Dark Duke (13 page)

Despite their determination to hie off to The Cloud with all
haste, a broken wheel slowed them down and, to Edward’s and Ned’s
consternation, they had to spend the night in a tatty inn until they could
procure another carriage. They didn’t arrive at their destination until midday.

It was a gloomy day, befitting his mood, and the island was
indeed wreathed in fog. It rose from the mist looking something like Mount
Olympus, ominous, distant and impregnable. And Violet was there.

Two hulking nefarious creatures stood guard at a little dock
on the bank of the firth. When Edward, Ned and Transom descended from the
carriage, the men rose from their fire and bristled.

“We’re here to see the McCloud.”

One of the men, a hideous creature with a melted face,
growled, “The McCloud don’t see visitors.”

“He’ll see me. We’re…old friends. Our business is urgent.”

The two men grumbled amongst themselves and then finally,
the huge troll, a man named Mungo, nodded and waved to the skiff bobbing on the
tide. “I’ll take you in.”

They frisked them, looking for weapons. They found none.
Then, one by one, they climbed into the boat. It rocked with every movement.

“Oh,” Ned warbled. “She would have hated this.”

Mungo eyed Ned intently as he rowed them across the firth,
into the swirling fog. As though he knew the way blindfolded, he steered the
little skiff toward the far shore, landing at a dilapidated dock. He led them
up the decrepit stone steps from the dock to the keep and into a great hall
teeming with men in all states of drunkenness, despite the hour. The hall was
filthy, the floor littered with scraps, the tables covered with old plates and
overturned cups. A dingy pall hung over the chamber as the chimney sported a
wide crack.

Boisterous cackles and shouts echoed off the stone walls.
One large man dandled a serving girl on his lap and roughly fondled her breasts
as she chortled. Several others were playing cards at the table and as they
entered, a brawl broke out among them.

Edward sidestepped a reeling combatant as he wheeled past
spouting profanities. His gut wrenched. The thought of Violet here, held
captive by such ignoble creatures, was revolting.

“Wait here,” the hulk growled. “I’ll fetch the McCloud.” He
stomped up the stairs and disappeared into the gloom of the keep.

“Hell,” Ned muttered.

Edward dropped an arm around his shoulders. Ned was shaking.
“Fortitude, my lad. Try to remain calm.”

“But Violet—”

“I know. The most important thing is getting her back. Let’s
keep that in mind.”

Transom cleared his throat. “It might be best if we do the
talking.”

Ned nodded, but he didn’t seem persuaded. As he took in the unruly
scene, he went from pale to looking a little green. “If they’ve hurt her…” His
fingers flexed in and out of a belligerent fist.

Edward frowned. He’d been on the receiving end of that fist.
If Ned lost his temper and hit one of
these
men, there was no telling
what kind of disaster it could provoke. They did not appear to be as civilized
as he was.

“Remain calm. Remember, Transom and I know the McCloud. He
owes me a debt. We shall get her back.”

“But if they hurt her—”

“I know, my boy. I know.”

Ewan McCloud descended the stairs. Edward studied him. He
was still the same brawny, handsome man, but for the jagged scar he’d always
worn like a badge on his left cheek. But he was older. There was a weariness
about him that was unfamiliar.

When he saw them, his eyes widened with surprise. “Transom?
Weston? By all that is holy. I never thought to see you here!” He shot a look
over his shoulder and laughed. “The place is something of a mess. Had I known
you were coming, I would have tidied up. How long has it been?”

He shook hands with each man in turn but when he came to
Ned, their host’s outstretched hand faltered. Probably because Ned was snarling
at him.

“We need to talk,” Edward said. No point in wasting time
with the niceties. He frowned at the bacchanal. “Someplace private.”

The smile drifted from Ewan’s face. “Of course. My study.”

It was hardly a study, the chamber he took them to. Oh, it
had a desk and several chairs and decanters on a rickety table by the window.
But it had clearly once been nothing but a storage room, hewn of stone. The
wind whistled through a crack in the walls, nearly guttering the lamp.

“Sit. Sit. May I offer you a drink?”

“No thank you. Our business is rather urgent.”

“Oh?” The McCloud’s brow arched. “Urgent business? After so
many years? I’m intrigued.”

“Where’s my sister?”
Ah blast.
This from Ned who, of
all of them, had refused to sit. He paced, his fingers a’twitch, which made
Edward nervous. If Ned started pummeling the McCloud that would probably slow
down the negotiations.

Ewan’s features hardened. “Who are you?”

Ned bristled. “I am Edward Wyeth.”

The McCloud’s eyes narrowed. His lips curled downward.
Menace wafted from him. “Edward Wyeth.” This he said as though the words tasted
bad.

Edward raked his fingers through his hair. “Ned, please. Let
me handle this.”

Ned lurched forward, bracing his hands on the table and
hissing, “I want her back, you bastard.”

Ewan leaned back in his chair and poured himself a drink,
sipping it slowly. “What makes you think your sister is here?”

Ned opened his mouth to respond, but Edward glared him down.
With a surly frown, Ned plopped into a chair. “Callum MacAllister.”

A dark brow winged upward. “Callum told you she was here? I
may need to squash that little bug.”

“He didn’t tell us anything, that filthy cur,” Ned spat. “We
found you all on our own.”

The McCloud ignored this outburst. He poured a drink for
Edward and Transom, though they had declined. “So tell me, Weston. What’s your
part in all of this?”

Edward cleared his throat. “The name is not Weston,
actually.”

“It’s not? How unsettling.” A smile curled Ewan’s lips. It
did not reach his eyes. “Never say you lied to us all those years ago.”

“I didn’t lie so much as pose as someone I was not.”

“Hardly a difference.” The McCloud reached for the bottle to
pour himself another drink. “So…who are you?” he asked in a silky voice.

“Also Edward Wyeth.” He glanced at Ned. “It’s a family
name.”

The bottle stilled. Ewan’s gaze flicked up. His cheek
bunched.

“Violet is my…cousin.”

The McCloud carefully set the bottle down and took a slow
sip of his whiskey. “I take it your father was, in fact, not a bookseller.”

“He was not.”

“What was he?” Tension crackled in the room.

“A duke.”

“Fuck.”

“Moncrieff, actually. He’s the one who arranged our escape.
I’ve come to call in that favor, Ewan.”

“Fuck.”

“I will take Violet tonight. In return, I’ll pay you the
money that is owed. You will leave Violet…and Kaitlin alone.”

The McCloud’s frown turned surly. “
Kaitlin
? Not Lady
Kaitlin?” He plucked at his lower lip. “What’s my betrothed to you?”

Edward bristled. None of his damn business, that’s what she
was. “You will release her from this betrothal and never bother her again.”

To his irritation, Ewan grinned. “Your passion is intriguing.”

“I must insist.”

An arrogant brow arched. “And if I refuse?”

“You used to be a man of honor.”

Ewan’s expression turned sour. “That was a long time ago.
And I have need of a bride. Surely I should keep one of them.”

Ned shot to his feet. Edward pressed him back down.

“I will pay you double what is owed. One debt for each
woman.”

Ewan stilled. “It is a substantial amount.”

“I know.”

Ewan drew his finger around the lip of the cup. As he waited
for his response—any response—Edward’s annoyance rose.

“I will think on your proposal.”

A growl rose at the back of his throat. “What the hell is
there to think about?”

The McCloud chortled. “You’re asking me to give up my
dearest Kaitlin. And a rather valuable captive. Come back tomorrow and I will
give you my answer.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” The McCloud stood, his expression set.

Edward knew that look, knew if they were to proceed with
these negotiations, he would have to back down. Damn. Damn and damn. He didn’t
want to wait another whole day. He wanted this over with now so he could claim
Violet and go back to Kaitlin. And marry her. And have her again.

Hell.

“Tomorrow it is, Ewan. And do not forget. You owe me. You
owe me your life.”

* * * * *

Kaitlin stepped from the coach just as the sun was setting,
her body aching after a full day’s ride from Perth. She stared at the island
hunched in the depths of the Firth of Tay. A shudder walked through her. Was
this to be her home, then? It looked bleak and dour. Like the man she was bound
to wed.

“Here we go.” Callum took her arm and led her toward a small
dock. Two large wraiths emerged from the shadows at their approach. “Halloo,”
her brother warbled. “MacAllister to see the McCloud. I’ve brought his bride.
No need to pull out your weapons.”

Kaitlin flinched. They had weapons?

Of course they did. They were criminals. She glared at her
brother.

“Try to be pleasant, Kait.”

“Pleasant?” She couldn’t hold back her snort. Her life was
ending. Once she stepped onto that island, it would all be over, any hope of
happiness shattered. Any future with Edward, gone.

But then, there never really had been any hope of that, had
there?

She could do little else now, other than that which was
demanded of her. She could make this right and free Violet.

So she allowed Callum to hand her into the rickety little
skiff to take her to her doom. She tried, very hard, not to cry.

When they entered the crumbling keep, her belly lurched. It
was worse than she had imagined, even in her darkest hour. There was filth
everywhere. There were great chunks missing from the decaying walls. An
enormous hound lounged by the fire. Nefarious creatures skulked the great hall,
drinking and carousing and carrying on. But when they saw her, a dead silence
fell.

“Wait here,” their escort muttered. He tromped up the stone
staircase, his footfalls ringing in the now silent hall.

To her horror, the men at the table stood in a great
scraping of chairs and approached.

Their odor preceded them.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Callum’s Adam’s apple
bob.

“What ’ave we here?” One of the more repugnant villains
murmured. He reached out and rubbed his fingers in her hair. “A little pigeon?”

“A plump pigeon,” another said, though at the moment he was
also picking his teeth with a long thin blade.

She did not care for the glints in their eyes. So she
smacked at the hand fondling her hair. The brigand—for surely he was
that—blinked. “Now what ya go and do that for?”

“I am Kaitlin MacAllister. Betrothed to the McCloud. Keep
your stinking hands to yourself.”

He took a step back. His mouth gaped, showing his aversion to
teeth. The others muttered amongst themselves.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at the debris
littering the stone floor. She was not living like this. She was not.

There was nothing for it. If she was to take control of her
destiny, she might as well begin as she meant to go on. The McCloud might
regret insisting on marrying her—his men certainly would.

“This place is filthy.”

“S’what?”

“It’s a pig sty. For shame. You—” She pointed a finger at
the man with the knife. “Get a broom.”

“A what?”

“A broom.” She glared at him, investing all her fury and
frustration and bile into the look. “And you—” She pointed to one of the men
still lolling by the fire—he was an odd sort to be mucking about with this lot,
there was almost a lordly air about him but Kaitlin didn’t ponder the vagaries
of her betrothed’s henchmen. “Start heating some water.”

“I beg your pardon?” Yes, his accent was decidedly toff. As
was his outrage. “Whatever for?”

“We are going to clean this hall.”

“Clean it?” The men exchanged befuddled looks as though they
hadn’t ever heard the word before. Judging from the state of their clothing,
they had not.

“Well? Snap to it!”

To a man, they winced at her roar and leapt into action,
shooting terrified looks at her over their shoulders.

“That’s the way,” Callum murmured. She gored him with her
elbow.

“Shut up.” She didn’t need Callum cheering her on. In fact,
if he never uttered another word to her, it would be too soon. She’d had enough
it. Enough of men and their lazy, selfish, pompous ways.

If this was to be her new life, she would embrace it.

She would be a shrew.

Oh, he would pay for forcing her to marry him.

He would pay.

The McCloud stormed down the stairs yanking on his shirt and
snarling something that sounded like, “Who the hell is it now,” but his step
faltered at the sight of his men scurrying about, scrubbing flagstones and
tidying up rancid dishes. “What the—”

“Ewan McCloud,” she bellowed.

His gaze snapped to her. He blanched. “Kaitlin? W-what are
you doing here?”

She advanced on him, her hands on her hips. “What the hell
do you think I’m doing here? You kidnapped Violet.”

He took a step back. “I didn’t kidnap Violet. He did.” He
pointed at Callum, who flinched.

“I only did it because Kaitlin ran away.” This, her brother
whined.

It hardly mattered. “I am here to marry you.”

The McCloud, apparently recovered from his surprise, offered
a cocky grin. “You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”