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

by K. J. Jackson

  She would trust him.

  She had to.

  { Chapter 14 • Worth of a Duke }

  Rowen pushed his horse, an Iberian Peninsula Barb, down through the cold brook and up the muddy bank to the long stretch of land where he could truly set this horse free.

  Mud flew up at him, splattering onto his face, his chest. Phalos would be persnickety about it, but Rowen wasn’t about to take Phalos out on a ride like this.

  Hard. Punishing—at least to himself. Never to the horse. And this young one could take it—wanted it like no other. Hooves pounded the ground.

  Rowen had thought he could stop it at just a kiss.

  But then Wynne’s skin. So soft. Offering herself up to him. Blast it—not just offering, demanding he take her.

  All he had wanted to do was take her pain away. Take her pain and turn it into something raw and beautiful and life-affirming.

  And then he had convinced himself he could stop after freeing just one nipple.

  He was wrong.

  So damn wrong. And hell. Even with the bruising of the saddle, he was hard again.

  He pulled up on the stallion, standing in the stirrups.

  Hard just thinking of Wynne’s skin, of her body writhing under his touch. Of him stretching deep within her. He hadn’t even found the sense to pull out before he came—hadn’t had any notion at the time it would be the proper thing to do. Too consumed. Too absorbed in the woman under him.

  It was her very reaction at the end of last night that he had dreaded, had tried to avoid.

  For all that Wynne had convinced herself she wanted him—Rowen wasn’t sure she was in her right mind yet.

  And he damn well wanted her in her right mind.

  He did not want half love from this woman. He wanted all of her. Every breath. Every word. Every thought. He couldn’t accept less. Not from Wynne.

  He had thought his standard, what he wanted in a mate, was impossible. Impossible until he met Wynne.

  Rowen looked out across the long field, the openness stretching until it disappeared past a far-off hill. The cold brown ground shimmered with early morning frost.

  What was he to do now? Wait? Pretend last night never happened? Hover until he was sure Wynne was done grieving for her mother? Wasn’t looking to him solely to escape?

  That was going to be damn hard, as all he wanted to do was strip her down and claim every last speck of her skin. Run his hands along her bare stomach, the muscles on her legs. Make her writhe under him. Watch her come. Again and again.

  The horse kicked, demanding to be unleashed once more.

  Rowen heaved a sigh. This was getting him nowhere.

  And there weren’t enough horses in the stables to ride out of his body what he really needed to be doing.

  Taking Wynne to his bed.

  “Sorry, young fellow.” Rowen patted the neck of the black horse. “I will ride this stretch out with you, but it will not be the exhaustion you were hoping for.”

  ~~~

  Boots crunching along the gravel on the path from the stables, Rowen watched the ground in front of him, still lost in thoughts about Wynne. Only a few shards of late evening sun filtered in through the trees above him.

  While he had thought to find Wynne soon after he arrived back to the stables, his architect and stable master had caught him, and he had found himself for most of the afternoon refereeing aesthetics versus function for the newest stable to be built. It was to be the show stable, the one meant to impress future visitors at Notlund arriving to trade, breed, or buy. Between that, and seeing Luhaunt off, the day had quickly slipped away from him.

  Rowen looked up as he cleared the line of trees at the edge of the woods, only to see, of all people, the dowager pacing along the path outside the outer wall of the castle. Rowen sighed, his gait slowing.

  She was waiting for him. And of the many things she could lambast him for, he just truly hoped, down to his soul, that the duchess hadn’t found out what he and Wynne did last night.

  He wasn’t about to apologize for it, but he also didn’t want to battle with the dowager about his relationship with Wynne.

  Closer to the castle, the duchess grew tired of Rowen’s slow pace and came down the trail, intercepting him.

  “You do not walk that slowly, L.B. Entirely rude.” She yanked her black shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “Just enjoying the day, Duchess.” Rowen stopped in front of her. “What is it that you need?”

  “I asked Wynne today if she was ready to paint me again. She was in the painting room, just staring out the window. But she looked different—happier. I thought it the right time to start up again. But she just jumped—like she did not even know I was in the room—and then mumbled something about it not being the right time yet.”

  “What am I to do about that, Duchess? I cannot make her paint.”

  “What is happening with her, L.B.? You are supposed to be making her well again.” She leaned forward, pointing her finger at his chest. “That is the only reason I have allowed you such a breach of propriety. The only reason I have allowed you unfettered access to her—trusted in your status as a gentleman when you are alone with her.”

  Rowen’s eyebrow arched. “You have allowed it? I think you forget, Duchess, that I am the one that does or does not allow who is present at this castle. And I do find your sudden increased expectation of my honor somewhat laughable.”

  “Do not push me, L.B. Wynne is a young, unmarried woman in the unchaperoned presence of a man. Even you should understand that it is her reputation that you do harm to, were word to get out.”

  “Are you truly threatening her at the same time as demanding she be back by your side? That is low, even for you, Duchess.” Rowen shook his head, trying to ignore the madness of this woman. “I have done as you asked, Duchess. I have been trying to pull her out of her grief. It is working. She paints me. She converses.”

  The duchess’s arm swung wide. “You have done nothing. She is no closer to being back to me than she was. She will paint you, but not me. She talks to you, but not me.”

  “I cannot control her grief, Duchess. Cannot control what she will or will not do. You are too akin to her mother. She just needs more time.”

  “Time? I am through giving you time.” The duchess leaned in at him, her words biting. “Your time is now short, L.B. Short. Do not test me.”

  She spun, stomping away from him.

  Rowen could only stand, staring at the back of her black skirts swishing, letting the ball of rage in his gut dissipate before he moved forth.

  { Chapter 15 • Worth of a Duke }

  “I did not know if you would appear or not.” Wynne leaned away from the canvas in front of her to look at him.

  Rowen instantly recognized the tentativeness in her gaze as she watched him step past the arched doorway into the painting room. “You were worried?”

  “No—” She stopped herself, then nodded her head.

  “Worried that I would show, or worried that I would not?” Rowen asked.

  She stood from her chair, setting down the paintbrush and her board of paints and walked over to him. Feet stopping right before him, she looked up at him inquisitively. The faint smell of honey—always around her to keep the paints malleable, a trick she had learned from her grandfather—wafted up to his nose.

  “Why would that even be a question?” She grabbed the apron about her waist and twisted her ring finger in it, wiping away wet grey paint. Even after last night, innocence still sparkled in the blue flecks in her eyes.

  “I was worried you would not come,” she said. “But that was silly—I should not have questioned you. I just have not seen you all day, and that is unusual.”

  “I was stuck down at the stables.” Rowen stepped away from her, if only to stop inhaling her scent, and closed the door to the room.

  It took him a long moment to steel himself and turn to face her. Heaven help him, he wanted to kiss her. Yank the pins from he
r hair. Pick her up and carry her back to his room.

  Rowen took a step toward her, stopping with plenty of distance between them.

  “Wynne, we cannot repeat what we did last night. I will not have you reacting…”

  “Like I did?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Will not have me wallowing in my own choices? Will not let me take responsibility for my own actions?” Her chest rose in a deep sigh. “I needed you Rowe. And I was not wrong about it.”

  “No, you were not wrong. You knew what you could handle.” He eyed her, watching her eyes flicker between ire and longing. “It is that you take too much responsibility for your actions—put too much pressure upon yourself—that is what worries me, Wynne. What it can do to your soul.”

  “That is it? You are worried about my soul so you will not touch me?”

  He couldn’t resist another step toward her. Close enough to feel her breath as she looked up at him, challenging. He met her heat. “I want you in my bed, Wynne. God help me, I do. Right now. But I fear…”

  “What?”

  He shook his head, unable to say more. “Paint.” He stepped around her, going to the wooden chair by the table and sat. “Let us sit. You paint. Let us just do this for now.”

  Her gaze followed him, her bottom lip going under her teeth, biting hard. She wanted to argue, he could see that, but she held back.

  Quiet, she walked over to her table of paints, picking up her paint board and disappearing behind the canvas.

  Silence filled the room for minutes, and Rowen stared at the lines of the wooden easel supporting the canvas. He needed to get Wynne another one so that she could set the canvas even higher. She hunched over far too much with this one.

  “I saw you outside with the duchess.” Wynne’s voice popped out from behind the canvas. “What were you talking about? She looked distressed.”

  “She always looks distressed.”

  Wynne’s head appeared, her eyes scolding. “Not with me, Rowe. She can be quite docile.” Her voice softened. “But it was not just her. It was you as well. Usually you are calm around her. Clipped, but steady, not letting her affect you. But your face. I could tell she struck a bad chord with you.”

  Rowen’s mouth clamped closed.

  “You are not going to tell me?”

  He sighed, scratching the back of his head. “We were talking about you, Wynne.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “The duchess misses you. Misses your company. You have managed to reach her like no one ever has. Not since her son. And he only partially cared for her.”

  “I know I have been distant to her.” A frown lined her lips. “And when she came in here today, she looked hopeful. But I was thinking of other things…”

  “Us?”

  She nodded. “Unfortunately. And I must have been rude—distracted at the very least. I did not intend to be so. It is still hard for me to look at her and not be reminded of my mother. But why would she come to you about it?”

  “She thought I could help. That is all.”

  Wynne’s eyes narrowed. “That is all?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave a slight nod and busied herself with plopping fresh dollops of paint onto her board. She gave him a quick glance. “Why does the duchess call you L.B., Rowe? I would think Lockton or Rowen, given your history. But ‘L.B.’—I have been trying to figure it out for weeks. And every time she says it, you blink and an instant of something I cannot grasp goes across your face.”

  Rowen forced his face neutral. “She has always called me L.B., Wynne. It is the way it is.”

  “Little boy?”

  “No, that is not it.”

  “Lockton baby?”

  “Stop, Wynne.” His jaw tightened, and he attempted to relax it. “What the duchess does, and why she does it, only she knows. Everyone I know has stopped questioning her behavior long ago.”

  Wynne nodded, a quick apologetic smile coming to her face. Her head dropped and she set about mixing colors on her board, softly humming to herself.

  Minutes passed, and Rowen thought her lost in thought, and was just about to relax, happy to avoid the topic of the duchess, when Wynne’s voice startled him.

  “What happened to your mother here, Rowe? Here in the castle?”

  “No, Wynne.” His head was shaking before the words came out.

  “I can hear it now, Rowe. Truly. I can hear it. I want to know. And I want to know from you.”

  “Wynne, it is not necessary, it is past.”

  She pointedly pushed the paint board away from her, even though a brush thick with paint stayed in her fingers. She looked up at him. “Past that still, to this very day, puts daggers in your eyes when you even think about the duchess. For all of your forced politeness, Rowe, it is there. I see it. And I want to know why.”

  “I will not knowingly share a story that is going to lead you to dwell upon your own mother, Wynne.”

  She shook her head. “Not fair. Whatever the tale is, it does not mean I will not be sad, but I can handle it. I can hear this now, Rowe, and I want to know. I need to understand.”

  Rowen leaned back in the wooden chair, running a hand through his hair as he looked upward at the thick dark beams of the coffered ceiling. How to even begin this story?

  His eyes dropped to Wynne. “You do recall my father died early in my life?”

  “Yes. You said you were four.”

  He nodded. “After my father died, my uncle—the duke—brought my mother and me to live here at Notlund.”

  “That was generous.”

  A harsh, forced chuckle escaped Rowen. “Yes, well, so generous, that it was not long before my mother became his mistress.”

  Wynne gasped, as Rowen expected. What he did not expect was for Wynne to drop the brush in her hand, sending it to flop paint onto her apron, skirts, and then floor.

  Her face turning pink, she quickly fumbled to pick it up. “My apologies.”

  “It is nothing.”

  She smoothed the hair back from her temple, settling herself. “I presume the duchess knew of the affair?”

  “Yes. The duke produced very little effort in hiding it from the duchess. And even less of an effort in protecting my mother from the duchess. And by default, I became a convenient target for the duchess’s hatred as well. Almost from the moment we stepped foot in Notlund.”

  “You were four.”

  “Yes, and I was told daily that I was lower than dirt. That I did not deserve to be alive. That the best place for me was the dung heap.”

  Rowen shook his head. It had been a very long time since he had allowed the memories to flood him. And they were still visceral. His eyes drifted back to the ceiling.

  “But it was not just that she was vicious with her words. It was the way the duchess would set me up. She would entice me in, coddle me with kindness for just a few, fleeting moments, and I would believe things were different, that she did not hate me. And then she would lambast me. Rip treats from my hands and hand them to her son. Slap me when I reached for a toy of his. Juicy meat on a fork to my mouth, knocked to the floor for the dogs. And her laugh. Vicious. Her words…I was a waste. I should have never been born. The devil did not even want me.”

  Rowen took a steadying breath. “I was four. Four. I had no defense of it. I did not understand any of it—just that I was somehow unworthy. Ugly. Dumb. I did not know. The only thing I knew was that I should not exist. Every single day was like that. And I learned to never trust anything in front of me. That any high—any comfort would be rewarded with cruelty.”

  His arms folded over his chest as his eyes dropped to Wynne. “And I soon just accepted the fact that they—my cousin, the duke and duchess—were much better than I could ever hope to be. That I was lucky just to be breathing. Lucky to be alive, even if it was in the duchess’s concocted hell. It was not long before I truly believed that I was worthless.”

  His words yielded, and Wynne stood, grabbing her wooden chair and walking ov
er to him. She set the chair down right in front of him and sat, leaning forward as her hands went gently on his knees.

  Wet, her eyes glistened in the light from the lamp on the table. “And your mother?”

  Rowen took a deep breath, his eyes shifting to the fireplace across the room. “My mother… when she could, she tried to protect me. Tried to take the brunt of the duchess’s viciousness. Took the threats. The hate. Would step in front of the slaps. The kicks. But the duchess knew—she knew it was far worse for my mother to have to watch her only child suffer. So that is what she did. And my mother suffered. The older I got, the more I understood how much she suffered just to protect me what little she could.”

  “Why did your mother stay—not take you both away?”

  “I do not know. I would wonder that every day. I begged her. Every day I would beg her to leave this place. But she had no power. The duke controlled my father’s fortune until I was of age. Maybe he threatened to cut her off. Maybe it was because of that. Maybe it was because she knew she couldn’t survive on her own. Couldn’t feed or house me. Maybe it was because she loved him. I do not know.”

  “And then she died and you got to leave this place?”

  He nodded, his eyes closing. “Slowly, at the end, she starved herself, day after day. She became bones right before me. Just before she died, she told me it was the best thing she could do for me—the only way she could still protect me. I told her she was wrong. I was old enough then. I was strong. I begged. But maybe she was trying to escape her own hell. Again, I do not know. Still to this day, I do not know.”

  She gave him long seconds. Long seconds Rowen used, eyes closed, to chase the long-ago demons back to the depths of his mind.

  That Wynne had even gotten him to speak the words, to talk about it.

  Hell.

  Then the hands on his knees tightened.

  He opened his eyes to her.

  Tears were in her eyes, pain for him or for herself, he could not tell. But he could see it—the tears that shone in her eyes brought forth sadness from deep in her soul.