The Reluctant Duchess

by Roseanna M. White

  She’d as soon keep her image of Nottingham as a kind, humorous man a bit longer.

  With another nod in farewell, he stepped out. Fog seeped in through the open door, dispersing again with the whoosh of its closing. Rowena drew in a long breath, let it out, and allowed her face to contort with the throbbing of her ankle. It was broken, sure as day. It must be, to hurt so. Her fingers trembling, she reached down to untie the bandage.

  Brilliant bruising peeked out, making her stomach flip.

  The door swinging open again made it flop. She had the presence of mind to tug her hem back down, but she could wrap her tongue around no wit when Nottingham strode back into the room without so much as by-your-leave. The expression on his face—so stoic but for a trace of . . . amusement?—baffled her.

  When her father strode in behind him, a thunderhead in his eyes, some of the bafflement disappeared.

  “Is that what you call ‘right behind’ me, Lochaber?” The duke stopped in the middle of the room and spun back toward the door.

  “Rowena!” Father looked almost concerned when he spotted her—she had to give him credit for his skills as an actor. He flew to her side as if he cared. And it almost seemed the breath he sucked in upon spotting her mottled foot was genuine. “What did you do to her, Nottingham?”

  She’d never heard that particular tone from him. Had no word to describe it.

  Nottingham folded his arms over his chest. “Saved her from a night spent with her feet in the loch, after her cousin pushed her down the hill.” He paused, lifted a brow. “I believe the words you’re looking for, my lord, are thank you.”

  “Thank you? Ye expect me to thank you for spending the night with my daughter? All the neighborhood’s out looking for her, and what do ye think they’ll say when they find ye’ve both been holed up here for the night?”

  Father looked back to her. Lifted his hand. She winced away, but he didn’t strike her. Of course he wouldn’t, not in front of the duke. He stroked the hair from her face. Though no affection shone in his eyes when he said, in Gaelic, “Have you no sense, girl? You told him you were pushed? All you had to do was claim to have slipped and let the chips fall!”

  Rowena could only shake her head.

  The duke lifted the other brow. “Let’s dispense with the playacting, shall we? You set this up—a dunce could see that. No doubt so you can try to force us to wed. But allow me to save you some trouble and embarrassment and say, while we’re still alone, that it won’t work. I’ll not be bullied into marriage.”

  Her father rose, settling into the stance she knew best. The one that kept his spine straight, his shoulders back, and a glare upon his face. Usually, that stance sent men scrambling, women scattering. Usually, when the Kinnaird curled his hand into a fist, everyone knew to run.

  Nottingham just stood there, arms still crossed and half a smile still on his too handsome face.

  “You’ve disgraced my daughter, sir! If you think I’ll—”

  “No. You disgraced your daughter. I played the hero.” The duke let the amusement fade from his face. “You arranged it well—I’ll grant you that. And the rain helped. But it was all for naught, so let’s handle this reasonably. You take your daughter back to the castle and tell all those neighbors you’ve rallied that you found her—alone—in the cottage. I’ll just turn up far away. No harm done.”

  “No harm done?” Father motioned to the door, and by doing so drew Rowena’s attention to the fact that voices could be heard, though they were muffled by fog and distance. “A search party is scouring the countryside. There’s little chance of you slipping away without being seen.”

  Nottingham’s eyes went hard and cold. The smile he put on now looked . . . well, like the smile of a duke. “Covered every angle, have you? Then I’m afraid all your friends and cousins and neighbors will have to be privy to my refusal to be manipulated.”

  “You would destroy a girl’s reputation?”

  Rowena lowered her gaze, fastened it upon the strand of wool pulling loose from the knit of her jacket. Stifled the urge to pick at it.

  “Don’t try to ply me with guilt, Lochaber. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I won’t pay for your decisions.”

  “You think you can run roughshod over my family?” Her father’s voice dripped threat.

  Nottingham’s breath of laughter seemed unaffected by it. “In the past year, I’ve seen one of my dearest friends kidnapped. I’ve had a madman point a gun at my head. Witnessed that man’s death at the hands of the constable. Then lost my father, on top of it all.” She glanced up and saw him lean forward, his eyes showing no fear whatsoever. “I’m well beyond petty threats, Lochaber. And I warn you now—don’t push me. Don’t try me. My good humor has been stretched to its limits.”

  A chill found the base of her spine and shivered its way up. She thought she knew dangerous men—but it seemed Nottingham was a whole different kind of one.

  “Lord Lochaber?” A figure blocked the light from the open doorway—the stable master, and his relief looked genuine when he spotted Rowena. “My lady, ye’re well! We feared the worst when that storm wouldna let up. Angus! McDonnell, over here—and with the horses. The lass is injured!”

  Nottingham seemed to draw in his next breath with extra care. His focus didn’t leave her father’s. “Am I understood, Lochaber?”

  If he thought so, he greatly underestimated the stubborn Scots blood her father took such pride in. “Your party stayed the night at the castle, sir.” The Kinnaird motioned toward the door. “Let us repair there to finish our discussion, aye?”

  Any objection the duke may have made disappeared under the clamor of the arriving grooms and horses, the shouts that went out to the other staff and neighbors combing the glen. Rowena lost sight of Nottingham in the fray, let herself be scooped up by the burly McDonnell and deposited gently upon an old, imperturbable mare.

  Her father slid the reins over the horse’s head and tethered them to his own mount. When he glanced up at her, she forced the words past her lips. In Gaelic—for though the servants would understand, the duke wouldn’t. “Why’d ye do it, Father?”

  He froze, then edged closer. “It was that or Malcolm, lass. If ye’d rather the devil ye know, then say the word.”

  She could say nothing. It took all her strength to hold back the sob that tightened her throat, to keep down the tears that threatened to well. She ought to have just run away after Malcolm stripped her of what little worth she had. Or tossed herself into the loch.

  The ride back to the castle passed in a blur of cold, damp air and shooting pain every time her injured foot brushed against the horse. Her discomfort only increased with each person who joined their group, the shouts having gone far and wide, apparently.

  One small part warmed within her. She hadn’t thought they’d care, any of them, if she went missing. But the joy of their servants and neighbors seemed genuine when they rushed up to her and praised the Lord she was found, safe and whole.

  Each time her father was quick to put in that the duke had rescued her, made sure she was safe. Was he trying to appease Nottingham . . . or cement in everyone’s mind that they had been together all night? Rowena did her best to smile at whomever spoke and otherwise kept her gaze locked firmly upon the old nag’s mane.

  More shouting pierced the air when they crossed the causeway over Loch Morar and through the gates of Castle Kynn. She dared look up when their group drew to a halt—and wished she hadn’t.

  Ella stood on the steps, flanked by her mother and Miss Abbott. The woman Rowena had hoped would become a dear friend—and possibly a means of escape from the Highlands—stared at her with a look of utter betrayal on her face. Asking, no words required, how she could do something so low, how she could set a trap for her beloved brother.

  She wouldn’t believe that Rowena had nothing to do with it. How could she?

  McDonnell lumbered to a stop beside her horse and held up his hands. “Come, lass. There be hot drink waiting
, and breakfast besides. Mrs. MacPherson has been cooking up a storm, ye ken. Lilias’ll have ye warm and dry and snug in no time.”

  Lilias. Rowena caught her maid’s attention as McDonnell helped her down, asking the same silent question Ella had.

  Lilias’s eyes had gone wide. No doubt she had seen the mottled foot that wouldn’t fit back in her boot. No doubt she regretted having caused her injury. No doubt she wondered if she had done right.

  Well, she hadn’t. And Rowena would be happy to tell her so when they had a moment alone.

  She needed to escape all the eyes, all the questions. All the accusations coming from the Nottinghams and Abbotts. All the whispers going through the Kinnaird clan when they spotted the duke. She looked up into the kind, lined face of McDonnell. “Would ye take me straight to my room, please?”

  Understanding warmed his eyes. “Aye, lass.”

  But her father made it inside ahead of them and barred the path to the stairs, pointing instead toward the drawing room. With a sigh, McDonnell shifted directions.

  Rowena wilted onto the chair he chose for her, the same one she always picked for herself. But she barely registered the comfort of the faded cushions, the fire crackling in the stone hearth, the vibrant colors of the rug she had passed many an hour staring at. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold back the tears, but she couldn’t well loose them here, now, surrounded by the swarm of families that descended.

  Their words were shouts, buzzing and clanging against each other, blurring with the light from the oil lamps lit against the dim day. Elspeth, Father, the Nottinghams. All speaking at once, asking questions, making demands. The duke with his perpetual “Absolutely not” and Father with his insistent “But ye must.” Words like honor and expectation and ruined all battling each other for prominence until the very landscapes on the walls seemed to shiver in their gilt-edged frames.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Pulled tight the blanket McDonnell had draped over her. And prayed she could melt into the chair.

  The cacophony kept on until a too-familiar voice shattered it with a furious shout of “Rowena!”

  Malcolm. No, no, no. Not here, not now, not with all these people around.

  She shrank as much as she could into the chair, pulled the blanket higher. Maybe he wouldn’t even spot her in the crowd. Maybe Father would send him away. Maybe . . .

  He charged through the room, shoving people aside, and jerked her from the chair.

  To keep from falling into his chest, she had no choice but to plant both feet. And then couldn’t hold back the cry of pain.

  “Glaikit woman!” He shook her hard enough to make her vision swim. “Did ye think I wouldna hear, that I wouldna ken exactly what ye were trying to do? Ye’re mine, Rowena Kinnaird. Mine!”

  “Unhand her!” Welcome words, but it wasn’t her father who shoved Malcolm away. Nay, ’twas Nottingham who held the brute off with one arm and kept her from falling with the other. His hand curled around her waist, warm and secure . . . But it was not the support she wished for. Why, even before all these people, could the Kinnaird not defend her?

  “A Sassenach?” Malcolm whirled to face her father, his face mottling red. “Ye wouldna.”

  Father didn’t so much as blink out of turn. “Ye presume too much, Malcolm. Something I wish I had seen in you sooner. Now if ye’ll excuse us—I was in discussion with the duke.”

  “Ye were in discussion with me before that Sassenach ever got to the Highlands, and I’ll not be dismissed!”

  Rowena squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with every meager ounce of faith within her that he wouldn’t say it all here and now. That he wouldn’t blurt out before the Nottinghams what he’d done to her, what he had taken.

  The duke leaned down. “Is he the laird you mentioned?”

  A shudder shook her. “I didna ken what kind o’ man he was.”

  Malcolm spun back their way, eyes still ablaze. “Ye needna worry yerself with salvaging her honor, Yer Grace. It’ll be o’ no concern to anyone when she’s my wife.”

  Nottingham’s hand pressed tighter to her side. “I don’t believe the lady wishes to wed you, Mister . . . ?”

  “Kinnaird.”

  A glance up at the duke’s face revealed, of all things, a return of his amused smile. “Ah, a clansman. How cozy.”

  Malcolm looked ready to haul off and punch Nottingham in the nose. “The next chief of Clan Kinnaird, and I’ll thank you to take your dirty English paws off my future wife.”

  Nottingham lifted his free hand and made a show of examining it. “Well now. I’m not as tidy as usual, I grant you, but it was for a good cause.”

  With a growl, Malcolm lunged forward, clamping his hand around her arm and tugging.

  She tried to resist, to pull away, to tuck herself to the duke’s side. But Malcolm had anticipated her reaction and pulled hard. Then his hand was on her hip and his chest was before her eyes and his musk was overwhelming her and the stones were biting her back again and the pain—the pain clouded her vision, obliterated everything, and she could only beg again, “No, no, no!”

  The room—this room—came rushing back as her father hauled Malcolm a step away, as Nottingham caught her up again, as the women all rushed forward, the duchess shouting something about her ankle.

  Her ankle—its throb was so much less now, with that other agony again in her mind.

  Malcolm struggled against her father.

  The duke glowered with the ferocity of a winter storm. “Don’t. Touch. Her. Again.”

  The brute snarled. “Stay out of it, Sassenach. Ye canna stand between us forever.”

  The tremors gripped her fast and hard and would have sent her to her knees had Nottingham not held her upright. He stroked his thumb in a circle obviously meant to soothe. And which, oddly, it did. A little.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice low and tight. “I can. And I will.”

  Malcolm strained against Father’s hands. “What’ll ye do? Take her south, hide her away? I’ll find her. She’s mine, and I’ll find her as surely in England as in my own glen.”

  He would. She had no doubt of that. How had she ever thought it would be enough to leave Loch Morar? Her ghosts would follow her wherever she went.

  Nottingham smiled. “And what good will that do you, when she’s the Duchess of Nottingham?”

  The world stilled. Every breath caught. Rowena couldn’t even think of breathing, not when he looked down into her eyes and she saw the soft light in his. The promise. The offer of that thing she craved most—escape. Quietly, he added, “If you’ll have me, Rowena.”

  Her name sounded different, somehow, on his lips without that cushioning Lady before it—and punctuated, as it was, with the Gaelic curses that Malcolm spat. The brute roared, fought against Father’s arms.

  Rowena pressed closer to Nottingham’s side and whispered the only word that would come. “Aye.”

  His mother and sister’s shouts were drowned out by Malcolm’s as he broke free. In the next moment he’d wrenched her away from Nottingham again, his face as dark as sin.

  He’d kill her then and there, she saw it in his eyes as his hands closed around her neck. No one would be able to stop him in time, and she’d never be able to fight him off. She had only one defense, and she barely got the words past her lips before his fingers tightened. “Elspeth’s with child.”

  The implications did exactly as she expected. The fire in his eyes shifted, a different shade of anger snuffing out the murderous rage. His hands dropped from her neck, even if they then dug into her shoulders. “Then ye could well be naught. Is that what ye’re saying?”

  The words shouldn’t hurt, not when she’d counted on him feeling that way. Not when she still bore the marks of a far harsher proof of his lack of love. Why, then, did they pierce like arrows through the remnants of her heart?

  “She’ll still be my daughter.” Father came, finally, to her side. He shoved Malcolm away and supported her himself. “’Tis you
who may well be naught, Malcolm. Now get out o’ my home.”

  The muscle in Malcolm’s jaw ticked, but he took a step away. Backward, his gaze never leaving Rowena’s. His hands still in fists by his side. “Aye. But know this, Rowena.” His words were in Gaelic, hard as stone. “If I find you carry my babe, I will come for you. No child of mine will be raised by a Sassenach.”

  Fear curled anew in her stomach. And it didn’t vanish when he left.

  Seven

  Protect her.

  That had been the impression that had seized Brice’s heart when that blasted Scot charged into the room, and it reverberated still now, as he looked down into the chalky face of the woman who had just agreed to marry him. She shook so violently that he feared she might collapse. And no wonder—her neck now had screaming red marks where the brute’s fingers had grabbed and pressed. She was small, delicate. Kinnaird could have—perhaps would have—snapped her neck before Brice or her father could have stopped him.

  Lochaber had delivered her back to Brice’s side to follow and make sure that Kinnaird actually left, and now here they were. Engaged. And for life of him, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the impulsive offer. The Lord’s command had been crystalline in his heart, His will perfectly clear. Brice was meant to wed this frightened young woman.

  If only the Lord were in the habit of handing him reasons along with those undeniable impressions. Because though she was pretty in a quiet way, though she seemed sweet enough, though she obviously needed a protector, though he had been willing to grant the Lord had a purpose for introducing them, she wasn’t anything like what Brice imagined his future wife being.

  Protect her. It sounded like his own words, his own thoughts. Only clearer, stronger. Truer.

  Rowena looked up at him, her silver eyes as big as moons and bright with the fervor of fear. “Ye needna . . .”

  But he did. Perhaps Malcolm’s motivations were largely tied up in the title he’d thought she was sure to inherit, but it couldn’t be only that. Brice had seen passion enough in people. The Scot’s might be dark, but it was still passion. The desire to have, to own, to possess—the very same kind that had darkened the eyes of Pratt last summer, when he’d held a shotgun at the ready and demanded a hostage. The same kind that churned within Lady Pratt when she demanded the Fire Eyes.