Duke of Treason (Rogues from War Book 3)

by Lisa Torquay

  Romulus and Annabel met in a country dance and their rapport clicked instantaneous. She left the dance with his invitation to ride next morning. She had a chaperone as she was wont to. But her chaperone had a harsh reaction to a wasp bite and took abed for several days. Annabel would not miss meeting Romulus for the life of her. Her impetus almost exploding in her chest. So, she snuck out of the house on the excuse she would visit friends.

  What bright summer days they enjoyed! Fishing in the pond on the border of their families’ lands, riding, talking. The unforgettable day he taught her to ride astride, she had been bubbling with happiness. And his kiss, oh, that kiss that was everything and nothing at the same time. She wanted to kiss him for hours! He interrupted it after just a slight taste, so frustrating!

  It would not last long though. His father, the late Duke, bought a commission for him to go fight Napoleon’s army, practically forcing Romulus to go. He was a second son, not bound to inherit, thus it had been his duty to bring war medals home to polish the family’s prestige. Annabel was inconsolable!

  In their last day together, they had a picnic under their huge oak tree. She stole food and wine from her estate’s kitchens and he brought blankets for them to sit. A bitter-sweet encounter had ensued. The wine got them a bit tipsy, but it helped her relax and enjoy their last day together, rather than be gloomy. She lay on the blanket after eating, watching the clouds play with the sun in the sky.

  Suddenly, he came over her, a hand on her face, another on her waist. “I am going to marry you, Annabel!” He whispered rough, his murky eyes clear and merged on hers. “When I come back from the war, I will ask for your hand.” Her father would not deny a Duke’s son, well understood. Ergo, it would be just a matter of time. Romulus could even write her father asking for her hand. They might arrange things to their liking.

  This lit up her hopes. When he kissed her, she grabbed his sleek dark-brown hair, wanting more than the quick pecks he had been presenting her with in their outings. That was her first real kiss, his mouth devouring hers. She begged him for more, arching blindly. He finally acquiesced and palmed her breast over her demure debutante’s dress. The fire that consumed her made her dizzy. He poured kisses over her cheeks and neck, his thumb playing with her peaked breast. She melted into him, his masculine scent, his bristled jaw, his broad shoulders. He was so handsome!

  He stopped kissing her to lift his marvellous eyes to hers. They smiled at each other, their faces promising a sunny future together. When he lowered his mouth to tease her nipple over the dress, she nearly went mad. By discreet observation, she learned a little of his body and felt him hard against her. She had a notion of what it would do to her and she wanted it so fervently, it ached.

  “Romulus.” She had pleaded.

  He understood her. Their gazes meshed again. “I know, Annabel. I want you, too.” He rumbled on her mouth. “But we will do this right, even if it kills me!” This time, his kiss came deeper, more urgent. She followed him as if there would never be enough. Reluctantly, they parted with a thousand pledges of letters and plans for the future. She spent the rest of that summer in a haze of dreams and expectations.

  Months after her family went back to London, they heard he had perished in the war. No body to bury, but he had been missing for weeks. Annabel’s despair bordered insanity. She locked herself in her room and cried for days in a row. Her mother had been worried sick and Annabel forced herself to tell what happened that summer. She showed the scarce letters she received from him, the war-front a difficult place for distant communication.

  In the weeks that followed, the fire in her heart just went out. She did not care what came to pass to her. In a desperate attempt to lift her spirits, their parents induced her numb self to agree to the court of the Count of Winchester. Bonny thin and hardly aware of what she was doing, she married the count to endure four years of a marriage to which she had not been present.

  If someone told her things could not get any worse, she would have responded with a hysterical laugh. Because Romulus did come back, she never knew how. When they met in a ball and her friend “introduced” her to him as the Countess of Winchester, the world simply finished. Impossible to forget the blaze of resentment in his stance. She did not see him again.

  She did come to know of his elder brother’s silly demise in a sillier duel and of him becoming the new Duke of Blackthorne.

  A knock on the door interrupted her digressions. She opened the door to a footman. He bowed. “My lady, the Duke awaits you for supper in the great hall.” He bowed again and left.

  She looked at the diamond windows–surely an Elizabethan addition–to have darkness greet her. Blasted supper! She half expected a maid to bring a tray to her room. So, she would not have to face the man once more, since she would be gone in the morning. Loath to leave her cosy and panelled room, the huge canopied bed and its velvet purple coverlet, she stood. She reminded herself she had a job to do and she would not cower from it. From anything, for that matter.

  *

  Swishing of skirts made Romulus aware of the presence of the Countess. A vision in lavender silk to contrast with her alabaster skin, midnight hair caught in a simple chignon. His French mother would have loved her, he thought with a grim curl of his lips. His long-gone mother would say Annabel would make the ideal Duchess with her bearing and her beauty. Romulus knew there was more to her than that. She had been sprite, smart and beguiling in her day. He would have to struggle many years into the future to forget her laughter in the wind. He ignored the steam rising in his body as he stood to receive her.

  A roaring fire burned in the enormous fireplace, throwing warm light in the room, together with the candles in the candelabra on the massive table. It shone her large eyes, cherry-tree wood colour, clear and liquid. This was going to be a long night.

  His eyes were so intent on her, they went dry. “My lady.” He feigned a gentleman treatment, offering her his arm. Her gaze went to his black coated limb, then to him and fell to the cloth again. Finally, she placed her delicate fingers on his sleeve; even gloved, the touch seared him. They sat opposite each other, her composure irreproachable.

  “Are your rooms to your liking, my lady?” This came overly guttural, betraying the temperature of his insides.

  She lifted her attention to lock it on him, determined, fast. It hit him as if a flame escaped from the hearth and brought him to cinders.

  “You need not put up this performance.” Meaning, she would not put one up either. “But, yes, to tell the truth, Blackthorne Castle is magnificent, my rooms included.”

  The remark filled him with swelling pride. He remembered her penchant for gothic style. If he had to be sincere to himself, he needed to confess that preserving this eerie castle always had her and her passion for this in the background. He never tired of putting up maintenance to this old pile.

  He fought a slight side smile and lost. “Thank you.” The footman served the wine, the candles flicked with the movement, dancing on her face, her beauty so dazzling, it would stir a marble statue. And then she lifted the crystal glass to her sin-inducing lips, nearly defeating his defences. Could he survive this attack on his wits?

  His focused murky eyes on her caused her stomach to swirl and fighting it was proving to be apocalyptic. She placed her glass on the white table cloth and fumbled with her napkin to escape from his scrutiny.

  Tonight, he wore black, just like earlier. Black trousers, black coat, and black shirt. She never saw any man dress this colour of shirt. They used to wear white under their suit. He must have had them made to his exacting tastes. The composition made him forbidden, brooding, a panther ready to pounce. But the clothes only emphasised a man to whom the years were beneficial, in an astronomical scale. He became more muscular, more massive, there was a depth to his stance, bottomless and fathomless. A man not to trifle with, not to cross. Especially, a man not to forget.

  “I wonder, though,” he started in those grave tones, “what b
rings you on this long journey from London.” Of course, he heard she lived in town; no secret there.

  The question put her on alert straightaway though she thought of an answer, in case anyone asked. “It has always been my dream to visit Tintagel Castle.” She said with a feigned casualness.

  “Indeed,” his expression took on a clearly fake nostalgia, “you have always had this fascination for the Arthurian Cycle, have you not?”

  That he remembered was surprising. In truth, he recollected a lot of things about her, she realised. She could not decide if to think it scary or flattering, the former, maybe… “I have, in fact, but not so much as when I was younger.” She admitted. At that time, she read every book on the Arthurian tales she found in the library, either in the estate or in town.

  “You used to quote Troyes, Mallory, Marie de France and the likes.” He waved his hand dismissive, as his stare bore into hers and his thin, sensuous lips stretched in what might have been a smile, but came out as a smirk. The man could not hate her more than he did already.

  He had been the one to help her read Chretien de Troyes in the original mediaeval French as he grew up speaking the language with his mother. A mother that no doubt influenced his political choices at present. A mother whose death circumstances he never disclosed.

  Silence fell between them, filled by the murmur of rain on the trees outside and the crack of the fire in the hall. More than that, it swelled with unsaid words, denied emotions and washed down reactions.

  The meal continued in this tense mood and they measured forces in the lightest of subjects. His loathing of her ever more apparent as if he was the only wronged part in all of this. She did not think so and the actual scenario spoke loads of it.

  As soon as she finished, she stood up to retire. He followed suit, as a flawless gentleman, even if in a cynical manner. “Allow me to escort you, Lady Winchester.” Her name dripped of contempt. Regardless, it caused goose bumps on her skin with its deep timbre.

  It would be unladylike to refuse, thus her only option being to accept his arm and let him lead her. As earlier, she felt the hard muscles under his sleeve. He had been strong and well-shaped those years ago. He magnetised her now though, the heat of him seeping through her glove.

  They reached her rooms and stopped in front of each other, their stares fixed together in the dimness of the hall. Chilly here without the fire, something she did not perceive due to her skin being flushed and downright hot.

  Romulus took her hand and bowed over it, the touch disconcerting. “I bid you good night, my lady.” His attention never wavered as he straightened. Their gazes remained locked for an uncomfortable length of time, playing havoc with her breathing. When he finally turned and left, she had a distinctive lack of oxygen in her lungs.

  She consciously closed her door with a smooth click, so as not to bang it with frustration. She had no place feeling these treacherous… things for the man. The high spheres of the government were quite certain he was working for the French though the war itself came to an end the previous year.

  According to some reports, the disappearance of Romulus had parallels to his connections with the French and an effort to free Napoleon from Saint Helena. Her superiors convinced her that previous investigations proved it. If Napoleon escaped now as he did two years ago, the chaos in Europe would restart. Since the emperor rose to power seventeen years earlier, the continent saw intermittent campaigns. Only now with him in prison, did Europe experience a semblance of peace. It was vital he did not have the chance to re-establish his rule. For that, they must stop Romulus’s operations by taking him to Court Martial. Obtaining proof of his treason became essential.

  Annabel sucked in a deep breath and walked to her bed. She would rest a couple of hours and start investigating.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Armed with a candle, Annabel opened her room’s door to a deserted and dimly lit hall. A black cloak on her back would help her mingle with the darkness and her slippers would make her slide on the carpets without noise. Nerves on an alertness the quietude of the stone walls made no better.

  The solar-turned-study had to be the first place to search for suspicious papers. She hoped he already retired. Those government people in London must have good reasons to send her to this faraway castle to rummage about it. In private, she reckoned the obvious place to go would be his town house. If the Duke was committing treason, it would be easier to articulate it from London.

  Reaching the study, she touched the closed door with her ear. No sound came from there. She gyrated to door-knob in slow, very slow movements, peeking through the crack. In a quick twist, she dived into the utter masculine room and shut the door with delicate care. The massive centenary desk lined with papers. She would have to read through every single one and remember to leave them in their exact original position.

  Account books, letters from his stewards in his various estates, piles of ledgers, notations on ideas for refurbishing, repairs of tenants’ houses, plans for the estates’ production. A myriad of other technical writings pertaining his ducal duties, but not a line on any kind of operation. Either the man was not involved in anything untoward or he was the smartest architect of treason. She must bet on the latter, for the information she got pointed at him as the leader of it all.

  The castle displayed other rooms that could contain hidden niches, boxes or some such. This massive stone pile had been refurbished for modern needs, so it contained more rooms than the original fortress. She walked inside of every and each one, avoiding his. Which she knew because the door to it exhibited elaborate carvings and it seemed to occupy a whole wing. Together with the lady of the manor’s chambers. She had to be stupid to consider entering them now. Apart from that, Annabel did not spare even the great hall.

  Not a single paper. Not a single object. Not a single fragment.

  Just the man and his mysterious dealings.

  That left her with his own chambers and the question of when and how to investigate them. He showed no inclination to extend his hospitality, which meant she would have to leave in a few hours. Blast!

  She returned to her rooms exhausted and frustrated. Her bartered body toppled on the fluffy mattress, her mind’s engines worked in a furious rhythm.

  Annabel must have dozed off because she opened her eyes startled. Then she detected stirrings down in the inner bailey. In a lightning-like movement she reached her window. His stable hand was in the act of giving the reins of a magnificent black Arab stallion to the Duke. The man himself in black breeches, shirt and riding coat, a vision as he charged forward, his sleek dark-brown hair billowing around his fierce face.

  Oh, yes! He still maintained his habit of riding at dawn. A man given to daily life, no doubt. What a splendid opportunity! She hurried to her door and had to hold herself not to sprint to his chambers, lest she drew attention from a servant.

  Ever so noiseless, she snuck into his room and closed the door. Like a flash flood, his scent assailed her, earthen with a note of clove essence, just as she remembered. Inhaling to full lungs, her memories threatened to flush in. No, not now! She berated herself. Reveries interrupted, she came to her senses and she looked around. Massive wooden furniture, velvet drapes, an enormous bed in complete disarray, there only to awaken her fantasies!

  His nightstand first. It showed drawers that offered possibilities. In the past, he used to ride two hours or more, meaning she had time. Rummaging through the nightstand, she found mostly personal objects, none of them relevant though touching these gave her a sense of invading his privacy. That felt wrong. So wrong!

  Lowered to her hunches, the last drawer promised little, she cogitated. She pulled it to find only one lonely object there. And she froze, staring at it agape and disconcerted. A hairpin. Her hairpin! One she put on her hair in their last picnic. Having headed home that day, she realised she dropped it, enthralled in his kisses. In a slow movement, her hand reached that juvenile article in awe, wondering why on earth he had k
ept it.

  “I suppose you have a good explanation to be in my bedchambers, Lady Winchester.”

  Startled, her heart jumped in alarmed poundings in the same moment she lost her balance and fell on her butt, her eyes flying to him. Leant beside the door he had closed without the least rustle, arms crossed over his broad chest, his gaze threated to make bullet holes on her. Her brain commanded her to stand up, but her bewilderment was such she could not move.

  He did though. Prowled towards her, his gaze never wavering. Heat originated somewhere inside her to spread intense flush over her skin. Still, he neared. He stalled three paces from her, her head lifting to look at him. How the darn did he come in without her noticing it?

  “I-“ Her voice trailed off, at a loss what to say. “I came to say good bye, my lord.” And then she tried for a cocky smile she feared looked more like a wince.

  Looming over her, arms still crossed, his stance belonged more to a warrior that walked this castle in times forgotten. His murky eyes intent on her from up his long Latin nose kept her pinned where she lay defenceless.

  “How considerate of you, my lady.” In no hurry at all, he unbuttoned the top button of his black riding coat. It gave, and he undid the second. She stared mesmerised as his equally black shirt disclosed. Unbuttoned, he threw the luxurious item on his bed as if it cost nothing. Now, she saw his tight breeches revealing rock-strong legs and his manly parts, very… manly from the angle on the carpet.

  When his hand rested to his tie to unlace it, she sucked in a breath. Because, then, that piece ended wrinkled on the bed, the top of his muscular chest showing through the gape of the shirt.

  He knelt on the carpet, as if he had all the time in the world, and let his weight fall on his hands, where he bracketed her. Eyes bulged, she receded on her back to avoid his proximity, with little effect. The sole distance between them was his stretched arms, his smell filled her nose with fresh air, earth and clove and man. He leaned so close to her, she saw the bristles on his square jaw.