Alaric stared at her. “It was ... my duty. She was my wife. My responsibility. And even if I’d once had feelings for her,”—he shook his head—“they died.”
“Because she killed them. She didn’t deserve your love—which, by the by, isn’t just about words.” Emma was working herself into a fine rage and didn’t even care. “It’s about actions. It’s ridiculous that you think you aren’t capable of love when you show it every single day.”
“I … do?”
“Of course. You haven’t said you love me, but I’m quite certain you do. Because you demonstrate your affection for me in ways other than words.”
He looked dumbstruck.
“Alaric,” she said in exasperation, “you’ve filled my closets with finery fit for a queen, given me more jewelry than I could possibly wear in a lifetime, installed me in a castle—”
“That’s just money,” he said starkly.
“You listen to me,” she persisted, “and respect my opinion even if you don’t agree. For goodness’ sake, you support my desire to be an investigator—how many husbands would do that?”
“I’m not going to stand in the way of your dreams.”
“Exactly. Because you care about my happiness. So much so that you’re making efforts to get to know my family because you know how much they mean to me.”
Was it her imagination or did his eyes flicker, some of the desolation fading?
“I like your family,” he said gruffly.
“And they like you. How could they not?” She laid a hand on his taut jaw. “You’re wonderful.”
She saw hope spark … and then he shook his head. “So wonderful that I got you kidnapped and nearly killed.”
“Stop it,” she said hotly. “You are not going to blame yourself for that lunatic Mercer. What happened was not your fault.”
“All my life, people have scorned me—hated me.” His lips twisted. “If that’s not my fault, whose is it?”
“Theirs. Your family’s because they didn’t understand you. Your guardian’s because he was an evil tyrant. Yes, he was,” she said when he remained broodingly silent. “How he treated a sick young boy was despicable.”
“I didn’t cry ... when Charlie died.” Alaric’s voice was gravelly with emotion. “And as much as my aunt’s done for me, I don’t love her.”
“Everyone experiences grief in different ways. My papa—he didn’t cry much either when my mama passed, but he nearly went mindless with sorrow,” Emma said gently. “As for Lady Patrice, I can’t say I blame you. She’s an odd bird, isn’t she?”
She saw yearning and panic flare in his jade eyes. She sensed how badly he wanted to believe her. How afraid he was to do so.
“Mercer,” he said, clearly grasping at straws. “True, he was an evil lunatic, but the fact is that he hated me enough to try to kill me. Twice. Why am I always the target of attack?”
Tenderness cinched her throat. With both hands, she reached up and cupped his jaw. “Mercer was jealous of you. Your success, who you are. Alaric, don’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“How special you are. How loving and deserving of love. Not because of your title or money or position—but because you look out for your younger brother and help him, even though you won’t let him know it. Because you’ve survived hardship and loss, and it’s only made you stronger. Because you see something special in me, a managing, independent spinster—and you make me feel beautiful and cherished.” Her voice broke a little. “I love you, Alaric.”
For a long moment, crashing waves filled the silence.
“Christ, Emma,” he said, his words raw and ragged, “I love you so much it hurts.”
Joy burst within her. “I know.”
Because she did.
His arms closed like a vise around her, his lips descending with crushing force. She answered his desperate love with her own. She licked his thrusting tongue, sucked upon it, wanting him closer. Wanting to share her body, her breath, everything that she was with her duke. Her love.
No trace of ice was left in his eyes, the irises burning with silver fire. He stripped away her clothes with savage haste, rendering delicate cloth, scattering buttons over the sandy floor. He backed her into the wall of the cave. Locking her wrists above her head, he devoured her mouth, owning her with his kiss. After all he’d laid bare, she understood his need to be in control once more, and she melted for him, gave him anything he asked. Her back arched against the mossy stone as his lips captured her nipple, sucking deep.
“I’ll never get enough of you. My duchess, my love,” he rasped.
Her answer emerged as a whimper for he was caressing her pussy, smearing her wetness over her pearl, plunging into her aching hole. He drove deep, his long fingers curling, stimulating an exquisite spot high inside. Shocks of pleasure shot down her legs; already, an orgasm was blooming.
“Your cunny is so wet and greedy. Tell me what it needs,” he commanded.
“You, my love,” she breathed. “I need you inside me. Always.”
He opened his trousers, and a heartbeat later, she was lifted up against the wall. Her feet dangling off the ground, she was held aloft by his strength, by the upward thrust of his big cock. He impaled her completely, and she screamed as she came.
***
He shuddered as Emma’s climax pulsed around his rock-hard shaft. Her slick muscles clutched at him, the voluptuous massage drawing his bollocks up tight. He withdrew and drove deep, her cream easing his way. Driven by an animal need to possess, he slammed into her over and again.
“You feel so bluidy perfect,” he grated.
“Oh, Alaric,” she sighed, “so do you.”
“I could fuck you forever.”
“Good, because I don’t want you to stop …” Her lashes fluttered over her gloriously dazed eyes. “I think I’m going to … oh …”
She stiffened, and the tides of her second climax rippled over him, making his eyes roll back with bliss. In the next second, he had her on the floor, spreading her beneath him on the mattress of sand. Pushing her knees back, he drove into her, groaning at the depth of the angle, at how totally she received him.
“Take me,” he said between serrated breaths. “All of me.”
“I’m yours.” Her beautiful eyes held him as sweetly as her body. “Forever.”
Her acceptance shredded his control. His balls slapped her pussy again and again as he lost himself in the unrivaled joy of being one with his wife. The mate to his soul. Fire licked up his spine, his cock, and his seed climbed with volatile pressure. This time he didn’t hold back, surging deeply, shuddering as he brushed her womb. He heard her cry out and then his own groan exploded against the walls of the cavern.
He pumped hotly into her again and again, his release without end. She clasped him, milked him, her culmination emptying him of everything he’d been. Shattering and rebuilding him with ecstasy.
When he could move again, he rolled her atop him. Threading his fingers reverently through her tumbled tresses, he let out a contented sigh. “You were made for me, lass. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”
A smile tucked into her cheeks. “You wanted a duchess who makes love in caves?”
“I wanted a wife to love.” Tenderly, he rubbed his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “One who would love me in return.”
“You’ve definitely got yourself that.”
“Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never,” she said.
Her kiss was as warm and sweet as her promise, dissolving the last of the frost inside him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The dowager arrived from London the next morning with luggage and servants in tow. Emma received her in the castle’s main salon and placed a dutiful kiss on the lady’s powdery cheek. After ringing for tea, she took a seat on the adjacent chaise.
“Where is Strathaven?” the dowager said immediately.
“He’s caught up in a meeting with the land manager. He’l
l be out shortly.”
“Well, you two have been naughty children,”—Lady Patrice wagged her finger, the rust-red stone upon it gleaming dully—“but I forgive you. Impetuosity is the privilege of the young.”
“There was no sense in waiting,” Emma said prosaically. “We both knew what we wanted.”
Lady Patrice studied her with alert blue eyes. “One can’t blame you for jumping at the chance to be a duchess.”
Annoyance flared in Emma. “That isn’t why I married him.”
“Why then?”
“I love him,” Emma said, “and he loves me.”
“Well, that is a different story. One that I hope shall not be a repeat of Strathaven’s last marriage.” Shadows flitted through the dowager’s gaze.
Emma’s irritation waned. Lady Patrice was just being protective of Alaric. Knowing Alaric’s past as she now did, however, Emma found that she couldn’t quite forgive the dowager for failing to protect a vulnerable boy from the old duke’s abuses. Yet what good would it do to hold a grudge against an elderly lady?
“I will do my utmost to make Alaric happy,” Emma said.
At that moment, the subject of discussion strode in, and Emma wanted to sigh at the sight of her husband. He was so handsome, his Prussian blue jacket and buff trousers molded to his muscular form. More than that, it was the love glowing in his jade eyes, softening the wicked perfection of his face. He looked younger, happier.
And he was all hers.
Picking up her hand, Alaric pressed a warm kiss on her wrist. “Manage to sleep in, love?”
She nodded. For once, she’d slept past dawn, and she’d awoken to find him gone, a single red rose next to her pillow. Who would have thought Strathaven would turn out to be such a romantic?
“I’m glad you got some rest.” Turning, he greeted his aunt and said, “I’ve been instructing Emma on the duties of the duchess. I must say she is an apt pupil and most willing to learn. She’s been applying herself most … vigorously.”
Emma narrowed her eyes at her husband. His expression remained impassive; his eyes, however, danced with the devil’s merriment.
Oblivious to the by-play, Lady Patrice said in approving tones, “I’m glad that you appreciate the importance of your new position, my dear.”
“As it turns out, Emma can adapt readily to any position,” his grace said outrageously. “I am indeed a lucky man.”
The dowager frowned. “Is something the matter, Emma dear? You’re looking rather flushed. Perhaps Strathaven has been working you too hard?”
Cheeks afire, Emma tried not to look at Alaric whose shoulders were silently shaking.
“Actually, I’ve enjoyed learning the ropes here,” she said, “although certain aspects of Strathmore are rather complicated and exasperating to manage.”
“As I was the mistress of the keep for many years,” Lady Patrice said mistily, “perhaps I could be of assistance?”
“Are you free on the morrow, Aunt?” Alaric said. “I just met with the land manager. The storm that blew through here last month apparently did damage to some of the cottages, and I’ll be out late tomorrow surveying the repairs.” He smiled at Emma. “You ladies can keep each other company and talk about Strathmore.”
Lady Patrice’s lips curled. “I would dearly love a chat. Would you care to meet me at the dowager house—say at two o’clock?”
Emma told herself that there was naught to be gained from holding onto animosity, especially against a lady who, as Alaric had said, had been powerless to stop her husband’s cruelties.
“Thank you, your grace,” Emma said. “That sounds lovely.”
***
The next day, Emma arrived at the dowager’s residence at the appointed hour. Lady Patrice’s home was situated on a slight rise overlooking the loch. It was an impressive building, echoes of the castle in its neo-gothic stone facade and small decorative turrets. To Emma’s surprise, the dowager met her at the door.
“I gave the servants the afternoon off,” the lady said, her putty-colored skirts swishing as she led the way to the drawing room. “After the long journey from London, they deserved it. I hope you don’t mind that we’ll be fending for ourselves.”
She gestured toward the tea tray on the coffee table.
“I don’t mind at all.” Emma smiled as she sat adjacent to her hostess. “I’ve been fending for myself for most of my life.”
“How very industrious. Now I hope I shan’t bore you by starting with the history of the Strathaven family?”
“I’d love to hear it.”
“Excellent.” The dowager beamed. “Let me pour you some tea, and we’ll begin.”
Sipping the brew, Emma listened as Lady Patrice told a tale of a powerful clan with roots reaching back to the thirteen century. Over the years, different branches of the clan flourished, although there was plenty of bloody history within the family as well. Conflicts pitted one branch against another, and the winning side did not take kindly to the losers, harassing their people and pillaging their lands.
Despite the fascinating topic, Emma had to stifle a yawn. Perhaps it was the dowager’s voice—it had a mesmeric drone to it. Feeling groggy, Emma drained her cup in hopes that the tea would revive her.
“Our branch was particularly astute,” Lady Patrice said fondly. “When it came to the wars with the English, we made sure to have family supporting both causes. By playing both sides of the field, we were always assured of a winner. In this way, we secured the Duchy of Strathaven and the lands we hold to this day.”
“How ... clever.” Emma couldn’t stop the yawn this time. “I’m sorry. I—I must be more tired than I realized.”
“I know. You have been busy after all. Taking my role, my boy away from me.”
Emma blinked as the dowager’s smiling face split into two. “P-pardon?”
“Don’t fight it, dear. You must be feeling tired. Just lay your head down.”
The room grew blurry, the dowager’s voice slow and distorted. Emma’s lashes felt as heavy as lead, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing. Gentle hands guided her down into an abyss of darkness.
***
On horseback, Alaric galloped through the fields back toward the castle. He’d completed the task at the cottages ahead of schedule. Dusk was falling, the sun sinking toward the horizon, casting blood-red streaks into the sky. He wondered if Emma was watching the sunset, thinking of him as he was of her.
His lips curved, and he urged his stallion to go faster.
As he neared the gates of the estate, he saw approaching plumes of dust. Riders ... two of them. Strange, he wasn’t expecting visitors.
He halted his mount for their approach.
His surprise deepened when he recognized the faces.
“Kent? Will? What are you doing—?”
“Where’s Emma?” Kent said tersely.
For Emma’s sake, Alaric had hoped that her family had accepted their decision to elope. That they’d accepted him. Jaw taut, he said, “We’re wed. There’s no changing—”
“The dowager poisoned you,” Will cut in.
Alaric jerked. “What?”
“That’s why we’re here. Lugo tracked down the actress. Lily White confessed that it was Patrice who hired her to lace your whiskey.”
No. No, it can’t be.
Panic punched Alaric in the gut.
“We’ll explain the rest,” Will said. “First we need to know that everyone is safe. Where’s your lass?”
Alaric was already spurring his horse toward the house.
“With Patrice,” he shouted.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
According to Jarvis, Emma had left the castle before two in the afternoon and had not yet returned. Frantically, Alaric rode through the darkening dusk to the dowager house, Kent and Will flanking him. He barged through the front door, bellowing Emma’s name.
No response.
No servants.
Fear worse than any he’d known g
ripped him.
“I dinna like this,” Will said grimly, echoing his own thoughts.
The three split up, searching the house. Alaric tore through the duchess’ bedchamber, and disbelieving fury roared over him when he found a leather satchel housing a collection of vials. The purpose of each vile potion was labeled in Patrice’s spidery hand.
Pain. Sedative. Endless Sleep.
He shouted for the others. Showed them the dowager’s diabolical arsenal.
“Where would Patrice take Emma?” Kent bit out. “If she intends to harm her?”
“She will probably try to make it look like an accident,” Will said.
Alaric’s hands balled. He looked out the window into the night, toward the shadowy movement of the water. Terror thudded in his chest. “The loch.”
***
In her dream, Emma drifted.
Surrounded by inky waves, she couldn’t resist their cool, silken pull. They lulled her, drawing her deeper and deeper into their embrace.
Yet something stopped her.
Don’t leave me.
She clung to the voice, yet the darkness was so strong. Overwhelming. The tides of oblivion rose quietly, inexorably around her …
***
Alaric saw the rowboat on the mist-shrouded loch. Glazed by moonlight, it floated, a silver leaf upon the glassy black surface. It was sinking.
He sprinted toward the water, stripping off his jacket and boots as he ran. He passed Patrice, didn’t stop, her voice following him with the eeriness of a spectre.
“It’s too late. You can’t save her.”
The hell I can’t.
He dove into the icy water, slashing the waves with sure strokes. Hold on lass, hold on, his heart thundered. The tides grew choppier, washed over his head, yet he pushed on, spitting water, kicking out against the churning depths. His muscles strained. His lungs burned. A single imperative drove him on.
Get to the boat and save his woman.
He saw the boat yards away, wrapped by tendrils of mist, its sides half-submerged. He battled the waves with renewed vigor, surging forward with powerful kicks. His hands closed on the wooden edge, and he hauled himself up.
The Duke Who Knew Too Much Page 29