … but she could delay no longer. She decided to let the facts speak for themselves. Wordlessly, she handed him the letter she’d discovered moments earlier on Emma’s neatly made bed.
“What’s this?” Furrows deepened on Ambrose’s brow as he scanned the brief lines. “Bloody hell—they’ve eloped?"