The Unclaimed Duchess (5 page)

And if she felt horror, it was nothing compared to the expression on Rhys's face. He stared at the man at the top of the hill, his eyes wide and cheeks pale.

“Who the hell is that?” he asked, spinning to face her again.

She shifted uncomfortably. “Simon's driver,” she admitted. “Our friend wouldn't allow me to come here without some representative from him.”

“Simon,” Rhys repeated dully, but in his eyes, dark and dangerous emotions swirled unexpectedly.

Anne had known both men for so long, but she had never seen even a hint of discord between them. Now Rhys, who was normally so cool and even-tempered to a fault, was almost shaking when he heard his friend's name. And she recalled Simon had seemed brokenhearted when he spoke of the man before her. It was curious and she intended to get to the bottom of what had torn the friends apart and sent her husband fleeing to this savage place.

“Simon told you about this cottage?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She nodded. There was no use denying it. “Yes.”

“One more betrayal,” Rhys muttered.

She stared at him. “You consider it a betrayal that Simon sent his servant to escort me?”

Rhys barked out a humorless laugh. “No, I consider it a betrayal that my supposed friend revealed this place's existence to you at all, let alone encouraged you in a foolhardy endeavor of coming here to ‘save' me, or whatever it is you think you're doing.”

Her nostrils flared, but Anne refused to give in to her baser desires and shout again. Instead she folded her arms and stared at Rhys evenly.

“Well, the least I can say of Simon is that he helped me. He didn't simply
abandon
me. At this moment, I appreciate that more than
you
could ever comprehend.”

Now it was Rhys's cheek that twitched, indicating her barb had hit, and for that she was more pleased than was probably healthy. She had been in such pain, she found she actually enjoyed inflicting some shadow of it on him.

But instead of replying or fighting or anything else, he grasped her hand and yanked her up the hill. She tugged back.

“If you force me into that carriage,” she said, enunciating each word carefully, “I swear to you that I will hurtle myself from the moving vehicle and
walk
back.”

Rhys snapped his gaze to her wordlessly and then stopped before Simon's driver. The man actually took an almost imperceptible step back, and for that Anne did not blame him. Rhys looked like he could kill at the moment.

“
You
,” Rhys said, his tone back to that of the cold, dismissive duke she had always known, as if they hadn't just exchanged their most emotional, passionate words ever.

“Yes, Your Grace?” the driver squeaked out.

“Go back to London, your services are no longer required,” he growled. “Tell your master I shall deal with him when I return.”

“Y-yes, Your Grace,” the other man stammered.

“And if I ever hear you breathed a word of what
you saw, or the fact that you brought my wife here to me, I will make sure that your life is painful, disappointing, and possibly brief. Do I make myself clear?”

For a long moment all the driver could do was stand and stare, swallowing reflexively. Then he nodded. “Clear as crystal, Your Grace.”

With that the servant threw himself back into his place and urged the horses to turn the carriage and go. Anne stared as the vehicle rumbled down the rocky path toward the main road, sending up a plume of dust in its wake. A strange sense of both relief and terror filled her as her only means of escape disappeared from view.

She had done it, somehow she had won. Rhys was allowing her to stay.

“And
you
,” Rhys said, forcing her attention away from the road and back to him. His dark eyes were alive with emotion, anger, and pain so palpable that she felt the throb of it. “Come with me.”

She wasn't given the chance to answer or protest before he dragged her into the cottage and slammed the door behind them.

T
he cottage was a small affair, with only two rooms, so when Rhys hurtled Anne through the door, she staggered off balance and landed sprawled across the rumpled bed where he had been sleeping since his arrival. He stared down at her and had a most unexpected reaction.

Through his anger, through his frustration with her utter refusal to leave him alone, he was completely aroused. Never before in his life had he so wanted to lie his body across a woman's and rut with her until he was overtaken by the oblivion of pleasure.

In some ways, he supposed it was a normal reaction. After all, Anne's hair had come down in the scuffle during her arrival, so it bounced about her shoulders in fragrant waves, and her clothing was cockeyed, as if she had already been touched and loved and left in disarray from it.

She was soft and beautiful and her face was filled
with as much emotion as he was trying to suppress in himself. Her intensity wasn't something he had seen before. Oh, certainly Anne was quicker to laugh than he, and he had seen her eyes fill with tears at a memory or a sad occasion, but those flashes of emotion were different from this.

This was wild, out-of-control, completely untamed feeling. And it was because of him, directed at him, which was also an uncommon occurrence. Since he controlled his own passions so thoroughly, he had never thought to inspire such things in other people.

“Are you going to speak to me or just stare me to hell?” Anne whispered as she struggled to sit up.

He arched a brow. His new bride had never been so defiant in all the years they had been betrothed. Her pliability was part of her perfection for the position as his duchess. But he found he rather liked the tart tone of her voice, the snap of rebelliousness in her eyes. Why, he had no idea. No man in his right mind would want to be married to a woman who didn't recognize his authority.

He folded his arms and pulled himself back together as best he could. He would handle his strange reactions to Anne once he got rid of her, and get rid of her he must, before she uncovered the reasons that he had come there. He wasn't ready for anyone to know the truth of his birth…not yet.

“There are a few people in the village who I think could have their silence assured with enough blunt,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “If I sent word home, a driver and your own servant could meet you along the road in a day or so.”

Anne stared at him, then got to her feet. “So you are still determined you shall send me back? Then why tell Simon's driver to depart?”

He sucked in a breath as she said his best friend's…his brother's name. She had no idea how deeply it cut him every time he heard it.

“Because I don't want my Simon involved in this,” he growled as he turned so he could wipe his emotions away as best he could. “But you must go back.”

He felt her hand on his shoulder, and in that moment he realized he still hadn't put the shirt he clenched in his hand back on. He turned to face her, mesmerized by how soft her hand was on his skin. How her fingers lingered for a moment on the muscle of his shoulder as she looked at him, face upturned in the glittering sunlight that came through the clean window behind him.

“Rhys,” she whispered. “I told you already that I won't leave.”

He opened his mouth, but her fingers came to his lips, two of them pressing there gently to stop the words on his tongue. But now he wanted to do something
different with that tongue, like dart it out and taste her. Draw her between his lips until she shut her eyes and buckled to his will one way or another.

Instead he stood stone-still and tried to think of anything he could that would make the raging ridge of his blooming erection less noticeable.

“I'm not some reticent child who you can simply send away,” she said softly. “You and I married not two weeks ago. When we were announced as husband and wife before God and our friends, it changed everything. I won't abandon you, even if you claim you desire it. That was my promise to you and I keep my promises.”

She slowly withdrew her fingers and let her hands fall to her sides. Rhys stared at her, her words slithering through his pain-addled brain like insidious snakes. He had been so alone since Simon told him the truth of his birth. There had been no comfort, no friend, no confidant to share these deep and powerful pains with.

He had never called Anne any of those things, but he knew she
could
be a friend and confidant. He'd seen her be both to other people. Her character was such that if he told her the truth, she would offer him support and consolation without hesitation.

She would do it, even to her detriment.

It was a bewitching idea, that he could hand over
all his heartbreak and let her bear it for a short time. That he could depend upon her.

“Rhys?” she whispered.

He shook his head, and the action cleared his mind. What was he thinking? He wasn't about to pour out his heart like some kind of foolish romantic hero. Or give over his secrets to anyone, not even his wife. And not only because it wasn't in his nature to be so maudlin and weak.

No, he had to keep his secrets from her in order to protect her. This
thing
he now knew about his birth was bound to come out, especially with a blackmailer poised to spread the secret like a fire through Society. When that happened, his entire world would fall apart…and Anne's, as well.

But if he kept her in the dark, if she had no idea of what he knew, then she could easily claim her innocence in the matter and be believed. When she was seen as a victim, not a conspirator, Society would pity her for her bad luck in a husband.

Of course they would separate. He would grant her a home of her own in London and they would move on as if the marriage had never occurred. Once that was done, Anne had enough friends and a powerful enough family that she might be able to weather the storm and even find acceptance again one day.
It would be a long road, but one that could lead to a better life for her.

But only if he did not allow her to become a partner in his scandal. Rhys would be destroyed one way or another by the time this situation was resolved, but if he could protect Anne even in the smallest way, he would.

She reached up and with one trembling hand cupped his cheek. He stared down at her, wanting her with a power so strong that it was almost frightening, especially when coupled with the fact that he had just decided they couldn't be together.

“Please say something, Rhys,” she whispered.
“Please.”

He swallowed hard. What he was about to do would be seen by her as cruelty, but he meant it as kindness. This was the only way, even if it would be difficult.

“I-I don't want you, Anne. I don't want to be married to you.”

She blinked, those green-blue eyes widening with shock and dilating with hurt. She stared at him for a long moment, utterly silent as her face crumpled. He hated himself for doing it, for crushing her in such a way, but it was for the best, it was the right thing to do, it was…

Before he could finish the thought, Anne yanked her hand back and slapped him.

“How dare you?” she said, her voice nothing more than a low whisper. “How
dare
you speak to me like that?”

He nodded as the sting in his cheek faded. He deserved her anger, and perhaps now she would go. Except, God, how he didn't want that. He had never seen her eyes so alive, so sparkling. He had never seen her skin so flushed. He wanted to breathe that in, fill himself with it and with her.

“Anne—” he said, hoping to regain some purchase on the situation.

Instead of answering, she lifted her hand and swung a second time, but this time he caught her wrist and tugged her against him to keep her from striking him. She tried to free herself with an admirable struggle, but he held fast, keeping her wiggling body firmly against his bare chest.

When she realized it was hopeless, she stopped fighting. In that moment, with her in his arms, with her face upturned, her breath coming short…he didn't care about all the reasons he had for her to go. He just wanted one taste.

He didn't realize he was moving in to kiss her until their mouths met. And it wasn't a chaste, shy, welcoming kiss, either. No, it immediately exploded
into an openmouthed, panting, warring kiss. His arms came around her body, her hands clenching against his skin as she lifted up on her tiptoes to get closer.

Her body was so damned soft in his arms. Before when he made love to her, when he claimed her as his bride, he had tried to focus on other things when he touched her, to disconnect some part of his mind and prevent his emotions and desires from raging out of control.

But now…now he was incapable of such a thing. He was too raw for control, and so he felt every inch of his wife and reveled in every arch of her back and sigh from her lips.

He delved deeper, fisting her hair in his fingers and tilting her head back so he could angle his mouth more firmly over hers. He sucked her tongue, he tasted her breath, he crushed her against him, and he forgot, in that one glorious moment, all the pain and lies that had brought her here to his side.

Yet, even as lost as he was, grinding his mouth over hers, his body against hers, he knew this couldn't last. Some small part of him remained in utter and total control, and that part finally forced Rhys to pull back abruptly.

He didn't try to right Anne as she staggered when he released her. It wasn't because he wanted her to
fall, but because he feared if he touched her once more that he wouldn't be able to listen to that small voice in his mind that still clung to the virtues of propriety. He feared if he even so much as touched her arm, he would end up on the bed behind them, her skirts around her waist and his body pushing into hers.

It was an impossibility. They could never make love again. He had to treat her as if she was no longer his wife.

He shook his head at the thought and looked at her. She had managed to right herself, and now she smoothed her skirts with shaking hands before she lifted her gaze to his. He expected horror to light her eyes because of the way he had molested her with so little finesse. He expected fear or even anger.

Instead her green-blue gaze was filled with triumph. She folded her arms and speared him with a stare and a tiny smile that made his gut clench with renewed desire.

“You're right, Rhys,” she finally said softly. “I can see that you don't want me.”

He expelled a frustrated breath at her quiet sarcasm. How he hated complications, and this one he had put upon himself because he hadn't been able to control his need for her.

“Anne,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “You don't understand.”

She shook her head. “Then explain it to me, Rhys. After all our years together, you should know I'm not stupid. I want to understand why you have run from your responsibilities, from London, from me. And since I'm not planning on leaving, you will have a great deal of time to give me all the details you so fear to share.”

Rhys stared at her for a long moment before he scrubbed a hand over his stubbly face. “Why, Anne? Why can't you just trust me that it is better for you to return to London and forget all this. Forget our betrothal, forget our marriage.”

Her face crumpled again, but this time there was no anger to line it. There was only pain, a pain so intense that Rhys was almost mesmerized by its power.

Until she spoke and turned his world upside down.

“Because I love you, Rhys Carlisle,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if she was announcing she was going for a ride. “I have always loved you.”

 

The moment she said the words, Anne wished she could take them back. Oh, she had always imagined she would one day confess her heart to Rhys, but not under these circumstances. And she had certainly never pictured, in those girlish fantasies, that he would stare at her, spearing her with the same look
he often gave to people who disgusted him.

“You don't mean that.” His voice was even and quiet, controlled as he was always controlled. He didn't even sound like he cared that she had just handed over her heart.

In fact, quite the opposite.

She shut her eyes. She had already spoken once out of emotion, she wanted to be certain she didn't repeat that mistake. She had to consider all her options before she responded.

And she did have options. She could open her eyes and smile in an empty fashion and tell him that no, she didn't mean what she had said. And then she could return to London. It would make Rhys happy, she was certain.

But she had spent her life trying to make Rhys happy. And her father. And Society. And everyone else in the world but herself. Longing had been her companion in her bed at night as she pondered her future. A longing for Rhys's love, a desire for those glimpses of goodness she saw in him to overtake his less savory aspects. She had reached for a match based on affection, for all the hopes and dreams that a thousand fairy tales and novels had instilled in her. If she left now, longing and regret would remain her only friends, her only lover.

“I can't,” she whispered as she opened her eyes.

Rhys stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

She shook her head. “It would be easier for you if I didn't love you.”

His cheek twitched, and a flicker of something darkened his gaze. “It is a foolish inclination, Anne. Ours is an arranged marriage, made by our parents when we were still children. I've never pretended any more or less. But if I somehow misled you—”

She interrupted him with a laugh that held no humor. “No. You have
never
made me think you loved me. When we were younger, you could be friendly. When my mother died, you were sympathetic, even kind when you thought your father wasn't looking. And sometimes over the years I caught you watching me…but you always looked away, and I knew I was only putting my own hopes into your face.”