The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo

by Byrne, Kerrigan

  What horrors he must have seen in his life, some of them perpetrated by his own hands.

  “Forgive me,” she breathed, entranced by the moment, as though he were a serpent and she his prey, mesmerized by his menace. “I do tend to get carried away.”

  He once more brushed aside her words. “You have … experienced all these emotions?”

  What an odd question. “Most of them, yes.”

  “Are you—in love—with someone?”

  She hadn’t realized that someone so still could become even more motionless. It was as though he’d stopped breathing in anticipation of her answer.

  “No,” she answered honestly, and had the impression that his chest compressed.

  “Have you ever been?”

  “I can’t say that I have truly loved anyone, except Jakub.” She glanced at her son, still oblivious to the world around him, and then back to the assassin.

  An expression flickered across his features, but was gone before she could identify it. This time when he looked at her, his eyes were gentler, somehow. Still frightfully opaque, but they had lost some of their frost.

  “Do you wish to be in love?”

  Had any other man asked, she’d have told him that it was no business of his. She’d have lied or misdirected him somehow, to avoid the question. But behind the callousness of Christopher Argent’s expression was an earnest curiosity. A lack of judgment or malice.

  It was a sincere question that deserved a sincere answer.

  “I—I’m never really certain. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Shakespeare, from most any playwright, it is that love is just as dangerous an emotion as hatred or anger or the lust for power. I think love can make you a stranger, even to yourself. Maybe even a monster. It can be a wild creature just waiting to be unbound. A beast. A feral and selfish thing that will turn you against the world, against nature or reason, against God, Himself. And every time I’m tempted to allow myself to fall, I wonder … is it worth the risk?”

  His brows drew together. “What if there is no risk? What if God, if He even exists, has turned away from you, and so to turn from Him would be no great sin? There would be nothing in the way of reaching for what you wanted.”

  Millie blinked, startled by his bleak assessment. “Is that what is going on here? Do you believe God has forsaken you, and so you no longer fear Him? Is that how you’re able to…” She paused, checking on Jakub to make certain he wasn’t listening in. “To do what it is that you do?”

  He lifted his massive shoulders in a dismissive gesture. “Perhaps. I have no fear of God.”

  “So you do not believe in heaven?”

  “This world is all I know.”

  “What about hell, the devil? Are you not afraid you’ll have to answer for your sins, for the blood you’ve spilled?”

  He shook his head, a more adamant gesture than she could remember him making—apart from the times he’d kissed her.

  THE HIGHLANDER

  “He moved like a god, but kissed like a devil.”

  “D-did you not receive my references? My letters of recommendation? I assure you, sir, I am beyond qualified to teach your children comportment. Lady Northwalk informed me that after reading the Whitehalls’—”

  “Yer references were impeccable. However, the expectations of my children differ greatly from the Whitehalls’, ye ken? They were merchants, I’m a marquess, if ye’ll believe it now.”

  “A marquess who dresses like a Jacobite rebel,” she reminded him. “Forgive me for not believing you earlier, but you were covered in mud and ash from the fields, and I’d never met a marquess who assisted in such—physical labor.”

  Ravencroft stepped forward, and Mena retreated, her hands covering the flutters in her stomach as though holding back a swarm of butterflies. “I only meant—”

  “There are some, Miss Lockhart, who would argue ’tis the responsibility of a noble to oversee every aspect of work on the land he owns. And there are others who would find it mighty strange that a proper London governess kens so much about linchpins and carriage wheels.”

  Mena recalled Miss LeCour’s sage advice, that a lie was best told peppered with truth. “My father was a landed gentleman and avid agriculturist, as well as a scholar. I learned quite a few things at his feet as a child which included—”

  “And are ye aware of how far behind schedule my men and I are because we spent all bloody afternoon saving yer stubborn hide? If ye’d allowed me to take ye on my horse, we’d not have lost the daylight.”

  “I do regret my part in that,” Mena said, and meant it. “But as I was a woman traveling alone you can’t expect—”

  “Ye’ll need to ken more than farm maintenance and how to distract a man with a pretty dress in order to teach my children what they’ll need to know to survive in society,” he clipped.

  “Well, their first lesson will be on how rude and socially unacceptable it is to consistently interrupt people in the middle of their sentences,” Mena snapped.

  Oh, sweet Lord. She could hardly believe her own behavior. Here she stood, alone and defenseless before perhaps the deadliest warrior in the history of the British Isles, and she’d just called him to answer for his bad manners.

  Had she escaped the asylum only to go mad outside its walls?

  “Go on then,” he commanded, his voice intensifying and a dark, frightening storm gathering in his countenance. “I believe ye were about to apologize for wasting my time.”

  Mena actually felt her nostrils flare and a galling pit form in her belly. What was this? Temper? She’d quite thought she’d been born without one. Affection and tenderness had made up her idyllic childhood, and acrimony and terror had dominated her adult life. She’d never really had the chance to wrestle with a temper.

  And wrestle it she must, or risk losing her means of escape into relative anonymity. Closing her eyes, she summoned her innate gentility along with the submissive humility she’d cultivated over half a decade with a cruel and violent husband. Opening her mouth, she prepared to deliver a finely crafted and masterful apology.

  “Why aren’t ye married?” the marquess demanded, again effectively cutting her off.

  “I—I beg your pardon?”

  “Wouldna ye rather have a husband and bairns of yer own than school other people’s ill-behaved children?” His glittering eyes roamed her once again, leaving trails of quivering awareness in their wake. “Ye’re rather young to wield much authority over my daughter, as ye’ve not more than a decade on her.”

  “I have exactly a decade on her.”

  He ignored her reply, as the corners of his mouth whitened with some sort of strain that Mena couldn’t fathom. “Were ye a Highland lass, ye’d barely seen Rhianna’s age before some lad or other had dragged ye to church to claim ye. Whether ye’d consented or not. In fact, they’d likely just take ye to wife in the biblical sense and toss yer father his thirty coin.”

  Flummoxed, Mena stared at him, her mouth agape. He still seemed irate, in fact his voice continued to rise in volume and intensity. But it sounded as though he’d paid her a compliment.

  “So that causes a man to wonder,” he continued. “What is a wee bonny English lass like ye doing all the way up here? Why are ye not warming the bed of a wealthy husband and whiling yer hours away on tea and society and the begetting of heirs?”

  Had he just called her “wee”? Was she mistaken or didn’t that word mean little?

  And bonny? Her?

  A spear of pain pricked her with such force, it stole her ire and her courage along with it. Was he being deliberately cruel? Had she left one household that delighted in her humiliation and sought refuge in another?

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” She hated the weakness in her voice, the fear she’d never quite learned how to hide.

  “Everything that happens within the stones of this keep, nay, on Mackenzie lands, are of concern to me. That now includes ye. Especially since ye’ll be influe
ncing my children.” He took another step forward, and before Mena could retreat, his hand snaked out and cupped her chin.

  The small, frightened sound Mena made startled them both.

  Ravencroft’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t release her.

  Her jaw felt as substantive as glass in his hand. Mena knew it would take nothing at all for him to crush her, a simple tightening of his strong, rough fingers. His dark eyes locked on her lips, and they seemed to part of their own volition, exuding the soft rasps of her panicked breath.

  He leaned down toward her, crowding her with the proximity of his forceful presence.

  She saw him clearly now, as so many must have at the violent ends of their lives. Inhumanely stark features weathered by decades of discipline and brutality frowned down at her now, as though measuring her coffin.

  Suddenly the fire and candles cast more shadows in the grand room than light.

  Mena knew men like the laird of Ravencroft Keep rarely existed, and when they did, history made gods of them.

  Or demons.

  THE DUKE

  “There was nothing like fire he could ignite…”

  For a moment, it was as though the moonlight had become sunlight. Her hair shone more brilliantly than it ought. A large flower ornament glittering with center gems winked from the coiffure as though held there by magic and a prayer. In the ballroom he’d thought her gown too garish, a silly ocherous flower among precious jewel tones.

  But here in the garden she belonged. She … bloomed.

  Cole hadn’t realized that his mouth had dropped open until his pipe clattered to the stones, spilling ashes and cinders at his feet.

  She started at the sound, turning to peer into the darkness. “W-who’s there?” she asked in a tremulous whisper. “Jeremy, is that you?”

  Something vicious twisted inside him. Jeremy? Why did that name sound familiar? Who was he to the sainted Lady Anstruther? A lover, perhaps? It surprised him how little he liked that possible development.

  Instead of answering, he bent to retrieve his pipe, stamping out the smoldering coal beneath his boot heel.

  And instead of fleeing, like many a frightened damsel would, she ventured closer to him, her voluminous skirts swishing softly against the stones and overgrown plants.

  “Oh,” she said finally when she’d drawn close enough. “It’s you.”

  Cole could decipher little to no affect in her tone, so he remained silent, finding that his heart answered each step she took with alarming acceleration. Damn her, he’d barely calmed the excitable organ down. Though, apparently, it wasn’t the only organ that seemed to react to her nearness. Adjusting his position to alleviate a disturbing tightness in his trousers, he slid deeper into the darkness toward the far side of the bench.

  The daft woman mistook it as an invitation to sit next to him.

  “Worry not, I didn’t plan to linger.” He lifted his pipe. “This seemed like the place to seek refuge from the insufferable crowd and indulge in a smoke before taking my leave.”

  “It seems we had similar instincts, Your Grace.” She glanced around, and Cole wondered if she used the colorful flora as an excuse not to look at him. “I’m exceedingly fond of this garden. It makes an excellent refuge.”

  He chose not to reveal that he knew just exactly how often she made use of this sanctuary. That he could spy upon her from his study window and he’d seen more of her than she’d ever intended.

  “Though I confess, I didn’t expect to find you here.” She seemed nervous. In the moonlight, he could make out the intensity with which she clasped her hands together in her lap.

  “Obviously.” He should have been chagrined to be discovered lingering on her property. “Expecting someone else, were we?” He set his pipe next to him to itch at the straps of his prosthetic. “Some clandestine rendezvous? Tell me, as a merry widow, do your tastes lean toward the gallant lord, or do you keep to the groundskeeper for a more familiar territory?”

  “The groundskeeper? Hercules?” She let out a faintly amused sound, leaving the merry-widow comment alone. “Not likely, he’s a rather hairy Greek man who’s sixty if he’s a day.”

  “He’s younger than your first husband,” he challenged.

  He expected her to slap him, or at least demand an apology for his ghastly behavior. But to his utter astonishment, she tossed her head and laughed, the sound full of moonlight and merriment.

  “Touché,” she acquiesced, a light glinting in her eyes like she’d absorbed some of the shine from the stars. “Not only does my groundskeeper speak very little English, but the dear man eats nothing but garlic. Also, I’m quite certain he bathes in olive oil, which I’ll admit does stir my appetite upon a warm day when he is particularly fragrant, but only for Mediterranean fare. Nothing else, I assure you.”

  Struck dumb, Cole could only stare at her with agitated bemusement. Why the devil was she being so civil? He’d been a rote bastard to her, shamed and insulted her in front of her guests. And here she was dallying with him in her garden managing to be entertaining.

  Christ preserve him, it was both unsettling and alluring. Too intriguing. And bloody hell, were these straps on his prosthetic made of glass shards and wool? He couldn’t take his eyes off her brilliant smile as he grappled at it with his one good hand. He wanted to be rid of not only the offending object, but his clothing had begun to likewise chafe. He wished to cast it all off, and hers as well, to be clad in nothing but the night air and moonlight.

  “Your Grace.” She regarded him with the most absorbed expression, part assessment, and part concern. As though she truly saw him. As though she knew him. “Is there anything amiss? Are you … all right?”

  The breathy quality to her unceasingly feminine voice scratched at a door in his mind that remained stubbornly closed. He’d come across a few of those doors since returning from Constantinople, and knew it best that they remained locked. Most especially when he was like this. Raw, agitated …

  Aroused.

  THE SCOT BEDS HIS WIFE

  “Once in his bed she would never be the same again…”

  Samantha fished in her frilly purse for some coins she still barely recognized. What was considered generous gratuity in the Scottish Highlands? She hadn’t the first idea. “I packed rather quickly, so I only brought the two trunks—”

  She froze when he reached out and cupped her elbow. Shit. He was touching her again. He really needed to stop doing that.

  Was it really necessary to wield a hand so incredibly large? An arm so thick and solid? Samantha fought the ridiculous urge to lean all her weight into the strength she sensed there.

  “I occurs to me, Miss Ross, that we havena been properly introduced.”

  “Oh, right.” Introductions were of some significance hereabouts, she’d noted. Annoyed with herself, she wondered how many times she’d break custom. Generally it would mean nothing to her. But this brawny stranger with features the perfect paradox of barbarian and aristocrat seemed to have her thoughts tumbling over each other like a litter of exuberant puppies.

  And with her husband only weeks dead by her own fucking hand.

  Lord, she really was going straight to hell.

  “Alison Ross.” She stuck out her hand for a shake though the gesture just seemed superfluous now. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr.…”

  His hand engulfed hers, once again, and he pulled it toward him, looking like a man amused with a joke she was not a part of.

  He was someone aware of his effect on women. On her in particular.

  Infuriating quality, that.

  “When I offered to save ye trouble, I meant the trouble of an arduous ride out to Erradale on such a frigid evening. Ye see, Miss Ross, I am quite sure ye’ve traveled all the way here on account of the documents of notice I sent ye, as I am Gavin St. James, the Earl of Thorne, and I’m here to take Erradale off yer lovely hands.”

  She snatched said hand away before he could press those full lips to her
glove as he was about to do.

  This was Gavin St. James? Alison’s adversary. No, her enemy?

  She couldn’t think of a thing to say. She was so incredibly travel-weary, heartsick, seasick, and—if she were honest—more than a bit dazzled by the Earl of Thorne. Alison Ross hadn’t exactly given her a physical account of the man. She hadn’t expected someone so … so …

  Words failed her, yet again. As did her body, which seemed to be calling for her to surrender her hand back into his so he could place the kiss on her knuckles she’d denied them both.

  “If ye’d like, lass, I could conduct ye to Inverthorne Keep, my castle, where we could conclude our business in comfort for a few days…” His gaze traveled the length of her burgundy traveling gown. “And a few nights.”

  “I see,” she clipped, crossing her arms over the heart pounding against her ribs. She’d been right when she’d sensed danger. “Well, while your offer is appreciated, it’s pointless. If residence at Erradale is necessary to retain the land, as was mentioned in the documents, then Erradale is where I’ll be spending my days … and also my nights.”

  She turned toward the porter’s station, praying to keep her balance on the blasted boots, when his wide shoulders blocked her. Yet again.

  “Perhaps ye’ve not received my generous offer?” His alluring smile became strained, showing too many even, white teeth. “It’s nearly twice what the land is worth.”

  “I received it, all right,” she said mildly.

  He took a full breath, waiting for her to elucidate.

  When she didn’t, he was forced to ask the implied question.

  “Ye’re not saying that ye’re refusing the offer, are ye?”

  “Well, I wasn’t gonna put it like that, but I certainly didn’t plan to accept.”

  “Yer family’s had no interest in Erradale for several years. Why now?”