The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel)

by Carie, Jamie

  THE NEXT MORNING, SHE OPENED her eyes to the smell of bread fresh from the oven and coffee in the air. Coffee? She’d not had coffee in an age. Her stomach rumbled as she turned her head and saw John, turned toward her, still asleep and lying right beside her. Goodness gracious, they’d slept the night through in the same bed together!

  She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She looked back down at him. With his hand curled under one cheek, he looked boyishly sweet, younger than his thirty-some years. She started to lean toward him to give his cheek a kiss to wake him and then reared back. Thoughts like that would only get her into trouble.

  Instead, she eased from the bed, slipped on her shoes, and crept out the door. Perhaps she could attend to her morning routine somewhere else. Heidi had been shy but helpful the night before. Perhaps Alex could borrow a brush and some soap to wash her face in another part of the inn. At least she wouldn’t be here beside him when John awoke. Knowing John, he would try to take some liberties.

  Her cheeks burned as she thought about that and hurried down the stairs to the common room. Heidi was busy in the kitchen making breakfast.

  “You can tidy up in here.” She gestured toward another bedroom. “I’ll have my daughter bring soap and water. Will you and your husband be wanting breakfast?”

  Alex couldn’t meet her eyes. “Yes, please. Thank you. He should be awake shortly.”

  After hurrying through her morning routine and feeling refreshed, Alex made her way back to the common room to find John awake and looking ready for the day in a fresh suit of dove gray coat and trousers.

  She sat across from him and shot him a big-eyed look, muttering, “I can’t believe you’ve said we are married. We’re in quite a jam now. Can’t tell them the truth after we’ve spent the night through together.”

  He shrugged. “It simplifies things without Svein. Why did you tiptoe away this morning? I was looking forward to waking up with you beside me.”

  “Exactly.” Alex leaned forward and whispered, “We aren’t married yet and we’re not going to act like we are.”

  The teasing light that was becoming so familiar came into John’s blue eyes. “You can’t blame a fiancé for trying.”

  Alex rolled her eyes, her annoyance with him draining away. “Oh, yes I can.” But there was laughter in her voice now. She could never stay mad at John for long.

  After breakfast they rode a short distance with Johannes to the Helgustadir farmstead on the northern shore of Reyðarfjörður Bay. It was surrounded by rocky cliffs and mountains, the fjord frothing blue water and beating against the cliff heads. Sheep grazed all around them and the call of seabirds filled the air. It reminded Alex a little of home.

  They dismounted and knocked on the door of the long, rectangular house covered almost entirely in some kind of green moss. It had a thatched roof that hung deeply over the sides of the house and a whitewashed front door.

  A young girl, two dogs hugging her skirts, opened the door. “Father,” she called back into the house, “strangers are here.”

  An older man with curling gray hair came to the door and surveyed them. “Hello, Johannes, and who have you brought this fine day?”

  Alex breathed a sigh. He didn’t seem as fierce as his face made him appear.

  “Come in, come in. Sit down.”

  They settled in a comfortable sitting area of the large room.

  “I’ve brought Lord and Lady Lemon, Valdi. This is Valdi Adamsson, the owner of the mine.” He looked at Alex and John. “They’ve come to see the crystal.”

  Valdi turned his head toward Alex and scratched at a spot. “You want to traipse about in a mine cave, girl? ’Tis not a pleasant experience.”

  “If you please, sir. I’m not afraid.” She wasn’t sure how true that statement was, but it seemed the right thing to say. The old man huffed with a doubtful sound.

  He got up and went over to a table and lit a lantern. Opening a drawer he took something out, carried it over to her, and placed a large, cube-shaped chunk of crystal in her hand. “This is what’s down there, Lady Lemon. Only covered in mud.” He frowned at her then, wrinkling his face. “What interest do you have in Icelandic crystal?”

  Alex held it up and looked through it. It was as clear as glass. “It’s just so beautiful.”

  “And useful.” Valdi motioned them over to the kitchen table. He pulled a book off a nearby bookshelf and opened it. “Now, place the crystal on the page.”

  Alex did as directed and then she and John leaned over it. Valdi held up the lantern so the light would shine directly on the book. “Do you see that?”

  Alex peered through the crystal at the words. “But how is that possible? It’s amazing! There are two of every letter.” She looked at John. “Do you see it?”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard about this. The crystal bends the light. It’s doubly refracting, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, and why it became so useful. Over the last two centuries, scientists have used this crystal to study light, build prisms, and develop all sorts of different types of optical tools. We are very proud of our crystal.”

  “Have you heard of a man named Augusto de Carrara? He came here in the sixteenth century for this crystal.”

  “How do you know this name?” The man’s face changed to suspicious again.

  Alex exchanged glances with John, not sure how much to say. John hurried with an explanation. “Near Dimmu borgir, an old hermit told us a story of him coming here for the crystal. We were curious about him is all,” John shrugged, “so we came here to see if anyone knows what he might have wanted with the crystal.”

  “Perhaps I should show you the cave after all,” Valdi said in a voice that held a slight note of menace.

  A shiver prickled across Alex’s skin. John took a step closer to her, standing just behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders. “Perhaps that isn’t necessary. We were only curious. Is it dangerous?”

  “Not dangerous, just uncomfortable.” Valdi waved at them. “Of course, if you’re afraid to get a little wet and muddy, I understand.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Alex stated in an even voice. “I want to see it.”

  Johannes took a seat and clasped his hands together. “I will wait for the young couple here. Don’t like getting wet and cold myself.” He nodded. “Go on then. I’ll take you back to the inn when you return. Might have a little nap here by the fire, where it is so warm and comfortable.”

  Alex wrapped her coat closer around her neck and shivered. Lord, protect us, she prayed as they followed the man out toward the caves.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun shone bright against his eyes and seagulls soared over the port city of Santander, Spain, as Gabriel Ravenwood, the Duke of St. Easton, was pushed and prodded onto dry land. He stumbled at the end of the gangplank, felt hands on one side grasp him and hands on the other side shove him, throwing him off balance into the dirt. They hauled him up, his arms long past numb and burning sinew of aching shoulders; his feet bare and filthy, someone having stolen his shoes; his face covered in beard and grime. But he was alive.

  For good or bad, whether he wished it or not.

  He was still alive.

  The city sparkled under the sun like a winter haven of pale sand and cool breezes. Soft waves of blue water sparkled around them. He squinted at it—the light too bright after the last weeks of hellish nightmare in the dark hold, gnawing on the dirt-encrusted ginger root for all it was worth and keeping down enough water to yet breathe.

  He’d lost weight and muscle strength. He could feel it in his blood and his breath, how winded walking up this hill was making him. Weak and spindly, easily snapped by a stiff wind or whatever they had planned for him, a mere shadow of the strong and capable man he’d once been.

  God, how did it come to this? I
don’t understand . . . anything anymore.

  He saw himself six months ago and nearly retched on the side of the carriage they were cramming him into with their rough hands and harsh-mouthed faces. He slumped against the corner and closed his eyes. He’d been another person six months ago, six months when his life had been ordered and perfect and his brand of normal. The ennui he’d felt, that he had complained and railed against, dear God, how he wished it back again. Anything numb. Anything but this constant agony.

  It’s her fault. It’s Alexandria Featherstone’s fault.

  The thoughts dogged him as he licked his dry lips. Was it? What if he’d never gotten that letter? Would it have made a difference?

  No. Shut up. It was never her fault I got dragged into this nightmare.

  The argument rattled around in his feverish mind over and over, off and on, for days or weeks even, it seemed. He sometimes felt a very real stab of fear that this was the end for him. That he would die trying to be the guardian duke to this mysterious and lovely woman he loved beyond all reason.

  How could he love her? He didn’t know. But if he closed his eyes during the worst of it and thought of her, if he remembered every line and curve of her face as they kicked him and shoved him and belittled him, spit in his face and stole his clothes . . . he got to the next moment still breathing. There had to be something in that.

  The carriage drove on and on for hours and days. They untied his hands so he could eat at the public houses and take care of his personal business behind trees along the way. He thought of running many times while shielded by a bush, but they would be on him in minutes. He didn’t have the strength to outrun them and they knew it, or they would never untie him and give him those few precious moments of human decency.

  No, they knew it and scoffed at him for his weakness. Those dark eyes and faces with varying amounts of facial hair. They took pride in that, Gabriel could see, so groomed and impeccable in their uniforms. He hated their pointed beards and groomed mustaches. He hated their haughty, laughing eyes. He hated his enemy.

  Love thy enemies and pray for those who persecute you. The Scripture kept coming to him but he turned from it, shaking his head at the voice, an outer rebellion that exposed his heart. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

  Jesus did.

  Gabriel took a great, shuddering breath at the thought.

  I cannot.

  On the third day they came into a large city. Madrid. It had to be. He had never been there, but if they were taking him to Ferdinand VII, the king of Spain, as he suspected, then they would be entering the capital city. His suspicions were further affirmed when they passed an enormous iron gate with marble towers on either side.

  He could see inside to the rectangular courtyard and royal palace. Rows upon rows of windows as far as the eye could see outside the carriage window. Columns and scrolling stonework made up the palace facade. In the center, the building rose into the blue sky—a wide section of stone with an enormous clock, statues, and flags. Fit for a king, to be sure. But they did not turn into the courtyard, instead circling around to a street behind the palace.

  The street darkened under the shade of enormous trees lining either side. Darker yet with a chill that settled in the interior of the coach. They turned and stopped in front of a large, plain building. Gabriel braced himself, an internal tightening of his stomach and ribs as the door swung open and his captors reached inside and hauled him out. He looked up at the gray stone walls and saw the iron bars on the windows. Of course.

  The Carcel de la Inquisición.

  A chill swept over him as the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition crossed his memory. When Napoleon had ruled Spain some scant years ago, he had ended the dark practices of the inquisition that for centuries had eradicated all religious beliefs save Catholicism from Spain, but Ferdinand had been reinstated after Napoleon’s defeat and restored the practice.

  Gabriel agreed with the belief that the crown’s way of singling out the wealthy citizens as detractors and the subsequent confiscation of their property was nothing more than a convenient way to incur wealth for the crown than to force papal rule on its citizens. It might not be used in abundance these days, but the place was still standing and, more telling, they’d brought him here where tales of harrowing torture cried from the stones.

  They meant to have answers.

  His captors roughly pushed and pulled him through a dark hall devoid of furnishings or ornamentation. One of them stopped suddenly, reached for an iron ring in the stones of the floor, and opened a door revealing cold steps. They prodded him down into further darkness and dank air. Gabriel’s stomach tightened into knots of dread. A large room of stone lay at the bottom of the stairs where dim light drifted from a skylight above. He was hurried across that chamber, but not before he saw iron rings seven feet high mounted on the walls and a wheeled contraption against one wall.

  He swallowed a sour taste from his throat, recognizing the rack of torture.

  They continued through another stone chamber and down another set of stairs, farther and farther down into the earth. One soldier disappeared, only to reappear moments later with a lantern to light the way. The next chamber held an iron door that was unlocked. Inside were rows of cells separated by iron bars. Gabriel didn’t know if he was glad or not that no one else appeared to be inside them.

  They opened one of the cell’s doors and thrust him inside. A little light came from a very high window, which must mean this chamber was at the far end of the building and faced an outside wall. That he wouldn’t be left in complete darkness left him reeling with relief. He did not know if he could have endured being deaf and blind in this place.

  The soldiers spoke but he didn’t know what they said, and they seemed used to him not answering. One of them thrust a canteen of water at him, which he grabbed before the man could change his mind. The other motioned that they should leave. Gabriel was left wondering when and if he would ever see anyone again.

  Upon further inspection, Gabriel found a cot attached to the wall as the only furnishing. He sat upon the straw ticking, the smell of mildew heavy in the air. God help me. I could go mad here. I have only You now.

  He chuckled, feeling half mad already that he’d even said he only had God. He took off his coat, rolled it into a lumpy pillow, and lay down to sleep. Fitful sleep with hours of waiting in between and then more fitful sleep. When would they come for him?

  HE WAS AWAKENED WITH A rough shove of his shoulder. For the first time since being attacked, he saw the tall Spaniard again. He was with two other men, soldiers from the looks of their uniforms. They hauled him up and took him up the long passageways to the first chamber of the dungeons.

  He began to struggle as they led him straight to the iron ring and chains on the wall, an involuntary reaction of terror. It was no use; he was too weak. Thirsty too. They hadn’t fed him or given him anything after that first canteen for two days.

  One man held him while the other chained his wrists to the ring, stretching his arms high over his head until his shoulders felt as if they must come from their sockets. Sweat poured down his back despite the cool, dank air. His breath hissed from his clenched teeth.

  “I am deaf,” he told them for the first time. “I will not be able to answer your questions unless you write them down.” He wasn’t going to let them torture him because he couldn’t hear what they said, but shame filled him at the desperation he felt to be free of the irons. What might they want to know that he wouldn’t willingly say?

  The tall Spaniard eyed him curiously as if trying to judge the truth of his words. He spoke orders for paper and ink to be brought. Gabriel hung there, sweating and panting, stretching to the tops of his toes to lessen the pressure on his wrists, arms, and shoulders. The muscles of his upper back quivered, his arms numb and prickly at the same time. Finally, a page was thrust toward him.
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  Tell us what you know of the manuscript of the Hans Sloane collection sought by your king.

  One of the soldiers stood ready by the chains, hand lightly pulling and increasing the tension on the lines. Gabriel swallowed the bile in his throat. “There is a partial copy of a manuscript missing from the collection. The prince regent has one of the copies.”

  The chains tightened a little more. Excruciating pain made him groan, his back bowing in an arch as nerve endings screamed from Gabriel’s wrists. The Spaniard took the paper back and wrote another question, seeming to take his time while Gabriel tried not to cry out again.

  Does your sovereign know what the plans are for? Has he tried to build them?

  Gabriel groaned as the chains tightened so he dangled from the manacles, his toes barely touching the floor. “Yes, he built what he could, but no one knows what it is. It . . .” he took small breaths and sputtered out, “doesn’t make sense.”

  With a nod from the man, the soldier pulled again. Gabriel cried out as his feet left the floor. He dangled in abject misery, sweat pouring from his head and dripping onto his bare chest.

  The paper was thrust at him again. Where is Alexandria Featherstone?

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Again the chains tightened. The Spaniard shook the paper at him. His lips asked the question in a shouting, enraged face. “Where is your ward, Lady Alexandria Featherstone?”

  “I lost her in Ireland. Just . . . as you must have. I don’t know.”

  He screamed as the chains tightened yet again, then blessed blackness overwhelmed him and he slumped into unconsciousness.

  He jerked awake to freezing water being thrown into his face. In slow measure, he began to notice his whole body’s pulsing pain—from the barely healed wound on his head to his shoulders and arms, wrists and hands, his back. God help him, his back felt stretched too taut, like a rope unraveling. With a grunt he turned over and tried to sit up. They had released him from the chains and he lay like a puddle of flesh on the stone floor. The Spaniard came toward him.