The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel)

by Carie, Jamie

  At a signal from a liveried footman, he was ushered into the ornate throne room. Walls of crimson velvet, gilded frames and furniture, gold everywhere. The ceiling was covered in fresco paintings of gods and goddesses and the sprawling kingdoms of Spain.

  Ferdinand sat in one of two thrones on a raised dais, enormous bronze lions on either side of the stage. He watched Gabriel enter with narrowed eyes, toying with the scepter in his hand.

  Gabriel came forward and grimaced as he bowed low over his leg. He would not be able to hear the king give him permission to rise so he hurried out the explanation, gaze trained at the carpet. “Your Highness, I must confess to being unable to hear and beg use of a speaking book to converse with you.”

  Gabriel peeked up from beneath his thick lashes and saw the man wave him up. Standing made a wave of pain radiate down his back, causing him to suck in a bracing breath, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. He steadied himself, holding his back straight with little but pure vein-pumping terror and gritted-teeth determination, waiting, ever watchful of the other men in the room while Ferdinand ordered a desk to be brought in and for one of his attendants to be seated next to where Gabriel stood with paper and ink.

  The king’s first words were a new kind of shock. The Duke of St. Easton, indeed. I am shocked by your appearance. Are you always so ill kept? The king’s brows rose high on his forehead, almost touching the long, brown, curling wig he wore.

  Gabriel craned his neck to read the words and then ground his teeth together. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I was not given time to . . . freshen up before our appointment.”

  “I shall have to speak to Didacus about that.” Ferdinand flicked a piece of lint from his golden sleeve. “No sense treating our prisoners like animals.” He clasped his hands together around the scepter and leaned forward, staring hard at Gabriel. They tell me you know something of this manuscript of Augusto de Carrara’s. Is this true?

  Gabriel read the last words thrust out to him and then bowed his head in acknowledgment of the fact. “I know of it. I’ve seen the partial manuscript King George has in his possession. To my knowledge, the partial plans have done little good for anyone. No one knows what sort of machine they are meant to create.”

  “Precisely. And that is why I must have the original.” He banged the scepter on the floor in a child’s fit of anger. “There is a rumor that treasure hunters have been hired to find it and that they are the only ones who have gotten close. My men tell me they have gotten very close to its discovery. What do you know about that?”

  Gabriel took a breath, his heart roaring, the only sound he could hear. “If you are referring to the Featherstones, then yes, I know they were hired to find it, but I have heard no rumors that they did. I only know they are supposedly dead. They have not been heard from in over a year.”

  “And you believe this is true? That they are dead?” Ferdinand steepled his fingers and stared at Gabriel over them.

  “I have no reason to believe otherwise.” He held his breath, waiting for Alexandria’s name to be brought up.

  “But not everyone shares your view, do they? What of their daughter? Their only child and heir.”

  “I was given the wardship of Alexandria Featherstone, that is true. More proof that the regent believes her parents are dead.”

  “But what of Alexandria? She seems to believe them alive, doesn’t she?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “She is young and doesn’t want to believe the truth. She will accept it sooner or later.”

  “I have reports that she is talented like her parents, that she is following their trail, hoping to catch up to them.”

  Gabriel scoffed, letting the doubt and his disdain of the idea fill his level green eyes. “The imaginings of a child.”

  Ferdinand narrowed his eyes. “Or she knows something that we don’t.”

  Gabriel’s stomach flipped over. He closed his eyes briefly to focus himself, stretching out internally for God’s presence and wisdom. “That is unlikely since the regent has ordered her back to London under my care. She is to have a season and pick a husband. If England thought she knew something, the regent would let her continue her search, don’t you think?”

  “I think you have a smooth tongue, St. Easton. I think you have more at stake than a girl’s fantasies, and I think that will become very useful to me.”

  It was as if the floor had dropped out beneath him. Ferdinand had seen into his heart. He somehow knew that the Duke of St. Easton had fallen in love with Alexandria Featherstone. It was time for the letter, the one letter she had sent him from Iceland that hinted of an attachment toward him.

  “I will tell you where she was last known to be if you allow me to lead the search and go after her.”

  “Impossible. You will tell me where she is regardless. You were on the verge of it last night, so I hear.”

  Gabriel ignored the barb, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the letter. “She hasn’t been easy to run down, Your Majesty, as I’m sure Didacus and your men will tell you. But she will come willingly to me. I am the only one she will come to. I am the only one who can find her.” He held out the letter. “Here is the proof.”

  At the king’s nod, one of the attendants took the letter and passed it into Ferdinand’s hand. Everyone in the room stood as though statues, waiting while he read it.

  Gabriel read it along with him, having memorized every line.

  My dearest guardian duke,

  I have smuggled out this letter in secret as my now-fiancé, John Lemon, would be devastated to know I am writing to you. When I saw you had come for me on the docks of Dublin’s shore and I was finally able to see your face, I was overcome with feelings I have never felt before. I do not know what you planned to do should you have me within your grasp, but I think because of my lack of faith, both in you and in God, I have made a terrible blunder. When John presented the idea of marriage, I was desperate to continue my journey to find my parents. He is so encouraging and helpful on that account that I confess I leapt at the chance, not due to feelings of everlasting love for him, although I do care for him. Oh, I am not saying this as I wish to! My dear duke, I think I have made a terrible mistake. I desperately need your advice and I miss your letters dreadfully. I confess that I hope you haven’t given up on finding me. I just need more time to find my parents. Please trust me in this.

  You can still write to me. Please write to me in Reykjavik.

  Yours,

  Alexandria

  The king’s eyes dipped down to the last line and then hovered there. “Pretty, is she?” Gabriel didn’t have to look at the speaking book to understand that comment. The king flicked the letter back toward the attendant, who brought it back to Gabriel. His fingers closed around it, like a man starving, its sustenance as food to his soul.

  “Of course.” There was no sense denying it.

  The king chuckled. “Amor!” He clapped his hands in an overly dramatic way. “What would the world be without it? And it can be so very useful.” He stared at Gabriel, eyes dark with power. “Very well, St. Easton. You may accompany my men to this place where she has gone. You are to bring her back to me and I will equip her to continue her journey to find her parents.”

  “You won’t harm her?” Gabriel asked, lips drawn down and scowling for good measure. He had no intention of bringing her back to Ferdinand, but if he had, he would ask such a question. He would demand her safety.

  “Of course not. She is my prize. I shall treat her with every”—he waved a hand in a circular pattern in the air—“dignity.” He smiled a humorless smile.

  Like the dignity with which Gabriel had been treated? He clenched his jaw at the thought.

  “And where, exactly, did you last see her, St. Easton? You’ve kept us on tenterhooks long enough.”

  “Last I saw her she was on a ship
. . . a ship sailing to Iceland.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “That is the last place on earth I would have thought to look.”

  Gabriel shrugged. “I have no idea why her parents went there, but she discovered that they did.”

  “Well, see that you dress warmly, St. Easton. It sounds like a ghastly place.”

  BACK ON A SHIP.

  God help him.

  Gabriel felt for the ginger root in his pocket that he had paid one of his jailers a silver button to attain for him days before they had boarded the San Cristobel, a twenty-gunned galleon of clean lines and hearty hull. Didacus, the tall Spaniard who had been following Alexandria, and his stubby companion, El Gato, stood to one side watching the loading of the ship, watching him most especially.

  Gabriel swung a dark look on them, his hair, having grown longer since captivity, swinging in his eyes. He shook it away. How he would like a sword to thrust through their wicked chests, but he had to play their game to its bitter end. He had the king’s permission to lead the excursion to find Alexandria, but that didn’t mean he had any power. No, they still treated him like a prisoner. At least he’d convinced them not to tie his hands. Why, he’d asked in his most condescending tone, the purr of the panther in his eyes, would he attempt to escape when they had the same goal in mind? A man in love would do anything for his beloved, wouldn’t he? It wasn’t far from the truth.

  But he mustn’t turn into a sniveling invalid because of the blasted seasickness. If he lost any more weight . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking of. God, I know I’ve already asked for so much, but I really could use a miracle here.

  Sometimes he thought he was going mad, not really knowing if God was hearing him or if he was just talking to the wind. God’s way of answering his prayers thus far seemed to be not helping at all. He supposed Jesus’ disciples must have felt that way when they saw their rabbi murdered on the cross. They must have doubted everything they had done for the past three years with this man who they thought was God. How could something turn out good, perfect even, when it looked like everything was failing so miserably?

  As if to validate his thoughts, an unknown sailor shoved him hard from behind and sent him sprawling on the deck. He looked up from the weathered boards to see laughter erupting from the faces around him. He turned over and sprang to his feet, wary of a trap forming in the glittering eyes of the seamen circling him.

  One man pulled forth a wicked-looking cutlass and sprang toward him. Did they mean to kill him? What was happening now?

  Gabriel swung to the right, just dodging the blade. He turned with a neat twist, got behind the man, and pulled his sword arm back so hard and fast that he felt the pop and then watched with both pleasure and dread at what was to come as the weapon fell. The man slumped to the deck in agony. Gabriel turned, looking back and forth at the crowd, his heart slamming in his chest, ready for the next one.

  A sudden movement from one side brought Didacus to the center of the crowd. He was shouting at the men, his eyes burning with rage. They fell back while he grasped Gabriel, and Gabriel let him, gambling on the fact that Didacus was protecting him from a mob beating. Didacus hauled Gabriel to the foremast and directed him to be tied to it.

  As they set sail, the punishment for injuring one of the sailors sank through Gabriel’s frantic mind. A big man, dark with hair all over his body, came forward. Gabriel swallowed as the man stripped off his shirt, grinned a slow, evil grin at him, and took up a long, leather whip.

  The wind pushing against the sails, they floated out toward the open sea, and Gabriel gazed up at the clear blue sky and tensed his body as the first of his twenty-five lashes began across his back.

  Fresh pain—tearing, ripping flesh pain—flashed in bright, agonizing lights of white behind Gabriel’s closed eyelids. His throat worked and his whole body cried out to God—a silent, writhing, pain-cry song. He was drowning. This beating would end him, he knew it. He clenched his teeth and cried out in a loud voice, “God, where are You?”

  Sing.

  Sing? It made no sense and made him so angry he bucked against the ropes. Sing? That’s the best You have for me? He shouted it from every part of his being.

  Yes, sing.

  Another hiss of the lash, agony spreading through his whole being, and he complied. He sang the first song that sprang to his mind.

  Be Thou, O God, exalted high;

  And, as Thy glory fills the sky,

  So let it be on earth display’d,

  Till Thou art here, as there, obey’d.

  To take me they their net prepar’d,

  And had almost my soul ensnar’d;

  But fell themselves, by just decree,

  Into the pit they made for me.

  He laughed at the words and bellowed them as loud as he could, the sting of the whip pushed to the back corners of his mind.

  O God, my heart is fix’d, ’tis bent,

  Its thankful tribute to present;

  And, with my heart, my voice I’ll raise,

  To Thee, my God, in songs of praise.

  Awake, my glory; harp and lute,

  No longer let your strings be mute;

  And I, my tuneful part to take,

  Will with the early dawn awake.

  Colors burst around him . . . so vivid, so bright that he wondered that they couldn’t see them. Like light shields they held his spirit—a resonate, humming being that wept and shouted praise—in a sacred place that felt little pain.

  Thy praises, Lord, I will resound

  To all the list’ning nations ’round;

  Thy mercy highest Heav’n transcends;

  Thy truth beyond the clouds extends.

  Be Thou, O God, exalted high;

  And, as Thy glory fill the sky,

  So let it be on earth display’d,

  Till Thou are here, as there, obey’d.

  Gabriel clung to consciousness, singing the words of the old hymn over and over as the whip lashed bloody lines of murder into his bare back. He couldn’t hear the words and he didn’t know if anyone else could hear him, but as he sang he basked in color, all the colors of the rainbow.

  He closed his eyes and felt his cries of agony seeming from a faraway place, interposing the song in waves of red, like the blood dripping down his back. Yet he sang. To stay alive. He sang and survived with the colors.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alexandria! Alexandria!”

  She jerked awake to the early morning light, the rushing waters of the nearby waterfall where she had stopped to rest and think about what she had done gushing like music in the background. It was John. And he sounded panicked.

  She stood and mounted her horse, heading back toward the road. There was no sense in running from him. She had to face what she’d said. They had to decide what to do next.

  With the dawning light she could just see him come around a bend in the road. She took a deep breath, watching him gallop up to her. “Thank God.” He reined in and stopped. He was hatless and his blond hair was wind tousled. His face was tight with a pained reserve that made her heart ache. He reached over and grasped her arm. “Don’t ever frighten me like that again. I’ve been looking for you for hours. I thought I’d lost you to some horrible misfortune!”

  “I followed the road. There was nothing to fear. I found a pleasant spot of soft grass with a waterfall nearby and fell asleep to the sounds of it.”

  John rubbed his face with a hand and took a great breath. “Alex, it’s too cold for you to be sleeping in the open. We can talk about what happened later. Let’s get you to some shelter and a warm fire.”

  She had to agree that she was cold and damp from sleeping on the ground. And thirsty. She was sure both she and her pretty mare were hungry and thirsty enough for some concern. That he still cared so much after what she had done to him made her f
eel like a wretch. He was probably cold and hungry too. “Yes, let’s find an inn.”

  They continued west as the sun dawned pink on the horizon, the dark forms of the mountains surrounding them in the background. The road led through the small village of Selfoss that looked to be waking up for the day. The main road had a few businesses, one with a sign with a picture of a ram on it. It was the only place that looked like it might be an inn.

  Alex dismounted, unable to look John directly in the eye, and followed him to the door. It was locked and the place looked dark, but he banged on it anyway. The owner, hair askew and still sleepy-eyed, opened the door.

  “Good day, sir. We are traveling through and are looking for some food and a place to rest for a few hours. Do you have such for sale here?”

  “Yes, come in.” He backed away and waved them inside and then showed them to the common room with assurance that breakfast would soon be ready.

  Alex sat across from John, seeing his tired eyes and the tight lines on either side of his mouth. His coat was rumpled and he didn’t look his usual dapper self. She wanted to say she was sorry, but that felt too small in the face of what she’d said, all that she had done. And anyway, what good would it do? He didn’t want her apology. He wanted her for a wife and she knew, after pondering it the night through, that she couldn’t give him that.

  “Ah, here we are now.” The innkeeper, introducing himself as simply Hans, came back scant moments later with two large bowls of steaming porridge and a pitcher of milk. “And whom might I have the pleasure of serving this fine day?”

  Alex hurried to introduce them before John said they were married. “This is Lord John Lemon from Dublin, a dear friend of mine, and I am Lady Alexandria Featherstone.”

  “Featherstone!” The man reared back from pouring a mug of milk, sloshing spills onto the table. “Oh, dear.”

  “Is something amiss?”

  “You haven’t heard? You’re the lady from England, aren’t you? Looking for your parents?”