Devil at the Gates

by Lauren Smith

  “I…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I remained with my mother when my father died. I was but fourteen when my mother remarried. The man…my stepfather…did not allow us much time to be out in society. I didn’t have a chance for love.” She knew it must sound ridiculous to a man like him, to speak of love and other such romantic notions, but she’d often wondered what her life would have been like if she’d met a young man in Faversham and married. Would she now be hosting a gathering to celebrate the arrival of a babe? What might her life have been like?

  He set his fork down on his plate of venison and studied her. “And now? Do you consider yourself interested in love?”

  “I believe so. If the right gentleman comes along, a man with honor.” She wanted to marry someone like her father. A good man, a man with laughing eyes and a warm smile and a heart full of love.

  “A man of honor? There is no such thing. We are all scoundrels and demons—some are merely better at hiding our horns than others.” Lord Frostmore smiled wryly, his fingers toying with his still full glass of wine.

  Harriet did not say anything; though she was tempted to point out that he seemed not to care that she could see his horns, and even his tail and pitchfork.

  “The man doesn’t have to be a saint,” she added, quietly thinking it over. “But I could never marry a man who seeks to check my character at every turn like some willful pet. Despite the current laws of England, I am not property and would never marry a man who treated me as such.” She hadn’t given much thought to love and romance since her father died, however. She’d been living under George’s shadow for so long that she’d locked that part of her dreams away.

  But now, as she was thinking about it, she knew deep in her heart that she could not agree to marry a man unless he kindled some fire in her blood. She believed herself to be a woman of wild passions, and she needed a husband who would embrace that, not condemn her for it. It would not do to stifle her unpredictable nature by marriage to a man who would ruin her vivacity.

  Harriet reached for her wineglass to take another drink, but her movements seemed slower than before, as though her strength was finally failing her after the ordeal of the night.

  “Not all men treat their wives as property. Some men dare to love and to dream, even when it costs them their very souls.” The duke pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet and began to walk toward her.

  Concerned by his slow, predatory progress in her direction, Harriet reached for her sword. Her fingers curled around the smooth metal of the handle, and she felt safe again.

  “Please do not come any closer, Your Grace. I do not… I do not trust you.” She pushed her chair back and stood up, but her head reeled with an unforeseen bout of dizziness, and words became suddenly harder to form.

  Her sword arm wavered, the blade tip falling a few inches. She blinked; her vision doubled and swirled slowly. Harriet fell against the table for support, nearly dropping her foil since she had but one good strong arm to brace her weight with. As Lord Frostmore reached her, he attempted to gently wrest the blade from her, but she whipped it up in an arc at him. But her action was too slow, and he caught her wrist and squeezed lightly.

  “Drop it,” he ordered. The sword clattered to the floor. Harriet swung her free fist at his face, then screamed in pain as her shoulder twinged violently.

  “You little fool,” he muttered. “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.” His voice was soft and gentle, and for a second she wondered if he cared about her, but how could he care? He was a devil.

  Lord Frostmore caught her in his arms, and the pain lessened as whatever was happening to her deepened even further. It was as though some sorcerer had cast a powerful sleeping spell upon her. Would she wake in some distant tower, cobwebs covering her form as she woke to a kiss from a prince? Her mother used to read her fairy tales as a child, and now…now it was all she could think about. Princes…dark towers and enchantments…endless sleep.

  “How…did…you…do it?” she murmured drowsily. Lord Frostmore had done this to her, whatever it was, and she clung to her consciousness, wanting to know how.

  “The wine, my dear. I never drank it. I thought for sure you’d notice.” His soft laughter stirred her hair as his arms tightened about her waist.

  “You are the devil,” Harriet said in an angry whisper as she sagged against him, now barely able to stand.

  “The worst is yet to come. Luckily, you will not remember much of this night come dawn,” the duke assured her.

  His arm encircling her waist was the only thing keeping her upright. They exited the dining room and entered the entry hall near the stairs. Harriet latched on to a small table by the stairs, digging her fingers into the wood. The duke tugged at her weary body, but when she refused to budge, he pressed her up against the wall, letting her feel his strength as he pressed his lips to her ear.

  “Now, my dear, be reasonable. Do you wish me to tend to you here? Or should I see to you in a more private location?” One of his hands drifted down her back and over the curve of her hips, gripping the thin pink muslin gown at her waist. Harriet struggled to understand. Was he going to…?

  “No…please!”

  The duke kissed her forehead, brushed his knuckles over her cheek, and then released his hold so that he could bend over and wrap an arm about her legs and back, picking her up and carrying her like a child in his arms.

  Harriet’s head fell back, her eyes mesmerized by the spinning ceiling and the dancing light of candles that created a flaming crown around the duke’s red hair. Her eyes fell shut and did not open again until her body sank into a soft bed. She forced her eyes open, just in time to see Lord Frostmore coming toward the bed. He seemed to be a dream, like a pagan god forged of lightning and moonlight, a powerful Zeus transforming from a swan to mortal form so that he might take his pleasure from the beautiful human Leda.

  Harriet tried to sit up, only to collapse back onto the bed. Then she struggled to turn over and crawl away from him, but he caught her and gently settled her back in the middle of the bed.

  “Stay,” he commanded, then left the room.

  Harriet closed her eyes, her lids simply too heavy to stay up any longer. She surrendered to whatever he had mixed into her wine. As she slipped into the darkness swallowing her up, she vowed that she would kill him if she survived the night.

  4

  Redmond stared at the wisp of a woman lying in his bed, trying to stop himself from feeling the guilt of his actions. She had been badly hurt—she still was—and it was made abundantly clear by the tip of her rapier that she did not trust him at all, and he couldn’t blame her, given how he’d behaved. He also feared that she may have been a bit mad with panic. Surely only a woman half out of her mind and desperate would enter into his den, given what was said about him.

  He’d not wanted to drug her, but as the evening wore on and her distrust showed no sign of easing, he’d had the cook slip laudanum into the wine. No doubt when she woke, she would be furious and vindicated in her distrust of him, but at least she would be well rested, and her arm would be cleaned and healing.

  He had grown used to acting like a wicked man, threatening ravishment of more than one young lady foolish enough to come to his door. Not that he would have done it, but sometimes it took quite a lot to scare a marriage-minded woman away. But this one? She’d had a fear unlike the others in her eyes, as though she’d felt the fear of a man forcibly taking her before. It had shocked Redmond, and he had changed tactics, allowing her to take a sword in defense, only to have her best him like a master fencer. He’d been confused at first by her obvious skill with a blade and wondered what made her so desperate to draw upon it first in defense. He hated to think a woman like her, with such wit and bravery, would have faced something terrible like that.

  So, Edward Russell’s daughter was in his bed… He shook his head and moved for the door, resolved to think on the mystery of how she’d ended up here later when
he had a chance to talk to her after she woke up.

  Redmond met his butler in the hall. “Ah, Grindle. Did you find Miss Russell’s coach?”

  Grindle’s face was lined with weariness, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair as he faced Redmond.

  “I did, Your Grace. The grooms brought the horses and the driver back. It was as she told me. The coach was overturned and the driver badly injured. A broken leg, as far as I can tell.”

  “Summon the doctor. They may remain here as long as needed. I give you permission to see to the driver’s needs. And Miss Russell must also be seen to when the doctor arrives. Have him set the man’s leg first and then come directly to my chambers.”

  Grindle nodded, weariness etched in his features. “Yes, of course, Your Grace.”

  “One last thing, Grindle.”

  His butler waited expectantly.

  “You and the rest of the staff are to go to bed once this is all settled. No need to rise early on the morrow. Sleep a few hours extra. You all must be half-dead from tonight’s events.”

  Grindle’s shoulders relaxed, and he offered his master a genuine smile. “Thank you, Your Grace. We would appreciate it.”

  The butler headed back downstairs, and Redmond paced the corridor, his boots hushing against expensive oriental carpets as he debated how best to proceed.

  When he could put it off no longer, he returned to his bedchamber and sat on the edge of his bed to examine the girl again. The laudanum and alcohol had worked its magic, and she was fast asleep, no pain marring her lovely features. She was not what one would call a classic beauty, but he found her pleasing to look at, the soft curve of her cheek, her dark-gold lashes and wet blonde hair that looked like liquid ropes of burnished gold where it clung to her face and shoulders. He reached out with a trembling hand to touch her forehead. She was still damp and slightly cold. He scowled at the wet clothes she wore. The girl needed to be put into something much warmer, but it was not his place to do so. He knew he was tempting himself by putting her in his chamber, but he couldn’t seem to accept the idea of sending her away to one of the dozens of other rooms. It felt…wrong.

  Redmond pulled the bell cord. When his valet, Timothy, arrived, he sent him to fetch one of the upstairs maids.

  Maisie, a sprightly Scottish lass recently hired on as an upstairs maid, arrived a few minutes later. “You sent for me, Your Grace?” She was hesitant in the way that a maid would be when summoned to the master’s chambers after midnight, especially given his reputation. But his staff had nothing to fear.

  “Rest easy, Maisie. I have need of your assistance. This way.” He led her into the bedchamber and pointed at Harriet. “This is my guest, Miss Russell. We need to get her out of her wet clothes. The doctor has been sent for, but until he arrives, we need her dry and warm. Do we have any of my late wife’s nightgowns?”

  “Aye, we do, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Fetch one at once.”

  Maisie bustled off to hunt down a nightgown, while Redmond carefully began to undress Harriet, starting with her boots. Her feet were small, dainty, and as he unlaced the boots he marveled at her form. She was slender, as he had noticed, but she wasn’t without curves. A pretty form, even when she wasn’t threatening to cut his throat. Redmond couldn’t resist a smile as he set her boots down and began to roll down her stockings. He was glad she was not awake and in a position to claw his eyes out. He draped the stockings over the nearest chair by the fire to dry them out.

  Maisie returned, and between them they were able to remove the simple muslin gown, and then he turned his back as Maisie removed the stays as she finished undressing Harriet and helping her into the diaphanous nightgown.

  “She’s all warm and dry now,” Maisie announced with satisfaction, and Redmond turned around to see her.

  He expected to feel unsettled by seeing another woman wearing a nightgown he had bought for Millicent, but in truth he felt…nothing. At least nothing that turned his heart to stone. Rather, he was strangely content. Yes, that was the word. In the last seven years since Millicent had passed, he’d felt discontented. The empty castle, the sense of something left undone, or perhaps left behind, constantly nagging at the back of his mind. But as he looked at the little hellion in his bed, he felt strangely at ease.

  “May I do anything else, Your Grace?”

  “No, not tonight. Thank you, Maisie.” He waited for the maid to leave before he pulled back the covers of his bed, and then with a tenderness that surprised even himself, he tucked Harriet beneath the covers and then sat down by the fire to wait for the doctor.

  It was nearly an hour before there was a knock at his door. Grindle had brought the doctor to him.

  “Your Grace, this is Dr. Axel.”

  The doctor was a young man with a great intelligence in his eyes that came with being intimately familiar with illness and death. “Your Grace.”

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor. As I’m sure Mr. Grindle informed you, we are taking in a pair of travelers from the storm.”

  “Yes, I’ve just seen to the driver of the coach. It was a clean break, and his leg was easy to set.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  The doctor’s eyes strayed to the bed and his brows rose, but he made no comment other than “Now, what ails the young lady?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. She’s bleeding a bit from a small wound on her head, and she’s favoring her right shoulder. I gave her laudanum to relax her. She’s unconscious at the moment.”

  Dr. Axel set his black leather satchel on the foot of the bed and pulled back the covers. He pressed his head to Harriet’s chest and closed his eyes.

  “Heartbeat is steady,” he murmured to himself. Then he looked at Redmond and Grindle. “I need to examine her shoulder. Her gown must be pulled down a little.”

  Redmond joined the doctor and unfastened the silk ribbons at the throat of the gown, his hands trembling. Then he stepped back and looked to the doctor rather than Harriet as the doctor bared her right shoulder.

  “Ah… ’Tis dislocated. But I can reset it.” He lifted Harriet’s arm in a series of slow motions and then swiftly popped it back into place. The sound made Redmond’s stomach lurch. He was now thankful for having drugged the poor woman. Then Dr. Axel fixed her nightgown and examined her forehead, where he applied salve to a cut.

  “She should have this.” He passed Redmond a small blue glass jar. “At least once a day on the cut. The shoulder will need looking after. Should be tender. Use more laudanum if she continues to have pain, but small doses and only when absolutely necessary. No need to create a habit with it.”

  “Understood.” Redmond accepted the salve and took an extra bottle of laudanum when the doctor offered it to him.

  “If she or the driver should worsen, don’t hesitate to summon me.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Grindle will see you out.”

  Redmond turned his focus back on Harriet once he was alone with her. She stirred briefly and murmured broken fragments of sentences that tore at his heart. What had she suffered that had left her all alone and frightened of a man’s touch? A woman her age who was unmarried shouldn’t have been without a chaperone. Something terrible had happened to her, and he would find out what it was.

  “Who are you, Harriet? What frightens you?” He reached out to touch her face and paused. After a moment of indecision, he brushed his knuckles over her pale cheek, then settled in his chair by the fire to wait out the long night with only the shadows for company.

  “Harriet…” A woman’s voice pulled at Harriet in the quiet darkness of deep sleep, drawing her into a waking dream. Harriet stirred in the large bed, puzzled by the strangeness of it. It was not her bed, not the one she’d slept in at Thursley Manor for the last six years. That bed had been a small piece of furniture with sensible linens and a pale-blue faded coverlet. This was a tall four-poster bed with dark wood and red damask curtains. It was a bed of beauty, of seduction, even. How had she come to be
here?

  Firelight from a hearth across the room cast shadows on the bedchamber, illuminating the figure lying back in one of the chairs. The man was asleep, his long, muscular legs stretched out and one arm limp over the armrest.

  “Harriet…,” the feminine voice called again, and the crackling of the fire seem to slow down. A sliver of moonlight detached itself from the thick milky beams pouring in from the windows.

  Harriet blinked, awestruck as the moonbeam seemed to gather within itself like shimmering stardust as it became something she recognized. A willowy female form.

  “Harriet…” The syllables of her name were dragged out in a fervent murmur as the figure raised a hand and pointed to the man asleep in the chair. Her face was so melancholy, so full of sorrow, that Harriet’s throat closed up and she choked down a sob.

  “Wait,” she whispered, but the phantom was already drifting away, melting into a tapestry of a pair of stags in the woods.

  Blinking again, Harriet noticed the crackling fire was back to normal and the rain was plinking against the windows. She sank back against the pillows of the bed. Her mind, so clear just moments ago, was now fighting sleep again. As she closed her eyes and burrowed deep into the blankets and inhaled the dark, masculine scent of the sheets, she swore she heard one last distant call.

  “Harriet…”

  Redmond jerked awake in his chair at the sound of a soft cry. He leaned forward and saw that Harriet was twisted in his bed, her face lit by the dusky light of the fire. Tears coated her cheeks, making her skin shine.

  “Miss Russell.” He had assumed she was awake, but she did not respond to him. He rose from his chair and tossed another log onto the fire before he came over to the bed. She was tangled up in the bedclothes, her body’s position clearly uncomfortable.