by Lisa Torquay
COPYRIGHT
Duke of Treason
Copyright 2016 Lisa Torquay
Published by Lisa Torquay
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Cover Photo: Jon Paul Studios
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
To all the women who don’t fit the mould.
FROM THE BACK COVER
When Annabel, widow Countess of Winchester receives a new assignment, she never thought her mission would take her to the Duke of Blackthorne's castle. The Duke is committing treason against England and she must collect the proof that will take him to Court Martial. Though she married another, she had never forgotten the summer together in their neighbouring estates eight years ago. Meeting his commanding hazel eyes now makes her insides twirl with molten sensations. She will not consort with a traitor, says her mind, but her body has other scalding intentions entirely.
Romulus loathes Annabel for ditching a second son for a title. He does not know she married another for she had news of his death at war. When he inherits from his late brother, he becomes a recluse, minding his own estates and leading his secret operations. He wants nothing to do with the headstrong woman stranded in his castle, acting very suspiciously. Having her under his roof erupts a whole mine of unwelcome reactions and he is on the brink of exploding in a thousand shards of insane passion.
Level of Sensuality: Hot, Sizzling
EXCERPT
“I ordered you to stay in the castle.” He rumbled rough. “You are to obey me!”
Her resplendent eyes shone rebellious on him. “I will not obey you. Ever!” She threw fearless. The woman could be tempting in whatever mood she exhibited. And her stunts were carrying him to a state of unhinged arousal.
“Oh, but you will.” He devolved, nearing her. Her skirts flew with the wind, the same wind ripped her bonnet from her head, making wisps of hair flutter around her perfect face. Her little upturned nose rose with her proud chin.
She laughed. Laughed, the senseless chit! “Never!” Her back as straight as a warrior, she looked directly into his eyes. “If anything, I might do just the opposite of your edits!” She never cared for his sombre stance.
He stanched mere inches from her. “Indeed?” He rumbled and laced her firmly by her slim waist, clashing their bodies. She gasped while he lowered his head to her. “Then, do not moisten your lips.” He commanded.
Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she moistened her lips. The opposite of what he ordered.
“Do not sigh.” He licked her lower lip.
She sighed.
He nibbled her bee-stung delicacy. “Do not close your eyes.”
Her lashes already fluttered down on her flawless cheeks.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips. “Do not even think of opening for me.” he murmured in the end of his own forces.
But she did more than that, her arms snaked up his thick neck to merge in his sleek hair and pull him down to her.
Talk about disobedient.
He was lost!
She did not resist when his tongue plunged in her, thirsty and ardent. On the contrary, she received him, licked him. Caused his perdition.
And he did not care anymore.
He deepened their kiss, tasting the sweetness of her, inhaling the femininity of her. Feeling the softness of her. His muscled arm held her tighter, they touched everywhere. His other hand closed around her nape, revelling in the satiny skin there.
Annabel lost all sense of property. If she ever had any around him. His scent mixed clove, horse and man, his velvety hair all around her fingers, his stubble teasing her mouth. She moaned.
She forgot who she was. Forgot who he was, what he was, the kiss chasing everything from her head.
His powerful body so enticing against hers, she kissed him greedy, as if this was the last one on the planet. The ridge of him imprinted on her, never forgotten and so much missed! This threw her body in such urgency, she climbed up on her toes to reach for more.
It was his turn to groan.
She opened even wider to him, mindless, her whole being going up in flames as he bent her back and turned his head to plunder her mouth with shameless concupiscence. Everything melted in her.
CHAPTER ONE
Cornwall, England 1816
Annabel Drake, widow to the Count of Winchester, turned her attention to the tilted carriage behind her, with a broken wheel. And then upwards to the lead sky speaking of soon-to-be rain. The situation did not bode well. Her coachman went for help and her footman circumvented the vehicle as if searching for a way to fix it.
She had been standing there for almost an hour, even though she knew where she was and why. The Duke of Blackthorne’s lands extended far beyond the point she found herself at that exact minute. So, she expected his guards, or whatever his castle held for surveying his property, to approach her at any moment. That was what she planned for after all. Certainty that the Duke himself would not be in residence offered little comfort against what she had to do.
The thought made a thrill course through her. She did not care for the Duke. He became a recluse after Napoleon went to Saint Helena. Sometimes, he took up residence in his opulent townhouse in London, which seemed to be the case lately, though he never showed up in any ton event. Her sources had kept her informed of his whereabouts.
Horse roofs sounded in the distance, together with a faraway thunder. She turned to her left to see four horsemen trotting in her direction. As the distance diminished, she saw her coachman was one of the riders. They came bringing a brisk wind that traversed her coak to chill her bones. The chill induced by more than the wind; the game was on.
Horsemen pulled their reins right before her, dressed in a kind of livery. One of them, seemingly the leader, dismounted and bowed without any special deference to her obvious status. He walked to the carriage wheel, carefully maimed by a contact in the last change of horses, a couple of miles back. He bent to the offending part, touched the crack in it and straightened again to raise his head to the fading light on the grey sky.
The man looked none too pleased as he came to her. “It can be mended only in the morning, my lady.”
She feigned contrariety at his news. “May we seek shelter here for the night?” There was no inn nearby, and they surely had no possibility to escort her far and away from their duties.
“Begging your pardon, my lady. The Duke would not be amenable to that, but I suppose there is no other option.”
“I shall be grateful for his generous hospitality.” Sarcasm underlining her remark. One night would have to do.
Her coachman got off his horse and brought it to her. The servant bent his head as if apologising for the astride saddle the animal exhibited. Her travelling dress would not allow even for a side saddle, let alone for an astride one. But she was not in a position to be picky, so she hid her discontent. The countess hoped her cloak would cover her legs, where her dress would inevitably roll up her calves. Decisively, she stuck her soft walking boot on the stirrup and gave just the right impulse to reach the horse, thanking her training that made her agile and strong. The livered men watched her with a mixture of admiration and strangeness, unaccustomed to see a woman mount alone. Her coachman and footman knew well of her skills and did not even bother. She covered her legs with her cloak and commanded the horse forward
. The estimative was they would have to ride two miles to the castle. It would not kill her, for sure.
To her servants. “Please, detach the horses and follow.”
* * *
The castle’s silhouette became visible against the lead sky. Initially, a Norman fortress, rebuilt several times through the centuries, it kept the lines of its original construction, she fathomed at the sight of it. It stood magnificent on the top of a hill. The granite made a perfect match to the weather, overlapping a gradient of greys in the horizon.
They dismounted in the inner bailey and the leader of the three showed her into the great hall. The smell of stone and wood invaded her nostrils with a pleasant ancient touch. The building, the furniture appeared in perfect conditions and well maintained though many pieces seemed to be from the time the Normans erected the structure. Annabel took an immediate, if somewhat resistant, liking to the pile as she always had a passion for all things mediaeval. The Duke might be an acerbic figure, but the abode reflected his praise for his family’s history.
“This way, my lady.” The leader, ushered her; the other two disappeared somewhere.
She followed him upstairs into a panelled chamber, probably the former solar and now a study. The door closed behind her and Annabel took precious seconds to adjust to the dimmer light in the interior.
“Welcome to Blackthorne Castle, Lady Winchester.” A deep, grave voice came from somewhere behind her, the tone anything but welcoming.
Heat laced with ice washed her skin. She would recognise that sound anywhere in the world. It made her want to run. To which direction was the question. Toward it? Away from it? The doubt forced her to freeze on the spot. She turned briskly in his direction, struggling to regain her composure, as her mind tried to reconcile his presence with the information of his absence. Swiftly, she left the questions for later and faced the situation at hand.
Curtsying with natural elegance, she addressed him. “Lord Blackthorne.”
Romulus Fabien Monteverdis Burroughs, a name that suited the man all too perfectly, stood before her, tall, broad and impassive.
He trod to her lazily, his murky green-brown focus on her. The eyes that changed colour with the lighting of the day and had mesmerized her one never-forgotten summer.
“How surprising to meet an old-“ He paused, his stare boring into her. “Friend… in such circumstances.”
Only now did she realise her heart was drumming against her poor chest. But she raised her chin haughtily. This man would not unsettle her; she would not let him!
He halted close to her, so close, she saw an expression line between his attentive eyes.
“It is surprising indeed that you even remember me.” She devolved.
He was not a man to be forgotten–ever. His deep-set eyes in a fierce face with square jaw, tight lips and a slightly too long roman nose, which gave him an arrogant air. That, framed by dark brown hair that fell to the top of his strong neck, made him a singular specimen.
“Certain hard-learned lessons remain engraved in the memory, I reckon.” The silky, lethal comment rang in her ears and did something to her heated skin.
She lifted her head to meet his stare and time became like the stones that encrusted the castle. Immobile and with so much pent up energy it might cause an earthquake. His irises went dark now, they pierced her in a manner that practically bared her. His stare became so cold and granitic it neared loath. Cold, bitter loathing. It clawed at her, twisted her stomach with acid discomfort. Underneath, remained something different, too close to magnetism and… inexorability.
That undeterred attention beclouded her mind. She lost control of her breathing, which came with difficulty. It was a conscious effort to cool her head. She could not let him muddle her senses. Not anymore. She had to remember that he was a traitor to king and country and that she received a mission to accomplish here, to address his crimes.
“It is part of the maturing process, as anyone knows.” Her expression went cold. No matter what their past held, they stood on opposite fields now.
Romulus came to the chafing perception it would be extremely difficult to take his eyes from this woman. Her night-sky black hair, done with skill and in glossy waves and ringlets, her immaculate face with large brown eyes, a delicate nose. And a mouth that-when tasted would cause addiction, as he got the tormented chance to prove for himself-entranced even a saint, which he was not, he had to admit. That dignified bearing did not distract from her round breasts, tiny waist and flaring hips. He needed to whip himself for still being tempted. She broke her word to him and married another. She deserved only his contempt.
“No doubt you made my… maturing process a fabulous attainment!” He jabbed. That he had been unable to forget her, to put that blasted summer behind him, spoke volumes. It made him wish somehow to contract selective amnesia and wipe her from his past years. She taught him perfidy and bitterness.
A frosty little smile bloomed in her full, delectable lips. She changed in these last eight years, he had to own. There were a self-confidence and self-possession that had not been there when she was eighteen, barely out from the schoolroom.
“Everyone can see you survived.” Her neutral tone dismissed.
Survived? Yes, you could say that. When his men informed him there was a lady whose carriage broke down, he could never have imagined she would be that lady. Her appearance jumbled his thoughts and threw him in a cauldron of feverish memories, better locked away. He had only moments between her arrival and her entrance in this room to recompose.
A harsh command to himself to show her only indifference, and he stepped away from her beauteous person, so that she did not affect him. He rang for the butler.
At the servant’s entrance, he directed. “Please, show her ladyship to her rooms in the south wing.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The middle-aged man motioned her out of the study.
As the door closed, he wished he forgot all about her, but her floral scent floated in the air for a long time, denying him a reprieve.
He sat at his desk and summoned his man of affairs.
“Did you want to see me, Your Grace?” The man came into the room.
“Yes, Miller. Please close the door.” When it closed, he continued. “I would like you to tell me what happened.”
Miller, a lanky man in his forties, took off his hat and started his account, as he held it between his hands. “A broken wheel, the carriage has two horses, and she travels with a coachman and a footman, Your Grace.”
Romulus rubbed his blade-square jaw thoughtfully. “Have the carriage repaired first thing on the morrow, Miller. I want them away as soon as possible.” He had too much going on right now. He could not afford strangers nosing around the grounds.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The man hesitated for a moment. “Strange thing, Your Grace.”
“What, Miller?” Romulus had already bent his head to important ledgers on the desk.
“The lady rode astride-“ At that, Romulus snapped his head up. His body sprouted a violent reaction, his arousal so instant and hot, he thanked the massive desk for shielding it.
“Astride, you say?” As he taught her that fateful summer.
“Aye, Your Grace. Mounted in a trice, not a word of complaint.” He sounded bewildered. The man did not know half of it!
“Thank you, Miller.” His man of affairs bowed and left.
Like a play in a village tableau, his memory unleashed the images of them on his horse. She asked him if it was difficult to ride astride and, in a blink, he had her on his brown stallion as he mounted behind her. Her demure skirts lifted to reveal her boots and modest stockings. Her body glued to his, her back cradling his unmistakably aroused groins, he reached around her and covered her hands with his on the reins. They galloped in the meadow and she controlled the horse, a quick study, the chit. Then, he laced his arms firmly around her feminine waist, bringing her even closer. She laughed, head tilted to the sun, enjoying it, completely unaware of
the forbidden pleasure her back was causing him. The wind stole her hat and undid her riotous midnight hair, that caressed his face with its floral scent. They rode like that for a long distance, torture and exhilaration took hold of him. They stopped under their favourite–and centenary-oak tree. He helped her down, holding her waist and sliding her along him, their stares meshed. And that was the first time he kissed her. It had been chaste, too chaste for the furnace in his body, he did not have the courage to go any further, though. At twenty-six, he had been light-hearted and carefree, but scrupulous enough to respect a daughter of the peerage.
If he only knew that same daughter would not show any scruple towards him.
CHAPTER TWO
Annabel sat in front of a huge hearth in her chambers, drying her hair. She had soaked in a deliciously warm bath. Her footman had her trunk carried to her room, and she dressed fresh clothes.
Her mind whirled round and round with the day’s events. She could not fathom why information was that the Duke had gone to town, and she found him right here. Of course, the time news took to travel was the same that people travelled, too. Just last week her superiors in the government office passed on the latest developments. She thought she would be able to wander the castle by herself. To search for whatever documents that proved the Duke was plotting the escape of Napoleon from Saint Helena. The island where the former emperor had been imprisoned by the English. They needed such proof so that the Duke went to Court Martial, charged with treason.
But to find him here? Not to mention her reaction to him. Which she preferred to ascribe to her state of mind and the burden of her mission.