The Duke (14 page)

She told her riding hat to fend for itself, and with both gloved hands she pulled back on Cantor's reins with all her strength. Not only didn't he slacken his speed, Cantor ignored her. She tugged frantically, then just gave it up and closed her eyes as Cantor headed full tilt toward Ian.

S
he heard a shout of laughter. How she loved his laugh. It would be the last thing she would hear before she died.

Cantor reared up on his hind legs. Brandy dropped the reins and grasped the pommel with all her strength. It was over in a flash. Cantor had pulled to a panting stop, Brandy still miraculously in the saddle, and Ian held her horse's reins, those beautiful dark eyes of his alight with amusement.

She was so relieved to still be on the horse's back, to still be breathing, she hardly heard him when he said, “What is this, Brandy? Did you think to run me out of the way and thus claim you beat me? Is this what you did to poor Bertrand when you raced in the sea? You just ran over him? You scared the very devil out of me. You have not an ounce of fear, do you?”

She yelled out, “Cantor is the faster, Ian. It wasn't your superior horsemanship at all. I demand another race, yes, but not today, perhaps tomorrow or next year. Perhaps the turn of the next century.”

He was laughing and didn't hear her last words. “You're not a good loser, Brandy. You know I'm the better rider. Come now, just admit it. You won't, will you? Stubborn girl. Very well, we'll race again, just name the date.”

The day pigs flew, she thought.

“Next week,” she said. “Aye, next Wednesday.”

“Wednesday it is. Now, what forfeit can I claim?”

Forfeit. She'd forgotten all about a forfeit. Just so long as he forgot about a race next Wednesday, she'd give him anything he wanted. She slipped her foot free of the stirrup and slid to the ground. Ah, sweet earth. It was solid. It didn't move or snort. She said, looking up at him, “Whatever ye wish, Ian. Anything.”

He dismounted and tethered the horses to a yew bush. “Whatever I wish, eh?” He grinned and walked over to her.

She looked up at him. She looked at that beautiful mouth of his.

“Brandy,” he said.

She took a half step toward him, her lips slightly parted.

He stood stiffly before her, his arms at his sides. Before he had time to applaud his strength of character, she stood on her tiptoes and locked her hands around his neck, drawing him down to her. She wasn't all that certain what to do, but it didn't matter. She kissed him, with all the warmth in her heart. She felt the strength of him, the heat of his mouth, and sighed softly. She wanted this never to end. She could stand on her tiptoes forever. She loved the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him against her.

His control nearly deserted him for the first time in his adult life. No, he couldn't do this. She was innocent. She didn't have any idea what she was doing, certainly what she was doing to him, a man, who was harder than a stone. He didn't part his lips, though he wanted to taste her more than he could even begin to imagine himself. He wanted his tongue in her mouth. He wanted to stroke his hands down her back, cup her buttocks and lift her against him, caress her, slip his fingers—no, he couldn't, he wouldn't. He was
shuddering at the thoughts and raw sensations pulsing through him. No, he couldn't. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, but he pulled her hands from around his neck.

“No, Brandy, we can't, we mustn't.”

She backed away from him then, surprised she could even walk since she just wanted to sink down to the ground and stretch out on her back. She just wanted him to hold her and kiss her and come over her—“Yer forfeit, Ian,” she said, and her voice was as raw as the feelings that were tearing up her insides.

She was so damned vulnerable. She was innocent. He had to protect her from himself. “That isn't exactly the forfeit I'd intended,” he said, and thought himself a dolt for saying such a stupid thing.

“But it was the forfeit I wanted to give to ye. And after all, I did lose the race though I'm the better rider, as ye'll see next Wednesday.”

Straight talking, he thought, and wanted to grab her and kiss her until they were both so needy they wouldn't stop and he would know her and teach her and—

He groaned and ran his hand through his hair. He had to stop this. He had no choice. “Brandy, listen to me. Dammit, I'm your guardian. I'm engaged to another lady. You're an innocent child—no, well, girl—very well, woman—and I would be the most despicable of men to take advantage of you. Do you understand—”

“Child? Girl? Ah, and that woman was just a lame sop, wasn't it? Damn ye, yer stupid grace, I am a woman, not just a sop woman. I'm nearly nineteen. Ye call me a child and a girl so ye won't have to think of me as someone who could be more to you than—ah, never mind.”

He drew up and stared at her.

She was so furious she didn't want to see if he had
anything more to say, just rushed on, “I knew exactly what I was doing, and I'll not allow ye denying it with yer nonsensical words of taking advantage. Damn that other woman. I'll not go to London to live in the same house with her, do ye understand me? I'll not let her kiss ye in front of me and caress ye, and then look at me like I'm some sort of rodent from a ditch. And ye know she will. She's a fine lady, isn't she? All right and proper and knows her own worth. And she'll hate me, but not as much as I'll hate her. I don't even know her, and I hate her to her toes.

“I won't go and ye can't force me to go. I'll not live in the same house with that hateful woman. I'll have Percy first, do ye understand me?”

She didn't think, just rushed to Cantor. She jerked his reins free of the bush, and, without a thought to her fear of him, managed to climb into the saddle.

“Brandy, wait, I must talk to you about this, explain to you—”

“Nay, go to the devil, yer grace,” she yelled at him. She dug in her heels. Cantor knew that the graceless bundle on his back had absolutely no control over herself, much less over him. With a happy snort he dove forward, back across the meadow.

Ian stared after her a moment, his own anger rising. Damn her for not allowing him to explain. God, how very simple everything had been before he came to this outlandish place. Before he met her. Before he realized what beautiful hair she had. Before he realized that he loved to be with her, to hear her talk, to see this world through her eyes. Damnation.

He jumped on Hercules's back, loosed his full strength, and galloped after her. He drew alongside just as Cantor broke through the trees back to the main road. He was leaning over to grab the reins from her hands when she jerked back on the bridle and tried to wheel Cantor away. Cantor, recognizing the
hand of his master, reared back on his hind legs, tore the reins from her hands, and planted himself in a stubborn halt.

“Ye wretched beast.” She lunged forward to grab the reins from Ian's hands, but he pulled them from her reach. They stared at each other a moment silently. Brandy, her anger having melted, wished for oblivion. They continued to stare at each other. Ian was thinking of how she'd look with her hair free of her braids, all spread out on a pillow and he was over her and—

He said finally, every word firm and correct and so painful he'd thought he'd die, “Now, if you would not mind, Brandy, I would like to continue our ride. I don't want you racing back to the stable, looking as if you'd been escaping the devil. The last thing I want is for your family to wonder if anything improper is going on.”

She gazed at him, baffled at this calm, possessed speech. Then she merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He placed Cantor's reins back into her hands, and they proceeded back along the path, away from the castle. Ian was cursing himself silently for sounding the pompous ass—like a pompous English ass, all straightlaced and stiff in the collar.

He chose a much traveled path that forked off the road, past crofters' huts, away from the sea. He became aware that the sky was darkening dangerously, but he kept riding, telling himself that he didn't care if she got soaked. After some time, he thought he'd found a quite correct and proper string of phrases to present to her, and drew to a halt in a quiet wooded area, a few feet from the path.

“Would you like to dismount here, Brandy?” As he spoke, he began to dismount. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the darkened sky was
split by a dazzling bolt of lightning. A crashing boom of thunder followed quickly in its wake.

Brandy's voice caught in a scream as Cantor, frightened and blinded by the jagged flash of lightning, reared up with a wild snort, tore the reins from her hands, and plunged forward. She made a mad grab for the reins, but they were beyond her reach. She screamed, “Ian, help me. I can't stop him. The reins, I can't reach them.” She felt hollow with fear. She'd believed she'd die through her own stupidity, not through a ridiculous accident that shouldn't even be happening. A low-hanging branch tore her riding hat from her head. Any moment now she would follow her hat and be smashed beneath Cantor's hooves.

Then there was another loud clap of thunder, sharp and white, and she smelled burning wood. Cantor lengthened his stride and crashed all the faster through the dense undergrowth. A sliver of hope flashed through her mind as she heard Ian closing fast behind her. She had jerked around in the saddle to measure his distance from her when the reins, hanging loose, tangled themselves under one of Cantor's hooves, and inevitably, he stumbled.

Ian had nearly reached her when he saw Cantor fall to one knee and Brandy fly over his head. Her name died in his throat as he watched her fall to the ground amid masses of tangled ivy.

He drew up Hercules and leaped from his back. His first instinct was to gather her up into his arms, but he didn't. He knelt down beside her and placed two fingers against the pulse in the hollow of her throat. The beat was steady, if somewhat rapid. Gently he felt each of her arms for broken bones, then her legs. Damn, it didn't matter. She could be hurt internally, and that could easily kill her. He'd never been so scared in his life.

“Brandy,” he said, leaning close to her still face. He
gently slapped her cheeks, but she didn't awaken. He rocked back on his heels, wondering what to do. As if the heavens had already not done enough with the accursed lightning and thunder, several large raindrops suddenly splashed on Brandy's face.

“Well, damn,” he said under his breath. He had to find shelter, anything. He pulled off his riding jacket and covered her. He gazed a moment grimly down at her still face, then rose and strode into the woods. He hadn't gone too far when he spotted a crofter's hut. He would take Brandy there and send one of the children back to Penderleigh for help.

The rain was coming down in a thick gray sheet when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to Hercules.

Holding her in the crook of one arm, he grasped Cantor's reins in the other hand and slowly moved the small cavalcade toward the hut.

As he drew nearer, he saw that the hut had long been abandoned, its thatched roof sagging precariously over the stone walls. The thatch was supported in the front of the hut by two skinny poles and would afford, at least, some shelter for the horses.

He dismounted slowly, shifted Brandy's weight to his right arm, and tied the horses. With the toe of his boot he kicked open the narrow front door. It creaked ominously on rusted hinges, and he prayed that it wouldn't collapse on him.

When his eyes adjusted to the dim inside, he realized there was just one small room, its floor still covered with rotting boards. He stepped gingerly toward a crudely wrought fireplace and gently laid Brandy beside it, smoothing his coat under her.

Another booming crash of thunder brought him to his feet. Cantor whinnied, but he didn't tear away, thank God. Ian spotted a pile of peat clumps in one
corner and thanked the Lord for at least something of use.

The beauty of peat was that it needed very little coaxing to burn. Though a goodly amount of smoke gushed into the room, it was something. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the rain from Brandy's face. He stared at her firm chin, her very straight nose, and her thick brows that flared ever so slightly toward her temples. He felt damnably helpless. A memory he had thought long buried rose suddenly in his mind. Vividly he remembered the wrenching helplessness he'd felt when, at last, he had realized that there was nothing he could do to save Marianne. Even when he'd managed to reach Paris, stealing into that revolution-racked city under the cover of night, he'd known that he was too late. He'd known it in his gut.

He wouldn't let it be too late for Brandy.

“D
ammit, Brandy, wake up,” he shouted at her. “Ye don't have to yell at me, Ian,” Brandy whispered, forcing her eyes to open. His sigh of relief was audible, and her mouth moved to a painful smile.

As much as he wanted her to talk, to reassure him that she was all right, he said, “Don't talk if it hurts you. Where does it hurt? No, that's all right, just rest. You can tell me later, or now, whatever you wish.”

Brandy gulped down bile in her throat. The nausea was twisting her belly. She wouldn't vomit, she wouldn't. She tried to raise her hand to her head.

“For God's sake, Brandy, hold still.” He forced her hand back to her side.

“I hit my head. It hurts.”

“Yes, I'll just imagine it does. You've a lump growing here the size of an egg beneath this damned braid.”

She cried softly and turned her face away. She wanted to vomit and she wanted to die. She didn't want him to see her doing either one.

“I don't know why the devil you must needs braid your hair so tightly. Not only does it make you look like a bloody little girl, it's got to be uncomfortable.”

“It hurts,” she said, knowing tears were filling her eyes, wishing she hadn't spoken.

“Then be quiet and I'll do something about it. I'll try not to hurt you more.” Her single thick braid had long since come free of their pins. He picked up the end of the rope and began to pull it free. Damp, springy waves fell over his hands, and he smoothed down the deep ripples. Finally he finished his task, and Brandy breathed a small sigh as pressure from the heavy braid was eased away.

“Is that better? Yes, I can see that it is. Stop braiding your hair, Brandy. I don't like it braided except when you put it on top of your head.” He turned away then and tossed several more clumps of peat into the smoking fire. Why had he said all that? It couldn't matter what she did with her damned hair.

The duke's words had floated gently over Brandy's head, for she felt so near to retching that it required all her will not to succumb. Another wave of nausea passed and she could at last think a bit more clearly. She'd lied to him. She was a fraud, a sham. She had to tell him the truth before she died. “I lied to ye, Ian.” She just looked at him, waiting for retribution.

“What did you say? You lied? Are you delirious, Brandy? Can you see me clearly? Tell me how many fingers I'm holding up.”

“Ye needn't be a gentleman about it. It's my wretched pride, ye see, and now I have paid the full price. I'm going to die, but I didn't want to die with this on my conscience.”

He frowned and unconsciously gathered a mass of her dark honey blond hair in his hand and smoothed it next to her face, off the filthy floor. “My mind isn't working properly. I promise I'll yell this poor roof down if you'll just tell me what you're talking about. Now, what is this about pride? Oh, yes, I'm not about to let you die, so you can stop harping on that.”

“Ye don't know? What do ye mean ye don't know?” Surely something was wrong here. Surely he
couldn't be blind to what she'd done. No, he was just being a gentleman, being kind to a miserable female.

He nodded slowly then, finally realizing what she must be talking about. He felt her mouth against his, then heard her angry words. She regretted it now, regretted kissing him, regretted pulling him down to her. He should have been relieved that she regretted it all, but instead he felt sorry at what could not be.

She gave a sigh, thinking that with Ian, confession was quite an easy matter. And she had been such a braggart. “Ye don't think less of me? Ye don't think I'm a bad person? Could you possibly forgive me?”

Dammit, why did she persist in pushing the matter? He said shortly, not looking at her, “Of course I don't think less of you. There's nothing at all to forgive.” His conscience forced him to add, “You must know, Brandy, that it was as much my fault as it was yours. More my fault since I'm a man and, well, I'm older than you are, and more experienced in these matters. I should have exercised greater control.”

“Nay, Ian, ye mustn't shoulder any of the blame. It was all my fault, for I didn't wish ye to know of my cowardice. I'm paying right now for my sin. But I might have hurt ye too, and that was unforgivable.” If only he would rant, if just a little. Could he not shout at her just once, like Grandmama?

It dawned on him suddenly that their conversation was suspiciously like another held that long ago evening. At least this time it wasn't a matter of his standing in front of his leaking wooden tub stark naked. He laughed and lightly touched his hand to her cheek.

“I fear, little one, that we are again speaking at cross-purposes. We'll begin at the beginning. Now, what exactly do you mean with all this cowardice talk?”

“Oh,” she said, remembering as well, “ye mean when ye were naked and I thought ye were talking
about the London trip?” She looked up at him with such intensity that he felt himself quite naked once again.

“Stop thinking what you are thinking, Brandy. Just stop it.”

“Very well, but I learned a lot that evening. I never before knew that a man could be so beautiful.” She sighed.

“Cowardice?”

“Oh, all right. If ye must know, I've always been afraid of them. I think perhaps that one of the nasty beasts bit me when I was an infant. Cantor is a lovely horse, truly. It's just that horses make me want to back away from them, ever so slowly and quietly. They scare me to my toes.”

“You're afraid of horses,” he said, looking as blank as the poor walls of the hut. “Here I thought you a bruising rider. You didn't show a lick of fear when you ran Cantor right into me. My God, you rode him faster than the wind across that meadow. All that bravado, and that marvelous challenge of yours. That trick of nearly running me down—in truth, you couldn't stop Cantor?”

“Aye, I didn't want ye to think me just a silly twit. You're so
perfect
at everything, whilst I am—”

“Me, perfect? What utter rubbish. I have more than my share of failings. As to your so-called cowardice, I think rather you were quite brave, mayhap foolishly so.” He paused a moment, drumming his fingertips on his knee. “I would never think any less of you just because you didn't like horses. Another thing, you don't have to prove your worth to anyone, do you understand?”

“Ye truly don't mind? Ye're not lying to me because ye feel sorry for me?”

“No, I don't feel sorry for you. I feel sorry that your head hurts. As for the other, forget it. If you
never ride a horse again, it doesn't matter. Or perhaps if you'd allow me, I could teach you how to handle them. Horses can be dealt with, you know. You can talk to them, scold them, yell at them. They're usually good-natured. But you just think about it. I don't suppose you're going to confess to me now that you can't swim a stroke?”

“Nay, I'm certain to beat ye at that. Maybe. Well, I did beat Bertrand. It's true that he'd just recovered from a nasty fever, but I still beat him fair and square. You're only used to swimming in that measly lake of yours in Suffolk. What do you know of tides and currents and getting shoved into rocks?”

“Not much, but I'm a quick study.”

She shivered suddenly and closed her eyes. She didn't look good. Rain was dripping in not three feet away from them. What the hell was he to do? He wasn't about to leave her.

“Is it your head, Brandy?”

“Aye, it hurts.”

“I'm afraid to move you just yet. Just lie still and keep any more confessions to yourself. Besides, I don't think I'm up to any more of them.”

She managed a slight smile. It made him feel better. She had guts. He hadn't realized until just this moment that he'd never been drawn to any female who had guts. He was used to softness and helplessness. He was used to gentle smiles and gentle requests. He was used to being the strong one, the one who gave and supported. But here she was, lying in the middle of a rotted floor, looking as pathetic as a person could look, but she wasn't whining or crying.

“Well, the least I can do is get that wet jacket of yours off. Hopefully, your blouse will dry out closer to the fire.”

When he gently drew her up into his arms to slip off her riding jacket, she went stiff as a board. “Hold
still,” he said, wondering what the devil was wrong with her. “Surely you're not afraid of me, not you. I have no intention of offending your modesty.”

She sucked in her breath and thought she'd pass out. Please, God, she prayed, don't let him notice my bosom, please. She thought of the gaping buttons across her chest and felt near to tears. It was too much. He'd never admire her if he saw those cow breasts of hers.

He pulled off her jacket and frowned at the frayed white blouse. It was so very tight on her—she must have worn the riding habit since she was ten years old.

“There, is that better, Brandy? No, don't pull away. Just let me hold you. It'll keep you warm. I don't want you taking a chill.”

“Ye're wet too, Ian.” But she didn't move. Evidently he hadn't noticed anything, bless the saints. She shivered again, not with cold, and was rewarded when he drew her more tightly against him.

Quite unintentionally he dropped a light kiss on her hair. Brandy raised her hand and touched his cheek. Once again, quite unintentionally, he leaned down and kissed her soft mouth. She forgot her aching head, her blouse that gaped apart, and unhesitatingly parted her lips.

The gentleman made a last protest, only to lose to masses of silky, thick hair tangled in his hand and a warm mouth that kissed his chin, his cheek, his ear. He in turn kissed her forehead, her straight nose, and finally, God, finally, he found her mouth. He felt her fingers run through his damp hair, and heard her say his name. Just the way she said his name made him shudder with need.

He caressed her shoulder and throat before moving slowly to her breasts. He was thwarted by the layers of clothing. Damnation, so many clothes. He began to pull open the buttons on her blouse.

Oh, no, he wanted to touch her breasts. She pulled away from him, so embarrassed she forgot her aching head. She wanted to sink through the rotted floor. How could she tell him that he really didn't want to see her because if he did, he'd be repulsed?

Damn, he'd frightened her. Innocent—he kept forgetting how very innocent she was. He dropped his hand and drew a deep breath. He'd come very close to dishonoring her. He turned away from her, angry at himself for his loss of control. He was a rutting bounder, just like Percy.

She felt him withdraw from her. He didn't want her but rather that faceless lady who was to be his duchess. She pulled away from him and came up onto her knees. Her head hurt, but not so badly now. The nausea she could control. She smoothed down her hair and rose slowly to her feet. He made no move to hold her back.

He rose then and faced her. He felt like a prig, but he couldn't help himself as he said, “You must forgive me for being overly affectionate with you.” Affectionate? Ha. “I didn't intend this. I suppose it's that we're here alone and I'm very worried about you.” Yes, that was it, but he knew it wasn't, and he was a bigger blighter than Percy.

“Aye,” she said. “Certainly. Of course. I'd like to return to Penderleigh. The rain has lessened.”

“Very well. I'll lead Cantor. I want you to concentrate on keeping yourself in the saddle. No, I think I'll carry you back. I don't want to take any chances that you'll fall off.”

That sounded wonderful to her. To be close to him for just a little while longer. She watched him stoop and pick up both of their damp jackets.

She turned her back to him as she shrugged hers back on. If he was surprised by that, she was grateful that he didn't say anything.

The ride back to Penderleigh wasn't as wonderful as she'd imagined it would be. He held her close, so close she could feel his heart beat, but every step Hercules took sent a shaft of pain through her brain.

Once back at Penderleigh, all the pandemonium handled smoothly by the duke, she was tucked into her bed by Marta, who scolded her, patted her, gave her small drinks of tea that had drops of laudanum in it, ordered undoubtedly by the duke.

It was kind of him, she thought even as she fell into sleep, that he'd just told everyone she'd met with an unavoidable accident. Her last thought was that she never wanted to be on another horse's back for as long as she lived.