The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2)

by Mason, Nina

  As he made to rise off her lap, the carriage stopped with jarring abruptness. He tumbled to the floor, breeches around his knees, landing in a tangled heap.

  “Why have we stopped?” she asked, gaze darting around the coach’s damask-covered interior.

  “The devil if I know.” Wearing an expression of intense displeasure, he got to his knees and pulled up his breeches. Whilst he fumbled to fasten the ribbons and buttons, someone pounded on the carriage door.

  The rapping was far too bold and determined to be the coachman. And the likelihood of the knocker being a beggar seemed remote, given the open terrain all around them. The only other possibilities quickened her pulse and made her chest feel heavy.

  Robert shot a glance from her to the door. “Identify yourself and state your business. And be forewarned before you do that I am both armed and a masterful swordsman.”

  Maggie blinked at her husband, astonished. If he was bluffing about his skills with a sword, she questioned the wisdom of the gambit. Even were he as accomplished as he claimed, he had no weapon as far as she could see. She wrung her hands, the blood in them still humming from the spanking.

  After several breathless moments, a deep, coarse voice tinged by merriment said, “’Tis Robin Hood, of course. Here to take from the rich so I might give to the poor.”

  “Let me guess,” Robert returned with more cheek than befitted the direness of their circumstances. “The poor in this case would be yourself and your accomplices.”

  “You’re clever for a nobleman,” the man said. “Now open the bloody door and throw out your purse—and your sword, if indeed you have one—before I am forced to put a bullet in the brain of your driver.”

  Robert and Maggie exchanged mortified glances. “What assurances do I have you will not put a bullet in me even if I should follow your instructions to the letter?”

  “You have my word. My profession is thievery, not murder.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but the word of a bandit carries little weight in my books.”

  There was a loud explosion outside the door and the window shattered, spraying jagged shards of glass through the coach.

  Temples pounding and heart racing, Maggie slid to the far side of the carriage.

  Robert got to his feet and stuck his head out the broken window.

  She wanted to jump up and pull him back inside, but was too paralyzed by fear to move or speak.

  “I give not one good goddamn about your books, you highborn bag of shite,” the highwayman said with a phlegmy laugh.

  Robert bravely—or foolishly?—held his ground. “Before I surrender my purse, I must have your solemn pledge you will do no harm to my servants, my wife, or myself.”

  “With all due respect, you aristocratic bunghole, you are in no position to be making demands.”

  “All the same,” Robert persisted, “I must have your oath you will leave us unmolested after absconding with my money.”

  “I shall have to see this wife of yours before making any such oath.”

  The next instant, the window beside Maggie exploded, showering her gown with fragments of broken glass.

  A grime-blackened hand reached through the jagged opening and unlatched the door. As the hand retreated, the carriage door burst open. An unshaven man with greasy blond hair leaned in, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out.

  She screamed and struggled as he hauled her roughly around to the other side, where his partner stood, foot atop the back of their prostate coachman. Heaven help them! He held a flintlock pistol aimed at Robert’s chest.

  The thief with the pistol flicked a glance toward her before reaffixing his beady gaze on her husband. Then, with a leer Maggie did not care for in the least, he said, “She’s bonny. Far too bonny to leave unmolested, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell you what. In the spirit of fairness, I shall offer you a choice. I can shoot you now and spare you the spectacle of the two of us taking turns with her—or I can spare your life and let you watch.”

  Robert stared at the man with hate in his eyes.

  Cold steel pressed the skin of her neck. Holy Mary. The man had a knife! And his partner was armed to the teeth. Daggers of all shapes and sizes dangled from his grubby doublet and a sheathed sword hung at his hip. There were probably more knives hidden in his battered boots.

  Would they cut her throat after they raped her? Of course they would. And just as surely, shoot Robert after forcing him to watch them defile her.

  Please God, help us both to escape this debacle with our lives!

  The armed thief thrust out his free hand, took hold of the front of her bodice, and tore it open, stays and all.

  Brisk air washed over her breasts. A cold, calloused hand closed around the left one. As the thief with the knife to her throat squeezed and fondled, his pelvis rear-ended her. Even through her petticoats and farthingale, his state of sexual excitement was apparent.

  For the love of God, do something, Robert!

  As if he’d somehow heard her silent plea, Robert burst from the carriage brandishing a sword.

  The pistol discharged with a deafening crack, startling her and both assailants.

  Seizing the moment, Robert lunged, thrusting his blade with impressive force. With a spin, the thief dodged the jab and drew his own sword. Their weapons met with a ringing clang that echoed back from the hills. The scrape of metal sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.

  She held her breath as her husband and the thief crossed swords. Clang, clang, scrape, clang. The sun winked from their swift-moving blades as they performed a deadly dance of attacks and deflections.

  She knew next to nothing about fencing, but it did not take an expert to see Robert was the far better fighter of the pair. Every move he made spoke of grace and confidence. The highwayman, in comparison, seemed clumsy and desperate. He was sweating and breathing hard whilst her husband appeared cool and self-controlled.

  Their blades met again with a resounding clank. They disengaged and faced off, resuming their stances.

  The thief lunged and feinted.

  Robert parried, but too late. The tip of the highwayman’s sword caught the sleeve of his shirt. Robert winced in pain, but, rather than retreat, he ran his opponent through.

  The highwayman’s eyes widened and a choked sound escaped his mouth.

  Maggie closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight. When she opened them again, an enlarging blot of crimson was spreading across the sleeve of Robert’s billowing cambric shirt.

  With a leap and a hard kick to the bested man’s chest, her husband extracted his gory blade with a sucking sound that turned her stomach.

  As the highwayman fell dead, the coachman sprang to his feet.

  Praise God!

  Now, ’twas three against one, but, unfortunately, the outnumbered thief still held a knife to her throat.

  Robert rounded on them, blood-smeared blade outthrust in a menacing manner. “Let her go or I’ll give you a taste of the same meal I served your friend.”

  The thief tightened his hold and increased the pressure on the blade.

  Another shot rang out. The knife fell and the man holding her collapsed. She spun round to find the coachman holding a smoking pistol.

  Arms came around her middle and the familiar scent of lavender and clove filled her senses. Robert. Her flesh-and-blood savior. Turning in his arms, she sank into his strong hold and warm body. His heartbeat was as rapid as hers.

  “Are you all right?” His breath brushed her ear.

  “I am now.” She glanced at the coachman, heart swollen with gratitude. “Thank you for your bravery.”

  “Thank your husband, duchess.” The driver tipped his dusty velvet cap and lowered his gaze. “If not for the duke, we’d all be awaiting the undertaker at present.”

  “Aye, well,” Robert muttered. “There is much to be said for the element of surprise.”

  Maggie shuddered at the thought of how close they’d come to a far graver outcome. Only as she relax
ed into her husband’s embrace did she realize she was trembling—with cold as well as shock.

  The coachman reclaimed the driver’s seat and reins. “When you are ready to set off, Your Graces, just say the word.”

  Maggie tightened her grip on Robert. “Is it safe to go on?”

  “Aye. Unless I should bleed to death before we reach the inn.”

  The blood! In all the mayhem, she’d forgotten completely about his injury. Drawing back, she checked his arm. Her heart wrenched at the sight of his sleeve, now scarlet from shoulder seam to elbow.

  “You are hurt.” She reached for the stained portion of sleeve. “Let me have a look.”

  He jerked his arm from her glancing hold. “There’s no need to make such a fuss. ’Tis naught but a flesh wound.”

  She tried once more to have a look. “The wound may require binding to staunch the flow of blood.”

  He captured her around the waist and pulled her into the warmth of his body. “I would rather you saw to something else.” He drove his hardness against the small of her back. “Unless you are too traumatized to be bothered. In which case, I shall see to my own needs.”

  “I shall gladly see to your needs.” She ground against his erection for emphasis. “’Tis the least I can do to reward you for coming to my rescue.”

  He pulled her toward the carriage and helped her inside. The instant they were underway, he reached under her skirts.

  She gasped as his fingers found their intended target.

  He stroked her dew-covered petals. “Sweet Jesus. You are as aroused as am I.”

  Rolling onto her, he pushed up her skirts and pinned her to the bench. Wedging a knee betwixt her thighs, he nudged her legs apart before unfastening his fly.

  “For better or worse, this shall not take long.” His voice was husky with passion. “Doing violence gives a man a furious cockstand.”

  His prediction proved correct. The coupling did not take long. She was already so stimulated she began to climax after the first few forceful thrusts. Wrapping her legs around him, she lifted her hips to welcome every delicious inch of his phallus. As shuddering spasms of ecstasy shook her body, she dug her teeth into his shoulder to stifle her cries. She was mortified enough the coachman had seen her breasts. She would die of embarrassment if he were to now overhear her cries of rapture.

  In fewer than a dozen savage strokes, Robert stilled and made a strangled sound as his own achievement pulsed deep inside her. He collapsed upon her so limp and heavy he nearly crushed her beneath his weight.

  For several moments, his head lay beside hers, his breathing hard and loud in her ears. His intoxicating masculine bouquet—lavender, clove, sweat, and sex—engulfed her senses, making her head swim. Through the wall of her chest, his heart pounded out the same allegro tempo as her own.

  Her bubble was broken by a sharp prick of affront and embarrassment. Those men had torn her gown, exposing her breasts to all present as if she were a doxy instead of a duchess. She did not want to think what they would have done to her had Robert and the driver not acted so swiftly.

  Truth be known, she was glad her husband killed that awful man. Nay, not only glad, but proud as well. May both the thieves burn in the fiery pit for all eternity. Yes, the thought was unchristian, but she cared not. Her only concern at present was that Robert had acted to protect her at last.

  “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered with tears in her eyes.

  He pushed up and gazed down at her, his long, dark hair a widow’s veil around his handsome face. A gap in the wavy strands revealed the glint of tears in his gray-green eyes.

  “Does that mean you forgive me?” The sweet smile he gave her warmed her to her cockles.

  She lifted a hand to tuck some of his hair behind one ear. “I do. With the whole of my heart.” Then, looking up at him coyly from under her lashes, she added, “But I fear Mistress Margaret is not as generous as your Rosebud. She says she shall have her pound of flesh, come hell or high water.”

  Chapter Two

  Robert flinched at the pain in his arm as he sifted through the letters he’d found on his desk upon entering his library. The blade had merely grazed the skin, but the wound still smarted when he moved just so. If it did not improve by bedtime, he would consult David Cockburn, the local physician, on the morrow.

  Still, the wound was trifling compared to what might have occurred. Thank the Saints and Martyrs he’d hidden his sword beneath the seat of the carriage. He’d have to be mad to travel unarmed, especially after what the Covenanters did last year to the Archbishop of St. Andrews. After intercepting his coach and killing the postilion, the nine assassins stabbed the poor man to death in front of his daughter.

  Traveling the roads of the border shires had never been safe, but now the meschants would kill a man for his beliefs as well as his purse.

  Was naught sacred anymore?

  Shaking the distressing thought from his head, Robert opened and sorted the letters into two piles. On the first, he put bills to be paid and other correspondence pertaining to matters of the estate. On the second, social inquiries and invitations for Maggie to answer. As his duchess, she was now responsible for their social intercourse—an additional burden he was pleased to delegate. He would advise her, of course, until she grew accustomed to the social protocols as well as his preferences.

  Though a bit of a loner of late, he enjoyed company. Here in Dunwoody, a small village twenty or so miles from the English border, occupation was dull, amusements few, and intercourse with the larger world impeded by the lack of roads at once safe and carriage-worthy.

  Invitations to visit neighbors, therefore, generally received a favorable answer.

  Generally, but not at present.

  If they called upon their peers in the nearby towns, they’d be regaled with food and drink and pressed to stay the night. Normally, he’d be delighted to oblige, but being a new bridegroom had altered his outlook. As much as he craved society and escape from the drudgery of ducal life, he desired unhampered time with his wife even more.

  Chilled by a sudden draught, he looked up from his task, taking in the library’s towering bookcases, dark paneling, and carved mantelpiece. Despite the fire, the room was cold. Like the rest of the castle, thanks to the icy air forever sneaking through the ill-fitted windows and doors. The lack of draperies and carpets only made matters worse.

  Shivering, he rubbed his hands together to warm his fingers. He could do with a bowl of hot broth, but, alas, there was no bell-pull with which to summon the housekeeper. Thus, he’d have to bang on the floor with a poker or the heel of his shoe.

  In the manner of a bloody barbarian.

  He heaved a sigh and shook his head. After the luxuries of London, returning to Scotland had been akin to stepping back in time to the middle ages.

  The bedchambers were even more antiquated than the public rooms. Most were not even equipped with fireplaces and, in all but his and Maggie’s chambers, which he’d exhausted his savings to bring into the 17th-century, the beds were recessed into the walls.

  Further improvements, unfortunately, were unmanageable due to the scarcity of funds. The duchy encompassed a modest estate upon which sat an array of small crofts more fertile in weeds than grain. The rents they produced were miserably mean and oft paid in sheep, eggs, poultry, yarn, or so many bolls of barley, oats, and pease.

  In five short years, he’d grown to dread the quarter days when the rents came due and the tenant farmers trooped up the road on their half-starved, over-burdened horses. What a disheartening procession to behold! They’d put their grain in the storehouse and there the lot remained until consumed or sold to raise the funds needed to cover the household expenditures. More often than not, the stores were spoilt by long keeping or rats.

  The fare, too, was tiresome. Meals consisted incessantly of salted meat and broth made from husked oats or beaten barley. Only in summer or autumn, when the cattle were returned to the pastures to graze, did their
flesh become tolerably edible. A scrawny hen was roasted now and again to break up the monotony, but their stringy flesh hardly excited the palate. Luckily, there was strong ale and whisky aplenty to wash it all down.

  Compared to London, life in Dunwoody was all bleakness and tedium. Thank God he now had Maggie to add flavor and cheer to his days and nights. Or did he? She was still angry with him, despite his attempts to appease her. He could hardly blame her. If their roles were reversed, he’d be mad with jealousy.

  But, then again, ’twas the nature of woman to be constant and the nature of man to hunt and conquer. Even his father—God rest his soul—had slept around, despite his devotion to his wife. Soon enough, Maggie would learn the ways of the world and all would be well. Just look how far she’d come from the innocent convent-raised lass he’d married. And in only a few short weeks.

  What a sweet, unspoiled rose she’d been—his for the plucking. The time and care he took to deflower his bride nearly killed him, but ’twas well worth the sacrifice, because he loved her as he’d loved no other. The sex was the best he’d ever had—and he’d had considerably more than his fair share.

  Truth be told, he’d been secretly smitten with her for years. He’d done his best to drown his feelings—in wine, whisky, and women who paled in comparison to his Rosebud.

  Her goodness shone from within—heaven’s light calling his soul back home. He was at once attracted and repelled by her virtue. She was a saint, like his mother, and he a black-hearted rake who’d rejected goodness.

  But lo, how he’d pined for her. Pined to worship and adore her, to corrupt and possess her, to pleasure and be pleasured by her. The day she accepted his proposal was the happiest of his life. Every night leading up to the wedding, he laid abed, cock in hand, contemplating the carnal delights they would share and the joy he would find in teaching her the finer arts of marital relations. As she’d been raised in a convent, he believed her ignorant of such matters—until he learned on the eve of their nuptials ’twas she who’d raided his collection of erotica.