by Gaelen Foley
“Harrumph.”
“And don’t forget to bring me that letter when it comes, or I may do something dreadful to you all. Unleash my hell-hounds, or toss one of your babies in my supper pot.”
Caleb shot an indignant scowl at him over his shoulder as he trudged out.
Rohan smiled with an assassin’s sangfroid. Why, they really do think I’m a Beast.
He sat down slowly on the great thronelike chair of his ancestors and began brooding on the past. Combined with his many questions about Kate, Caleb’s stinging reproach had him thinking about his father. He rested his head against the chair back, the particulars of his father’s final mission for the Order turning in his mind.
The DuMarin affair.
The Count DuMarin had been a member of the Prometheans’ elite High Council at the time of the French Revolution, and if Rohan’s theory about Kate’s true identity was right, that would be her grandfather. And the French aristo blood would explain a lot about her, he thought wryly.
In any case, frightened by the chaos he had seen unfolding in France, DuMarin had secretly reached out to the Order, desiring to turn informant against his sinister coconspirators.
Rohan’s father had been the agent assigned to the case. The French count had provided the Order with critical intelligence concerning the Prometheans’ future plans, how they were carefully driving the guillotine mobs, intent on using the chaos to spread their vision of tyranny well beyond the borders of France.
Thanks to Rohan’s father and his team, along with coordinated action by the Order, uprisings in various German and Italian states had been prevented based on DuMarin’s intelligence.
Of course, the count’s evil former colleagues had eventually made him pay for his newfound conscience with his life. Within a year of his betrayal, DuMarin had been assassinated in London despite the Order’s round-the-clock efforts to protect him.
DuMarin had given his life for what he finally understood was right, and in that sense, Rohan had to admit that Kate’s Promethean lineage contained a certain heroism.
On the other hand, one good man out of generations did not quite put his mind at ease.
The one condition that DuMarin had placed on the Order before he would tell them what he knew was that he wanted his daughter, then seventeen-year-old Lady Gabrielle, fresh out of convent school, to be sent off to her kin in New Orleans. Across the ocean in America, DuMarin believed his daughter would be safe from the Prometheans’ retaliation.
Rohan’s father had, of course, agreed to this condition, and from the pool of sailing talent among the local smugglers, he had selected Captain Gerald Fox to transport the French belle to America.
Fox’s well-armed ship was fast. He was a fearless, well-trained fighter, having served in the Royal Marines, and he had performed loyal service to the Order in the past without asking any questions.
Rohan knew all this for, at the time, he had been a ten-year-old boy home from school at the Christmas holiday, spying through the minstrels’ gallery on his father’s private business in the great hall.
Whenever he had the chance to be anywhere near his idolized father, after all, he had been the great man’s shadow. His father usually did not mind his eavesdropping, knowing it would help his son to absorb the nuances of how to conduct the Order’s business when it was his turn to be the duke.
Rohan still remembered seeing the veiled French lady dressed in black mourning, holding a large, leather-bound book in her arms that he had assumed was a Bible.
No doubt she had had need of it, considering that before leaving Paris, she had seen her governess’s head go past her window on a pike.
Next, the swashbuckling Captain Gerald Fox had marched in. Given his age at the time, Rohan remembered the sea captain more vividly than the lady, for he had considered the bold privateer second only to his sire in impressive masculine glamour—either one, the sort of man any boy wanted to be like when he grew up.
The captain and his high-value passenger were introduced, and before long, Fox had led the sorrowful mademoiselle out to his ship to make sail for America.
That, however, was the last time anyone had heard from them. It was assumed that something had happened, that the Prometheans must have caught up with them somehow.
But their fate had been forgotten, for, closer to home, his father’s days had been numbered from that night on, as well.
Rohan had soon been shipped back to the private, military-style school in Scotland where all members of the Order were educated. But only a few months later, he got word that his mighty sire had fallen.
The previous Duke of Warrington had died a hero’s death carrying out a successful raid on the Prometheans along with his team, based on the intelligence provided by the Count DuMarin.
Rohan heaved a sigh, left to wonder if Kate really could be the end result of all this, and if so, how she fit into it now.
If the Prometheans had eventually caught up with Fox, bent on killing the traitor DuMarin’s daughter along with her swashbuckling protector, might they have been startled to find the pair caring for a baby?
If the Prometheans had got their hands on Kate as a child, killing her parents, but sparing her, they might have raised her to be molded into one of their own twisted deceivers. A well-trained temptress, specifically sent after one of the Order’s most dangerous men.
It seemed plausible, at least to a slightly paranoid assassin like him. The most startling part was that, if he recalled correctly, the DuMarins’ medieval ancestor was none other than Valerian the Alchemist—the same dark wizard who had laid the Kilburn Curse upon his family.
This heritage would’ve made Kate practically royalty among the Prometheans—and could make her all the more dangerous to him. For beyond superstition, the girl seemed uniquely suited to enchant him.
But a number of obvious questions still loomed large.
What did it mean if, indeed, Gerald Fox was still alive? Had he survived his Promethean pursuers by turning traitor? Was that why the Order had never heard from him again? And what of Lady Gabrielle? What ever had happened to her? Most importantly, where did Kate fit in?
If she was part of the enemy’s organization, then why would James Falkirk need to have her kidnapped? Or was that just an elaborate cover story of some sort?
Might she be as innocent as she seemed?
That sweet vulnerability he had seen in her in the gatehouse . . . was that the real Kate or just another mask? There was no way he could be sure until he learned a great deal more about her. Which was exactly what he intended to do.
Tonight.
Chapter 8
Darkness, deep and black, had crept over the castle as evening arrived. Kate glanced at the clock. It was almost time to go down to dinner with the Beast.
She just hoped that when she soon joined him in the dining room, she would not find that she was on the menu.
Seated before the mirror in the bedchamber she had been assigned, she was feeling increasingly nervous about tonight as she finished fixing her hair and fighting the too-low neckline of her borrowed gown.
Her day had been pleasant enough—the first in weeks that had borne any resemblance to normalcy. She had spent the afternoon in quiet rest and recuperation from her long ordeal; had eaten; bathed; had donned a warm, soft dressing gown from the trunk of clothes the footmen had brought her, then had napped—until a nightmare of the smugglers’ cellar had jarred her awake.
Upon opening her eyes and realizing anew that she was safe—it was only a dream—she had abruptly burst out in a most uncharacteristic flood of tears.
She had been bewildered by her own reaction, but the pent-up terror and rage from all she had gone through demanded some sort of belated release. Still, her pride could not have borne for the guards posted outside her chamber door to hear—not that they’d care. She had muffled her sobs with a pillow, crying her heart out in secret. To think, she had nearly died today!
For as long as she lived
, she would never forget the fateful moment the ground had fallen away beneath her, how Rohan had lunged to save her. In that instant of scrabbling for purchase on the cliff’s ledge, half-blind with panic, all she had seen was his face: his clenched jaw and glittering eyes.
Pure fearless ferocity come to save her.
Perhaps that was why she now felt inexplicably bound to him, as by a debt of honor—or a bond of blood. Yet at the same time, she was not entirely sure that Rohan was not evil. Just when she had started to think this morning he wasn’t half-bad, he had ordered her out of the dungeon so he could pulverize poor, hapless Peter Doyle.
She shook her head uneasily.
To be sure, Pete probably deserved perhaps a black eye or a bloody nose for his role in her kidnapping. But if Rohan had given him too much of a brutal beating, this would cast a most unsettling shadow over his character in her mind—one that did not bode well for her. For if the giant, iron-muscled Beast did not scruple over thrashing a smaller, weaker, unarmed man, then that would betray a ruthlessness in her self-appointed protector, a willingness to give in to his baser impulses that made it doubtful he would continue treating her honorably for long.
One look at the Duke of Warrington made it clear that he was a man who got what he wanted. He was too strong to fight, and she owed him besides, so if he made the demand that she come to his bed, what could she do but surrender?
Not for a moment did she forget that she had been brought here as a “present” for the duke; and she knew in her bones that that was how he still saw her.
So far, he had behaved like a gentleman, but she was still highly wary of him. What might he expect from her tonight?
What might he still want, or even feel entitled to, because he’d saved her life?
The question made her set her comb down with a flutter of frightened confusion in her belly. She sat there for a long moment, feeling trapped, but eventually, shook her head. I’ll just have to use my wits. Steadying herself, she gave her own reflection a hard look in the glass.
Perhaps it was ungrateful of her to regard her rescuer with such distrust, but it was important to face this night without any illusions. She was no fool. This intimate dinner with a decadent man of the world raised her suspicions with good cause—especially after what had happened between them last night in his bed.
She was already dressed like somebody’s mistress. The beautiful emerald satin gown that she had chosen from the traveling trunk was obviously expensive, but the overall effect was indecent because the thing did not quite fit. It was not merely that the off-the-shoulder sleeves seemed a chilly style for January, or that the skirts were about two inches short, giving an overly generous peek at her ankles.
No, more worrisome by far was the way the too-low, too-tight bodice smashed her breasts upward into a sweeping display of cleavage. Scowling, she tried to pull the neckline up again. Blast.
For all she knew of the latest Town fashions, perhaps it was supposed to fit that way. She was merely concerned that her host downstairs might like it a little too much.
Ah, well. When it came to stolen goods, one could hardly complain about imperfect sizing. She hardly had to ask how the smugglers had obtained the fine French clothes in the first place, judging by the saltwater stains that marred the satin skirts. No doubt some fashionable stranger in London was waiting in vain for her delivery from Paris.
Anyway, the gown was a vast improvement over her footman’s uniform. It might be too revealing, but after facing death today, an ill-fitting gown was too trivial an issue to worry about overmuch. She’d be going home soon. That was all that mattered.
Surely, the worst was over now, and before long, she’d be back in her cozy, heathside cottage with her books and scribblings and her trusty teapot by her side. She just had to hold on a little while longer, perhaps a few days more, so the aftermath of her abduction could be sorted out, the consequences dealt out to all those who had wronged her.
Rohan had promised her justice, and she needed with all her heart to believe that the duke meant what he said.
If he had to have his way with her before he would let her go home, at least she knew that, if nothing else, he would make sure she enjoyed it.
She shivered at the scandalous thought, but another nervous glance at the clock warned her it was time to go.
He’d be waiting for her. She must not annoy him by arriving late.
She slid a final hairpin into place. Taking a long, deep, calming breath, she gave her reflection one last survey in the mirror. By the soft glow of the candles, she supposed she looked tolerably elegant. It wasn’t her fault if the gown was a little too seductive.
Shrugging off her virginal anxiety as best she could, she rose from the vanity and walked across the chamber, the shush of the satin skirts whispering around her. As she reached for the door handle her frisson of fear was laced with anticipation.
Upon stepping out of her room, she was immediately surprised to find the two guards from this morning, Parker and Wilkins, posted by her door. “You’re still here?” she exclaimed, but before they could answer, an astonishing thought filled her mind. Am I prisoner, then?
But why else would the duke have posted armed guards by her door? She pulled the door shut behind her with a flurry of fresh doubts scattering through her mind. Did he think she’d try to run away again, or had he merely decided that he did not trust her, either?
Whichever the case, it was not a good sign; however, she already knew there was no point in asking these two about it. She had already seen that his henchmen did not make a move without his authorization. She would have to save her questions for the Beast. The two guards watched her every move with cautious deference, standing at attention.
“Could you gentlemen possibly point me in the direction of the dining room?”
Her civilized tone appeared to startle them after witnessing her wild display of suicidal rage this morning, to say nothing of her mindless drugged state the night before.
Parker cleared his throat, dropping his gaze from the region of her chest. “We’ll show you there, miss. This way,” he replied in a businesslike tone.
Kate eyed them warily as both guards left their stations flanking her chamber door.
They walked her down the long, shadowy corridor, past the closed entrance to the duke’s chamber, where they had so unceremoniously tossed her in last night to face her fate.
Stone-hearted cretins.
Buoyed up with indignation to think that she might be as much of a prisoner here as those men in the dungeon—only, one being kept under nicer circumstances—she marched down the stone-carved stairs with her guards trailing her on either side.
The arrival of evening had sunk the stairwell into gloom. Her pulse quickened in anticipation of her imminent encounter with the Beast. She warned herself not to show her cards too soon, at least until she figured out what the rogue was up to.
Eldred met her and her guards at the foot of the stairs. “Miss Madsen.” Gliding out of the shadows, he greeted her with a bow. “His Grace awaits you in the dining hall. If you’ll follow me.”
She inclined her head politely. The butler nodded the guards’ dismissal and led on. Kate followed, still in a heightened state of vigilance.
They bypassed the empty soaring cavern of the great hall and proceeded down a moody Gothic hallway. There were several doors to other chambers along the corridor, but most were closed, probably to keep the scant heat in the drafty castle where it was needed.
Eldred sailed ahead of her into a large, red-walled chamber, which turned out to be the dining hall. Once over the threshold, the butler stepped aside to announce her arrival to the room’s solitary occupant, but even before he spoke, her gaze homed in on the magnificent man seated alone by the fireplace.
Rohan was staring into the flames and savoring a brandy. The sensual way he cupped the rounded snifter in his palm caused a completely unexpected shudder of wild longing to run the length of her entire body
, for his tender hold on that globelike glass brought back hazy memories of his attentions last night to her breasts.
And when he raised the glass to his lips and took a slow, leisurely sip, Kate had to close her eyes for a moment to steady herself. Dear God.
His butler announced her in a formal tone. “Your Grace: Miss Madsen.”
Kate flicked her eyes open, but her cheeks were already burning when the duke looked over.
He cast her a dangerous smile, and a giddy weakness crept up her body, starting at her knees. She tightened them reflexively and gave her quivering legs the silent order to move, and by all means, to forget the feel of his forbidden caresses running up her thighs.
As he rose smoothly from his leather wing chair, Kate marched into the dining room with her head held high. She tried with all her might to hide her discomfiture. It would have been mortifying in the extreme if he sensed the lustful confusion that he caused in her.
Dangerous, too, for no doubt he would interpret it as an invitation. Which it was not. At least she did not think it was . . .
She swallowed hard as he moved toward her, elegantly attired in black trousers and a dark plum tailcoat. His shirt was white, his black neckcloth secured with a gleaming pearl cravat pin. His long raven hair was pulled back into a sleek queue, and his eyes glowed with an appreciative smolder as she joined him by the fireplace.
“Miss Madsen,” he welcomed her in a deep purr while his gaze trailed over her. “You look lovely.”
“Ahem. Thank you.”
“I trust your room was comfortable.”
“Yes. Very.” Her heart was pounding in the most disturbing fashion.
He studied her. “Did you get to rest?”
“I did. Yes. Thanks,” she answered, suspicious of the solicitude in his gaze.
He suddenly frowned. “Your eyes are red.”
“No, they’re not—er, are they?” With a blanch, she ducked her head, chagrined that he had detected her earlier bout as a watering pot. “I-I suppose nearly dying today shook me up a bit more than I realized,” she mumbled.