Duke of Treason Page 3

  He knelt on the carpet, as if he had all the time in the world, and let his weight fall on his hands, where he bracketed her. Eyes bulged, she receded on her back to avoid his proximity, with little effect. The sole distance between them was his stretched arms, his smell filled her nose with fresh air, earth and clove and man. He leaned so close to her, she saw the bristles on his square jaw.

  “Perhaps now you would gift me with the truth.” The too silken request sounded more like a threat. His hair fell around his face, accentuating his savage stare.

  Romulus had had a strong hunch as he rode through the outer bailey. He never neglected hunches. Ever! That was what made him come back. To find the woman he was trying all too hard to loath, with success bordering on shameful. And then she had been there. In his bedchamber, where he envisioned her during the night, spread on his wide bed, midnight hair around a face so terrible to look at for the beauty of it. Now, he lay there, with her only inches from him. Liquid brown irises plastered on him, full lips inviting him, curvaceous body tempting his sanity.

  He was not going to survive.

  “It is as I say. I came to bid you farewell.” A voice fit for a siren and that damned floral perfume that pursued him to war, haunted his lonely nights, killed him with longing. So woman!

  The same who betrayed him in the worst possible way.

  Something did not click right here. He could not put his finger on it. Her presence in his room in a moment of his absence intrigued him. If she had come in the night, oh, then he would have taken all he wanted, all he dreamed of. All she denied him. Without mercy. For him or for her.

  His stare meshed with hers. He dived in those brown depths; soon he would drown. He heard her suck in a breath. His went ragged. Blood travelled down to squeeze his flesh against his breeches. Those full lips parted in unconscious allure.

  Damn her to hell!

  In one agile movement, he pulled himself up, taking her with him. She lifted her head to him, no sign of surprise on her perfect face anymore.

  “You will stay in Blackthorne until you tell me what you are up to.” He commanded.

  “You would not dare!” Her stance acquired a fiery hue.

  He made his thin lips elongate in a ghost of a smug smile. “I just did.”

  “You cannot keep me a prisoner here!” Her hands flew to her waist defiant.

  Left eyebrow lifted in a sardonic expression he retorted. “Prisoner?” He breathed a derisive chuckle. “I am afraid your carriage is not yet repaired, my lady.”

  “You are ludicrous!” Brown eyes narrowed to slits, lips pursed, bright red on her skin.

  The woman was a powder keg!

  Delicious.

  “I must say that your opinion of my person causes me no concern, madam.” He imprinted this with icicles and motioned her for the door.

  He would have to keep certain rooms locked during her… visit.

  * * *

  Annabel paced her chamber, hands twisting one another. That had been a horrible mistake. How did she let herself be caught in such a clumsy way? She never did this since she entered service. She had work to do in London. The blasted man did not have the right to force her to be here.

  She would have to use Peter, her footman, to deliver messages for her and she got no idea if he would be subtle enough. First, she needed to alert her contact in the inn of the situation.

  Thinking of it, though… Her forefinger met her chin, pensive. She could use this opportunity to make a thorough search in the castle, only now, she would have to be doubly careful. The man acted in a sly fashion and he proved to be unpredictable. Who could have guessed he would go for a ride and be back in a question of minutes?

  She sat by her escritoire, ink and paper in hand. If the Duke suspected her of some scheme, delivering and receiving messages would become a tricky process. Peter helped her in previous occasions, but now he needed all his wits about him. She got down to writing her message.

  She summoned her footman and instructed him to deliver the message to the contact in the inn and wait for an answer.

  * * *

  In the great hall, Romulus looked through the window, his blood still heated in his veins. Almost faltering a moment there in his chambers, he had been this close of ceding to a weakness he did not know was there. He rubbed the nape of his neck, exhaling forceful air. Years of distance between them and now this.

  During the war, as soon as he could, he took a leave to come home and marry her. The battlefield had been hectic and leave became a reality only after two years. Also, his superiors kept him busy with assignments, not to mention the one he put on himself to accomplish. He travelled home almost running all the way to her. He answered as many of her letters as possible but not so many as he liked.

  To discover her married… And to a fop at that! He distilled bile from the second her friend made that laughable introduction. Upon seeing her, his sole thought was to fold her in his arms, take her to the nearest church and then to the nearest bedchamber. Everything he planned, everything he thought of her crumbled to ashes.

  After that, little mattered. The social nonsense of London churned his stomach. He did not set foot to a single one ever since.

  At that moment, well, it was as if eight years just did not exist. The sight of her accorded a complete and different meaning to time. One in which he did not recognise himself. There were too many things going on here. He needed to focus. He needed to keep a cool head.

  He needed a new mistress.

  Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned to see Miller. “Your Grace.” The minion bowed.

  Servants walked around busing themselves with breakfast, the castle on full morning routine.

  “I called you here because we will have to make changes on our current plans.” He motioned to a more private corner. “We cannot hold our meetings here anymore.”

  “I see, Your Grace.”

  “Talk to Burns, our oldest tenant, and see if we can do it in his house.” This new development revealed to be most disagreeable, in his opinion.

  “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”

  “No, Miller. Thank you.” His man of affairs bowed and left.

  When Romulus turned his head, Annabel stood in the middle of the great hall, with a plate to start breakfast, her back to him. He hoped she overheard nothing.

  She turned to him dressed in a sea-green day dress. She curtsied as if they did not… meet at dawn. “Your Grace.” The movement made the fabric stretch over her round bosom, which did not help his mood in the least. “Your housekeeper told me I could find breakfast here.” Her lips smiled, but her liquid eyes fulminated him. “I expect not to be intruding.”

  He did want to know what he was thinking when he had this brilliant idea to keep her here. Because it was not a whole twenty-four hours yet, and it proved to be difficult enough.

  “Absolutely, Your Ladyship.” He turned to her. “I fear I cannot accompany you, for I have estate matters to attend to today.” He bowed and left before she induced him to forget which matters and why.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She did overhear him in the great hall, Annabel remembered with a smug smile on her face as she returned to her chambers. Now, she would have to find out when, so she could try to sneak there and eavesdrop what they said. Who might have thought that fate would smile at her mission after a bad start?

  Ready in a walking dress, she shod her boots. Maybe, she would explore the grounds to get familiar with them. The great hall was abuzz with activity as she reached for the large front door. This April weather presented its brisk temperature and a watery sun, ideal for walking. A hectic inner bailey proved to be as crowded as the great hall, with workers, carts, ploughing horses and varied farming equipment. She saw that the outside areas had been preserved as much as the original construction. And she found it fascinating to be able to explore these medieval witnesses from so long ago.

  When she approached the gate to the grounds outside the w
alls, a man came to stand before her in the same livery as the ones who rode with her yesterday.

  “I am afraid you are not allowed outside the castle, my lady.” He informed her with firmness.

  Her brows pleated in contrariety. “What kind of nonsense is this?” She eyed him with that haughtiness she reserved for inconvenient people. “I am just going for a walk.”

  “I understand, my lady, but I have strict orders not to allow you out of the walls.”

  Anger emerged in her. The darned man! He found no qualms in keeping her a prisoner. That would make things more difficult than she thought at first. But he would not thwart her, not in this mission. For now, though, she would play meek.

  “Very well.” The outer bailey had to do, being big enough for gardens, an extensive orchard, vegetable and herbs gardens. She took her walk around it and looked for possible side entrances through the walls and if she might open them.

  The castle itself was a medium size, compared to others in England. No less magnificent though. Grey granite lent it a fairy air, with its four outer wall turrets, sprinkled with arrow slits and topped with ample battlements; the inner wall mirrored the outer one. This keep had been enlarged through the centuries and now resembled a mansion, standing high up a hill, which enabled surveillance of all the area surrounding it. She considered spending days here enjoyable perks of her job.

  She ran into her footman and instructed him to be attentive to anyone mentioning that meeting and to find out where this Burns’ house lay. That done, she decided to go find a book. She would have to act pliable if she wanted to accomplish any of her secret tasks.

  As Annabel asked her the housekeeper gave directions for the library. Not for a moment did she doubt that the Duke would have assembled one since she knew he liked books as much as her.

  Said library astonished her for its enormity, its luxury and its variety of books. Gothic stained-glass windows along the walls, massive oak desks, comfortable chairs and arm-chairs and elegant shelves stacked with every imaginable book under the sun. What if she called it the direct descendant of the burned one in Alexandria, she mused? She wandered around it spellbound.

  Then, she came across the Arthurian Cycle section and almost fainted. There were several editions of all its tales and authors, anonymous or not. And… Gracious me! All the oldest editions of Chretien de Troyes, Thomas of Britain, von Strassburg! How was it even possible? Oh, look! This tome of Tristan and Iseult! With magnificent mediaeval illuminations though it was a late edition! She touched everything with reverence.

  Paying more attention now, the stained-glass windows exhibited scenes of the Knights of the Round Table. This could not be! They must be a recent addition to the windows. Norman castles did not have this kind of glass work and even less on Arthurian themes.

  The watery sun shone on the glass windows plunging the room in a colourful light, which gave it a feel of levity despite the heavy furniture.

  She took Tristan and Iseult to the reading desk and spent hours reading it and admiring its illuminations.

  * * *

  Romulus came down to the great hall ready for dinner. His housekeeper told him the lady spent the day in the library after her frustrated attempt at an outing of the castle walls. She discovered it, then. A library he refurbished with a mediaeval tales’ enthusiast in mind. He would never confess to anyone who was the enthusiast in question, much less the lady! And tell anyone he paid for a special edition of Tristan and Iseult made with strict directions at a gothic style with lather cover, copyist script and illumination? Jamais dans ma vie!

  A wispy swish of skirts drew his attention to her presence. As he turned to her, he received a blast of femininity. Dressed in a midnight-blue, high-waist dress of the most diaphanous silk, she glided down the last steps of the stairs and into the great hall. Her hair caught up in a simple chignon beaded with simple diamond pins that shone with the fire in the hearth.

  Intense desire rose in him, at the same time resentment resurged. He would like to punch himself for how his body had no shame in wanting her. He nearly– nearly –regretted keeping her in the castle, for the torment was depthless. There was no other way though. Either he did this, or he would not find out what she came here for in truth.

  “My lady.” He bowed and held her chair for her to sit.

  She curtsied. “Your Grace.” And he imagined what her silky voice would sound like in the throes of passion.

  His seat in front of the countess, he had no option but to raise his attention to her. A painful action if ever there was one. Her intelligent demeanour, soft alabaster skin, curvaceous body calling him to the shadows of hell, a treacherous siren he should not even acknowledge existed.

  “I hear you spent time in the library, Lady Winchester.”

  Her liquid brown eyes lit at the comment. “An impressive assemblage you have there, Lord Blackthorne.”

  Pride at his efforts to bring to life a lost world emerged in him. “You liked it, I assume.”

  Her spontaneous smile almost made him groan. “Like is too mild a word, Your Grace.” The candelabra’s flickering flames caressed her beguiling face, there where his fingers wanted to wander. “You know my name. Use it.” The command came too hoarse, too low. Too revealing.

  Dilation of her irises indicated she noticed it and responded to it. “I must not, Your Grace.” She said an octave silkier, as she lowered her lashes, but he already saw how they reacted.

  The footmen served the first course and vanished. She took a forkful of food and her cushioned lips closed around it, causing him a pained rush of blood where it should not go.

  Her stare levelled on him as his fixed on her. Her cheeks coloured and her bosom lifted with a deep breath. He should propose to her, make her his mistress, try to vanquish these eight years of bitterness.

  “You never told me about your time at war.” She interrupted his rambling-on mind.

  Touching her would be defeat, would be a certificate to his stupidity.

  It would be paradise!

  Those servants must put out the blazing fire in the hearth, Annabel thought. The great hall became too hot for her. Though the weather outside grew chilli. Breathing proved to be difficult. The Duke’s deep attention on her disconcerted her, made her think the unthinkable, want all that was disreputable, unconfessable.

  “I did not?” The fire on the hearth played light and shadow with his rugged features, sharpening them. His murky eyes the more unfathomable, the more dangerous to dive in under that dim light. “How negligent of me.” The remark came dripping in sarcasm.

  The subject might be a good start for her to have an insight into his activities at the time.

  “Not so much.” She imprinted an agreeable tone to this. “Opportunities for social talk did not abound, as you will agree with me.”

  “No, they did not.” He took a sip of wine, his broad black-clad shoulders in a relaxed angle, contradicted by the displeasure on his shady countenance. “What would you like to know? The war strategy, the diplomatic efforts, France?

  She knew this did not list among the subjects men talked to women. More’s the pity because women did not have an idea of the hardships they endured. Even if she herself acquired facts on that through her superiors. “All of them sound noteworthy.”

  “Perhaps France would be of interest.” He quipped. “I could tell you about how… warm-hearted the women are, for example.” He did not have to say this as if he held a weapon to her. His words undertook the role well enough.

  Galling emotion erupted in her middle, rising to scarlet flaming over her skin. The insinuation he was unfaithful while away threw acid to her mood. They had been as good as engaged to be married. Granted, it did not come to be public, but an agreement between them.

  She made a strenuous effort to swallow that ball of fire. And hoped she could digest it because she preferred to die than to give him the chance to see how choleric he made her.

  The sickening sweet smile she put on h
er lips would have made a child weary of candies. “I much prefer the political side of it.”

  He did not miss a single flicker of her expression. The lopsided smirk on his sensuous thin lips spoke of victory at the barb he threw at her. “A shame it is the most boring aspect.” He leaned back on his chair giving the impression the whole conversation meant nothing to him.

  “I beg to differ, my lord.” Would the man not give an inch of his personal experience or what he did there? “It is always the most absorbing part when we learn history.” She touched her napkin to her lips to see his gaze fall to them intent. Oh, so we are not so indifferent to the talk, are we? She thought with a certain complacency.

  “Let us just say politics failed if we had to send thousands to perish.” He got a point there, evident. Still, nothing about himself.

  “Lord Winchester and me wanted to make our rounds in the continent.” She started after a sip of wine. “Due to the war, we conformed to enjoy married bliss in England.”

  At that, his eyes became two tempestuous cyclones. His body strung rigid as if filled with violent energy. Then it was her turn to laugh last.

  “An experience I cannot say I have.” This came hard and cold.

  It brought about the question of why he never married. But she preferred to live a whole life without tea than to ask. His family would need an heir, she knew, though he had a younger brother, as well, married, a child on the way.

  The rest of dinner elapsed tense and full of broken, meaningless small talk. When she stood to retire, he followed her. At the foot of the stairs, he took her gloved hand and bowed over it, his molten stare on her all the time. The touch zinging through her.

  “My lady, I wish you good night. I fear I have work to do still.”

  She plastered a mild smile that hurt her muscles after keeping her composure the whole dinner. “I bid you good night, then, Your Grace.” She curtsied and climbed the steps trying to keep a civilized speed, her chin high.