Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by K. J. Jackson

  “Which woods, Duchess?” Rowen asked, his voice hard.

  “The north woods.” Her voice was meek.

  Rowen stepped back to grab an overcoat he had slung on a chair by the door, and then pushed past the duchess, sending her stumbling as he started down the hallway. “You sent her into the north woods? How could you do that? In the dark, no less.”

  The duchess scurried after him. “It was Pepe—she offered, and I could not leave Pepe out there by himself. I am so worried about him, and—”

  Rowen stopped, whipping to face the duchess. “He’s a damn dog, Duchess. Wynne is a goddamn person—a person, Duchess.”

  “I—I thought—I did not mean—”

  “I do not care what you meant to do, Duchess.” He started down the hall again, reaching the stairs and descending them two at a time, still yelling at the woman behind him. “You sent Wynne into the woods when you know full well what might happen—she has not a clue as to what can happen to her up there.”

  The duchess caught up to him by the library, only a step behind. “You will find her?”

  “How long has she been out there?”

  “Three hours. Maybe more.”

  “And you just got me now? Dammit.” His open palm slammed on the stone wall of the hallway.

  “You will find her?”

  Rowen flung the door to the north side of the estate open and stopped. The cold wind whipped into the long hall. He looked down at the duchess. “I damn well hope so. Or you will have an excruciating hell to pay, Duchess.”

  Rowen ran in full sprint across the open ground sloping from the castle, his speed slowing as he made it deeper into the woods.

  The full moon shed only spotty light through the canopy of the forest, so gave few clues as to Wynne’s path. He searched as he moved, looking for broken twigs, trampled underbrush, but found none.

  And he needed to get to the area he feared she was in as fast as possible.

  Halfway into the thickest part of the forest, Rowen heard barking echoing through the trees. Definitely in front of him. Still quite a distance. He pushed harder.

  The barking guided him. Frantic. A dog that was either injured or excited. Heaving for breath, Rowen pushed on, even though he had been running solid for more than a half hour. As the trees started to clear, the barking got louder.

  He was close now. Close, and the barking hadn’t ceased. That wasn’t good.

  Reaching the clearing line of the woods, Rowen stopped, trying to force air into his chest as he surveyed the wide-open area in the moonlight.

  It was at this line that the land turned drastically from forest to peat bog.

  A bog that could suck one down to death before one even knew a foot had been captured.

  Rowen cocked his ear upward. The barking had gone silent, and the barking had been his only guide. He squinted, his eyes running across the low mounding vegetation.

  No movement.

  And then another bark.

  His eyes whipped to the sound.

  A distance away, Pepe stood, four feet firmly on the ground. The dog barked again, all his attention on the ground in front of him. Whatever it was, Rowen could not see past Pepe on the short mound.

  Rowen squinted harder. What was that sticking straight out of the ground next to Pepe?

  Shit. A knife.

  Wynne’s knife.

  Rowen jumped back into the woods, quickly finding a sturdy long stick, just as tall as him.

  He ran back to the edge of the peat bog, stick moving and diving into the ground in front of him, guiding him to solid land and past the sinking muck of the bog.

  The progress across the bog was agonizingly slow. And Pepe had started jumping, agitated, the closer Rowen got. But Rowen could not afford to get stuck himself. Not if Pepe was barking at what Rowen feared he was.

  Pepe went silent for a moment, and Rowen knew he was now close enough.

  “Wynne?”

  No answer.

  Pepe looked at him and barked.

  “Wynne?” He repeated the yell.

  “Rowe?” It was a faint whisper, exhausted.

  Relief swept through him. “Wynne. I’m coming.”

  “Rowe? I’m almost under. I have tried. God—I’m going—”

  “Stop moving, Wynne. Stop talking. Stop everything.” Yelling, Rowen’s foot slipped into muck as he stepped forward too quickly. “Dammit.”

  “Rowe?”

  “Silent, Wynne.” He yanked his foot out of the sucking muck. “Stay still. I will get to you. Just hold on.”

  Precious minutes passed, and Rowen moved forward, swearing at himself with every swipe of the stick before him. Every painstaking step.

  Why had he not told her of this place? How had he ever let the duchess near Wynne? Of course something like this was bound to happen. No one ever got near the duchess without pain.

  Pepe kept up a vigil of barks, and Rowen finally leapt onto the mound Pepe was perched on.

  Hell.

  Up to her chin.

  One hand still stretched upward above the muck to her right, oddly removed from her body. Tears soaking her face, her eyes moved upward when Rowen’s feet got near her.

  “Rowe.”

  She sank down another notch. Terrorized, her mouth opened but no sound came out.

  “Stop, Wynne—no sounds—no moves. Trust me, Wynne. I will get you out.”

  Ripping off his overcoat, Rowen went to his belly, stretching his body out as wide as he could in every direction while staying on the mound of solid ground. Pepe went to his ear, licking, and Rowen had to shove the dog away.

  He scooted forward on his belly, his outstretched hand reaching what remained of her fingers above the bog. He sank his hand into the muck below her fingers, finding her wrist.

  Slowly, moving through the suction of the bog, but not fighting it, he began to pull her wrist toward him. Progress crept along, and notch by notch, her arm moved closer to him.

  And then a loud crack and a pop came from the muck.

  Wynne screamed. It sent her downward, mud and water choking off the sound. Her head tilted back, sputtering.

  “Stop moving, Wynne.” The order was harsh, not to be denied.

  She stilled.

  “That was your shoulder pulling out of place. And I am damn sure it hurt to no end. But look at me, Wynne.”

  Her eyes found his, now not only terrorized, but pain vibrating through them as well.

  “I can fix your shoulder.” Rowen forced his voice calm. “This is the only way to get you out, Wynne, and it is going to hurt like a blasted hell hole the rest of the way out. But you cannot scream. You cannot fight it. You have to go limp. You have to let the muck move around you. This is going to be agonizing. And slow. But you have to trust me, Wynne. Trust me.”

  She gave the slightest nod, a tear sliding from her left eye.

  He started to pull again, and Wynne’s face cringed in a wicked wince. But Rowen could not stop. Not now. No matter how harsh her wince against him.

  Her eyes closed, and he could see her head shaking, her hand trembling in pain as he pulled her, slow and even.

  He scooted himself back on the mound.

  It was working. Agonizingly slow, but she was moving in the muck toward him.

  She gasped hard, her mouth opening.

  “Don’t break on me, Wynne. Don’t break. I have you.”

  Her jaw closed against her scream, but the smallest whimper came out. A whimper that tore at him, tempted him to stop. But he knew this was the only way. He couldn’t reach her body yet without getting sucked in himself.

  His muscles straining, he ignored her quivering arm. Ignored the fresh tears streaming down her face. Second by second, he dragged her closer, closer, until she was just on the border of where he could reach her.

  Ignoring caution, he dug into the bog with his free hand, aiming at her body. His knuckles ran into her chest, and he moved his hand around her ribs, wrapping his fingers under her arm a
nd around her body.

  Finally, a solid hold, and he afforded no delicacy against the suck of the bog and yanked hard. His arm flexed, the muscles twanging, but he could feel her body move. Real movement against the muck.

  The pain eased on her face, her out-of-place shoulder finding relief from Rowen’s dragging.

  It still took excruciating minutes, but Rowen had her now, solidly pulling her from the bog. Close to the hard mound he lay on, her chest finally broke free. Rowen dropped her hand, both of his arms going around her torso, and he pulled her forward, freeing her far enough to rest her chest on the mound.

  She stayed limp, her arms splayed, her cheek on the ground, as Rowen went to the edge, gathering her skirts from the bog until he could reach one leg and free it, and then the other.

  Clearing her from the suction of the bog, Rowen rolled Wynne as gently as he could onto her back, wiping free as much mud from her face and head as he could. Her eyes were still closed, pain etched in her brow. And she was listless. Limp.

  Rowen’s hand went full along her cheek.

  Freezing. Blast it.

  “Wynne.” His other hand framed her face. “Wynne.”

  The softest moan came from her.

  “Wynne,” he said again, not quite hiding the desperation in his voice.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, but it was clear she could not focus on him.

  “Am I out?”

  Rowen exhaled. “Yes. Yes. You are on the ground. I have you.”

  “Cold.” Her eyes closed. “Cold.”

  Pepe started to lick her neck as Rowen dropped his hands to her body. Her chest, her arms, her stomach. Every bit of her sopping in freezing water.

  “Dammit.” He leaned away to snatch his jacket and draped it over the front of her.

  Pulling her knife from the cold ground, Rowen shoved it alongside his calf into his boot. He picked up the long stick and slid his arms under Wynne in one motion, picking her up and trying to not jar her wrecked shoulder.

  He lifted her high, and her head draped onto the crook of his neck as he shifted her weight into one arm. He turned and started jabbing at the ground with the stick.

  A quick low whistle and Pepe caught up to them.

  The dog stayed at his heels.

  { Chapter 7 • Worth of a Duke }

  Her shivering had turned into violent spasms before Rowen reached the end of the bog. So violent, that Rowen had to reassess getting her back to the castle.

  Carrying her and picking his way through the forest would take at least two hours. Two hours he doubted she had.

  So when his stick hit solid ground along the edge of the forest, Rowen dropped it and turned west, going to the nearest place he could think of, an old shack carved into the woods at the far end of the line between the moors and the forest.

  In use when the estate used to keep watch over the harvesting of peat for fuel, the place hadn’t had a caretaker in years. Not since Rowen was a boy and the grumpy old man, George, had died.

  Rowen just hoped it still stood. Still had a few scraps of wood for a fire.

  The door was slightly askew on its hinges, and Rowen had to both wedge open the iron latch and kick the wood to gain entrance. The jerking sent Wynne into painful spasms, her shoulder hitting Rowen hard.

  Leaving the door open for light, Rowen went into the shack, scanning the small room in what little moonlight was left beyond the trees. Completely empty, except for one old wooden table and a few logs of peat by the fire. It would have to do.

  He went in front of the fireplace and laid Wynne down on the stone floor, moving his jacket to her backside and wrapping her the best he could. She looked at him, eyes still unfocused, but seemed to know it was him. Her shaking hand went out to him, but no words came through her chattering teeth.

  He grabbed her hand, shocked at how cold it still was. “I will be right here, Wynne. I am just going to start a fire.”

  Turning, Rowen knelt and stuck his head into the fireplace, looking upward. He thought he could see moonlight, and could hear wind whipping above the stack. Hopefully it was clear of nests and animals—he would have to take his chances. Setting the few peat logs into the fireplace, he went to the table, turning it on its side and slamming it into the stone floor.

  Pepe skittered across the room as the brittle wood shattered apart. The dog had remained only a step away from Rowen, but was now happy to eye Rowen from far across the room. Rowen snapped apart the weak planks with his hands as he set them to kindle the fire.

  He had to lift Wynne, who was still convulsing, to dive into his jacket for a flint box—a favor that he had thought to grab his usual traveling jacket. He laid her back down, and within minutes, Rowen was nursing a small fire, fanning it until the logs caught aflame.

  Heat finally started to roll out into the room, and Rowen turned around to see Wynne had curled into a ball on her side, shaking while trying to hold her limp arm to her side.

  Rowen took a deep breath for fortitude, going to the door to close it and buy himself a moment. Before anything else, he had to wedge Wynne’s shoulder back into place. She would be in agonizing pain until that happened.

  Without telling Wynne what he was going to do—he doubted she would understand him at the moment—Rowen went over to her and set his feet on either side of her, straddling her torso.

  As gently as possible, he pulled her wrist free from under his jacket. He bent slightly, putting a knee on the side of her ribs to both capture her and hold her stable, and then straightened her arm.

  A scream was his instant reward.

  She thrashed, but Rowen held fast, stretching her arm slowly, pulling it hard, but smoothly away from her shoulder.

  The sound of a pop and he could feel her shoulder lock back into place. Her thrashing yielded.

  Gently, he bent over her, his face above hers, and he laid her arm back to her body.

  “I am sorry, Wynne. I could not prepare you for that.” He smoothed wet hair away from her temple, his hand calm against her shudders. “But the pain should ease now.”

  Damn. Even her hair was freezing. She was not warming up.

  Rowen swallowed hard, resigning himself to what he was about to do. But it had to be done—the wood he had available to burn would be gone before the warmth breached her soaked clothing. And he doubted she would be able to fight him on it.

  He pulled her knife from his boot, went to the fire and poked the wood to renew the flames. Waving the blade in the air to cool it, he ran his fingers along the steel to test the temperature before he went to his knees behind Wynne’s back.

  Still on her side, she faced the fireplace, her shaking violent.

  He bent over her, his mouth near her ear as he pulled his overcoat off of her body and out from under her. He pushed her wet hair from her neck. “I cannot get you warm with these wet clothes blocking the fire. They have to come off, Wynne.”

  She shook her head as he laid his jacket out flat on the ground, driest side up, in front of Wynne.

  Rowen cleared his throat. “I will be as delicate as possible to your sensibilities, Wynne. But they have to come off.”

  Eyes closed, she nodded.

  He lifted her, shifting her forward onto his jacket, then picked up the knife. Quickly, he slid the blade under the top seam of her dress and ran the edge down the back of the cloth, splitting it to her waist.

  Taking his own shirt off—the sleeves were still wet, but the back of it was mostly dry—he draped the fabric over her chest before wedging the dress down, removing it to her hips.

  He paused, wondering if he should continue. But then another wicked spasm racked her body, answering his silent question.

  Shaking his head and cursing fate, he yanked the dress downward as he pulled his white shirt with it so that it covered her down to the top of her thighs.

  He stood, hanging her dismantled dress from an old peg next to the fireplace.

  A few more pokes at the fire, and Rowen turned to Wynne. Shi
vering on her side, her skin had turned a ghostly white, and her lips were decidedly blue.

  It was not enough.

  And now she was naked except for his thin shirt draped from her chest to her thighs.

  Rowen sighed, steeling himself, and walked around her.

  Dropping to his side on the cold stone floor, he tried to wedge a scrap of his jacket under his bare skin. He slid his left arm under Wynne’s neck, lifting her head from the hard floor, and then wrapped his forearm across her upper chest, bringing his body close to her.

  His right arm went over her waist and he pulled her entire backside onto his bare skin, tucking her into a cocoon. It was as if an enormous piece of ice had landed on his chest, hardening all muscles against the cold. He couldn’t imagine the torture it was to be in her body right now.

  Eventually, with Rowen shielding her backside from the cold and capturing the warmth of the fire, her spasms petered into shaking. And then the shaking petered into shivers. Until finally, her body went still, her breathing even.

  Rowen felt the moment she slipped into sleep, her body letting go, and he exhaled the anxiety that had held half of his breath captive since he had found her.

  He closed his eyes himself, though he was nowhere near sleep.

  Not with what had just happened. And not with a mostly naked Wynne in front of him—her skin against his.

  And not with the anger that had taken a hold of him. Anger at her. At her stupidity to go after a dog in the middle of the night. That he had almost lost her to a blasted bog, of all things.

  It was that very thought that ran around, madcap, in his mind.

  He almost lost her.

  And it shook him to his core.

  He searched his mind for the moment—when had she come to mean so much to him? After she saved him from the tower, and she opened her eyes on that bench and just expected to see him—not at all frightened, only complete trust in her eyes? When they were looking at the duchess’s portrait, and her body was so close to his that he could feel the passion she possessed over her art? Or was it back to the beginning, when she smiled at him over the fire, offering him squirrel meat?

  Did it matter, the moment? Or only that it was. Only that this woman had entered his life, and without asking had become all that he thought about. All that he dreamt about.