Duke of Deception (Wentworth Trilogy) (15 page)

“At least get down, behind Ahote, and stay there,” he said.

Then he turned and ran to his horse.

D
erek galloped off toward the woods, his thoughts hammering at him. If the trigger had been pulled a single moment earlier, the lead ball would have caught him full in the chest. Had it been meant for him? But that was preposterous. No one suspected him of his masquerade. He was sure of it . . . or was he?

But if it wasn’t meant for him, then someone had shot at Lucy, and that thought was terrifying to ponder. No, it couldn’t be Lucy. It was him. Or else a hunter had lost his way. That was it—and he’d taken so long to call out that the hunter was already gone. He wished his body would listen to his mind and relax, but no relief came.

As he skirted the edge of the clearing, he glanced back to the gate and deduced the approximate position of the shooter according to the direction of the splinters. He dismounted, tied his horse to a tree. He spied tracks a few yards inside the tree line and crept forward with caution, listening for sounds in the surrounding woods, but all was silent. The tracks—a man’s—were fresh, and he followed them for several minutes until they led him to a small rundown cottage where they joined another set of tracks, those of the four-legged variety. The man’s tracks disappeared there; he had ridden out on his horse.

There was no other evidence, but he continued to the cottage and pushed open the door, finding the interior to be dirty and dusty, years of neglect evident from the roof to the floor boards. No one had been hiding out here. Perhaps the shot
had
come from a misguided hunter after all, one too frightened by what had happened to step forward.

Still, Derek couldn’t shake his apprehension.

He hurried back to his horse, not bothering to mount but instead walked him toward Lucy who, of course, had paid no attention to his command. One thing her father obviously hadn’t taught her was that a woman was supposed to obey her husband, and he wished today, as he suspected he would wish many times in the years to come, that he could punch Philip Barrick in the nose for that. He tried to set aside his uneasiness, but that was hard to do when Lucy might have been killed. There was no point in scaring her, especially when she was probably right about the hunter, but he would look into the matter.

“He got up!” Lucy said, her face awash with joy. “Do you think he should walk on his leg? I don’t want anything to make it worse.” She looked to Derek for reassurance.

He offered an encouraging smile. “Nothing’s broken, but it has to hurt like hell. At least we’ve ridden in almost a full circle; he doesn’t have far to go.”

Derek waited while Ahote put weight on his leg, at first gingerly, and then more heavily. The horse would be all right.

Lucy gave him a tremulous smile of relief. “Thank you,” she said simply, but their eyes met, and something passed between them that he realized was the start of a friendship where before there had only been physical attraction. He inhaled a sharp breath, surprised at the thought of Lucy as his friend

“You’re welcome.” They began a slow walk back to the manor, and he felt the strain of the past few minutes begin to abate.

He angled his head to watch her face, wondering what she thought about the shot and her tumble. “I’d say you were lucky you didn’t break your neck in that fall, but I don’t think it was luck. You seemed to be tumbling along after a fashion. How’d you learn to fall off a horse like that?”

She smiled up at him, her blue eyes shining. “My father taught me.”

“That’s a rather unusual skill to teach a daughter, isn’t it? Not that a girl
shouldn’t
be taught such a trick,” he added lamely. Criticizing her father was not the way to get in her good graces.

“I suppose it is,” Lucy agreed, “but my father wasn’t really a conventional aristocrat. At least I like to think he wasn’t.”

“Why’s that? What’s wrong with being a conventional aristocrat?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, hesitating. “Most of the peers I know lead silly lives. Either they don’t seem very happy or they seem quite happy and I can’t imagine how they could be. How could anyone want to spend all his time gambling and drinking and—oh!” A flush of color quickly flooded her face. “Not that a gentleman shouldn’t drink or gamble.”

Derek grinned at her embarrassment. She probably thought he spent every free moment gambling and drinking and carousing. He thought of all those long hours of work—with his stewards, behind his desk, out in the fields—since he’d returned to England. If she only knew . . .

“And your father wasn’t like that?”

“No,” she said simply, pushing her thick, dark hair behind her ears, “though my aunt tells me Papa was quite the rake in his younger days. I had trouble believing that, but I suppose he was always adventurous. He went to America instead of taking the Tour, and he even spent a few months living with Indians. That’s where he learned how to fall off a horse.”

“Now I understand,” Derek said, noticing how Lucy’s eyes sparkled when she spoke of her father. “That explains your horse’s Indian name—
The Restless One.
It’s a perfect name for him.” He smiled at her surprised look. “I’ve had some experience with Indians too, having come from America. I actually lived with a tribe one summer. They didn’t teach me how to fall off a horse, so I’m envious, but I can hit any target with a knife, moving or not, and I can track anything that walks.”

“I sometimes forget you’re an American. You barely have an accent. Papa was always talking about how much he learned from the Indians. He taught me how to fall when I was just a child,” she said, her eyes filling. “First I learned on the ground, of course; then I jumped off a stump; then it was a taller stump; and finally, my very own horse. And always there was a thick carpet of straw to roll onto. I know it sounds silly, but it was something we could enjoy together.”

“It doesn’t sound silly,” Derek replied, seizing the opportunity to bring her father’s lifestyle into the conversation. “So, your father settled here when he married?”

“No. It was his plan, but then my mother . . . Papa lost interest. We didn’t move here until I was six. After that we rode every square inch of Stonecrest together. We walked through the woods, we picnicked beside the pond. He instilled a love of land in me that I doubt I should ever have discovered on my own.”

Derek pictured a miniature Lucy and thought of the man responsible for planting the seeds of character that made her want to take over her father’s goal, the man who must have nurtured that natural grace, watching it develop into an artless elegance, and he hoped to God her father hadn’t been involved in the smuggling. What if he found out otherwise? Would he tell her? He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to think about it.

“The farm wasn’t producing when you moved here then, I take it,” Derek said, looking out over empty fields that appeared to have lain dormant for years.

“No, and my father wasn’t wealthy. He used the money he’d saved to restore the manor and he had no income except the allowance that came with his title. I found out later he’d put all of his money into a dowry trust for me shortly after I was born. We lived comfortably enough though.” She flashed a shy smile at him. “It’s much less expensive to live here than in Town.”

“I suspect the savings in gowns alone made up for everything else,” Derek said with a smile as he looked down at her breeches.

Lucy laughed. “I’m sorry. This conversation must be boring you,” she said as she let Ahote lead her to the small pond. She waited patiently while the horses took long, unhurried drinks. “You can’t possibly be interested in the country life of a somewhat poor, somewhat unconventional aristocrat and his tomboyish daughter.”

“You’re wrong; I’m fascinated. Your father wasn’t involved in business of any kind, then?”

She shook her head.

“It must have been difficult providing everything without a steady income. I’m sure the crops couldn’t be depended upon.”

“That’s true. We were only just beginning to see a profit from the fields when Papa . . . ” Her voice trailed off, then came back stronger. “I think he sold some of his maps for extra money.”

“His maps?”

“My father’s hobby; he was quite good at drawing maps. That’s where my dowry trust came from, from maps he drew of his travels in America. But later, after we moved here, I think he must have sold some of his treasure map collection. The American maps wouldn’t have brought in much money by then; they were outdated. Besides, I can remember more than one occasion when prospective buyers came to look at the treasure maps. It’s amazing how excited grown men can become over the thought of buried treasure.”

Derek recalled a reference in his father’s journal to a map and a sense of disquiet gnawed at him. The entry was puzzling and he’d dismissed it, but now . . .

“So, were any of those grown men members of that elite group you call the
ton
?”
he asked lightly. He took up his horse’s reins and they began to walk again.

“All of them, actually.” She ran her fingers through her hair, removing the twigs and leaves that had embedded themselves during her tumble. “There was one map in particular that caused an uproar. The Duke of Dorrington was furious when Papa wouldn’t sell it, at least that’s what Papa said.”

Derek stopped so abruptly that his horse walked into him. “The Duke of Dorrington? Surely you mean some other duke.”

“I wasn’t introduced to him, but Papa told me who he was. All I remember is their voices were raised and a few minutes later Papa had the duke shown out. I was quite surprised at the time. I’d never known my father to get so angry.”

“And he told you the duke wanted to buy a map he didn’t want to sell?”

Lucy nodded. “But I had the oddest feeling he wasn’t telling me everything.”

“Why? What do you mean?” Derek asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“I don’t know. It was probably nothing. But the next day Uncle Nathan called, and I heard him arguing with Papa about the map. It was the only time my uncle visited while Papa was alive; the two didn’t get along. Papa wouldn’t discuss the argument with me, though, and a couple of days later he . . . was killed. That map is likely with the others in the study, unless Uncle Nathan took it. It must be worth quite a sum of money to cause such arguments.”

Lucy’s emotions played across her face as she spoke, and Derek was positive she was telling him everything she knew. But his mind was reeling. Could the link between his father and hers have to do with that map? And if so, had the map anything to do with the smuggling? Surely his father couldn’t have been looking for buried treasure, could he? He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t turn his mind from the possibility. Good God. A
treasure
map.

“Here comes Joseph,” Lucy said, nodding at the groom making his way toward them. She smiled fondly at the old man as he took the reins from both of them. “Joseph, please tell Colin that Ahote needs special attention. He may have sprained a hind leg during the race.”

Joseph nodded and began a very slow walk back to the stable with the horses, crooning to them all the way.

Lucy turned back to Derek and smiled. “At least I don’t have to worry that Joseph will walk too fast for Ahote. But I don’t think we can try this again tomorrow. Ahote will need time to recover, and I’m not used to riding any other horse. Perhaps we should call it a draw.”

Derek feigned a look of astonishment. “Why, Lucy Wainright, why on earth would I call it a draw? I already won the race.”

“You are joking, of course? We were abreast when Ahote went down. I couldn’t be expected to cross the finish line without him.”

Derek chuckled. “Good try, but the race was to the finish, and I finished. Those were the rules you agreed to.”

“But it never occurred to me that something so extraordinary could happen during the race. I wouldn’t have agreed to the terms if I’d been aware of all the possibilities. It’s hardly my fault that a gunshot spooked my horse.”

“Come, now. Admit it. You were confident you would win.” He tipped her chin up and stared into her eyes. “You underestimated me, dear wife. You assumed I would know nothing of horses, being a sea captain, but you made your decision based on conjecture—your own conjecture—about the kind of life I’ve led. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about that . . . while we’re lying in bed together . . . after you’ve removed your clothing for me, piece by piece.”

“Oh!” Lucy stamped her foot. “You are no gentleman!”

Derek smiled. “That’s what you keep telling me. I’ll give you an extra day, though. I wouldn’t want you to be in any pain while I’m caressing you.” He leaned forward to press a kiss atop her head.

Lucy shrugged away from his touch. “You’re going to make me go through with this, aren’t you?” she fumed. “Even though I had no control over what happened?”

“Well, sweetheart, think of it this way. If I’d taken the fall and
you
had crossed the finish line, you’d be singing a different tune now, wouldn’t you? And if that had happened, I would have kept my word. The question is, will you?”

With one last grin, he turned and headed for the house.

D
erek closed the door to Lucy’s bedchamber and turned around to face her, his expression unreadable.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He stood just a few feet away, dark hair tousled, the sleek muscles of his thighs outlined by tight breeches, his magnificent chest barely covered by the fine lawn shirt. She forgot her predicament as her gaze was drawn from the powerful breadth of his shoulders to the deep vee of his shirt where dark curls disappeared from view. She swallowed hard and willed herself not to look down at a certain part of his anatomy.

She looked.

It moved. And grew larger.

Her face flushed with heat, and she quickly averted her eyes. Panic swept through her, and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

“You don’t really expect . . . ” She let her plea drift into silence, forcing herself to look into the warm gray depths of his eyes. She waited for his response, hoping he would feel sorry for her and change the rules.

He didn’t.

His stare was unwavering as he came one step closer. The once-spacious room was suddenly stifling, and she stepped back, stumbling against a chair. She had a fleeting sense of hunter versus hunted. Surely she was going to be ill.

“Please. I have never . . . I mean, I cannot . . . ” Her voice trailed off to a whisper as the full realization of her predicament finally sank in. He wouldn’t, he
couldn’t
expect her to disrobe in front of him. Not right in front of him while he
watched.
Her legs would surely give way at any moment.

Oh, please, dear God, help me think of something.

Yes! Swooning was the blessed answer to her prayers. He may be a privateer—a pirate, a blackguard, or worse—but surely even he wouldn’t take advantage of a woman in such a state. The rush of relief was enormous and overwhelming, and it lasted exactly two seconds.

“Don’t even think about it, Lucy,” he said softly, his silvery gaze narrowing. “You don’t want to see me angry.” The deceptively soft voice had a core of steel. A shiver ran down her spine.

He took another step in her direction. The faintest scent of freshly starched linen and spicy cologne drifted toward her, bringing with it a memory of the kiss in the carriage, when he had pulled down her bodice and suckled her breasts. She felt a stirring, a yearning, and wished things could be different between them. That he could be a different man. A man who wouldn’t leave her when his business was through. A man who wanted her because he liked her, admired her, wanted to build a future with her, and not for some hidden reason she might never know.

But he wasn’t a different man, and no matter her physical attraction to him, she couldn’t afford to risk her heart.

“Take the pins from your hair, Lucy. One at a time.”

For the briefest moment she considered refusing but couldn’t bring herself to do it. He would never sink so low, had he lost the bet. With shaking hands she followed his command until every pin and comb was gone, and her hair lay in unruly waves reaching to her waist. Numbed by the knowledge of the humiliation that was to follow, she barely heard the sharp intake of his breath.

“Remove your dress,” he whispered.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she could not meet his eyes. “Y-you said you wouldn’t touch me until I’m ready,” she stammered, “and that might not b-be for weeks.”

He arched a dark brow. “Really? That’s strange; I don’t recall saying that. Make no mistake, sweetheart, I will definitely touch you. I plan to spend the night curled up against you, both of us gloriously naked, while I caress your entire body. Now, take off your dress.”

Lucy stared at him, eyes wide, and tried one last ploy. “I-I cannot. I have dismissed Bridget and am quite at a loss as to how to go about it.” She turned her back to him and started toward the bed, her movements stiff and wooden. “There is nothing to be done for it, I suppose. I shall have to sleep in my gown.” She reached for the bed coverings. His large hand covered hers.

“I’ll stand in for dear Bridget then, shall I?” Lifting her hair out of the way, he made quick business of the tiny buttons that ran from nape to hip and then turned her to face him. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you were about to disrobe for me, just as you agreed to do if you lost the bet.”

Lucy could hardly draw a breath, and she was sure he could hear the pounding of her heart. Indeed, everyone in the house must hear it for it was as deafening as drums bursting forth in a march. She tried to slow the pounding by taking deep breaths.

She had no choice but to do as he asked. She slipped first one arm and then the other from the sleeves of her gown. Her fingers tightened around the cloth and she clutched it to her, hesitating, hoping he would give her a reprieve.

He didn’t.

A fierce determination and something else, something unfamiliar but captivating, filled Derek’s eyes. She forced herself to let go of the material, and the gown slipped downward. Pushing it over her hips, she let it slide to the floor and stepped out of it, leaving it in a crumpled silken heap.

The thin material of the chemise was transparent in the soft glow of candlelight, and Derek’s eyes feasted on the erotic vision—the rounded curves of her breasts, the small waist that gave way to the gentle swell of hips, the smooth outline of slim legs, and the juncture where those perfect legs joined together to form the dark triangle of her womanhood. He was painfully aware of his state of arousal; his rigid erection strained against the cloth of his breeches.

“Remove the chemise, please.” His voice was low and hoarse with desire.

With trembling fingers she untied the satin ribbons and shrugged out of the garment. It too slipped to the floor. He had a glimpse of creamy breasts and rosy nipples, and his penis throbbed, straining further still.

Lucy quickly slipped into bed and over to the far corner, her back to him, and he almost tore off his clothes in an effort to be immediately beside her. His shirt came off easily enough, but when he went to work on the laces of his trousers, his erection complicated matters, leaving no room for maneuvering.

For a brief, frustrated moment he contemplated ripping the fabric to free himself, but realized the action would probably terrify his virginal wife. He forced himself to calm down and concentrate on the task at hand, until naked, finally, he slipped into bed.

“Are you cold, Lucy, or scared?” Derek fought to maintain some semblance of normalcy to his voice as he slid under the covers, close to her trembling form. He ached with desire, wanting nothing more than to pull her hard against him, to plunge into her wet warmth. His engorged cock pulsed, mere inches from the entrance it desired, and he gritted his teeth.
Damn.
He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, but he couldn’t go back on his word, and if he had any hope of keeping his word, then it was obvious that skin couldn’t touch skin. If it did, he would surely lose control. His searching hands found a small pillow, and he slipped it between their bodies.

“Lucy, sweetheart,” he murmured as he pulled her back against him, thankful for the pillow that shielded her from the fullness of his erection as it swelled forward, seeking her soft bottom. “You have nothing to be afraid of. I’m not an ogre. I just want to touch you, to caress you. I haven’t forgotten my promise.”

No, he hadn’t forgotten his promise, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t change her mind, with a little help from him. And dear God, how he hoped she would change her mind.

He nuzzled the soft skin of her neck and shoulder, wishing she would turn toward him, giving him better access to that which his lips longed for. Unable to resist the temptation to touch what was so near, he slid his hand along silky skin to capture a soft breast. Kneading and squeezing, he stroked the tightening nipple, and she moaned softly, almost desperately, before stilling the movement of his hand with hers as though she could no longer bear it.

He knew she was afraid, perhaps afraid of her own feelings, and he forced himself to take things more slowly, to give her time to adjust to her passion. He caressed the slender length of her arm, gently, lovingly, running his fingertips over her skin. His hand drifted lower, to trace the gentle swell of her hip, and lower still, to slip between their bodies, to find the soft, full curve of a rounded buttock.

She stiffened, and he willed his fingers to remain still.

They would not be still.

He traced along to the juncture where one cheek met the other, lightly caressing and probing, nudging against the hollow between her thighs. She squirmed, and for a long moment he let his finger rest between the two soft cheeks. He wanted so much to continue forward along that velvety crevice, but he knew that if he touched the warm, damp softness just beyond, he would lose control. He was almost out of control now, and still he was powerless to withdraw his hand.

Then Lucy moved against his finger. “Please,” she whispered, the single word suffused with need, and Derek’s pulse began to race.

He moved his hand around to the front of her, his fingertips brushing over the mound of silky curls as they sought a greater prize. Carefully, ever so lightly, he began to circle her most sensitive area and she moaned, moving restlessly against his hand.

He instantly responded, sliding a long finger along the silken fold. He stroked her soft, virginal lips, and a flood of liquid was his reward.

Wet with her juices, his finger slipped inside her, and she gasped, then surged toward it as though to engulf it. He slid his finger back out to tease and stroke her and then plunged it into her as deeply as he could. Joining a second finger to the first, he thrust them together, again and again, picking up her rhythm as she moved, wildly now, against the palm of his hand.

She cried out as he stroked her to orgasm, and he wished his own body wasn’t responding in kind. But his desire for her was overwhelming, and at the first wave of her shuddering release, his own release overtook him, and he spent his seed on the pillow that separated their bodies.