The Bodyguard (28 page)

“Easy, now. Easy,” Alex said. “Do you know who I am?”

“Came back for the tarts, ye did. Out of the sea. Oh, dear Jesus, save me.”

Alex frowned. “What?” He turned to the girl. “Can you make out what she’s saying?”

The girl shook her head and backed up a step.

“Tell me who I am,” Alex demanded.

“A ghost, come back to haunt me,” Cook said in a feeble voice.

“Whose ghost?” Alex demanded, leaning close so he could hear her quavery voice.

“His Grace,” the Cook whispered. “His Grace, the Duke of Blackthorne, that drowned in the sea.”

Alex felt the blood leave his head. He thought he might faint himself. “You’re mistaken,” he told Cook. “ ’Tis a resemblance only.”

She looked at him from wary eyes. “Ye’re as like him as can be. Except fer the bump on yer nose.” She reached out with a shaking hand but did not quite touch his face. “Ye canna be real,” she whispered.

He grabbed the counter to pull himself upright. “Take care of her,” he ordered the girl.

He felt as if iron weights were attached to his legs, and he had to drag them to make them move to the kitchen door. He squinted as he let himself out into the sunlight.

He felt the heat from the sun and the cool breeze from the sea and heard the seagulls that fought over the offal thrown down from the cliffs. The world had not stopped.

But he felt dead inside.

He could not be the bloody Duke of Blackthorne. He could not be that ruthless, rapacious man! Yet why would the old woman lie? What purpose would it serve?

Perhaps she was mistaken.

Perhaps she was not.

He felt like walking right back inside and demanding that Mr. Ambleside tell him whether he was Blackthorne. But if the man had denied him once already, he had done so for no good purpose.

Alex remembered the raw wounds on his wrists where his hands had been bound. Remembered the beating he had suffered. Someone had thrown him into the sea. Someone had wanted him dead.

But if the steward was involved, why hadn’t he looked more frightened to see Alex alive and well in the duke’s library? Why hadn’t he thrown up his hands and demanded mercy when Alex came through the door?

Because he’s a clever man
.

It was smarter—safer—Alex decided, to leave and lick his wounds in private. If he was this despicable duke—and he wasn’t ready yet to concede that he was—then he had some decisions to make. He wished he had not seen the letters. The letters were proof of the duke’s guilt. Otherwise, he might have been able to blame the high rents on someone else. But the letters had been signed by Blackthorne. By him, if he was the duke.

He would make amends somehow.

He could not bring Kitt’s Leith back from the dead. And Patrick Simpson and his family were long gone to America. But he could lower the rents. And feed the starving children.

Alex wondered if perhaps there was a reason he had
forgotten his past. Perhaps he did not want to remember it. What other harm had he caused? What other deaths were on his conscience?

Good God. If he was Blackthorne, he had a brother … Lord Marcus. He remembered from the conversation between Carlisle and Mr. Ambleside that Lord Marcus had not believed the duke was dead because he was too good a swimmer to drown. Well, he had not drowned, in fact, though his hands had been tied. Perhaps he should count that as one more tally in favor of him being the duke.

He had to find out more about himself—Blackthorne, that is. But how could he do that without raising suspicion? Mick, of course. Mick could ask all the questions that needed to be asked.

That was one bright spot, at least, Alex thought. If he was Blackthorne, he would be able to help the boy and his family. Assuming Michael O’Malley would take help from him, considering what a bastard he seemed to be.

If only he could remember. If only the past would come back to him. He supposed he could leave here and return to England and find the answers he needed there.

But what if it was someone in England who wanted him dead? He might be putting himself right into the hands of his enemies.

At least he had friends here. Mick. And Kitt.

Bloody hell. Did Kitt know who he was? Was that why she had suddenly been so anxious to marry him?
Had he told her who he was when he was delirious with fever?

It was something he had to consider. Alex remembered the desperation in her green eyes the day she had said,
“I would have married the devil himself to save my people.”

He remembered how she had planned to seduce the duke and get herself with child. He had made love to her more than once. The deed might already be done.

Alex felt sick inside.

Please let it not be true. Please let me be anybody but that bastard Blackthorne
.

Kitt had tried to talk Alex out of seeing Mr. Ambleside, but without success. She was sure the man—or someone else at Blackthorne Hall—would recognize him as the duke. She paced the floor of the cottage waiting for Alex, half-believing that he would not return.

Finally, Moira took pity on her and said, “Stir this syrup of holly bark while I go outside and gather some ivy leaves.”

Kitt sat on the bench before the hearth and took out her frustration by stirring the cough remedy that was brewing over the fire.

“Anybody home?”

“Alex! Thank God, you’re back!” Kitt dropped the wooden spoon into the pot and threw herself into Alex’s arms. They closed tightly around her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Has anyone dared—”

She kissed him to silence him. He had no way of
knowing how dangerous the venture had been, and there was no way to explain either her anxiety or her relief without revealing her deception. But a woman could greet her man with a welcome-home kiss.

Kitt got a great deal more than she bargained for. Alex raked his hands through her hair, scattering the pins that held it in a knot at her crown and pulling her head back so he could kiss her more deeply. His tongue invaded her mouth and ravaged it. He drove her back against the wall, knifing his knee between her legs to spread them wide and shoving his hips against her belly. He was ready for her.

Kitt was reeling from the attack. Although that seemed the wrong word to use, since she and Alex were handfast and he had the right to take her.

But not like this. Not with violence.

She jerked her mouth free and said, “Alex, no!”

He groped her hair, drawing her head back at a painful angle, and stared down at her. “I thought you wanted this.”

His gray eyes were dark with arousal, but his lips were set in a grim expression.

“Why are you so angry?”

It was a dangerous question to ask, but Kitt was glad she had when he shuddered, then loosened his hold on her hair and rubbed her scalp soothingly. His hips remained between her thighs but the pressure eased.

That caused a different sort of problem. He was barely brushing against her, but it was enough to tease her body into wanting him. Kitt resisted the temptation
to brush against him, but she was like a bit of dry moss on the edge of a very hot fire, and it would not take much for her to go up in flames.

She pressed her face against Alex’s chest and kept her arms around his shoulders. What had gone wrong? Something, she was sure. Had Mr. Ambleside recognized him? Was he aware now of how she had deceived him? She felt her stomach clench with fear and with dread.

But Alex was holding her gently now, as tenderly as a lover would. He was nibbling on her earlobe and kissing her neck. He was trying to seduce her.

Kitt felt like crying. Strange as it seemed, it was her duty to lose this battle. She must couple with Blackthorne as often as she could until she knew she was with child. She should not have stopped him.

And she must encourage him now.

She lifted her face just enough so her lips rested against Alex’s throat. He tasted salty. She kissed her way up his neck to nibble on his ear, as he had done with her. He made a feral sound, and his arms tightened around her. He pressed his hips against her, nudging her body, urging her to shift closer.

He did not have to do much urging.

Kitt slid her hands into the thick, silky hair at Alex’s nape and encouraged him to kiss her by turning her face up to his. She kept her lips slightly apart, wanting him to taste her, wanting to taste him. He tasted of the blackberry tea she had made for him before he’d left to visit Blackthorne Hall.

His hands left her hair and slid around to cup her breasts. She arched her body toward him, offering herself to him. “Alex.”

Just his name. A prayer for relief from the torment of wanting him … wanting the enemy.

He lifted her skirt and tore at her underclothes, then freed himself from his trousers and thrust into her. Standing up. Against the wall. It took only a few thrusts before he threw his head back, an expression of agony and ecstasy on his face, and spilled his seed inside her.

Kitt was left unsatisfied. She was glad. It was some small penance for the pleasure she normally took.
Loving him should not be so easy
, she thought. She should be enduring the act only for the sake of the child that he would plant in her womb.

She made the mistake of looking into Blackthorne’s eyes and saw his regret for what he had done. She did not want him remorseful. She did not want another reason to like him.

“I left you behind,” he said, between panting breaths. He reached down between her legs and touched her in a place that made her body quiver in response.

She grabbed his wrist, but he shook his head and said, “Let me touch you.”

She turned her face away, unable to look at him, and let her hands drop to her sides. She tried to absent herself from her body, which responded as a violin to a master fiddler’s bow. Her throaty cries of pleasure, provided a gravelly counterpoint as her body made beautiful music for him.

He teased her mouth open and thrust his tongue inside in time with the movement of his hand below, until the pleasure became rapturous pain. And she sang for him, a grating sound of satisfaction that became a wail of despair. He had brought her joy, and she could repay him only with more deception.

Her knees buckled, and Kitt would have fallen if Alex hadn’t slipped his arms around her to hold her upright. She leaned her head against his shoulder to hide her eyes because she was afraid they would tell him too much.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She could hear the concern in his voice. “Well enough,” she answered, trying to smile.

He looked around and said, “Where’s Moira?”

“She’s gone to look for some herbs.”

“So she could be back at any moment,” Alex said.

“Yes.”

“Let me help you dress—”

She pulled away from him. She didn’t want him to be so considerate; it only made her feel more guilty. It took a great deal of effort to keep her voice even as she said, “I can take care of myself. You should tuck in your shirt.”

He turned to unbuckle her father’s belt and to readjust himself in her father’s trousers. By the time he turned back, she had retied her underclothes and had bent down to search for the hairpins that had fallen to the floor.

He picked one up and handed it to her. “You should leave your hair down.”

“It gets tangled in the wind.”

“ ’Tis beautiful when ’tis tangled.”

She didn’t want him to make love to her with words, either. It was even worse than when he touched her. She crossed to stir the pot on the fire and asked, “What kept you so long?”

“I ran into Fletcher on the way back.”

Kitt tensed. “Is he well?”

“Very well. He thanked me for saving his life … and congratulated me on becoming The MacKinnon. I told him I was not The MacKinnon yet, that the banns had not been read at the church.”

Kitt bit her lower lip. She had been foolish to think Alex would not find out the truth, but she had hoped she would have a bit longer before he did. “What did Fletcher say?”

“He was surprised to hear we planned to stand before the preacher, but he was glad of it, because he said there were sometimes problems when children were born of a handfast marriage.”

“What did you say?” Kitt asked warily.

“I asked him how he’d learned we were handfast.”

“And?” Kitt asked, her body knotted with tension, her eyed focused on the bubbling brew.

“He said Ian had announced it to the clan. How he and Duncan had visited us at the cave. How you told them I was your husband, and I confirmed it before
witnesses. It seems that is all it takes for a couple to be wed in Scotland. No preacher is necessary.”

Kitt said nothing, but she felt Alex’s eyes boring into her. And she realized his Scottish accent was gone.

“And no child of ours would ever have anyone counting the months on his fingers, since we have been wed from the first time I took you.”

Kitt looked at Alex from beneath lowered lashes. His gray eyes looked dangerous. His hands stayed by his sides, though they were balled into fists.

“So, my darling wife,” he said in a quiet voice. “When were you planning to tell me about our handfast marriage.”