The Undercover Duke

by Michaels, Jess

  Losing all that had changed him.

  She understood that.

  “I will never lie to you, Lucas,” she said, leaning in to touch his chin, turning it so that he met her eyes and could see the truth of her. “And I will not promise you what I cannot deliver. I don’t know if I can bring back that man you once were. But if you let me look at you, help you, I promise you I will do everything in my power to try.”

  His eyes narrowed, like he was reading her, hesitating to trust her, but at last he nodded slowly. “Very well. I will give you your month.”

  Relief flowed through her, stronger than she’d thought it would, considering she hadn’t wanted to do any of this in the first place. His refusal would have made her life easier. His acceptance made her happy, though.

  “Good,” she said.

  He held up her basket. “Now, will you tell me what these herbs do?”

  She smiled as the tension between them bled away a fraction. “Well, some are to ease pain. Others are to help with healing. This one makes chicken taste better.”

  He tilted his head back and laughed. “Best not to get them confused then.”

  “Never,” she said, and took the basket, sliding it over her forearm. “Why don’t we go upstairs and we can begin, this time in earnest? I want to look at your injuries more closely. Only then can we truly know what to do next.”

  If he wanted to hesitate or argue or refuse, he did not do it. He merely drew in a long breath, then got to his feet and took her offered arm as they slowly made their way back to the house and to the tortures she knew would come.

  Lucas drew in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. When this woman touched him, it was mesmerizing. He’d never experienced anything like it with any lover he’d taken over the years. Being near her was like sunshine waking him in the morning or the warmth of alcohol buzzing through his system and addling his brain.

  And yet, as she opened the door to the house, his anxiety about what would happen next rose in his chest. He’d been trained to handle pain, of course. A spy needed to be able to bear torture.

  But the past six months had pushed him to his limits. He did not relish the idea of doing it all again, and especially not in front of this woman who seemed to be able to see into a man’s soul, whether he used his training against her or not.

  She tightened her arm around his waist as they began to climb the stairs together. “I will get you a cane,” she mused, almost more to herself than to him. He stiffened, and she glanced over at him with a knowing look. “Let me guess—you shunned the idea of a cane because it made you weak?”

  He pursed his lips at the censure that marked her tone. “When you say it like that, it sounds foolish,” he drawled, hoping to cut the tension with a bit of self-deprecation.

  She paused at the top of the stairs, her breath labored as she panted, “It is foolish. Great God, would you not feel better if you could wrangle yourself up the stairs or through a room without needing someone to support your weight?”

  “I…suppose,” he admitted slowly. “Does it trouble you?”

  She cast him a side glance and began to maneuver him toward the bedroom. “Does what trouble me?”

  “Always being right,” he finished. “Does it keep you up at night?”

  There was a second’s pause, and then she laughed. The sound was like music and he drank it in while she helped him into the chamber and toward the bed. As he collapsed back onto the mattress, she buckled over him and landed across his chest. Pain shot through him, as it always did. But it was tempered by something else.

  Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Pleasure. Her body against his was a pleasure, and he found he didn’t want to let that go quite yet. Her laughter faded and she stared down at him, watching silently as he lifted his arms to fold them around her. To hold her like he’d done the night he comforted her.

  Only he hadn’t comfort on his mind in this moment. No, he wanted something else from her and he was not going to be denied. He glided his fingers into her hair, cupping her skull to lower her mouth to his. She didn’t resist—she only let out a tiny sigh, and then her lips were pressing against his.

  It was like someone had relit the world after months of darkness. Electric desire flashed through his rusty body and he dug his fingers into her skin to draw her even closer. She obliged, opening her mouth to him and darting her tongue to meet his with hesitation that faded as he sucked her deeper.

  For a moment, everything else in the world disappeared. He forgot his physical pain, he forgot his frustration and his guilt, he forgot the life he’d lost and the one he hadn’t saved. He forgot everything and drowned in how sweet she tasted and how erotically she moved against him as her breasts flattened to his chest and she lifted against him with a deep moan in her throat.

  And then, just as swiftly as she had surrendered, she pulled away. He let her go, watching as she staggered back, turning as she lifted her hand to her lips like she could still feel him there. He knew he could feel her.

  And he wanted to feel so much more.

  “Going to run again, Miss Oakford?” he asked as the time stretched out between them and he felt her readying to do just that.

  She spun toward him, her cheeks flushed and her pupils dilated. She stared and then shook her head. “N-no,” she stammered, her voice shaky and unfocused. “No, of course not. I’m to help you. It’s time I did just that. Will you remove your shirt?”

  He nodded as he sat up and slowly began to unfasten the buttons along the front of the fabric. She watched him for a beat, then shook her head as she knelt to begin helping with his boots.

  His heart all but stopped at the sight of her on her knees before him. And when she looked up, apparently utterly unaware of how fucking tempting she was, it took all his control not to drag her back up his body, flip her on her back and just have her until he couldn’t take anymore. Until she was sated and soft beneath him.

  Until her voice was hoarse from crying out his name.

  She tugged his boots off and set them aside. As she rose, she turned away and he watched her as she moved to where she’d left a tray earlier in the day. She picked up a few bottles, some bandages and a needle and thread, then returned.

  “Here, let me,” she said softly, setting the items on the bed beside him before she moved to help him pull the shirt over his head. He grimaced as he lifted his bad arm enough for her to pull the fabric away. After she tossed it aside, she leaned in, examining the scarred flesh as she clucked her tongue. “How often did they reopen it?” she asked.

  He shut his eyes and shoved aside memories of those horrible experiences. Tried to forget the pain that had brought him to unconsciousness more than once. “I lost count after eight.”

  She turned her face, as if his pain affected her physically. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she traced the mark with the edge of her fingernail.

  “You have to do it again, don’t you?”

  She jerked her gaze up to his. “How did you know?”

  “I hear it in your voice,” he said as he lowered himself back to the pillows. “And every healer does it, don’t they? You have to make your own mark on me.”

  Her lips parted. “Stalwood should hire better men. I have no desire to mark you, Lucas. I do not take any pleasure in the pain that I will cause. But I hope you’ll…you’ll…”

  He met her eyes at her hesitation. “What?”

  “Trust me,” she said. “I realize you don’t know me. You have no reason to do so.”

  “I do,” he said softly. “I do have a reason.”

  “And what is that?” she asked, even as she lifted a thin scalpel from the bed and dipped it in liquid.

  “You’re his daughter,” he said, gripping the sheets with both fists as she lowered the instrument to his already burning skin and made a delicate slice.

  She didn’t look at him, but kept her focus on his injury. “That is a high standard
to live up to,” she said softly.

  He bit his lip as she probed his wound, examining the damage that made him so damned broken. Then she clucked her tongue and set the scalpel aside. She picked up her mortar and pestle and began to throw dried herbs and a different, thicker liquid into the little bowl. As she mixed it, she met his eyes.

  “Almost finished and then I will never reopen it again,” she promised.

  He gritted his teeth. “That’s what they all say.”

  “I’m not them,” she said, holding his stare.

  He almost laughed, but couldn’t quite when the pain was making his vision blur and his voice strangled. He tried to focus, tried to find levity in this moment so she wouldn’t see how desperate and vulnerable she was making him. “You’re certainly much prettier than the others.”

  The world began to spin around him. He could feel his pulse in the hole in his shoulder and that throbbing made his knees shake.

  “Well, I should certainly hope so,” she said, her tone still calm and soothing and he could hear the smile in it. “I’ve seen some of those louts my father trained. Prettier isn’t exactly the hardest mountain to climb.”

  “Christ,” he managed as he turned his head on the pillow.

  She stood and leaned over him. A lock of hair he’d loosened when he kissed her fell from her plain bun and brushed over his skin. He focused on its silkiness, the way it tickled his chest.

  “This will help,” she promised, slathering the mixture she’d made over his wound.

  He lurched at the cold of the medicine. The way it made his flesh tingle as it sank into the gash she’d created. But within a few seconds, he felt a blissful numbness that worked its way through the flesh.

  “There now,” she whispered as she reached up and began to unfasten his trouser flap. “Better?”

  He stared at her, his body torn between pleasure and pain as she touched him. He felt dizzy as he whispered, “What are you doing to me?”

  She smiled. “I must remove your trousers to look at your leg, Lucas. I promise it is only for the purpose of treating you.”

  He closed his eyes as she tugged the fabric away and left him naked. “You can do whatever you’d like, Diana. You must be able to see that.”

  She said something, but it sounded far away. He focused on the way her fingers brushed over his leg. He had no idea how much time passed and then she was next to him, her lips brushing his temple as she whispered, “Rest now.”

  He thought he should respond, but there were no words he could come up with. None that made any sense, at any rate. So he let his drooping eyes close and surrendered to the unconsciousness that his body demanded.

  Chapter Five

  Diana stood in the kitchen, pulling chunks of meat from the bones of the chicken she had just taken from the spit over the fire. She had always liked to cook and had done so for her father for years. The science of it was very similar to the science of poultices and tinctures, so the act felt familiar and soothing.

  Not that it was working at present. Despite the occupation, her mind kept taking her back to thoughts of Lucas. It had been twenty-four hours since she had reopened and cleaned his wounds. He’d been sleeping ever since, a deep sleep of powerful pain and, she hoped, healing at last. He deserved that after the nightmare he’d been through over the past six months.

  She’d checked on him nearly every hour. Told herself it was her duty as a healer, but that was only half the reason. The other half was the thing that kept her staring up at her ceiling in her bed. He had kissed her. Deeply and thoroughly and with all the experience a man of that type would have. She should have turned away, but she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

  It was deeply disconcerting to admit that, even just to herself. But she’d felt a strange and powerful draw to Lucas from the moment she saw him. Something unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

  She’d wanted that kiss. More and more with each passing hour she spent with him. Worse, she wanted another. That was why she came in to check on him. To study those surprisingly full lips. To consider what they would feel like if they touched hers again. If they brushed over her skin until she came completely undone.

  “A very hazardous path,” she muttered as she speared the carcass and tugged more steaming chicken from the bone. “One you’ve traveled before, to your detriment.”

  The Duke of Willowby was dangerous, full stop. There was nothing more to be said on the matter.

  Except her mind kept saying a great deal more. Dangerous but so handsome. Dangerous but undeniably charismatic. Dangerous, but when he looked at her she wanted things she knew were wrong. Things that could destroy her entire world.

  She shook her head, trying, for what had to be the hundredth time, to remove those wicked thoughts from her head. In her distraction, she moved her hand and grazed it along the side of the hot metal tong that was sticking out of the chicken’s middle. “Ouch!” she barked, lifting her hand to her lips to suck on the red flesh.

  “Let me help.”

  She turned and started at the sight of Lucas standing in the entryway of the kitchen, leaning on the doorjamb, his face pale. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair wild from sleep, but her body began to tingle nonetheless at the sight of him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, rushing forward to help him and forcing herself to focus on her role as healer, not wanton. “God’s teeth, you should sleep another day after what you endured.”

  “Another day?” he repeated, his eyes going wide. “How long have I slept already?”

  “Twenty-four hours, a little more, actually,” she said.

  He tensed and his lips thinned. “What did you give me? Laudanum?”

  She helped him to a seat. “Something like it, mixed into the poultice to help with the pain.”

  “I don’t like laudanum. It makes me out of control,” he said softly.

  She frowned as she lifted her hand to her mouth again. He caught it before she could reach her lips and turned it over to look at the minor burn that abraded the skin of her palm.

  “You must have some magic for this,” he said, lifting his eyes to hers.

  Once again she was captivated by his expression. Once again she lost the ability to think clearly and rationally. What was it about this man? What was it about herself that opened her to such thoughts and desires?

  “I can make a quick mixture,” she admitted. “That will help it heal.”

  “Let me,” he suggested, waving at the seat next to his. “Just tell me what to do.”

  She pursed her lips but decided against arguing. After all, she could see that he would not allow her to do so. This man was accustomed to getting his way, just as she had suggested before. So she drew a long breath, then began to give him orders about which herbs to use and how to mix them for her. To her surprise, he followed her instructions to the letter, without so much as an argument.

  She stared as he crushed the items with her mortar and pestle, his muscles working in his good arm as he ground them together. He was very focused on the work, his mouth drawn into a deep frown, his gaze on the bowl. She could see the spy in him then, motivated, driven, undeniable.

  Entirely undeniable.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  She jumped, drawn from those unexpected, unwanted thoughts. “Er, we—we put it on the burn,” she stammered.

  He turned toward her and smirked. “Well?”

  She blinked. “Well, what?”

  “Hold out your hand, Diana,” he said, leaning in close enough that she felt his warmth.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she breathed, and turned her hand over to show him the injury.

  He spread the greenish paste he’d made across the burn. “Do you have a cloth to cover it?” he asked.

  She nodded. “In the cupboard there.”

  He moved away and she took the opportunity to suck in a few deep breaths. The tension, the spark between them…God, it was powe
rful. She felt like she was losing all control and it terrified and thrilled her all at once.

  He returned, soft flannel cloth in hand. He met her eyes as he gently wrapped her palm. He only looked away to tie it off. She followed his gaze and frowned at the knot he had used. It seemed familiar somehow.

  “Some would call that witchcraft, you know,” he said, plopping down next to her and stealing a piece of chicken from the plate where she’d been stripping the meat away.

  She smiled, though his words made her stomach clench. “Indeed, you are right, even if you tease. Not that long ago I might have been accused of just that. Burned for it in some parts. Even now it isn’t as if people trust a woman in such a vocation.”

  He examined her face closely, too closely, and she swallowed hard under his regard. What was he thinking?

  “The female spies I’ve known over the years have said much the same,” he said at last. “Their talents are unseen. I suppose it would be just as difficult to gain the respect you deserve.”

  She bent her head. “It is. But those who mattered gave it to me.”

  She felt him still watching her, and his voice was strained when he said, “Your father, you mean.”

  She caught her breath and stood, motioning to the chicken. “It’s good you came down, actually. You need some nutrition. It will help your body heal.”

  “I’m so very glad you’re in the business of protecting my body,” he said, his voice suddenly rough.

  She thrilled at the tone, knowing full well what it meant. Feeling her body call back to him no matter how wrong it was. To maintain some distance between them, she pivoted and found two plates. Quickly she dished out the chicken she’d been preparing, alongside carrots from the garden, which she had roasted in a wine sauce.

  “Simple, but it is filling,” she said as she set the plate in front of him and one at her own place, which she took.

  He arched a brow and took up a fork. He speared both a slice of chicken and a carrot at once, and his eyes lit up as he chewed them. “Excellent,” he said.