The Duke (20 page)

He remembered his last bruise. It was more than two years ago. He couldn't remember her name anymore.

A
fter spending his morning with Bertrand and the crofters herding together the scores of Cheviot sheep into their enclosures, Ian felt he smelled rank enough to baa. Since he didn't want to foist himself on the family or on Giles and Felicity, in particular, smelling as foul as he did, he walked quickly toward the small, protected cove. The salt water should take care of the worst of it.

He looked for Fiona building a sand castle but didn't see anything but driftwood, huge black boulders, and scattered pebbles. He stripped off his clothes and dropped them on a dry, sunny rock.

His skin tingled as the cold seawater lapped about his legs. He ignored this shock of it, waded in waist deep, then struck out with long, firm strokes into deeper water. He'd imagined he'd become used to the water, but it wasn't true. It remained cold. He swam until he imagined his mouth was turning blue. A porpoise swam so close he could almost reach out and touch it. Fiona's porpoise. Still, he didn't want to get out of the water. He flipped onto his back and floated, looked up at the cloudless blue sky. What a glorious place, he thought. If he were never to return to London, he fancied that it would be no great loss to him. London, with all of its unremitting social demands,
and Felicity, the woman he would marry, the woman who didn't love him, just esteemed him—either him or his wealth and title—and would begrudgingly bear his children. Well, damn. He'd made a mistake for which he'd pay the rest of his days on this earth. How could he have been so obtuse?

He sighed and closed his eyes against the sun's glare, willing himself not to think about anything at all.

Brandy walked along the promontory, too depressed to notice that her tartan shawl was making her gown sweat into her back. She thought of poor Fiona, trapped this one afternoon each week with Lady Adella, who insisted that she spend three hours with her to learn the manners of a lady born. Brandy had wanted to point out that customs and mores had changed quite a bit in the past fifty years, but she didn't want her grandmother's tongue to sharpen on her. Fiona was made to sit on the old red brocade cushion at Lady Adella's feet, setting crooked stitches into a swatch of embroidery and listening to fifty-year-old stories of Grandmama's long ago conquests.

She made her way carefully down the steep path to the beach. She didn't at first notice the neat pile of men's clothing laid on a rock. She shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed out over the water.

She knew it was Ian, even before he stood and walked toward shore. She stared at him—there was no way in God's green earth she could look away. Surely there could be no man to compare with him. His thick black hair was plastered about his head, making him look rather boyish. But that was all that looked remotely boyish. She looked at the thick black hair on his chest. As he waded into shallow water, she saw his flat belly, the line of black hair that spread down into the bush of hair at his groin. She stared at him, just as she had that long ago evening she'd run
into his bedchamber. Ah, but he was beautiful. Thick strong legs. She hadn't seen his feet. She'd wager her tartan shawl that they were beautiful too. Then he stepped from the water and stood a moment on the rocky beach, stretching his arms above his head.

She thought she was going to swallow her tongue. He could have no idea what that movement was doing to her innards. Ah, but she wasn't the one who would have him. He was further out of her reach than he'd ever been. He was also naked and she supposed it was the best treat she could expect from this wretched day.

She'd had a brief tiff with Felicity over London and how she was certain that Edinburgh couldn't begin to compare to England's capital. Who cared? She'd been so depressed to even give her the edge of her sharp tongue. She'd just looked at her, turned on her heel, and left her standing there alone in the drawing room.

She just couldn't look away from him. She knew she shouldn't be staring at him like a ninny, but she wasn't about to turn around and walk away. No, she'd take what she could get. She drank in all of him, acutely aware of the warmth low in her belly that felt urgent and, truth be told, rather wild and intriguing. She remembered their afternoon in the abandoned crofter's hut. He'd kissed her, his arms holding her close to his chest. The thought of being naked against him, feeling that crinkly black hair against her flesh, having his hands stroking down her back and, well, even lower, made her wonder what it was all about. And there was no doubt about it, after seeing Ian naked, Brandy wanted to know about this mating between men and women. She would have shot Percy if he'd tried again to stroke his hands anywhere on her body, but Ian, well, she supposed she'd let him do anything he wished.

Ian finished buttoning his white shirt, that garment still, unfortunately, reeking of sheep, and shoved it
into his black knit britches. He threw his rumpled cravat over his arm and pulled on his boots. It was a bright patch of color that brought his eyes slewing in Brandy's direction. It took him but an instant to recognize her faded tartan shawl.

“Brandy!” Good God, not again. He yelled, “You little witch, come out here at once. I mean it, now. I want you to tell me you just arrived, not more than ten seconds ago. Tell me the sun is sharp in your eyes and you haven't been looking at me.”

Brandy didn't move an inch. She'd been standing back, hoping he wouldn't see her. She didn't want to embarrass him, but now she had. Yet again.

He sighed. “All right. Just how long have you been standing there?”

“Well, rather a long time if you would know the truth. Remember when you were on your back floating and that porpoise came toward you? Then you waded out of the water. It was a long wade.”

He felt a raw push of lust and that would never do. He yelled at her, “Brandy, dammit, this is the second time you've placed me in an altogether ridiculous position. Don't you realize you shouldn't stare at naked men? Don't you realize you should have turned right around and gone straight back to the castle?”

He was right, of course, but not at all to the point. She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. She was thirsty. She wanted very much to kiss him. He sounded angry, but what could she do? There was just one way to get out of this with a dab of pride left. She turned on her heel and ran back toward the cliff path.

“Wait, dammit,” he yelled after her, and broke into a run. He wanted to get his hands on her. When his hands were on her, as they wanted to be, he didn't know what he would do, but he had to find out.

Ian heard a loud report that didn't penetrate his brain. Then he felt as though someone had shoved a
knife in his back. The force of it hurtled him forward, facedown, onto the beach. He couldn't seem to move. He tried to rise, but felt a blaze of agony freeze his breath in his lungs. He fell forward, blackness closing over him.

Brandy froze in her tracks, the sound of the shot stunning her. She stared at Ian, who lay motionless, his blood beginning to ooze through his white shirt, forming a spreading stain of deep red. It couldn't be real, it just couldn't, but it was. Someone had shot him. God, he could be dead. No! She screamed his name and ran as fast as she could. As she fell onto her knees beside him, she looked back to see if there were anyone in the direction the shot had come from.

Another shot rang out, and she felt its hiss as it whizzed harmlessly past her head. She threw herself down over Ian, covering his body as best she could with her own. Dear God, someone was trying to kill him. It had been no accident. There was another shot. This one kicked up the sand not a foot from her head.

She opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could, screamed until her voice was raw and deep. And still she screamed. There was nothing else she could do. Surely someone would hear her, someone had to. She didn't want to think about the person who'd fired three times at Ian, how that person could at this very moment be coming toward them, his gun pointed at them.

Time was her enemy, an eternity of minutes that held her motionless with Ian bleeding beneath her. She didn't realize she was crying until she saw Bertrand and Fraser through a haze of tears, running down the snaking path toward her.

“Bertie,” she screamed. “Thank God ye've come. Please, God, hurry. Someone has shot him.” She quickly rolled off Ian and ripped open his shirt to bare the wound.

She pulled off her shawl, rolled it into a ball, and pressed it with all her strength against the bloody wound in his back.

“Good God, Brandy. Was that you screaming? What the devil?”

Bertrand pulled her from Ian's side and shouted to Fraser, “Hurry, man, fetch the others. Send someone for Wee Robert. Don't waste an instant. Good God, he's been shot in the back.” He pressed his fingers over the wound to slow the bleeding. “We heard shots, then your screams. Who was it, Brandy? Did you see him?”

“I didn't see anyone. Bertrand, oh God, will he be all right?”

“I don't know, Brandy, the wound is deep, but I don't know if the ball hit a vital organ. We'll have to wait for Wee Robert before we know anything. Come, lass, you've got to help me now.”

Percy and Giles came running down the path. Giles said nothing until he had examined his cousin. “Surely you must have seen who it was,” he said sharply, staring up at Brandy's white face.

She shook her head, mute.

Giles said, “Well, it doesn't matter now. Come, Bertrand, Percy, we must get him back to the castle.” The three men lifted him carefully. It took what seemed like an eternity to gain the top of the cliff.

“Damn, but he's pale as a sheet,” Bertrand said. “Who the devil could have done this?”

“It must have been an accident,” Percy said. “There's no other explanation. An accident.”

“It's just as well that he's unconscious,” Giles said as he shifted Ian's weight. “Damn, he's heavy.”

They finally reached the castle. Brandy dogged their heels, past a shrieking Morag and a gaping Constance, staying as close to Ian as the men would allow, until they had reached the duke's bedchamber.

Bertrand turned to her and said gently, “Ye did well, lass, but now ye must go. We must undress him and put him to bed. When Wee Robert arrives, please bring him up, all right?”

She was staring up at him, mute, her face white. He shook her shoulders. “Listen to me, he'll live, I promise ye. There's naught more ye can do. Go now, ye must speak with the others.”

She didn't want to leave him, but she knew she had to. Yes, she'd go downstairs and tell everyone what had happened. Then she'd wait for Wee Robert. She looked at Percy because he was helping lift Ian onto the huge bed. His eyes appeared to her more hooded than usual, his mouth drawn in a cold, tight line. She turned frantic eyes to Bertrand.

“Ye'll not leave him alone, Bertrand, promise me. It wasn't an accident. Someone tried to kill him. Someone fired three times at him. Promise me ye'll not leave him.”

“I promise, lass. Go now.”

Brandy didn't take the time to strip off her bloodied clothing, but instead made her way downstairs to the drawing room.

“Take this, child,” Lady Adella ordered, handing her a glass of brandy.

She gulped down the brandy, coughing until she believed her lungs must surely burst through her body. But then the blazing warmth reached her belly. It calmed her. She set the empty glass on the sideboard.

“What did you do to the duke?” Felicity yelled as she ran into the drawing room. “By God, you're covered with blood, his blood. What did you do to him, you filthy little trollop?”

“Someone tried to kill him, on the beach in the protected cove. There were three shots. One bullet went into his back.”

Felicity looked at Brandy's bloody gown. Her
mouth worked. Then she screamed and fainted onto the carpet. A small puff of dust wafted up.

“Useless creature,” Lady Adella said, and snorted.

Brandy and Constance each took one of Felicity's arms and dragged her up onto a sofa.

“That's Ian's blood on yer gown, Brandy?” Constance said in a small, scared voice.

“Hush, Constance. The girl doesn't need ye to state the obvious.” Lady Adella turned to Brandy. “Ye must get a hold of yerself, child. Fraser's gone to fetch the magistrate, Trevor. Now, tell me before ye go and change ye gown, did ye see who did this terrible thing?”

“Nay, Grandmama, I looked all around, but I didn't see anyone. Whoever shot him must have been hiding in the rocks atop the cliff.”

Lady Adella looked away from Brandy's pale, drawn face and stared thoughtfully down at her gnarled fingers.

“A poacher, it must have been a poacher,” Constance said.

“No one's poached here for years,” Lady Adella said. “There's nothing to poach. People aren't that stupid. Nay, someone tried to kill the duke.”

Still, Constance repeated her belief to Mr. Trevor, the magistrate, some while later.