The Duke Who Knew Too Much (36 page)

A hush fell over the study.

“You want to know?” he said with menacing softness. “Fine, I have something to show you.”

***

On the way over to the banks of the loch, he questioned himself again and again.

Do you really want her to know the truth?

He’d never taken anyone to the cave. Not Laura—not even Charlie. Yet something in him would not relent, and it was too late anyway; Emma had issued the challenge, and he could not back down. The looming dread that he’d been battling since their wedding night now suffused him completely. Perhaps it was better this way. The waiting—the anticipation of the blade’s descent—was too much to bear.

Best to get it over with.

Best to be done with illusions of love once and for all.

So now he found himself with Emma at the loch, its blue surface gently rippling and studded with diamonds of sunlight. A rock-strewn beach ringed the water, and green hills rose all around. His steps grew heavier and heavier, yet he trudged on until they reached the place that he was looking for: the opening to the cavern that time and tides had carved into the bank.

“A secret cave?” she said.

He helped her over the boulders and into the sheltered grotto. Although he hadn’t been there in years, it was exactly how he remembered it. Humid and dark, the silence was buffered by the sound of lapping water and wailing gulls. He smelled moss and earth and remembered loneliness.

Emma was looking at him, her head canted. Waiting for him to speak.

“This was the place I escaped to as a lad.” The words emerged matter-of-factly. “When I could manage to get away from my uncle’s cruelties, I came here.” He placed a palm against the mossy wall, remembering how he’d huddled against that stony pillow, retching, gutted by pain. “Sometimes I prayed the water would rush in. That it would cover everything. End everything.”

He heard Emma’s sharp intake of breath.

Now
she would see how weak, how disgustingly pathetic he’d been.

Ruthlessly, he forced himself to forge on. “When I got sick, my uncle believed I was faking my symptoms to gain attention. He said I was a weakling and a liar. He valued strength and perfection above all else—and he despised me for being a failure on both counts.”

“Did he … hurt you?”

“I preferred the beatings to his other punishments,” Alaric said flatly. “To the isolation, starvation, and scorn. There wasn’t a day that went by without him telling me how contemptible I was. How worthless.”

“Why didn’t your aunt stop his abuses?” Emma’s voice quivered.

“She worshipped her husband and never went against his wishes. Not that it would have mattered if she did. His will was law.”

“What a horrid man! He had no cause to treat you so.” Emma tugged on his arm, and he turned, meeting her eyes, the unexpected fire in them fighting back some of his inner frost. “How was it your fault that you had an illness, for God’s sake? The fact that you survived and regained your health—that’s a testament to your strength and courage.”

Her conviction was like a beacon in the darkness. His beautiful Emma—his soul hungered for her light, her warmth. Yet he couldn’t go on letting her believe that she loved him when she hadn’t seen all that he was. His dark inadequacies and failures.

“Then why did my father and stepmother want to be rid of me? Why was my mama unhappy until the day she died?” The words were razors in his throat. “Will—he was always loved. But not me.”

“I didn’t know your family, so I can’t explain why they acted as they did.” Emma gripped both his arms. “But I know
you
, Alaric McLeod, and you are strong and clever and honorable. That is why I love you.”

Those words ... sweet cruelty when they were all he wanted and could not have.

“You’ve a loving heart, Emma,” he said roughly. “You could love anyone.”

“That’s untrue.” She stared at him, gnawing on her lip. “If my love doesn’t convince you, think of all the other ladies who have wanted you through the years. From what I’ve heard,” she said, her tone dry, “that accounts to hordes.”

“What do they know about me?” he said with a dismissive shrug. “They see the title, the money. They do not see me.”

“I see you,” Emma said fiercely, “and I love you.”

She’s going to find out sooner or later. Better to face her disappointment now. She’ll hate you less in the long run …

Bracing himself, he said, “Laura claimed that I wasn’t capable of love. That I took her love for granted. The last time we argued she said I’d only understand if … if I lost everything. That was why she took Charlie with her when she left.”

The last time Alaric had come to the cave was after Charlie’s funeral. Alone, he hadn’t been able to shed a single tear. Had just sat there as cold and numb as the surrounding stone. What kind of a man didn’t weep over the loss of his boy?

I failed you, Charlie. Because I couldn’t love you enough.

He forced himself to say what history had proven. “The truth is, I’m not deserving of love—because I’m not capable of giving it.”

The dark walls surrounded him, closed him in.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Emma’s heart broke at the pain, the unrelenting guilt in Alaric’s voice. He couldn’t even look at her, his gaze fixed on the wall of the cave. His expression was worse than ravaged, it was
resigned
: as if this were a stone prison that he could never escape.

A more refined lady might have approached him with caution, politely given him time to collect himself.
Emma
was too forthright, too furious to hold her tongue.

“For God’s sake, you can’t honestly believe that drivel?” she demanded.

His head snapped up. “Pardon?”

“That self-serving nonsense your previous duchess fed you.” She glared at him. “You cannot think it is true.”

“Well, I …” He broke off, blinking.

“You married her, remained faithful to your vows even when she did not. You could have divorced her or abandoned her, but you didn’t. You stayed and gave her the protection of your name.” Emma poked him in the chest. “What is that, if not love?”

Alaric stared at her. “It was ... my duty. She was my wife. My responsibility. And even if I’d once had feelings for her,”—he shook his head—“they died.”

“Because
she
killed them. She didn’t deserve your love—which, by the by, isn’t just about words.” Emma was working herself into a fine rage and didn’t even care. “It’s about actions. It’s ridiculous that you think you aren’t capable of love when you show it every single day.”

“I … do?”

“Of course. You haven’t said you love me, but I’m quite certain you do. Because you demonstrate your affection for me in ways other than words.”

He looked dumbstruck.

“Alaric,” she said in exasperation, “you’ve filled my closets with finery fit for a queen, given me more jewelry than I could possibly wear in a lifetime, installed me in a castle—”

“That’s just money,” he said starkly.

“You listen to me,” she persisted, “and respect my opinion even if you don’t agree. For goodness’ sake, you support my desire to be an investigator—how many husbands would do that?”

“I’m not going to stand in the way of your dreams.”

“Exactly. Because you
care
about my happiness. So much so that you’re making efforts to get to know my family because you know how much they mean to me.”

Was it her imagination or did his eyes flicker, some of the desolation fading?

“I like your family,” he said gruffly.

“And they like you. How could they not?” She laid a hand on his taut jaw. “You’re wonderful.”

She saw hope spark … and then he shook his head. “So wonderful that I got you kidnapped and nearly killed.”

“Stop it,” she said hotly. “You are
not
going to blame yourself for that lunatic Mercer. What happened was not your fault.”

“All my life, people have scorned me—hated me.” His lips twisted. “If that’s not my fault, whose is it?”

“
Theirs
. Your family’s because they didn’t understand you. Your guardian’s because he was an evil tyrant. Yes, he
was
,” she said when he remained broodingly silent. “How he treated a sick young boy was despicable.”

“I didn’t cry ... when Charlie died.” Alaric’s voice was gravelly with emotion. “And as much as my aunt’s done for me, I don’t love her.”

“Everyone experiences grief in different ways. My papa—he didn’t cry much either when my mama passed, but he nearly went mindless with sorrow,” Emma said gently. “As for Lady Patrice, I can’t say I blame you. She’s an odd bird, isn’t she?”

She saw yearning and panic flare in his jade eyes. She sensed how badly he wanted to believe her. How afraid he was to do so.

“Mercer,” he said, clearly grasping at straws. “True, he was an evil lunatic, but the fact is that he hated me enough to try to kill me. Twice. Why am I always the target of attack?”

Tenderness cinched her throat. With both hands, she reached up and cupped his jaw. “Mercer was jealous of you. Your success, who you
are
. Alaric, don’t you see it?”

“See what?”

“How special you are. How loving and deserving of love. Not because of your title or money or position—but because you look out for your younger brother and help him, even though you won’t let him know it. Because you’ve survived hardship and loss, and it’s only made you stronger. Because you see something special in me, a managing, independent spinster—and you make me feel beautiful and cherished.” Her voice broke a little. “I love
you
, Alaric.”

For a long moment, crashing waves filled the silence.

“Christ, Emma,” he said, his words raw and ragged, “I love you so much it hurts.”

Joy burst within her. “I know.”

Because she did.

His arms closed like a vise around her, his lips descending with crushing force. She answered his desperate love with her own. She licked his thrusting tongue, sucked upon it, wanting him closer. Wanting to share her body, her breath, everything that she was with her duke. Her love.

No trace of ice was left in his eyes, the irises burning with silver fire. He stripped away her clothes with savage haste, rendering delicate cloth, scattering buttons over the sandy floor. He backed her into the wall of the cave. Locking her wrists above her head, he devoured her mouth, owning her with his kiss. After all he’d laid bare, she understood his need to be in control once more, and she melted for him, gave him anything he asked. Her back arched against the mossy stone as his lips captured her nipple, sucking deep.

“I’ll never get enough of you. My duchess, my love,” he rasped.

Her answer emerged as a whimper for he was caressing her pussy, smearing her wetness over her pearl, plunging into her aching hole. He drove deep, his long fingers curling, stimulating an exquisite spot high inside. Shocks of pleasure shot down her legs; already, an orgasm was blooming.

“Your cunny is so wet and greedy. Tell me what it needs,” he commanded.

“You, my love,” she breathed. “I need you inside me. Always.”

He opened his trousers, and a heartbeat later, she was lifted up against the wall. Her feet dangling off the ground, she was held aloft by his strength, by the upward thrust of his big cock. He impaled her completely, and she screamed as she came.

***

He shuddered as Emma’s climax pulsed around his rock-hard shaft. Her slick muscles clutched at him, the voluptuous massage drawing his bollocks up tight. He withdrew and drove deep, her cream easing his way. Driven by an animal need to possess, he slammed into her over and again.

“You feel so bluidy perfect,” he grated.

“Oh, Alaric,” she sighed, “so do you.”

“I could fuck you forever.”

“Good, because I don’t want you to stop …” Her lashes fluttered over her gloriously dazed eyes. “I think I’m going to …
oh
 …”

She stiffened, and the tides of her second climax rippled over him, making his eyes roll back with bliss. In the next second, he had her on the floor, spreading her beneath him on the mattress of sand. Pushing her knees back, he drove into her, groaning at the depth of the angle, at how totally she received him.

“Take me,” he said between serrated breaths. “All of me.”

“I’m yours.” Her beautiful eyes held him as sweetly as her body. “Forever.”

Her acceptance shredded his control. His balls slapped her pussy again and again as he lost himself in the unrivaled joy of being one with his wife. The mate to his soul. Fire licked up his spine, his cock, and his seed climbed with volatile pressure. This time he didn’t hold back, surging deeply, shuddering as he brushed her womb. He heard her cry out and then his own groan exploded against the walls of the cavern.

He pumped hotly into her again and again, his release without end. She clasped him, milked him, her culmination emptying him of everything he’d been. Shattering and rebuilding him with ecstasy.

When he could move again, he rolled her atop him. Threading his fingers reverently through her tumbled tresses, he let out a contented sigh. “You were made for me, lass. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

A smile tucked into her cheeks. “You wanted a duchess who makes love in caves?”

“I wanted a wife to love.” Tenderly, he rubbed his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “One who would love me in return.”

“You’ve definitely got yourself that.”

“Don’t ever leave me.”

“Never,” she said.

Her kiss was as warm and sweet as her promise, dissolving the last of the frost inside him.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The dowager arrived from London the next morning with luggage and servants in tow. Emma received her in the castle’s main salon and placed a dutiful kiss on the lady’s powdery cheek. After ringing for tea, she took a seat on the adjacent chaise.

“Where is Strathaven?” the dowager said immediately.

“He’s caught up in a meeting with the land manager. He’ll be out shortly.”

“Well, you two have been naughty children,”—Lady Patrice wagged her finger, the rust-red stone upon it gleaming dully—“but I forgive you. Impetuosity is the privilege of the young.”