The Duke (22 page)

“That she did, yer grace.” Mr. Trevor saw that his grace looked distracted. He was in pain, Trevor could
tell that easily enough. Well, let him talk about Brandy, then. He said, “Evidently, yer grace, when ye fell, she threw herself over ye, two more shots barely missing her. Yelled like a banshee, she did, scaring off the killer. Her screaming and the gunshots brought the family running.”

“You swear to me she's all right?”

“Quite all right, just scared for ye.”

“She could have been killed. What made her pull such a stupid stunt?”

“Aye, but she wasn't hurt. It's very worried all the family is, yer grace. Is there naught ye can tell me? Take yer time. Think back to what ye were doing, what ye were thinking about.”

“I'd been swimming,” the duke said. “All those sheep, they stink like the devil. I wanted to wash the odor away as best I could before returning to the castle. I came out of the water. I spoke with Brandy and then she, ah, then she left. I remember vaguely hearing something, it must have been the shot, then I don't remember anything else.”

Mr. Trevor saw the duke's brow was furrowed in pain. He rose. “I'll fetch Wee Robert, yer grace. Ye need him now, not me. We'll talk more of this later. Perhaps ye'll think of more details. Anything would help.”

Ian barely heard him. He blinked several times in an effort to clear away the blur of his bedchamber. He saw Brandy clearly again, her face red, staring at him on a beach. Staring at him pointedly. Again. Staring at all of him. And quite admiring him.

Then someone was standing beside him and he felt the cool rim of a glass pressed against his mouth. He opened his mouth from habit, took several long drinks of a cool liquid, and closed his eyes and let the quiet darkness close over him.

 * * * 

“The wound is healing nicely, no infection there. But his grace has got the fever.” Wee Robert sat on his black coattails in the drawing room, facing the assembled family. As he spoke, he eyed Lady Felicity, the duke's betrothed. A more weak-kneed, swooning lady he had yet to meet. He couldn't quite imagine her as a fitting mate for the duke, a strong man, a tough man, a man used to command. She looked used to fainting and crying. She grew rather pale at his words, but she didn't faint again, thank the good Lord.

Brandy asked quietly, “How long do ye expect the fever to last, sir?”

Wee Robert said, “I won't mince matters with ye, lass. There be some who never recover from the fever. But like I told ye yesterday, his grace is young and a stronger man I've yet to meet. He'll pull through it, I'll wager.”

“But he's a
duke
!” Felicity shouted.

Wee Robert said with a touch of humor, “Aye, miss, that he is. Undoubtedly the title will assist him greatly to get well.”

“I believe what Lady Felicity is saying,” Giles said smoothly, with a gentle smile toward Felicity, “is that it is rather incredible that one of his grace's rank should find himself in such a situation.”

Wee Robert rose. “That is a matter for Mr. Trevor, I think. There is naught more I can do for his grace, Lady Adella. I've given Mabley instructions for his care. I wish ye all a good day.”

Bertrand walked with Wee Robert to the door.

“What a damned mess,” Claude said irritably. “I swear my gout has pained me more in this past day than in the last year. Damned shooting.”

“I think I would prefer a little gout to a ball in the back,” Percy said with such contempt that Claude nearly jumped on him.

“No, don't, Claude,” Lady Adella said, but nothing
more. She just sat there, staring at all of them, one at a time.

Bertrand returned to the group. “Ye all know, I presume, that Ian could tell Trevor nothing save the obvious. Nothing more than Brandy knew.”

“I agree with Lady Adella,” Claude broke in. “It must have been one of those filthy tinkers. They're a damnable lot, ye know.”

Brandy sighed and rose. “If ye'll excuse me, Grandmama, I must give Fiona her lessons. Then I wish to see how the duke fares.”

“Don't cast such a long face, child, else ye'll give the child nightmares.” Lady Adella waved Brandy from the room, then eyed each of the assembled company in turn, her gaze speculative. “I dislike mysteries and I dislike scoundrels, having lived with one for over fifty years. That a man could be such a villain and on Penderleigh land makes my stomach turn.”

“I don't think, Lady Adella,” Percy said softly, “that Trevor counts only men among his suspects.”

“Come, Percy,” Bertrand said, so angry with his cousin he wanted to hit him, “do ye believe that Lady Adella balanced a gun on her cane?”

“I merely speculate, dear cousin. If Trevor is going to continue poking about, asking us all sorts of ridiculous questions, I see no reason why the ladies should be excluded from such fine sport.”

Felicity rose and said in a trembling voice to Giles, “I feel dreadful. Maria must bathe my temples with lavender water. Why did the duke ever insist upon coming to this wretched place? Look what it has brought him—to death's door by some scheming Scottish barbarian. Oh, how I wish none of us had come here.”

“Then why don't ye leave?” Constance asked sweetly. “All ye do is complain and faint and call us names. Yer're not worth a thing. Aye, just leave.”

Felicity turned on her. “You spiteful little Scottish brat. You can't even speak English properly. And just why is that dowd of a sister of yours going to see the duke? She's nothing to do with him, nothing. I'm his betrothed. I should see him if anyone should, and I'm just not strong enough right now. Ah, I hate this wretched place.”

“I have seen Ian,” Giles said. “He's got the fever just as Wee Robert said. Mabley is staying close. He'll call us if Ian worsens.”

“Aye, Mabley says he's becoming delirious. Damn.” Bertrand suddenly smashed his fist against his thigh.

“Are ye damning the fact that the duke is ill or that the killer missed his mark?” Percy inquired in a goading voice.

“What a despicable thing to say,” Constance said, rising, her hands fisted at her sides.

Giles broke in. “Mabley tells me that his grace won't be left alone for a single minute. I think that should cool our would-be killer's zeal. Now, I think, Lady Adella—that is, if you do not mind—that we should have our afternoon tea.”

“Y
e'll not let anything else happen to Ian, will ye, Brandy?” Fiona looked worried and frightened. It wasn't that she didn't know about death. Grandfather Angus had died. But he had been so old she couldn't begin to imagine how he could still be alive. Brandy tucked in the bedcovers about her little sister's neck, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “Nay, poppet, I'll let none hurt him again. Ye're not to worry now. He's big and strong. He'll get well, I swear it to ye.”

She left Fiona and went to her own room. She just wasn't up for all the snipping that would be going on in the drawing room and at the dinner table.

It was a pale, drawn figure that Mabley admitted to Ian's bedchamber as the evening advanced toward ten o'clock. Brandy's eyes went immediately to the bed. “He's quiet, Mabley. Has the fever broken?”

Her voice was so hopeful that Mabley disliked having to dash her down. “Well, not exactly, Miss Brandy. He's been delirious, tossing about and muttering about this and that. Six years it's been, yet it's her name that he cries out, over and over. What a horrible time that was. I worried greatly for him then.” Mabley shook his head wearily.

Brandy was staring at him. She said, “Ye mean Marianne?”

“Yes, Miss Brandy. I think he's reliving that terrible time all over again.” Mabley's old bones were so weary that he plumped himself down in a chair and closed his eyes. He could still picture the duke's white face the day he'd returned alone from France. Aloud, he said, “His friends feared for his reason. Even the king sent his condolences, I remember. It was a sad time, yes, a sad time indeed.”

Brandy took a tight hold on herself. Marianne was long dead and she, Brandy, was very much alive. Ian needed her care. If she had to share him with a ghost, she would do so. Felicity she refused to even admit into her thinking. “Go to bed, Mabley, ye're near to dropping.”

Mabley turned at the adjoining door. “You'll call me, miss, if his grace becomes too restless for you to handle?”

“Aye. Be certain to lock the door, Mabley. His grace is in enough danger with the wound. I don't want to have to worry about the man who was scoundrel enough to shoot him.”

Mabley withdrew, locking the narrow door after him. He stood for a moment in the middle of the small dressing room and eyed the lumpy truckle bed that had been his nightly companion for so many weeks now. Just knowing that Morag had changed the linen this very morning made him itch. Like Lady Felicity, he wished they'd never come to Scotland. He prayed that His Grace would soon be on the mend and, once mended, would consent to leaving this land with all its strange foods, funny speech, and salty sea air.

As he slowly removed his black coat, he glanced toward the closed door. His thin brows drew together over narrowed eyes. It wasn't right that Miss Brandy should be protecting his grace—better one of the men,
Mr. Giles, for example. A stubborn young lady she was, and more than just fond of his grace, he guessed. She was in for a bruised heart, he knew, for although he himself had no liking for the haughty Lady Felicity, he knew the ways of the Quality. His grace was as good as leg-shackled, what with the formal announcement and all the settlements agreed upon. If asked, he would have gladly enlightened his grace as to the differences between Lady Felicity and the duke's poor first duchess. A pity, he thought, yes, it was a pity, but nothing could be done about it, nothing at all.

 

Brandy stood quietly beside the duke's bedside, looking down at him. His face was hot and red from the fever. She wiped his face with a cool, damp cloth. As she rubbed the cool cloth over his neck and shoulders and arms, he muttered something she didn't understand and turned his face away on the pillow. She wiped his face again. He tried to strike her hand away, but he didn't have the strength.

“Hush,” she whispered. She pulled the heavy goosedown cover up over his bare chest, mindful of his fever, even though the room was warm. The white strips of linen bound about his chest and under his back stood out starkly against the curling black hair. She lightly stroked the cloth above and below the bandage.

His breathing became less raw. He didn't move around all that much, but the fever was still on him.

She was ready to drop where she stood. If only the fever would break. She spent another half hour wiping him down. Then she stretched and went to build up the fire, which had fallen into thick layers of orange embers. After she undressed and changed into her nightgown, she fastened her tartan shawl once more firmly about her shoulders and sank into her chair,
pulling a rough wool blanket up to her chin for warmth.

She was pulled from her sleep by the sound of garbled words and curses. In an instant she was beside him, looking down into his face. She felt tears sting the back of her eyes at the pain she heard in his voice:

“Marianne, Marianne. If only you had trusted me . . . told me, Marianne. I would have tried to save them. . . . Marianne, why did you doubt me? Too late . . . I was too late.”

“Oh, no, Ian, it wasn't yer fault. No, don't blame yerself for her death. Hush, my love, hush. I love ye more than she could have, Ian. I would never have left ye. Why didn't she trust ye?”

He began to twist about, arms flailing, and Brandy, fearing the wound would open, resolutely blinked back tears and sat down beside him, holding down his shoulders as best she could.

“Lie still, Ian, ye must lie still.”

His voice rose, and she saw his visions of the guillotine, its blade whooshing down to sever Marianne's head. And she realized that Marianne had gone to France to try to save her parents. Why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she asked for his help? He'd been her husband. Why? It made no sense at all.

“It wasn't yer fault, Ian,” she said again and again, willing him to listen to her, to believe her. She touched her fingertips to his lips and pressed her cheek against his, holding him tightly to her.

Through her fingertips, he whispered yet again Marianne's name, and in her misery Brandy closed her mouth over his, willing him to forget his ghost. He responded to her, and she was surprised at the sheer want she felt when his tongue explored her mouth—at least she believed it was want. Maybe it was lust, a word she'd heard enough from the mouths of the Robertson males. She knew she wanted more of these
feelings he was bringing to her body, knew she wanted to touch him, hold him to her. His arms went around her, his large hands sweeping down her back to her hips.

She knew she must pull away from him. He didn't know what he was doing. He believed she was his first wife. He believed she was Marianne. She did try to pull away from him, but he tightened his hold on her and she couldn't move.

“Ian, no, ye mustn't.” But she wanted him to continue what he was doing and she knew it. She knew she was lying to him and to herself.

His lips were suddenly slack. He was staring at her, his eyes bright, penetrating.

“My love,” he whispered, “my little love.” He pulled her down to him and kissed her. She tasted his urgency, felt the urgency in him, accepted his tongue when she opened her mouth to him.

He thinks I'm Marianne, she thought dully, hopelessly, and then she didn't care at all. She accepted him, accepted what he would do to her. He would be hers tonight and that would be enough. Just tonight.

With sudden strength Ian pulled her on top of him, and she felt his sex hard against her belly through the down cover. She buried her face against his neck as his hands caressed her hips, tugging her nightgown. She helped him eagerly, with no pretense, with no virginal terror. The thought of him naked against her made her nearly frantic. She herself ripped her nightgown in her urgency to get it off her. She pulled back the blankets. She stared down at him, at all of him, at his swelled sex in the mat of black hair. Oh, God, she knew what he would do, and she couldn't imagine that he would fit inside her. She felt a shaft of fear, then shook it off. He wanted her—rather, he wanted a ghost, and she was willing to be that ghost for him tonight.

“I love ye,” she said to him, knowing he couldn't hear her, and even if he did, they wouldn't be her words, they'd be Marianne's words.

His hands were kneading her hips, more gently now, and she was eased once again atop him, her belly and legs naked and pressed hard against him.

He clasped his arms tightly about her back and rolled over on top of her. His fingers were on her breasts, then her belly, and lower, finding her, and she was shocked at the pleasure it brought her. Ah, it was wonderful, these feelings. She didn't want him to stop. She didn't want the feelings to stop. She could feel them building and building. She didn't know what would happen, she just knew she wanted all of it. She pressed her hips upward against his fingers.

She felt his fingers part her, probe into her, and felt his sex coming into her. She knew it wouldn't work, it simply couldn't. He was too big. All excitement was gone. She wrapped her arms tightly about his neck and arched upward. She lurched upward with pain as he pressed inside her. She was terrified now that he would rip her, that she would die here in his bed.

Still, she wasn't prepared for the pain when he tore through her maidenhead. It was deep and ripping. She knew she mustn't scream, that it could wake Mabley and bring him running into the bedchamber.

He suddenly pulled back until he was nearly out of her, then drove with all his strength again into her. He was fully inside her now, lying against her, breathing hard.

He was moving now, speaking words to her she didn't understand. French words, sex words. No, she wouldn't cry out, she couldn't. He was kissing her chin, her nose, her mouth. It hurt so badly that she sank her teeth into the hollow of his neck and let her tears streak along his cheek. She felt a tremendous tautness in him as he drove back and forth in her, his
arms tight about her. Suddenly he shuddered and tensed over her. A cry she couldn't hold in came out, but she'd buried her face in his neck, muffling the sound. She felt him heave then, heard the low moans tearing from his throat. She felt his seed deep inside her body. He collapsed on top of her, burying her beneath him. His breath came in deep, sighing gasps as his face fell beside hers on the pillow.

Brandy lay very still. He was heavy, but for the moment she didn't care. For the moment he was hers, all hers. His breathing calmed, and she felt the warmth of his mouth against her cheek. He gave a deep moan and was quiet. She believed that he slept.

I am part of him now, she thought, and tightened her arms about his waist. She lay quietly until she could bear his weight no longer. As gently as she could, she eased herself from under him and lay against his side. She gazed at his face in the dim candlelight and let her fingers trace along the firm line of his jaw, feather light.

For tonight, at least, he was hers, and she wouldn't allow Marianne's ghost or Felicity's claim on him to ruin her happiness. She pulled the covers over both of them and carefully rested her face against his shoulder, cherishing the moments until she would have to leave him.

 

Ian awoke with a start, feeling as though his mind had been gone from his body for a lifetime. Perhaps two lifetimes. For a moment he was disoriented and gazed with some confusion at the bright shaft of sunlight that streamed through the windows. He planted his mind firmly back into his body and tentatively raised himself to his elbow.

“Your grace.”

“Mabley, good God, man, what is the day and the time? I feel like I've been away for a very long time.”

“Your grace is clear-headed?”

“I have my wits restored, I believe.” He carefully flexed his back, and winced at the pain. “My shoulder is on the mend, Mabley.”

“It's Thursday, your grace, and near to ten o'clock in the morning.”

“You mean that I've been unconscious since yesterday?”

The deep lines in Mabley's old face smoothed out as he smiled at his master. “Yes, your grace, that, and you were out of your head for some time with the fever. Your Grace had all of us mightily worried.”

“Out of my head? You mean I was delirious?” He frowned, trying to piece memories together.

“Yes, your grace.” Mabley approached his master and added softly, “You remembered it all again, your grace.”

There was no need for him to explain further.

To Mabley's surprise, the duke didn't dwell on that. He said, “It would appear, Mabley, that someone had taken me into profound dislike. I recall very little of it. Has the culprit been caught?”

Mabley shook his head. “No, your grace. A Mr. Trevor, the Scottish magistrate, is looking into the matter. I will send Mr. Giles to you if you wish. I haven't been with the family.”

“Yes, I would speak with Giles. Damn, but I'm hungry and much in need of a shave and a bath. See to that first, before you send up Giles, will you, Mabley?” He paused a moment, looking hard at his old retainer. “You look like you're ready to fall on your ass, Mabley. Don't tell me you were my only nurse.”