The Bodyguard (2 page)

It was dark when her old nurse, Moira, came in and told her it was time to let the women take her father and lay him out. She let herself be led away and sat
down at the table near the hearth and stared sightlessly at the bowl of sheep’s-head broth with leeks and carrots that Moira put before her.

At long last, she folded her hands, said a prayer for her father’s soul, and accepted her fate. She would do as her father had instructed. She would make a claim in both the English and Scottish courts for the castle and the land.

“You must claim the grant is defective because there was indeed a male heir—living in your grandmother’s womb,” her father had explained. “The duke willna be able to resist coming to Scotland. He will want to see who dares lay claim to what he thinks is his. He will try to buy you off. He will try to frighten you away. You mustn’t let yourself be swayed, lass. When he comes, this is what you will do …”

Kitt’s stomach clenched with dread as she recalled her father’s instructions. She was resigned to do what she must, though every proper sense revolted against it.

Father, you ask too much of me
.

But what other hope did her people have? When the duke came, she would act. The clan would have its revenge, the land and the castle would once again belong to The MacKinnon, and her people’s suffering would end.

She had sworn an oath to her dying father, and no force in heaven or on earth could make her break that vow.

The sea was vicious, intent on killing him, but Alastair Wharton, sixth Duke of Blackthorne, was not ready to die. He was too young—a mere three and thirty years—and had too many sins upon his soul to meet his maker.

“Strike the mainsail!” he shouted. The sound was lost in the howling wind that tore at the canvas, driving his ship, the
Twin Ladies
, toward the rugged coast of Scotland. Or at least, where he supposed the coast to be. There had been no sight of land before the storm had broken at sunset, and the inky darkness was so complete, it was as though the ship lay wallowing in the belly of a whale.

In the light of a swaying lantern, he could make out three sailors clustered together and yelled, “You there! Get that sail down!”

The sailors turned their backs on him, ignoring the order. They were talking heatedly, gesturing wildly,
obviously frightened by the storm. It was his own fault that such unreliable seamen were on board. He did not sail often, and it was easier to hire the men he needed, rather than keep a regular crew. Those three were the last to be brought on board in London, and they had been malingerers from the start.

A twenty-foot wave of icy saltwater crashed onto the deck, making it slick as an eel, drenching Alastair and chilling him to the bone. Shivering, teeth chattering, he clung to the ship’s wheel, determined not to give in to the sea.

I cannot die now
, he raged silently.
Not now
.

It was too great an irony to die now, when he had just taken the first steps to reconcile with his nine-year-old twin daughters, Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca. All those years he had wasted! All those years he could have been loving them, but for Penthia’s malevolent declaration that the twins were not his. Alastair had lately had the urge to strangle her. But Penthia, Duchess of Blackthorne, was already three years in her grave from a drunken fall down the stairs of Blackthorne Abbey.

Once upon a time, he had loved her more than life itself. It was hard to remember the naive boy he had been all those years ago when he had wooed Lady Penthia Straith and wed her. He had been two and twenty, without a bit of Town bronze, but determined to have the belle of the Season—the same exotic beauty who had reigned the previous four Seasons.

Lady Penthia Straith had reached the age of one and
twenty without accepting an offer. It was rumored that over the past four years she had refused all the most eligible
partis
. The first time he saw Penthia, Alastair had found her striking blue eyes and alabaster skin and raven-black hair breathtaking. He had found her worldliness and sophistication even more attractive. He had made up his mind on the instant to have her to wife.

His father’s untimely death had forced Alastair into a ducal role far sooner than he was ready, and beneath the facade of confidence was a young man unsure he could carry off the part. With Lady Penthia by his side, Alastair knew he could face the
ton
and pretend to be duke until the guise became more natural.

He’d had a great deal to offer her. Besides being a duke, he was as rich as Croesus and handsome as well. Not quite so good-looking as his younger brother Marcus, perhaps. His hair was not so perfectly blond, and his eyes were a troubled gray, not the uncommon blue of his brother’s. But there were not many who could match the Beau for looks.

In his pursuit of Lady Penthia, he had concealed his youthful eagerness, his yearning to hold her, his thundering, head-over-heels heart, behind a facade of ducal regality. Alastair could still remember the first time he had managed to get her alone in the garden at Viscount Raleigh’s ball.

The night air had been surprisingly warm and heavily perfumed by the viscount’s rose garden. He had walked arm in arm with Lady Penthia along a gravel path, unable to breathe, feeling the heat of her gloved
hand through his jacket and shirt, the weight and warmth of her breast against his sleeve.

His heart fluttered against his ribs with excitement and fear. He intended to kiss her. He had been planning it for weeks. He had heard enough of his brother’s exploits—Marcus was considerably more into the petticoat line than he was—to know what he must do. He stopped near a tall hedge that concealed them from the party inside, released Lady Penthia’s arm, and angled himself to face her.

“I—” His voice came out as a croak. He was grateful for the darkness that hid his painful flush. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I find you more beautiful than words.”

Somehow she had come a step closer, and he could feel her breasts pressing against his waistcoat. “Do you, Your Grace?” she said in a sultry voice that lifted the hairs on his arms.

He stuck a finger beneath the perfect
trône d’amour
his valet, Stubbins, had tied with his neck cloth, to give himself a little more room to breathe.

She looked up at him shyly from beneath lowered lashes, and his heart skipped once before it began beating frantically within his ribs, like a bird bent on escape from a cage. The blood thundered in his ears, and he spoke too loudly when he said, “May I kiss you?”

Lady Penthia laughed, a gentle sound that nevertheless communicated her amusement.

He should not have asked, he realized too late. A real rake, a true rogue—his brother—would simply have
taken the kiss. The humiliating flush once again raced up his throat to sit on his cheeks.

“I should not have asked,” he said, meaning he should not have presumed so far.

“But of course you should,” she murmured.

To his amazement, she went up on tiptoes and leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. His arms circled round her—hard enough to crush her—because she laughed again and pushed him away and said, “So eager, Your Grace? Let me catch my breath.”

He made himself loosen his hold, but he did not let her go. He pressed his mouth against hers and gave back the kiss she had given him. He was tentative at first, having kissed only a few tavern wenches and willing dairymaids when he was at Oxford. A widow in the town of Comarty near Blackthorne Abbey had taught him most of what he knew about satisfying a woman in bed, but his lessons had not included much kissing.

His body trembled when Lady Penthia’s hands twined in the hair at his nape. He wanted desperately to taste her, to put his tongue inside her mouth, but he knew that was not the sort of behavior one forced upon one’s future wife.

She made a sound in her throat, more pleasure than protest, but Alastair knew he had already held her longer than he should. He felt almost dizzy when he let her go. His body had hardened revealingly so it would have been impossible to go directly back inside, even if that had been his desire. But he was not finished. There was something else he wanted to accomplish.

He opened his mouth to offer for her, but the words got stuck in his throat. It was, quite simply, fear that she would refuse him. “Shall we walk?” he said, practically dragging her beside him as he strode along the gravel path.

He thought he saw a flash of irritation on her face but decided it must be his imagination when she smiled prettily up at him and said, “Will you speak with my father tonight?”

He stopped and stared down at her. Well. He had not needed to say the words after all. She had assumed the proposal. And why not? He had taken her into the dark and kept her there too long—he could hear the music had stopped—and kissed her and held her in his arms.

Except, somewhere inside him a voice said, “The offer should have come from you.”

Another voice reminded him that he had what he wanted. She was his. He felt a swell of pride, a feeling of triumph that overrode that other, less certain voice. “I shall call at Straith House tomorrow morning to speak with your father. Shall we go inside now?”

“You will not fail me?” she said, her eyes anxious.

“I shall not fail you.”

When Alastair paid his addresses to Lady Penthia in her father’s drawing room at the town house on Berkeley Square, he did so knowing that he had her father’s delighted approval for the match. Alastair felt certain Lady Penthia must love him as much as he
loved her. Why else—after refusing all those other offers—had she chosen him?

She was seated on the sofa when he entered the room to tell her he had her father’s permission to wed her. She looked up at him, a smile on her lips, her eyes shining with … It was not precisely love, but rather … jubilation. And why not? He felt joyful himself.

He dropped to one knee, a flamboyant gesture more appropriate to his brother, but an indication of the depth of his feelings for the woman to whom he was about to propose marriage. To his consternation, his hand, when he reached for hers, was shaking. Her hand was surprisingly cool and dry and calm, with none of the signs of anxiety he found in himself. He hurried to speak, for fear his legs would give out under him.

“I … I love you, Lady Penthia. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he blurted.

“Yes, Your Grace, I will.”

His throat tightened with emotion, and he blinked to keep his vision clear. “I will do my best to make you happy.”

“I am counting on it, Your Grace,” she said with a pleased smile.

It was not quite the answer he had expected. He had been hoping for a declaration of her love in return, but he attributed the lack of one to maidenly modesty. After all, they hardly knew each other. Her declaration would come with time. They had their whole lives to spend together.

He leaned forward to touch her lips with his, but
she turned aside so he brushed her cheek instead. That surprised him, but he could understand her shyness at being kissed in her father’s drawing room.

“Until later,” he murmured.

“Later,” she agreed.

But he never had her alone in the month that followed before they were wed in June at St. George’s.

It was not until his wedding night that Alastair realized his bride was not quite so pure as she had led him to believe. He would never have known, except that he had swallowed his pride and gone to the widow in Comarty and asked her what he could do to make the wedding night easier for his bride. Mrs. Jensen had explained in great detail what he must do, and he had followed her instructions explicitly.

Except, there had been no barrier.

His pride had kept him from asking his lady wife who had come before him. But he began to look askance at her when she flirted with other men. And he noticed how often she teased his brother, who returned jibe for jibe, but who was obviously infatuated with her.

The real trouble began when they left London and returned to Blackthorne Abbey, his estate in Kent. There was little in the country to interest Penthia, yet that was where he felt most comfortable. He trusted his neighbors not to steal his wife. And he was not so sure she could not be stolen by another man. It became plain she was dissatisfied with him, that she had none of the feelings for him that he held for her, and that she tolerated his attentions at night because it was her duty.

He rejoiced at learning his wife was expecting a happy event within a year of their nuptials. But the partnership he had envisioned marriage to be was nothing like the actual estrangement from his wife he lived with from day to day.

“There is no need for you to come any longer to my bed,” she said at the same time she announced she was with child.

He had been more than willing to return to the widow. She, at least, seemed to enjoy his touch.

He consoled himself with the thought of having a child to love in Penthia’s place. He spent time with his brother and his friends and gave his wife the public courtesy that concealed his personal discontent with their relationship. And in fact, his life found new meaning the night his wife was delivered of twin girls, Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca.