For the Duke's Eyes Only

by Lenora Bell

  He’d been dreaming about Athens again.

  “Quite well.” He buttoned his shirt. “Did you rip open my shirt?” he asked incredulously, realizing that the top button was missing.

  “Of course not!” She searched the seat cushion for the missing button. “You must have torn open your shirt while you slept.”

  “Are you sure about that?” he asked, just to needle her. “Perhaps I should have brought a chaperone.”

  “Quite sure. Your shirt was hanging open when I approached. I . . . was checking to see if you were feverish.” She glanced at him from under her lashes. “How did you come by those scars? The one near your heart is still quite fresh. I thought you were lounging on the beach in Greece last month.”

  Damn. He betrayed nothing. “Duel with a jealous husband,” he lied.

  “I didn’t hear about any duels.”

  “We kept it quiet.”

  “It’s difficult to keep such matters quiet.”

  “Not so difficult abroad. I bribed the various parties to stay silent.”

  “And the ridged scars on your abdomen? Are they knife slashes?”

  “You certainly had a good feel, didn’t you? Next time wake me up first so I can at least enjoy it as well.”

  “I didn’t mean to . . . touch you. I . . .”

  “Your hands strayed of their own accord.”

  “I told you, I was seeing if you had a fever. And then I found that knot of scar tissue. Tell me how you received the wound.”

  “I did tell you.”

  “And I’m not satisfied with your answer. I think there’s a story behind these wounds. I’m an archaeologist and a historian. I like digging for answers. I’ll discover your secrets eventually, if I put my mind to it.”

  This entire conversation must be put to an immediate halt. He’d do whatever it took to stop her inquisitive mind from probing any further.

  There was enough attraction smoldering between them to set this carriage on fire. Her touch so close to his heart had undone him completely.

  He could only think of one way to divert the conversation, and that was by doing the thing he wanted to do most.

  When an enemy discovers a vulnerability, eliminate that weakness. Shore up your defenses. Go on the attack.

  “Why don’t you just tell me the truth?” she asked.

  “Because I’d rather do this.” He drew closer to her and kissed her neck. “And this.” He kissed the corner of her mouth.

  She responded by turning her mouth and kissing him full on the lips. He answered by parting her lips with his tongue and delving inside her mouth with confident strokes.

  The arguments, the rivalry, all of his shadows and secrets and her indomitable pride. Their tangled past. The hurt and the betrayal.

  If he could, he would kiss it all away.

  She was meant to be adored and treasured. Pull her close, don’t push her away.

  She pulled back slightly and he immediately broke the kiss.

  She stroked the back of his hand where it hugged the contour of her cheek. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Please do explain it to me.” He tried so hard to keep his voice light, his expression teasing.

  She couldn’t know everything.

  She had no idea that he’d nearly died a month ago and it had shaken him to the core and now he was questioning every decision he’d ever made. Especially the ones that had kept them apart.

  “Before, we were hate-kissing. This is evasive-kissing. You don’t want me asking questions about your scars, about your past, and that’s why you kissed me. You want to distract me from your secrets.”

  “Did it work?”

  “It worked.” She moved his hand closer to her lips and kissed the center of his palm. The light touch of her lips sent shock waves reverberating through his body.

  Shaken to the core.

  The bedrock of his life cracking and shifting.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked.

  “I thought you . . . you pulled away.”

  “I only wanted to do this.” She dipped her head and kissed the base of his throat. He tipped his head back and allowed her to explore his throat, his collarbone, her lips and tongue tracing a path that led dangerously close to his scarred heart.

  “My turn.” He kissed behind her ear. Greedy for the skin of her throat, the pulse at the base of her neck, her soft earlobes. Lingering perfume behind her ears. Where else did she apply the scent?

  Her lips were so soft and she smelled so damned good. And she still tasted like whisky.

  He’d been having the nightmare . . . the one where he rose above his body and watched the blood drain away and his skin turn blue . . .

  He kissed her to drive away the memory of the nightmare.

  She was so warm and supple in his arms. Not the Indy he’d placed on a pedestal, like a saint in a stained-glass window. The imperfect, contradictory woman in his arms. She made his blood sing a new song. A song about wanting to live.

  Wanting to build something new.

  She made a sudden movement with her head and his teeth jarred against her teeth. She pulled back, laughing softly. “That wasn’t very pleasant.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find our way. Evasive-kissing requires practice.” He nipped at her lower lip with his teeth and she responded by giving him a love-bite on his lips.

  Give and take.

  Fire and ice.

  He’d known it would be like this. Too perfect. He’d known her heat would start to melt away the layers of ice his heart was preserved inside.

  Her hands at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

  His hands surrounding her throat, his thumbs stroking the proud lines of her jaw.

  “I dream about you sometimes,” she whispered. “I had a dream tonight.”

  He’d lain awake so many nights thinking of her. He’d imagined her in his bed. Heard her moaning his name. No one else had the same low, seductive voice.

  And no one else had her unique smile, that knowing curve of her lips that he’d been searching for on other faces and never found. She had the smile of a Roman goddess, immortalized in metal and stamped onto a coin.

  Stamped onto his heart.

  He brought her face closer and kissed the tip of her nose. “What did you dream about?”

  “This. Kissing. And . . . more.”

  More. Yes, please. Much more. He kissed her cheekbone, her chin, the vulnerable curling of her ear. Held in check by reverence . . . and by the knowledge that this couldn’t go too far.

  “This is innocent compared to my dream,” she said.

  He stroked a long lock of glossy black hair away from her forehead. “Tell me more.”

  “You were wearing a kilt. I suppose that’s because we were talking about kilts. And you weren’t wearing anything underneath the tartan. I know because you . . . you lifted your kilt and showed me.”

  “I showed you?” He smiled against her lips, surprised by the bold admission. “I’m such a scoundrel.”

  “A bad, wicked scoundrel.”

  “I suppose you slapped me in your dream and told me to go expose myself to the devil.”

  She laughed softly. “Actually, I told you to remove your shirt.”

  He swallowed hard. He’d sell what was left of his soul to the highest taker for the opportunity to do her erotic bidding.

  Careful now. Don’t allow this to escalate into something you’ll both regret. It’s late, and whisky was involved, and . . .

  “That could be arranged,” he said. Because he was a scoundrel. And that’s what a scoundrel said when a beautiful woman spoke of ordering him to remove his clothing.

  “I think it should be arranged.” Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “I’ll go first,” she said in a throaty whisper.

  She reached behind her and undid something and her bodice slid lower, exposing the upper curves of her breasts.

  He nearly groaned aloud.

  He’d pi
ctured her naked too many times to count. Cock in fist while he thought about what it would be like to have her in his bed. A potent blend of soft curves and sharp intellect that would go straight to his head and make him drunk with desire.

  A lifetime of imagining the pleasure of this moment, countered by a lifetime of justifying why it could never happen.

  The balance of those scales was tipping fast.

  Indy undoing her bodice and presenting herself to him was simply more than he was able to refuse.

  Just a small taste of paradise.

  He lowered his head.

  Spiced floral scent that infiltrated his mind and stiffened his body. She applied her perfume between her breasts. Every day? Or only on days she knew she’d be in a carriage alone with him?

  Her breasts were full and heavy in his hands, filling his palms to overflowing with soft satin flesh.

  She arched her back. “Raven,” she whispered. “Yes.”

  Just like his fantasies.

  She wore a necklace with a thin gold chain around her neck, the round pendant nestled over her heart.

  He lowered his lips to her breast again, shaping the darker areola with his tongue and lapping in narrowing circles to the tip of her breast.

  He sucked on one nipple while he stroked her other breast, lightly pressing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  The pendant around her neck caught his eye, glinting in the gloom inside the carriage.

  Round. Copper.

  He stopped worshipping her breasts and lifted the pendant. There was something very familiar about the design. “Is this . . . the Minerva coin I chose for you?” he asked, his heart filling with pride that she wore his parting memento around her throat, hidden between her breasts.

  She snatched the coin away from his hand and backed away, pulling up her bodice. “Yes. But I don’t wear it for sentimental reasons.”

  Gown fastened now, necklace hidden. Heart hidden. Her expression solemn and face shadowed.

  You hurt her. You betrayed her.

  Stop wishing that she remembered you as the boy who believed in love and happy endings.

  She smoothed a hand over her hair. “I wear the coin to remind myself never to trust anyone ever again.”

  Her voice so flat and emotionless.

  “Good.” He adjusted his shirt. “People aren’t to be trusted.”

  “Believe me, I don’t trust anyone except myself. And I have the coin and the scar to remind me of why.” The bitter edge to her words sliced through his heart.

  Literal scar. He’d traced the edge of the faint ridge along her breastbone as they kissed.

  “I have a scar along my breastbone,” she clarified.

  And because he had to feign no knowledge of her life, even though he knew far more than she thought he did, he asked, “You have a scar?”

  “Yes, and I’m happy to tell you how I received it. I’m not ashamed of it. It happened in London. I was nineteen, walking by myself through a marketplace in Whitechapel, proudly carrying the dagger that Lady Catherine had gifted to me. I’d been to see a bookseller and I was on my way to the British Museum to deliver several antiquities. I thought I was so invincible with that dagger at my hip.” She laughed briefly. “I was dreadfully young and naïve.”

  She fell silent.

  “If you don’t want to relive the memory you don’t have to.”

  “A man appeared out of nowhere, dragged me down a side alley and pulled the knife from my belt and turned it on me. Held it to my throat and demanded the contents of my pockets and purse.”

  Again, he had to feign ignorance. “That must have been terrifying.”

  “It’s true what they say.” She lifted her hand in front of her face. “Scenes from your life do play before your eyes like a theatrical production when you face the prospect of death. I remembered Edgar holding my hand and leading me into the bathing pond when we were children and I was frightened of the water.”

  When Raven had lain in that church in Athens he’d seen Indy’s face but it hadn’t been a memory. It had been a fantasy from a different life.

  “I didn’t want to die,” she whispered.

  He reached for her hand. He couldn’t not touch her when her voice was laced with so much suffering. He wanted to fold her into his arms.

  “I thought about all of the things I would never do.” Her grasp around his fingers and the antiquities strengthened. “I surrendered what little coin I had. I asked him not to kill me. I’d like to say I had a plan to break his hold and make my escape, but I didn’t. I did try to run but he caught me easily and dragged me deeper into a narrow passageway between two buildings. Just like the alleyway we were in yesterday.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have been mock fighting in an alleyway.”

  She shivered. “He sliced a line across my hairline, here.” She lifted the hair from her forehead. “And one along my collarbone. Deep enough to draw blood. I thought it was all over for me. I prepared to fight as hard as I could but I knew I didn’t have the skill or the strength to throw him off. Blood dripped into my eyes and I couldn’t see anything.”

  He stroked her fingers. “It sounds like a nightmare.”

  “It was. Until something wonderful happened. My assailant lifted into the air like he’d suddenly learned how to fly. Just flew into the air and smacked against the opposite brick wall.”

  Raven made a sympathetic sound. He knew how the story ended.

  “Someone threw him off me,” she continued. “I wiped the blood from my eyes but I couldn’t see my savior. My assailant lay on the ground. My savior shouted at me to run in a deep, gruff voice. I ran and I didn’t stop running.”

  Raven remembered that day so well. He was rarely in London but when he was, he couldn’t help but shadow Indy, just to be close to her.

  He’d lost sight of her for a moment, in the crowded marketplace, and he’d panicked. And then he’d seen the flash of her dagger in the dark alleyway.

  He’d intervened. How could he not? She’d been in grave danger. He hated to think what might have happened to her if he hadn’t followed her that day.

  He’d wanted to reveal himself, tell her to be less careless. Instead he’d watched her race away.

  It had nearly killed him to let her go, knowing that she could have died.

  She gave a little shake of her head. “So that’s why I learned to wield a knife properly. The next time I was accosted, in London again, I successfully fought off the attack. I know I’m not invincible. I try not to take foolish risks. I’ve been given this second chance and I’m going to make something of my life.”

  “I understand how you could feel that way.”

  “Your bullet wound—did it have a similar effect?”

  “More the opposite effect, I’m afraid. My brush with death reaffirmed my belief that life is short and should be lived to the fullest. I’ll ring it like a bell, live fast and hard, and probably die young.”

  She removed her hand from his grasp. “Do you truly believe that? Do you believe that your life is worthless?

  Not worthless. He served his country. He prevented mass bloodshed. And he pursued his own aim on the side, to clear his father’s name once and for all.

  Even though the charges had never been proved and Raven had inherited the title and holdings, his father had been tried in the court of public opinion. They said he’d been sleeping with an enemy agent, a spy with the code name of Le Fleur. They said he’d betrayed his king for the love of one of Napoleon’s spies. It had been harrowing for Raven’s mother most of all.

  Raven knew his father had been honorable and that he never would have turned traitor.

  Raven placed honor and duty above all.

  He was a good soldier. When he had to, he put his head down and plowed through the enemy line.

  “Raven?” she asked.

  “What did you call me?”

  “You always call me Indy so why shouldn’t I be allowed to shorten your name? Ra
ven’s what your close friends call you, I believe. We used to be friends.”

  We used to be friends. We should have been lovers. Life companions.

  “That was a long time ago,” he said. “Another lifetime.”

  “Why did you . . . change?” she asked.

  She didn’t ask him why he’d betrayed her. He knew she was too proud to ask. This was as close as she would come to the subject.

  He’d relied on her prickly pride all of these years. On her hatred.

  It all seemed so wrong, now. He questioned everything. Especially the reasons he’d pushed her away. And the reasons he had to lie to her right now. One more lie to add to the ocean of lies that his profession required.

  “I’m ruled by my baser instincts, Indy. The world has accused my father of the same. I don’t have the ethical framework that you do. I travel where the warm winds of fame and fortune blow me.” The hedonistic, fortune hunting cover he’d constructed.

  “Do you? I hear this cynicism in your voice and I’m not sure whether I believe it fully. I find it so difficult to reconcile my memory of you as a boy with the man you’ve become.”

  He gave people what they wanted. He was a glassy surface, reflecting back what the world wanted to see.

  “What you see is what you get. All the world loves a rogue.”

  “That’s all you show me, that’s all you show the world.”

  “I’m all surface, Indy, there’s nothing to find, nothing to uncover.”

  What he wanted to do was tell her everything. Just spill it all out and ask her forgiveness. But a man like him never asked for forgiveness. Never admitted to any wrongdoing.

  They could torture him and he’d never admit to anything.

  Withstanding torture had been part of his training, so why couldn’t he withstand the torment of the disappointment he saw in her eyes?

  “My life is already open and closed,” he said. “I’m already a citation in an encyclopedia. Daniel, Duke of Ravenwood: hedonist, mercenary, dies alone, brother Colin inherits and restores the respectability of the family name.”

  Her silence was deafening.

  “All right, Raven. If that’s how you want to play this.” Her tone was resigned.

  He’d won another round. A victory as hollow as a rotten tree trunk.