The Duke Who Knew Too Much (37 page)

“There was no sense in waiting,” Emma said prosaically. “We both knew what we wanted.”

Lady Patrice studied her with alert blue eyes. “One can’t blame you for jumping at the chance to be a duchess.”

Annoyance flared in Emma. “That isn’t why I married him.”

“Why then?”

“I love him,” Emma said, “and he loves me.”

“Well, that is a different story. One that I hope shall not be a repeat of Strathaven’s last marriage.” Shadows flitted through the dowager’s gaze.

Emma’s irritation waned. Lady Patrice was just being protective of Alaric. Knowing Alaric’s past as she now did, however, Emma found that she couldn’t quite forgive the dowager for failing to protect a vulnerable boy from the old duke’s abuses. Yet what good would it do to hold a grudge against an elderly lady?

“I will do my utmost to make Alaric happy,” Emma said.

At that moment, the subject of discussion strode in, and Emma wanted to sigh at the sight of her husband. He was so handsome, his Prussian blue jacket and buff trousers molded to his muscular form. More than that, it was the love glowing in his jade eyes, softening the wicked perfection of his face. He looked younger, happier.

And he was all hers.

Picking up her hand, Alaric pressed a warm kiss on her wrist. “Manage to sleep in, love?”

She nodded. For once, she’d slept past dawn, and she’d awoken to find him gone, a single red rose next to her pillow. Who would have thought Strathaven would turn out to be such a romantic?

“I’m glad you got some rest.” Turning, he greeted his aunt and said, “I’ve been instructing Emma on the duties of the duchess. I must say she is an apt pupil and most willing to learn. She’s been applying herself most … vigorously.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at her husband. His expression remained impassive; his eyes, however, danced with the devil’s merriment.

Oblivious to the by-play, Lady Patrice said in approving tones, “I’m glad that you appreciate the importance of your new position, my dear.”

“As it turns out, Emma can adapt readily to any position,” his grace said outrageously. “I am indeed a lucky man.”

The dowager frowned. “Is something the matter, Emma dear? You’re looking rather flushed. Perhaps Strathaven has been working you too hard?”

Cheeks afire, Emma tried not to look at Alaric whose shoulders were silently shaking.

“Actually, I’ve enjoyed learning the ropes here,” she said, “although
certain
aspects of Strathmore are rather complicated and exasperating to manage.”

“As I was the mistress of the keep for many years,” Lady Patrice said mistily, “perhaps I could be of assistance?”

“Are you free on the morrow, Aunt?” Alaric said. “I just met with the land manager. The storm that blew through here last month apparently did damage to some of the cottages, and I’ll be out late tomorrow surveying the repairs.” He smiled at Emma. “You ladies can keep each other company and talk about Strathmore.”

Lady Patrice’s lips curled. “I would dearly love a chat. Would you care to meet me at the dowager house—say at two o’clock?”

Emma told herself that there was naught to be gained from holding onto animosity, especially against a lady who, as Alaric had said, had been powerless to stop her husband’s cruelties.

“Thank you, your grace,” Emma said. “That sounds lovely.”

***

The next day, Emma arrived at the dowager’s residence at the appointed hour. Lady Patrice’s home was situated on a slight rise overlooking the loch. It was an impressive building, echoes of the castle in its neo-gothic stone facade and small decorative turrets. To Emma’s surprise, the dowager met her at the door.

“I gave the servants the afternoon off,” the lady said, her putty-colored skirts swishing as she led the way to the drawing room. “After the long journey from London, they deserved it. I hope you don’t mind that we’ll be fending for ourselves.”

She gestured toward the tea tray on the coffee table.

“I don’t mind at all.” Emma smiled as she sat adjacent to her hostess. “I’ve been fending for myself for most of my life.”

“How very industrious. Now I hope I shan’t bore you by starting with the history of the Strathaven family?”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“Excellent.” The dowager beamed. “Let me pour you some tea, and we’ll begin.”

Sipping the brew, Emma listened as Lady Patrice told a tale of a powerful clan with roots reaching back to the thirteen century. Over the years, different branches of the clan flourished, although there was plenty of bloody history within the family as well. Conflicts pitted one branch against another, and the winning side did not take kindly to the losers, harassing their people and pillaging their lands.

Despite the fascinating topic, Emma had to stifle a yawn. Perhaps it was the dowager’s voice—it had a mesmeric drone to it. Feeling groggy, Emma drained her cup in hopes that the tea would revive her.

“Our branch was particularly astute,” Lady Patrice said fondly. “When it came to the wars with the English, we made sure to have family supporting both causes. By playing both sides of the field, we were always assured of a winner. In this way, we secured the Duchy of Strathaven and the lands we hold to this day.”

“How ... clever.” Emma couldn’t stop the yawn this time. “I’m sorry. I—I must be more tired than I realized.”

“I know. You have been busy after all. Taking my role, my boy away from me.”

Emma blinked as the dowager’s smiling face split into two. “P-pardon?”

“Don’t fight it, dear. You must be feeling tired. Just lay your head down.”

The room grew blurry, the dowager’s voice slow and distorted. Emma’s lashes felt as heavy as lead, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing. Gentle hands guided her down into an abyss of darkness.

***

On horseback, Alaric galloped through the fields back toward the castle. He’d completed the task at the cottages ahead of schedule. Dusk was falling, the sun sinking toward the horizon, casting blood-red streaks into the sky. He wondered if Emma was watching the sunset, thinking of him as he was of her.

His lips curved, and he urged his stallion to go faster.

As he neared the gates of the estate, he saw approaching plumes of dust. Riders ... two of them. Strange, he wasn’t expecting visitors.

He halted his mount for their approach.

His surprise deepened when he recognized the faces.

“Kent? Will? What are you doing—?”

“Where’s Emma?” Kent said tersely.

For Emma’s sake, Alaric had hoped that her family had accepted their decision to elope. That they’d accepted
him
. Jaw taut, he said, “We’re wed. There’s no changing—”

“The dowager poisoned you,” Will cut in.

Alaric jerked. “
What
?”

“That’s why we’re here. Lugo tracked down the actress. Lily White confessed that it was Patrice who hired her to lace your whiskey.”

No. No, it can’t be.

Panic punched Alaric in the gut.

“We’ll explain the rest,” Will said. “First we need to know that everyone is safe. Where’s your lass?”

Alaric was already spurring his horse toward the house.

“With Patrice,” he shouted.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

According to Jarvis, Emma had left the castle before two in the afternoon and had not yet returned. Frantically, Alaric rode through the darkening dusk to the dowager house, Kent and Will flanking him. He barged through the front door, bellowing Emma’s name.

No response.

No
servants
.

Fear worse than any he’d known gripped him.

“I dinna like this,” Will said grimly, echoing his own thoughts.

The three split up, searching the house. Alaric tore through the duchess’ bedchamber, and disbelieving fury roared over him when he found a leather satchel housing a collection of vials. The purpose of each vile potion was labeled in Patrice’s spidery hand.

Pain. Sedative. Endless Sleep.

He shouted for the others. Showed them the dowager’s diabolical arsenal.

“Where would Patrice take Emma?” Kent bit out. “If she intends to harm her?”

“She will probably try to make it look like an accident,” Will said.

Alaric’s hands balled. He looked out the window into the night, toward the shadowy movement of the water. Terror thudded in his chest. “The loch.”

***

In her dream, Emma drifted.

Surrounded by inky waves, she couldn’t resist their cool, silken pull. They lulled her, drawing her deeper and deeper into their embrace.

Yet something stopped her.

Don’t leave me.

She clung to the voice, yet the darkness was so strong. Overwhelming. The tides of oblivion rose quietly, inexorably around her …

***

Alaric saw the rowboat on the mist-shrouded loch. Glazed by moonlight, it floated, a silver leaf upon the glassy black surface. It was sinking.

He sprinted toward the water, stripping off his jacket and boots as he ran. He passed Patrice, didn’t stop, her voice following him with the eeriness of a spectre.

“It’s too late. You can’t save her.”

The hell I can’t.

He dove into the icy water, slashing the waves with sure strokes.
Hold on lass, hold on,
his heart thundered. The tides grew choppier, washed over his head, yet he pushed on, spitting water, kicking out against the churning depths. His muscles strained. His lungs burned. A single imperative drove him on.

Get to the boat and save his woman.

He saw the boat yards away, wrapped by tendrils of mist, its sides half-submerged. He battled the waves with renewed vigor, surging forward with powerful kicks. His hands closed on the wooden edge, and he hauled himself up.

Emma.
The water was just closing over her face.

He yanked her up by the shoulders, shouted her name.

Limp, lifeless, she didn’t respond.

He wrapped an arm around her, nestling her back against his chest. Vigilantly keeping her head above the water, he fought the currents with his free arm. The fog grew thicker, obscuring the way to safety, bearing down upon him. Fatigue turned his muscles to stone. Emma remained slumped in his desperate grasp.

“You stay with me, Emma,” he gritted out. “We do this together. Either way.”

“Strathaven! Where are you?”

Kent’s voice reached him, a buoy in the darkness.

“Over here!” Alaric shouted. “I’ve got her.”

Moments later, a yellow glow burned through the mist, followed by the bow of a boat. Kent dropped the oar and reached out, hoisting Emma aboard. Chest heaving, Alaric followed and knelt beside her.

“How is she?” he said raggedly.

In the light of the single lantern, Kent’s face was bleak as he covered his sister in his jacket. “She’s breathing, but her pulse is weak.”

Panic seized Alaric. He cupped her chilled face. “Wake up, love.”

She didn’t reply, didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash at his plea.

His terror burgeoned until he could barely breathe.

“Devil take it, Emma,” he choked out, “you made me a bluidy promise, and you
will
keep it. You come back to me right now. You fight this!”

Was it his crazed imagination—or did her bosom rise on a fuller breath?

“Don’t leave me, love.” His voice cracked, and he cradled her to his chest, saying in an agonized whisper, “I’m not letting you go. Wherever you go, I’m coming with you ...”

Emma coughed. Sputtered out water.

“Darling?” he said in a torment of hope.

Her lashes lifted. “A-Alaric?”

“Aye, lass.” His eyes stung. “I’m here.”

She coughed out more water. “Your aunt ... she
drugged
me.”

Even as tears scalded his throat, his lips twitched at her indignation.

“I know, and I’ll be dealing with her shortly.” He smoothed a damp tendril from his beloved’s cheek. “You’re safe now. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“You gave us a fright, Em,” Kent said gruffly.

Emma turned her head in his direction. “Thank you for rescuing me, Ambrose.”

“That’s what brothers are for. Although ’tis your duke here who deserves most of the credit.”

Emma looked up at Alaric, her expression so adoring that his throat burned once more.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you,” he said hoarsely. “So damned much.”

He kissed her reverently, and in the warm vitality of her response, his fear receded.

When they reached the shore, Will was waiting. He had Patrice under his watch. As Alaric faced their aunt with Emma in his arms, he knew it was time for a reckoning.

He bit out a single word. “Why?”

The dowager’s plaintive smile made his gut roil. “Because, my dear boy, I was trying to save you, care for you, as I’ve always done. She,”—the bitch pointed a finger at Emma, and Alaric’s muscles bunched protectively—“would have hurt you. Just like Laura did.”

“You tried to kill my wife. Tried to kill me and murdered Clara Osgood instead,” he said through his clenched jaw. “Lily White confessed that it was you who hired her to put poison in my whiskey.”

Emma stiffened in his embrace. “I
knew
the maid was important.”

Patrice’s expression turned pleading. “Lady Osgood was an accident. How was I to know that she would drink your whiskey and so much of it? I wasn’t trying to kill you, dear boy, but to make you understand that you need me. You were pushing me away, Alaric. Distancing yourself.” Her eyes glittered with tears of madness. “I calibrated the dose perfectly to give you a reminder of your illness—what we had been through together, all those days and nights I spent nursing you. I never intended to harm you permanently. I planned to come to London and
save
you.”

At Emma’s gasp, Alaric knew that she’d reached the same nefarious conclusion as he had.

Insides churning, he said, “There was no illness, was there? It was you all along. All that I suffered—it was at your hand.”

His aunt licked her lips. “It wasn’t my fault. I had no choice.”

“No choice?” Emma choked out. “You crazed
witch—
”