Duke of Treason Page 4

  * * *

  Annabel had not been happy in her marriage. She digressed as the lady’s maid appointed to her helped her prepare for bed. It might be an obvious fact to infer, but it was not. Lord and Lady Winchester were married for about a year by the time she met Romulus at that infamous ball in town.

  At first, she had been too numb to care for anything that happened around her. When she decided to stop mourning, she wanted to make the most of the situation, since she liked to think of herself a practical person. Romulus would not come back, ever. What would she do with her life? She must live it in the best way she could. The Winchester luxurious town house exhibited comfort and an army of servants. The Winchester seat stood well rebuilt by Lord Winchester’s father. Their finances on upraise, with land’s price soaring. His parents treated her in a pleasant manner. There should not have been any impediment to a content life.

  But there was.

  Charles presented a health condition. He was not able to consummate their marriage, try as he must. And did. He could not… could not… well… He did not have all that stamina, shall she say. Not like Romulus showed, in a perpetual state of... desire for her. Charles had never been in such state. Not a single occasion.

  Every time they endeavoured it, he failed, becoming nervous, frustrated. And blamed her for their situation. In the beginning, she resonated his accusations and felt guilty because she did not love him, did not desire him. What resulted was indifference for her marriage though she decided to make it work.

  As a married lady, she gained access to certain books; and she remembered her time with Romulus as to compare it with that predicament. Old books always interested her. In Charles’ library she came across a curious one. The Perfumed Garden, by an Arab writer, Sheik al-Nafzawi translated to French a few years earlier. A fifteen-century treatise on affairs between women and men, it held a section on health. That was where she discovered her husband’s problem befell many other men.

  With this knowledge, she prompted him to go to the doctor. His shame affected him with too great intensity for him to listen to her. So much so, that he threatened to disown her if she sought annulment of their marriage on this ground, which condemned her to a sterile life. Some months into their marriage, they gave up their fruitless night encounters. She receded back to her books and to her social life, seeking to ignore the emotional emptiness of it.

  She sat on her bed, sliding her hand on the velvety coverlet and remembered Peter brought a message from her contact in the inn. The man needed to talk to her in person on directions he received from London. Peter said her contact would meet her tomorrow afternoon in the woods behind the cemetery. The graveyard lay outside the walls, so she must to find a way to slip out, which she would take care of in the morning. Busy day ahead. She’d better rest. With that thought, she lay down on the crispy bed clothes.

  * * *

  Annabel took a key from her breeches’ pocket and inserted it in the fenced, arched side gate. Attentive survey around, she checked if anyone saw her and slipped out, locking it again. The greyish cool afternoon favoured her with a diffuse light.

  That morning she saw the gardener on that point, cleaning the previous autumn leaves. This gate lay open for him to take the rubbish outside the wall. She sat on a bench nearby with meek composure, awaiting. The moment the middle-aged man left for luncheon, she rushed to the gate and stole the key.

  Now she walked as near the wall as possible to go to her meeting. She got a mile to go around the wall. The gate stood in the opposite direction of where she had to be, as per the information she gathered asking around the castle.

  The luxuriant green landscape smelled of flowers and hosted numerous birds singing all around. Beautiful for an entertaining walk if she had the time.

  Besides these black breeches, she dressed a coarse white shirt tied at the neck, a grey coat and a simple hat. The man’s attire aimed to not draw attention neither to her gender, nor to her movements. Knives hidden in her boots and waist gave her more confidence. Her training afforded her the knowledge of their use. She had packed these masculine clothes knowing she might have need of her agility during this time. Agile gait, she hoped she met no one.

  * * *

  Romulus worked the whole day in the solar and exhaustion made him take a break. Standing, he stepped to the window high above the ground. A sleepless night tended to be strenuous for work. Legs apart, hands in his pockets, his mind conjectured.

  He remembered Annabel’s mention of married bliss and the violent impulse to punch her husband, if he was not dead yet. The sour fire that burned in him at the thought of her and the fop together threatened his peace of mind. He did not have much contact with the count as he was younger by a few years. The Winchesters stood in a lofty rank, with comfortable finances and excellent social connections, though the Dukes of Blackthorne circulated in a more rarefied sphere. She married well, no doubt. The question being, why she did it if he, Romulus asked her already. This would derange him, if he kept thinking of it. She made her choice. He never asked the reason, she never told, full stop.

  His aunt, Charlotte, had been spending the last six years nagging him with marriage. Even more after Christian, his elder brother, died five years ago and Romulus had to come back to England for good. His brother’s demise came as a blasting shock to his family. Christian and his cursed pride that used to get the best of him. A coveted mistress and her preference for the opponent in the duel. A nonsense he should have avoided.

  As a second son, the old Duke destined Romulus for war. Romulus knew it that fateful summer, but preferred to ignore it. He had no problems with his destiny. He did not want to be a Duke and even less to marry. Nuptials did not enthusiasm him, not after Annabel’s treacherous betrayal. But he needed an heir and he would have to face the issue sooner or later. Well, later, then

  His left hand lifted to the nape of his neck, to relieve tension and his head tilted as his attention caught on someone trudging along the wall outside. The high place from the solar gave a good view of the outside part of the wall. A commoner down there, by the looks of the clothes. The man acted a tad too suspicious for Romulus to let him be, looking around every five paces and keeping close to the wall. Damn it! What was this one doing in his lands? There could be no allowing strangers to sniff here with his affairs on the edge. He decided to go check this. His coat on, he left.

  * * *

  Annabel kept a constant eye on her back. She took the cover of the woods, even though the cemetery lay out of sight still. A distant crunch of a dry twig alerted her of someone in the vicinity. She sped up though the terrain did not make it any easy. A clearing lay ahead of her.

  Now she heard someone running, she picked her waist knife in her hand and ran, too. Her five feet something did not allow for large leaps, but she could run fast due to her light weight. The footfalls sounded nearer and faster.

  “Hey, you!” Darn it all! It had to be the blasted man and his well over six feet height.

  He would catch up with her with his long muscled legs. Flight would not do; fight would have to. She stopped, turned, and the knife shone in her hand.

  He stanched at once in his black garments. “Annabel?” His brows pleated. “What are you doing here? I gave orders for you to stay inside the walls!”

  “Stay away from me!” She held up the knife, his gaze lowered to it.

  “What the hell?” He raked his hands through his hair. “Give me that before someone gets hurt.” He commanded in his usual grave voice.

  “Go away and no one gets hurt!” She issued, convict.

  “Where are you heading?” His prowled slow in her direction.

  She kept her ground and fighting stance. “That is none of your business.”

  He continued coming. “These are my lands and I make it my business to verify the goings on it.”

  “But you don’t get to imprison me!”

  He halted, she brandished the knife, they reached a stalemate.


  “You want a stroll; I will find someone to escort you.” He extended his hand in silence, asking for her knife.

  “I will have no man sniffing on my neck!”

  Exasperation took Romulus by storm. The stubborn woman began to be the proverbial thorn on his side. “It is for your protection, nothing else.” He would not have her lack of safety in his conscience. Things could become muddy very fast.

  He made a move to catch the knife, but she acted smarter. She spun around like a flash, her foot colliding with his thigh. Pain exploded on his muscle, the little hellion!

  Advancing on her, he aimed to catch her arm and immobilize her and the knife. She would have none of that. She skipped him and put distance between them. What did she acquire these fighting skills for, he wondered? His mind wandered, testing her ability. He made a new attempt, but used more subtle moves. He pretended to go to her right, changed direction and ran to her left. She was prepared and jumped to her right. In breeches, she could move that lithe body of hers in quick movement.

  She quit the defensive technique and charged on an attack. He had to retreat and wait for her next move. How was it she got him running from her, the impudent chit?

  “There is no need for me to hurt you. Give me the knife and let us go back to the castle.” He ordered.

  “No chance!” Both breathless, the sound of their respiration echoing in the woods. “Leave me be.”

  He would have to change tactics if he was to take her to safety. So, he ran to her as fast as his tall body permitted. She avoided him by swinging to the side, the movement making her shirt tighten on her breast, an unwelcome distraction. And then she grabbed his wrist behind him. Hell!

  Stronger than her, he jerked his arm and freed himself, only to turn and see she had a good ten feet between them. Sweat coursed through his body together with something too close to arousal. The woman was danger personalized.

  They rounded each other, none ceding ground. They did it for a hundred and eighty degrees. Their stance locked on each other for several seconds. They came to a stalemate again, but this time Romulus’ blood rushed in his veins and he felt more alive than ever before in his life.

  A bird sang, he lifted his head to the tree above him. Big mistake! She sprinted, racing like a fox in the woods towards the graveyard. He turned to follow as she gained on him, more agile and quicker. If he did not pay attention, he would lose her. He sped as fast as possible and raced closer to her. Her hat lost, hair fell down her slim shoulders. The midnight strands billowed behind her.

  She came across a huge tree with countless roots on the ground. She had to run around it and jump the roots, which cost her precious moments. Her too big coat fell from her shoulders in the act. She turned her head to check on him and tripped on the roots. With a yelp, she started to fall. He rushed to her and caught her in the air, locking his arm around her waist, her back to him. He used the momentum to snatch the knife from her hand. They were both breathless. He pressed her tighter against him, her soft body fitting to his muscled one inch by tantalizing inch.

  “Well, well,” he murmured in her ear. “This proved to be a surprising skill for a countess.” He turned the knife toward her shirt, the sharp tip touching the fabric. “Now you will tell me what this is all about.” He ordered in silken tone.

  To avoid the knife, she arched her body against him, and he discovered her curves to be a more lethal weapon. His arm tightened and they were glued everywhere.

  “None of your business, as I have already said.” She muttered in that feminine sound of hers.

  The knife served to make her think of the consequences of putting a weapon in the game. And it was not the knife he wanted in her, he thought with heat, as he understood full well what he wanted in her. He threw it at their feet and his hand rounded her under her appetizing breasts. Their ragged breaths had a whole different cause now.

  She sagged surreptitiously against him and his arms loosened to become an embrace, a firm one. The chase made him hard and ready. If he knew it could be so stimulating, he would have tried it before today. With her.

  The floral scent in her hair assailed his nostrils, her sweat exhaling her woman’s pheromones. All he had to do was to lean her against a tree and they would ride each other.

  Her shirt askew, her neck and shoulder at his mercy. He did not have the luxury of a moral debate before his head lowered to her and his bristled lips grazed her paradisiac skin.

  The sound she emitted only worsened his arousal because her head fell on his chest, her hair all over him. Her hands held his muscular forearms, the touch inflaming the hell out of him. Sensuous thin lips open, he used his teeth to caress her delicate skin. Bad move, the inferno in him roared. Her breath quickened, her body’s temperature soared. This had no way of ending in his favour since he just let his tongue taste her salty shoulder. She moaned, and he did it further. Heavenly torture!

  “This have only one way ahead.” He murmured hoarse in her ear. “And I will make sure we end up there.” And then he sucked the base of her neck as if he would die if he did not. Eyes shut, he savoured every inch of her alabaster skin.

  His statement must have yanked her out of a haze. In a swift move her foot stepped on the tip of the knife and the impulse made it go straight to her hand. She turned to him, making the metal brush his black shirt as he did to her. He did not move. Their eyes meshed, hers dark and dilated. Her breasts heaved with her breathing, those trousers tightened around her tiny waist and accompanied the flare of her hips. Too much temptation for a man.

  In slow motion, he lifted his left hand and covered hers on the handle. His bigger, stronger one disarmed her, finger by delicate finger. He put the damned knife in his boot, never leaving her liquid brown gaze. Bending, he locked his arms around her legs and lifted like a potato sack over his hard shoulder, her hair undulating behind his knees.

  “Put me down, you uncivilized scoundrel!” She muttered enraged.

  “If I was uncivilized, we would both be screaming in sexual release by now!” He devolved none too gentle.

  She did not thrash. There was no use and she was aware of it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Next morning, Annabel woke up from a night of restless dreams. Back to the castle yesterday afternoon, Romulus put her down before they reached the walls, but held her arm in case she thought of fleeing again. They entered the fortress as if nothing passed. He escorted her to her room warning her that if she tried another of her stunts, he would lock her there. At her request, the lady’s maid brought her a tray with dinner after her bath. She did not take long to fall in bed exhausted.

  Even so, the images and the sensations of the day caught up with her. She chafed. Her neck, where he caressed her, chafed. Body heated at the memory of him, the way he held her fast, the feel of his hard muscles against her or his manhood very noticeable on her back. The manner she reacted to his caresses, shameful, torrid. She did not have the ability to feel guilty, just… hungry, darn him! In her head, she begged him not to stop, to go on forever. He thawed every resistance she might have had. How could she still respond thus after eight years? No, wrong. This was a whole new set of sensations–hotter, deeper, more urgent. That summer, she had been little more than a girl. Today, the woman in her craved him with boiling awareness.

  It took a titanic effort for her to clear the haze he threw her in and fight back, even if losing in the end. His promise of finishing what they started made liquid heat pool in her middle. She did not want any of this. She did not want this mission clouded with that steam.

  She did not want the weakness he instilled in her.

  He was the enemy, for pity’s sake! Her sole option was to keep a cool head if she wished this pulled through once and for all.

  In the dark of night, though, there could be no denying the feminine need he unleashed, or the fantasies he enticed. Or how naïve she had been at eighteen, to think a few kisses would have been enough. They had been mere crumbs for a body that lived in an e
motional desert. Then and now.

  As sunrise seeped through the drapes, she forced herself to get up and take her breakfast. She decided to go for a walk in the outer bailey as the weather looked warm.

  On her way down, she passed by the solar, its door ajar, murmurs inside the room. Slowing, she approached the slit on the door and sharpened her ears.

  “… does not mind the meeting in his house, Your Grace.” That man, Miller, if she remembered well, was saying.

  “That is good news.” The unnerving Duke’s deep rumble answered. “Let us settle it for tomorrow morning. Tell the others.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” A pause. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Miller.” Another pause. “And be careful. This is too serious and we cannot afford any mistake.”

  Annabel left in quick, silent steps. She would have to be at this Burns’ house tomorrow. Her contact missed talking with her yesterday, but that would have to wait until she handled this more pressing matter.

  Miller came to where she stood when she just stepped in the garden.

  “My lady.” He bowed. “His Grace requires your presence in the solar.”

  Lightning shot through her body. Apprehension and giddiness tangled in her. “Thank you, Mr. Miller.” She could only be in for an interrogation, she cogitated walking there.

  Her rose day dress checked, her simple chignon in place, she braced herself for what was to come. And sailed through the solar door as if her heart did not beat a battle drum.

  The sight of him made said heart beat a whole war drum. Standing by the window, half turned. His tall figure clad in his usual black, trousers lining his powerful thighs and long legs, shirt hinting at his broad shoulders. Hands in his pockets, which strained the fabric over his muscular chest, sleek dark-brown hair tied in a leather string, he brooded at the sun.