by Gaelen Foley
“Ah. Well. That is understandable,” he said with a smile in his deep voice. “But all that is behind you now.”
Kate jumped when he collected her hand from her side as though it were some delicate flower and placed a careful kiss on her knuckles.
She stared at him, wide-eyed.
Before he released her hand from his light grasp, she thought to steal a quick glance down at his knuckles, scanning them for any telltale signs of how badly he might have thrashed Peter Doyle.
There was no mark on them. Relief eased her tension by a small degree.
“Now then,” he said, giving her back her hand, “having cheated death successfully today, tonight, you and I are going to celebrate life.”
Oh, dear. “Are we?” she echoed faintly.
“Yes.” He nodded with firm expertise. “I always do that after facing death. There’s a certain pleasure in it, I find. Reminds you what it means to be alive. Drink? You look like you could use it.” He was already brushing past her, heading for the liquor cabinet.
She turned, watching him in guarded fascination. “You . . . do this often?”
“Celebrate? God, yes.” He flashed a wicked smile.
“I meant—face death.”
He merely laughed. “What do you say to a brandy?”
“Um, I don’t drink strong spirits.” She had good reason to keep her head about her tonight, as well.
“A glass of wine, then?”
“Why not,” she conceded with a reluctant shrug.
“Excellent.” Ignoring her question, he tossed himself a crystal goblet from the lower shelf with an easy motion and reached into the ice bucket, where an open bottle nestled. “But I must warn you, prepare to be dazzled.”
She feared she already was.
“This is my favorite wine, and I don’t usually share it.” His roguish little smile nigh entranced her.
“I am honored,” Kate said faintly, watching him with cautious but growing delight.
Locked in that cellar for so long, scared for her life, no one had been this nice to her in ages.
“Here you are. An exquisite white burgundy, straight from the bosom of France.” He inhaled its bouquet as he came back and presented her with the glass. “Indulge.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She accepted the drink with great curiosity, unsure if he was flirting with her or simply trying to put her at ease. Smiling, he watched her raise the glass to her lips—but then she suddenly stopped.
A dart of fear shot through her as she remembered the drugged wine the smugglers had given her last night, which had rendered her so helpless.
Rohan waited expectantly. “Go on, try it.”
Kate floundered, trying to hide her distress. She made a show of inhaling the wine’s bouquet, buying time as she tried to detect any hint of laudanum he might have poured in it.
He raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
She suddenly recalled her hesitation before the stairs leading down to the dungeon. He hadn’t worked any treachery on her then; he had only brought her down there to help her seek justice. Realizing she was being irrational, she laughed rather awkwardly at herself and found the courage at last to take her first exploratory sip.
Slowly, the wine rewarded her with its complex, subtle flavors . . . apricot, pear, a hint of vanilla . . . and some indescribable flavor that made her think of sun-drenched, flowery meadows.
“It’s wonderful,” she murmured at length, lifting her gaze to his. She felt chastened for her mistrust. “It’s as if they’ve bottled summer.”
“Yes. That’s very apt.” His smile broadened as he held her gaze deeply. “And a welcome change it is from all this ice and snow.”
Kate could not look away, even as she felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Surely, one swallow of wine could not have gone so quickly to her head, but all his attention focused on her had a similarly intoxicating effect.
Heavens, it was an overwhelming feeling, having a virile, darkly handsome, six-and-a-half-foot duke apparently engrossed in one’s every movement. He gazed at her lips, and for a fleeting instant, Kate held her breath, certain he was going to lean down and kiss her.
If the thought had crossed his mind, however, he refrained, dropping his gaze and pulling back a bit.
He turned away. “Our meal will be arriving any moment. Shall we?” He swept a polite gesture toward the table.
“Uh, yes, of course.” Blinking away her bedazzlement, she paused and turned to him. “But Your Grace—there is something I must say to you first.”
“Oh?” He turned to her with a keen look. “What is it?”
Kate stared at him. “Thank you. For saving my life. I’m sorry, I should have said it earlier, but with all that was happening—”
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it.” She took an earnest step toward him. “I can’t believe you risked yourself like that for me. You barely even know me!”
“I’m just glad I got to you in time,” he answered softly.
“Well—I want you to know I will never forget what you did for me. We both know that I am in your debt.”
“Careful, Kate. Don’t give a man ideas. Come,” he ordered with a rakish half smile. “I’ll show you to your seat.”
Rather routed, Kate dropped her gaze but went along obediently. His hand came to rest on the small of her back as he escorted her over to the long, formally laid table. His light touch was unmistakably possessive. She was intensely aware of him as he led her over to her chair and pulled it out for her; she flicked her lashes downward and lowered herself to her seat.
When he pushed her chair in for her, the fleeting brush of his fingers against her bared shoulders made her throb. He slowly walked around the table with a subtle swagger in his movements and sat down across from her.
In the next moment, she could feel him watching her, but she refused to look at him—could not bring herself to chance another gaze into his eyes. Her courage had fled from the potent temptation in his touch. She kept her gaze down stubbornly, silently trying to talk herself out of this feverish attraction.
This was madness! She was not about to make a fool of herself over the man to whom she had been given as a gift. That would have been humiliating in the extreme. He was a libertine who used women as bed warmers and consorted with criminals—a duke, moreover, too highborn to give a fig about wrecking the life of an ordinary girl.
He was dangerous.
Determined to avoid temptation, she occupied herself with studying the china arrayed before her instead, dishes painted with his family crest and edged in gilt. Likewise, a flowery ‘W’ was engraved at the tip of the handle of each piece of silver. Between them, an artistic arrangement of apples and pears in a crystal bowl adorned the table, their sleek red and golden skins burnished by the candles’ glow.
The silence stretched, and still he watched her, as though waiting to see what she would do with it, like a scientist carrying out some type of experiment.
She took a deep breath and lifted her head at last with a pointed look. “You are staring at me.”
“Your beauty gives me pleasure,” he replied.
She drew back with a worried frown.
“Kate, try to relax—”
“How can I when you say that sort of thing?” she cried.
“Would you rather I lie?”
“Well—no.” She shifted unhappily in her seat.
“Good. Because I’d much prefer that we be honest with each other.”
“As would I! Perhaps you would answer a question for me, in fact.”
He shrugged. “Fire at will.”
She eyed him guardedly while he watched her with the amused interest of a man familiarizing himself with the workings of some new toy.
“Why were there guards posted by my door?”
“To keep me out, of course.”
She did not smile at his quip. “You said we were being honest.”
“They’re there to protec
t you, Kate. I assumed after all you’ve been through, having some protection on hand would have made you feel more secure.”
“Ah.” She doubted it.
He studied her. “I hope they did not bother you at all?”
“No, they did not bother me at all. It’s just, seeing two armed men outside my chamber door . . . I couldn’t help wondering if I am some sort of prisoner here?”
“If you were a prisoner, why would I have you for dinner?”
Her brittle smile faded at the wicked way he had worded the question. He was already looking at her like he meant to have her for dessert.
He let out a worldly sigh, noting how she had paled. “Dear, oh, dear, Miss Madsen. Next you’ll be worried the food is drugged.”
“Is it?” she whispered, her gaze locked on his face.
“Of course not.” His expression sobered. He leaned closer as his stare intensified. “I want you to trust me, Kate.”
“Very well. If I’m not a prisoner, then tell me when I can go home.”
“Hm.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with shrewd speculation. She held his hooded gaze in challenge. He drummed his fingers briefly on the chair arm. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Kate.”
I knew it! Her blood ran cold. “Why not?”
“O’Banyon is still out there,” he replied in an oh-so-reasonable tone. “If I send you home now, there’s nothing to stop him from simply coming back and capturing you again.”
“Is that what Peter Doyle said?”
“Yes. Among other things.”
“Like what? What else did he say? Tell me—please! I deserve to know!”
He looked at her for a long moment, then chose his words with care. “O’Banyon is going to contact the Doyle boys with their next instructions. He thinks they still have you. Now, I’ve ordered Caleb to bring me O’Banyon’s letter as soon as it arrives. O’Banyon is to write to Pete and Denny to tell them where they are to bring you. This will reveal O’Banyon’s location. Once I know where he is, believe me, I will deal with him personally.”
Kate stared at him in wonder.
“In the meanwhile,” he added darkly, “I think it’s best that you stay here. Where you’ll be safe.”
She paled. “Here . . . with you?”
He raised an eyebrow at her stricken look. “I’ll do my best not to be disagreeable company.”
“No, of course, Your Grace. It not that. It’s just—I was so looking forward to going home.”
“Well, you can’t yet. It’s not safe.”
“I would not want to impose.”
“I promised you justice, Kate. Besides, it’s not just for you.” He sat back again and picked up his wineglass. “I am these people’s lord, and they have committed a very serious crime. Looking after you has now become my responsibility.” He paused. “My duty.”
“I see.” She stared down at her empty plate, hoping that his talk of duty might make it less likely that he would opt to pass the time by subjecting her to some casual seduction. “Do you—have any idea how long this might take?” she ventured, peering warily at him from beneath her lashes.
He shook his head. “There is no way to know.” She thought she detected a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I realize this is a great inconvenience, Miss Madsen, but my staff and I will do all in our power to ensure that your stay here is not too terribly unpleasant for you.”
“Please—I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful—but after all those weeks in the Doyles’ cellar, I have been . . . very home-sick.” She lowered her gaze, embarrassed to have to make this vulnerable admission, but she could not afford to offend the only ally she currently had in the world. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I meant no rudeness. I am altogether grateful to you for helping me, of course. Thank you—once again.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. But she could feel him studying her. “Try to understand, Kate. I know you don’t want to be here any more than I do. But at the end of the day, you really have no choice except to trust me.”
That’s what I was afraid of. She gazed at him in mingled distress and gratitude. “Perhaps you could tell me what else Peter Doyle had to say?”
Before he could reply, Eldred stepped into the dining room and made his formal announcement. “Your Grace, Miss Madsen: Dinner is served.”
While the two of them sat there studying each other from across the table in mutually attracted mistrust, a parade of liveried footmen marched into the dining room carrying silver-lidded serving dishes, baskets of bread, assorted gravies, and a lavish selection of wines.
Eldred, with his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back, announced each dish in lugubrious tones: “Scalloped oysters. Fillets of veal, stuffed and roasted, with savoys, carrots, and potatoes. Roasted capons garnished with dilled sausage . . .”
As he droned on, the footmen worked around them, placing the serving dishes on the table with geometrical precision. They no sooner whisked the lids away than others dipped forward like life-sized clockwork automata, pouring the newly arrived wines into their proper glasses and setting in easy reach the bottles that went with each dish.
“Broiled sturgeon with French beans, carrots, and cauliflower. A fricassee of rabbit, oysters, and mushrooms. Squab pigeons with asparagus. And finally—” He bowed to the duke. “Mince pies.”
“Excellent,” His Grace murmured in approval.
Eldred drew himself up politely. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Thank you, Eldred. That will do for now.”
The butler bowed and signaled to the footmen, who then marched out in a line, except for two, who took their places in the shadows of the distant wall, to wait on them as needed.
Rohan turned his attention to the burgeoning table, taking a leisurely survey of the spread, rather like a wolf looking out over a flock of sheep. “Where to begin?”
“I cannot fathom how you are not as stout as the Regent.”
“I stay active,” he drawled with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “A toast to you, my darling.”
“Honestly,” she muttered, but, alas, could not resist him as he lifted his glass of now-red wine in her direction.
“To new acquaintances,” he said. “And outwitting the Grim Reaper once again. And most of all, to young ladies of remarkable courage. I drink their health.”
When he cast her a teasing wink full of outlandish charm, Kate did not know if she would throttle him or swoon.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what else Peter Doyle had to say?” she demanded.
“Not in the presence of good food, my dear. Well, it is English food. All the more reason to eat it before it gets cold. Cheers.” He reached over and clinked his glass to hers with a cheeky look that informed her the conversation was closed for now.
“Warrington.”
“Come, Kate. No arguing over supper. ’Tisn’t civilized.”
The Beast was going to critique her etiquette? “At least tell me if Peter explained—”
“Kate! Surely you can enjoy a simple meal,” he chided. “Look at all the trouble my poor kitchen staff has gone to for your sake.”
“For my sake?” she exclaimed. “I’m just a prisoner!”
“Prisoner, guest, semantics. My servants so want to impress you. Now then.” He took up knife and fork in each large hand. “Let’s eat, shall we? God knows, there are so few pleasures in life, we might as well enjoy ’em.”
She clenched her jaw. She believed she had just been told, more or less, to shut up and eat.
But as the mouthwatering aromas of their feast teased her nose, she had to concede that her questions weren’t going anywhere for the moment. At least she was out of that cellar, and had not died today.
Perhaps she ought to let herself enjoy her first night of relative freedom in weeks.
Rohan gave her a coaxing nod toward the food like a man trying to get a wounded wild animal to eat.
Was that what she had become after her ordeal? At home
on the windy moors, alone with the falcons and the wild ponies, she had never been all that tame to start with.
She regarded him a wary look, but slowly, uncertainly, she picked up her fork and proceeded to dine with the duke.
Chapter 9
As the evening passed and the candles burned low, and the dining room darkened, but for the fire, Rohan was beginning to wonder if his attraction to this woman could become a problem.
The whole purpose of tonight had been to provide himself with a chance to study her carefully at close range, but he was beginning to think that even if she had been sent by the enemy to destroy him, it might not be a bad way to go.
Her reticence intrigued him. He still didn’t trust her, but her obvious vulnerability, from embarrassment over her tears to her confession of homesickness, plucked at heartstrings in him that he thought he had ripped out by the roots long ago.
For two hours, he watched and listened to her, trying to determine if her claims about herself were true, if she was being honest or if her seeming innocence was a façade.
Wholly attuned to every idle shift and movement of her luscious body in that jaw-dropping gown, he ignored his growing desire for her as he sought to read each flicker of emotion in her face and eyes. Trying to penetrate her nature through judicious observation, continuously scanning her for signs of deception or ill intent, he monitored every subtle change in her demeanor and listened to her casual conversation with intense absorption.
Indeed, his wariness about her caused him to pay a much deeper attention to her than he normally did to any woman.
But in spite of all his doubts about Kate, by the time the rich and colorful dessert course was unfurled before them, they had somehow fallen together into the natural camaraderie of two people who had shared a brush with death—never mind the fact that their two families had been at each other’s throats for hundreds of years.
Her throat interested him greatly, the lovely arc beneath her dainty earlobe, the milky skin, the silken cascade of her perfumed hair . . .