She Tempts the Duke (27 page)

“Face forward as you were doing before you knew I was here.”

With great reluctance, he did as she asked.

“Thank you.”

“It will be hideous, all disfigured. I don’t know why you would want it.”

“Will we never have a portrait done?”

He had considered that. For posterity, it was important that a portrait of the eighth duke and his duchess hang in the portrait gallery. “I shall have Tristan pose with you for the portrait.”

“But he is neither the duke nor my husband.”

“He is what I would have looked like.”

“How vain you are.”

“I’m not vain. I simply see no need to subject future generations to this visage.”

“I shan’t pose with him.”

“Then we shall have separate portraits done.”

“We shall see.”

Those words were a challenge if he ever heard one. But on this matter he would not relent. He sank further into the water and tried not to think of her staring at him, of her gaze traveling over his shadow. He had a strong urge to return to the tower and bang away.

He heard a whisper of movement, and she came around the screen. She held up her efforts: his profile in silhouette. It was all in black. There were no scars revealed. No ridges, no mountains or valleys where his flesh had been torn asunder and healed as best it could. No eye present, no eye missing. It gave the appearance that he was whole.

“This is what I see when I look at you,” she said quietly. “A noble bearing. Your father’s nose, I think. Your mother’s chin. Strong lines. I see handsome features. I know you suffered, but I see resilience. I see the man I married. The man I’m glad to call husband. Tear down the tower. Tear down the whole damned castle.” She knelt beside the tub and cupped his jaw, her fingers against his scars. “Just please stop hiding from me.” She trailed her fingers down to his chest, pressed her palm against the spot where his heart pounded. “Tonight, in the tower, I caught a glimpse of what you’ve secreted away.”

“You saw a madman.”

“I saw a man who loves his brothers dearly, who had to make difficult decisions for all their sakes, a man tormented with guilt. When you look at yourself in the mirror all you see are the scars. When I look at you, I see this.” She shook the paper. “I see a man I could very well come to love.”

God help him, he didn’t deserve her. He’d never deserve her. He thrust his hand into her hair, held her in place, leaned over, and planted a kiss on those lips that could say things that unmanned him. Where did she find her faith in him, when he had so little in himself? She accepted his faults, looked beneath the scars to the man he wanted to be. For her.

For tonight.

With her assistance, he quickly scrubbed away the remaining dirt and grime. He didn’t bother to dry off. Simply stepped out of the bath and lifted her into his arms. With his foot, he knocked over the screen so the warmth from the fire could travel farther into the room. He carried her to his bed and realized that he’d never taken her here. He’d kept her from this room, considered it his place of solace. But she belonged here. She belonged in every room.

Setting her feet on the floor, he whipped her nightdress over her head before tumbling her onto the sheets. They were clean he realized, smelled of fresh air and sunshine. While he’d bathed she must have had a servant change them. A lamp burned on the bedside table. He wanted to douse it. Instead he left its light glowing—for her. He preferred the shadows, but she was meant for sunshine.

He would give her this. No more drawn curtains, no more extinguished flames.

Her hands roamed over him, eliciting pleasure wherever they traveled. Even the cuts and scrapes didn’t bother him when she touched him. Nothing bothered him. Everything receded. The troubles, the guilt, the worries. Here, within his bed, she was all that mattered.

T
he lamps remained burning, the sashes remained tied. Without her asking for either. She felt as though something had changed, shifted inside him.

With his eagerness, Mary felt a renewed sense of hope that soon the past would be behind them. He was always enthusiastic in their lovemaking, but something was different tonight. She felt almost as though he were worshipping her. He left no place untouched, unkissed, unexplored.

She had so wanted him to understand that to her the scars were nothing. She had told him a hundred times—tonight she’d finally thought of a way to show him. She could not help but admire him.

She had spoken true: he had been forced to make difficult decisions. He’d only been a young lad then. There had been no right answers, yet each carried harsh consequences. He had done what he thought he needed to do. Now, she was doing the same.

Loving him, even knowing that he might never be able to love her. She would give him everything she could, give him a reason to let go of the past.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, taking her turn at kissing and touching and tormenting every inch of him. She was gentle when she came across the abrasions left by flying stone. She hated when anything hurt him, wished she had the power to protect him.

Rolling her over, he joined his body to hers with one sure thrust. He rose above her and she watched in wonder as he pumped his powerful body into hers. His face was set in concentration, in intensity. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers over his face.

With barely a loss of momentum, he took her wrists and locked them together in one hand above her head. He nuzzled her neck, nibbling the sensitive skin, causing her to writhe beneath him. She wound her legs around him as tightly as she could, felt him sink more deeply into her. Pleasure spiraled through her. He lifted himself up, and her enjoyment increased as she watched passion flow over his strong features. Silhouettes could capture the strength of his profile but not the beauty of the whole. She wished he could truly see himself as she saw him.

Chapter 29

S
ebastian became relentless in his search for some proof that would condemn his uncle. Sitting in his library, Mary watched as he scoured through ledgers, journals, scraps of paper. Anything he could find. Why he would think the man would be silly enough to leave behind evidence was beyond her.

He had hired more men to patrol about. He’d forbidden her from riding, from leaving the residence. Even a walk in the garden was not to be tolerated. She’d become a prisoner here.

During the day he saw to matters of the estate but at night he was absorbed by his quest. When she was in need of a book, she would have to step over piles of papers and leather-bound journals. She wasn’t allowed to touch anything. Some stacks stood for what he’d already sorted through. But the majority were for what remained.

Dark circles were emerging beneath his eye. He shaved less often as though he couldn’t spare the time. Just as he had so little time for her.

The only time they truly came together, the only time she really had his attention was when he came to her bed at night. Then she relished the moments, savored them, devoured them.

She was so lonely, so in want of attention that she felt rather pitiful about it. “Sebastian, what do you say to our having a picnic tomorrow?”

“I haven’t time for such nonsense,” he said gruffly.

She felt as though shards of glass assailed her. “Am I nonsense then?”

That seemed to get his attention. He looked up to study her. “I’ve never known you to be one to whine.”

She didn’t know why she’d bothered to ask for a picnic. Of late, food wasn’t agreeing with her. She seemed to have little energy. Tears came with no provocation. So did irritation. “I’m not whining. I’m simply going out of my mind. For all the freedom you give me, I might as well be locked in the tower.”

Not that a lock would do much good. He’d managed to knock out a good portion of the wall. He often hammered at it late at night which left them with weary servants during the day. Of late everything he did revolved around Pembrook. Even when they made love, she felt as though she didn’t have his undivided attention. Afterward, he rolled off her and stared at the canopy, one hand shoved beneath his head. Eventually he would leave and several minutes later the crashing of stone would start.

“Tell me something that I can do to help you. Surely there are papers I can read or—”

“See to the affairs of the manor.”

“I do, but even I need to do something fun from time to time.”

“Fun? It’s not a game here, Mary. He tried to have my brother killed. He wants Pembrook and he shan’t have it. If it takes the remainder of my life, I shall see him ruined!”

And what of my life?
she almost asked.
Our
life?

S
ebastian wasn’t certain what woke him. When he rolled his head to the side, he saw Mary standing at the window, wearing her nightdress, a lamp on a nearby table casting her in soft silhouette.

He swung his legs off the bed, snatched up his trousers, and jerked them on. He crossed the room to her, placed his arms around her, and drew her into the curve of his body. She didn’t relax against him with a sigh as she once had. She remained stiff, unyielding. He lowered his head, pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot below her ear. “Come back to bed.”

“I want us to leave Pembrook.”

He stilled, studied her partial outline in the glass of the window where rain pattered. “Take a holiday?”

“Permanently. You have five other estates. We can make a home in one of those.”

“My home is here.”

She broke free of his hold and swung around to face him. “Did you hear what you said?
My
home. What of
our
home?”

“This is our home.”

“No, Sebastian. It’s not a home. Our life here is you reading through dusty old ledgers—”

“I’m striving to find proof of what he did.”

“Do you honestly think he was stupid enough to write it down? What do you think you’ll find there?”

“Perhaps someone he paid for very little work. Something that doesn’t add up. The name of a friend. Someplace he might go. I don’t know. But there must be something.”

She shook her head. “When you’re not in your library, you’re in the tower, hammering away at it. I understand why it must go, but hire someone to do it.”

“
I
must do it. Every stone must feel the weight of my wrath.”

“You’re no different than your uncle.”

Fury shot through him with a vengeance. He took a step toward her. He didn’t know what his face showed, but she flinched before squaring her shoulders.

“I am nothing like him,” he ground out.

“You are obsessed with this fortress.”

“It is my heritage!”

“It encases your heart. Can you not see that?”

He swung away from her. “You know not of what you speak.”

“I know that people have died to hold it.”

He spun back around, seething. “For centuries. You’re asking me to walk away from it.”

“Yes. I can’t live here. I can’t make it warm.”

All of this nonsense because she was cold, because of a few drafts? “We’ll build more fires in the hearths. I’ll purchase you heavier clothing.”

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, looked at the rain slashing against the window. “It’s not physical warmth I’m speaking of. It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s love. There’s no love here.”

How could she not see it? He loved Pembrook with a fierceness that could not be denied. He owed it. It had kept him alive, had kept him surging forward when he’d wanted to retreat. She’d never know how often he’d considered taking an easier path, but always Pembrook beckoned.

As though she read his mind, she said sadly, “This is your mistress, your love. It takes everything from you and leaves nothing for me.”

He wanted to deny her words. Instead they only served to inflame his anger. He didn’t like that she found him lacking. “Then be gone. Move to one of the other estates that you think will provide you with this warmth you’re seeking. Go live with your aunt. Return to your father. My place is here. Nothing will cause me to abandon it.”

He spun on his heel and slammed the door on his way out. Stupid woman. How could she not understand what this estate meant to him?

It was everything. Without it, he was nothing.

T
heirs had not been a love match. Mary knew she had no right to complain now that her marriage was not all that she’d hoped. After she changed into a simple dress, she pressed her hand to her stomach. She was fairly certain she was with child. If she told Sebastian, would he abandon this fruitless quest? Or would it further ignite his obsession?

She draped her cloak over her shoulders and brought up the hood. She was of a mood to ride. She didn’t care that it was near midnight or that the storm was raging or that she would be alone. Because even if Sebastian was with her, she’d still be alone.

He would be thinking of Pembrook while she would be thinking of him.

It seemed improbable that she could love him, but she did. Ironically what caused her to love him were the very things that harped at her and promised an unsatisfactory marriage: his devotion to Pembrook. He was a man capable of enormous love, but only toward things: brick and mortar. Titles and estates. She selfishly wanted the same level of devotion directed at her.

The servants were all abed. No one was to see her slipping out. She had planned to talk sweetly to any guards who might try to halt her, but she saw no one.

She had a momentary spark of guilt, considered telling Sebastian her plans, but his fury, his parting words had lashed at her. Had proven to her that between them there would never be love.

With the rain pelting her, she walked across the grounds toward the stable. She thought she heard a movement. A cat, a mouse. Night creatures seeking shelter from the storm.

But she feared that for her there was no shelter.

Footsteps sounded, rushing toward her. Sebastian—

He grabbed her, hooked his arm around her throat, cutting off air. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. A cloth covered her nose. She recognized the pungent smell from when the physician had tended Sebastian’s festering wound: ether. The darkness hovered at the edge of her vision.

“Sleep, Duchess,” Lord David murmured. “For a little while at least.”

She fought harder to escape his clutches, but she only managed to fall into oblivion.

S
itting at his desk, Sebastian poured more brandy into the glass, downed it, relished the burn. He glanced over to the chair where Mary usually sat, watching him. When his frustration level grew because of lack of success in finding anything that would prove his uncle’s machinations, he would look at her and find solace, the strength to carry on. He couldn’t imagine her not being there.

He didn’t want her to leave, dammit. He shouldn’t have challenged her. She was no doubt packing her things now. Perhaps she would only go as far as her father’s estate. Then he could ride over to visit with her from time to time. He could share his progress.

He downed more brandy. What did she care of his progress? Had she not made that clear enough?

Were you not listening?
he chastised.

He’d been too angry to give credence to her words. How could he make her understand?

He withdrew the pouch from a pocket in his trousers. From the moment he’d poured soil into it and closed it off with Mary’s ribbon, it was never far from him. The ribbon curled around his finger. He unfurled it, drew comfort from its tenacity as it wound once more around him. It had faded with time, become worn and frayed, but still it remained steadfast. Like its owner.

Like Mary.

He brought the bundle to his nose, inhaled the rich scent of—

Mary.

It was not the fragrance of rich soil that filled his nostrils, that brought solace. It was a fainter fragrance. A hint of orchid, but more the essence of Mary, trapped in the ribbon that still clung unyieldingly to his fingers.

All these years, she’d been with him. During his darkest moments. During his worst despair. During the long days and nights when death hovered.

Always he had clung to this. A handkerchief given to him by his father. Soil gathered by his own hand. And a ribbon given to him by Mary. Without hesitation. Without question.

He’d fought, battled, schemed. He’d always thought it was Pembrook to which he so desperately wished to return. Pembrook. He’d thought it everything. Only now did he realize—

The crash of breaking glass shattered his thoughts. Glancing over, he saw a stone resting on the carpet. Around it was tied a ribbon. Mary’s ribbon. The one she wore when she was of a mind not to take the time to pin up her hair.

His gut clenched with foreboding. He rose with such force that the chair tumbled backward. He snatched up the rock. Paper was wedged between the stone and ribbon. The knotted ribbon would not give way to his clumsy fingers.

Fingers he realized that were trembling.

He rushed to the desk, grabbed the letter opener, and used it to slice free the ribbon. The paper fluttered down. He grabbed it, unfolded it, and stared at the familiar penmanship.

Admire the work you’ve done on the tower. Shall make it so much easier for your wife to fling herself off of it.

Tell no one or she will fall to her death.

Come alone or she will fall to her death.

Bring no weapon or she will fall to her death.

You have ten minutes to join me here or she will fall to her death.

Your beloved uncle

Sebastian took little time to prepare. He grabbed his greatcoat and slipped it on as he charged through the door into the courtyard.

He looked up at the tower. He’d managed to knock down a portion of the wall, but not all of it. Through the opening he’d created—an opening large enough for a person to stand in—he saw Mary at its edge, her skirt billowing in the wind. Lightning flashed, and he saw her more clearly. Saw that she was not there by choice, that a man held her.

Dread slammed into Sebastian. He’d hoped to see something different, even knowing that he wouldn’t. Was that not the purpose of hope? To give a person a reason to carry on, even when all was lost?

How she would chastise him if she thought for a moment that he had given up. All his life—even when he’d thought her absent—she’d been there urging him on. And now he was in danger of losing her.

Unmercifully the rain pelted the stone, slashed sideways, drenched her, no doubt soaked the stone floor, making it slick. How easy it would be for her to slip out.

To fall an incredible distance and to land in a crumpled heap. Broken. Dead. Gone from his life when she’d only just truly returned to it. They had been strangers, cautiously waltzing around each other, until the night he’d begun destroying the tower. Something had happened that night. Something had shifted within him. She, with so little force, had knocked down the walls to his heart.

He’d just failed to let her know it. That was the reason she’d lashed out at him tonight. Because she didn’t know what he felt.

He would not survive losing her. He knew that now. He could give up Pembrook. He could give up his titles. But he couldn’t give up her. Never her.

He bounded across the green to the looming tower, through its door, and up the stairs. At fourteen, he’d been terrified of what might happen when he reached the top but he’d carried on because he was the duke.

He was more terrified now, but he raced up them because of what might happen to Mary if he didn’t.

At the top, the door was ajar in dark invitation, awaiting him. It seemed only appropriate that what had begun here, should end here. In that room, he’d learned there were more things to fear than the dark. At this moment, the terror of what he might lose sent shudders through him. But he couldn’t let his vulnerabilities show. For Mary’s sake, he had to be stronger and more courageous than he’d ever been in his entire life. Considering the challenges he’d faced, that was saying a lot.