The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever

Chapter 2

She woke up in his arms.

She froze instantly, her brain scrambling to understand where she was and who she was with. The events of the night before came to her in pieces like a picturesque landscape revealed by a lifting fog.

Andrew Darby, the Duke of Ravenwood.

She remembered the warmth of his eyes when he’d bowed to her, the way her stomach had rolled in a delicious and curious way she’d never felt before. It wasn’t the usual twisting of nerves. This had been something liquid and soft and compelling.

He had come to protect her from her father’s guests, but it was more than that. She just knew, she didn’t know how, but she knew, Andrew Darby was kind.

Kindness was rare in her life, and when she saw it, it was more tantalizing than shortbread.

Heavens, he was strong. And heavy. He had one leg wrapped over hers, his arm tight along her torso as if he were afraid she’d float away.

For the first time in her life, Della felt small.

It was an extraordinary feeling, and she let it wash over her like sunlight after a long rain.

She fit so neatly against him, his body curved entirely around hers. The sensation of being held, of being touched, it was heady and drugging, and she didn’t want to move for fear it would be over.

But it would be over.

At some point, he would wake up, and the dream would vanish, and she would be all alone again.

Catriona Cordelia MacKenzie, the woman without a name or a country. That’s what he had called her.

She closed her eyes and wished.

She wished for this. For this to be real and true and lasting. She didn’t know anything about Andrew Darby. He could have warts on his feet. He could have an unusual fetish for liverwurst. Perhaps those sisters he’d mentioned were formidable and judging and cruel.

Maybe none of that were true, and he would still wake up and leave her. After all, he said he hadn’t planned to stay long.

But what if her father intended for her to marry the Duke of Ravenwood?

Her eyes flew open at the thought. Suddenly the idea that her father had summoned her to marry her off took on a glowing light of anticipation. It wouldn’t be so bad if she were to marry Andrew.

But as soon as the thought came, she dismissed it. Good things like that just didn’t happen to her.

He stirred then, and she held her breath, wishing with all she had that he wouldn’t wake up. Not yet. Just a little bit longer. She wanted to remember what this was like.

He stretched, and she swore she could feel every one of his muscles—and there were many of them—move against her, and his hand tightened its grip on her rounded belly, and then—

He pulled her more tightly against him, his nose nuzzling the back of her neck.

Her heart thudded in her ears, and her lungs burned for air, but she couldn’t bring herself to draw breath.

The nuzzling continued, along the back of her neck, up to the spot behind her ear.

Oh God, he was kissing her. Right there. Behind her ear. His lips were soft, his touch so gentle.

It was heaven and it was torture because it was too much.

If he woke up now, he would be embarrassed, and he would regret what he’d done when it was the most glorious thing to ever happen to her, and it would crush her.

He moved again, burying his nose in her hair as he drew a breath.

“Della.” Her name, sleepy on his lips, and her heart clenched at the sound of it.

Tears smarted her eyes, and she knew this was it. She had to end it because if he awoke, if he realized what he’d done and apologized for it, it would shatter her.

Slipping away was far easier than she had imagined it would be. He was a heavy sleeper, it would seem, and she eased her way out from under his arm and leg. The loss of heat was the first thing she noticed, but she was too busy scrubbing the unshed tears from her eyes as she made her way over to the dressing room.

It wasn’t until the door was shut securely behind her that she sucked in a full breath. Her heart still pounded, and the sound was loud in her ears in the small confines of the room.

She let a multitude of feelings wash over her, and a chill passed over her skin as if those same feelings were tangible.

So, this was what it was like to be loved.

She shook her head almost immediately. It wasn’t love. It was only proximity. He had been asleep in the same bed with her. He could have mistaken her for anyone.

Except he’d said her name.

She straightened away from the door and saw to her needs before beginning her morning toilette. She hadn’t a maid, but she’d never had a competent one, so it mattered little. She could see to the simple gowns she had brought with her, and a chignon wouldn’t be much bother.

She tried to occupy her thoughts with the necessity of getting ready for the day, but it was no match for the novelty of the feelings that coursed through her.

To feel the weight of his body beside her, against her, atop her. To have him hold her so tightly. The touch of his lips against her skin.

The sound of his voice soft against her ear.

It hadn’t meant anything. That was the crushing reality of it, and yet it was likely to be the most affection she would ever receive from a man.

It was only fitting that it was all an illusion.

By the time she emerged from the dressing room, he was gone.

She didn’t want to examine why it pained her to see the bed empty, his coat gone from where he’d left it on the floor.

It wasn’t until she was in the corridor that the first lick of fear crept up her neck.

When she had walked into the debauchery in the great hall the night before, she hadn’t thought to be scared. She had had the absurd thought that she would be safe in her father’s house. In the light of day, she realized how ludicrous the idea was.

She peered about her, wondering what other guest rooms the stalking party members had been given. Were they nearby? Would they try to accost her now? In the daylight?

She supposed evil gave no heed to the clock.

She rubbed her neck and shook the tension from her shoulders. This was ridiculous. She was bigger than half of those men, and her lungs powerful enough. Surely Andrew would hear her scream should any of her father’s guests try something untoward.

Andrew.

It was a funny twist of fate that the most incredible thing to happen to her should happen now, while she was surrounded by wolves. And he said he would leave shortly. But when?

She descended the worn stone, circular steps to the great hall with care and noted the lack of voices echoing up from the cavernous space below. When she stepped down into the room, she was surprised to find some of her father’s guests milling around the high table at the opposite end of the hall set up on the dais.

She eyed them and the distance she would be forced to travel to reach the high table. She let her gaze wander about the room now that daylight poured through the tall windows along the wall opposite the massive fireplace. The ceiling trusses were blackened from hundreds of years of smoke from the great fires in the hearth, and the chandelier looked more like a curiosity from a traveling circus with its many antlers and rams’ horns.

She dropped her gaze to the floor and kept walking.

Finally, she drew near enough to take in the gentlemen scattered about the table. She didn’t recognize any of them, but they all carried a different shade of green, likely from the antics of the previous night.

She nodded her head in greeting. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

She had spoken softly but in the cavernous stone space of the hall, her words echoed with alarming ferocity, and the gentlemen groaned, keening forward in their seats.

“Do shut that wench up,” one of them muttered, a Lord Mitchum, she thought.

He was old, very old, with a permanent hunch and gnarled hands. He was also missing several teeth.

“I trust you had a fine night, lassie,” another said with a scalding Scottish accent. He made a vulgar gesture with his hands.

She tilted her head. “Are you having a stroke, sir? There appears to be something wrong with your hands.”

His hands froze, and his expression turned sour, but the gentlemen around him broke into weak laughter, as much as their current poor conditions allowed, she assumed.

“She got you there, Ronnie.” Another gentleman cackled. This one she believed was some sort of viscount.

The man called Ronnie lowered his hands into his lap, but he continued to glare.

Footsteps on the stones behind her had her turning slightly.

Andrew.

She worked hard to keep her features neutral and simply nodded her head in greeting as she had done for the rest of them.

“Your Grace,” she said.

“Lady MacKenzie.” He bowed and stepped up to hold out a chair for her.

“Ain’t the niceties unnecessary now, boy?” The viscount’s laugh dissolved into a coughing fit, and he pressed a dirty handkerchief to his spittle-covered lips.

“Niceties are never unnecessary,” Andrew replied before taking the seat next to her.

The table had been laid with platters of eggs, beans, and kippers, but it was rather untouched, the other gentlemen having only partaken of coffee and tea and toast.

“That’s what I like about you, Ravenwood.” Her father appeared behind Andrew and grabbed the younger man’s shoulders in a hearty display of masculinity. “You never give a wit for other’s opinions.” He shook Andrew a few more times before letting go and clapping his hands together, much to the dismay of the other gentlemen at the table.

Lord Hamish MacKenzie, the Earl of Kettleholm, had years of practice being drunk, and her mother had always said its ill effects never seemed to touch him. He was not an attractive man. He was short and barrel chested, and his bulbous, blue-veined nose hooked over scraggly red whiskers.

Remnants of his previous meal still lurked in those whiskers, and she looked away, eyeing the kippers and toast. It was probably too much to assume the cook of MacKenzie Keep knew how to prepare a proper English breakfast with tomatoes and mushrooms.

“Gentlemen, I trust you found the accommodations to yer liking,” her father went on.

He stopped at the viscount’s chair and shook the man heartily on the shoulder as he’d done to Andrew, only the viscount turned green and looked as though he may tip over into his toast.

Finally, her father made his way to his seat, an ornate Jacobean construction with a plush green velvet pad and a lion man carved into the back.

But instead of sitting, her father merely leaned one elbow on the chair and addressed them all.

“I’m verra pleased to see ye all here, gentlemen. I ken I asked ye here for some stalking, but as ye might have guessed, my intentions were not at all pure.” He laughed at this as did those gentlemen who could stomach such a gesture. But soon her father’s laughter faded, and his gaze landed on her.

Della straightened her shoulders, her hands twisting in the skirts of her gown hidden beneath the table. She did not, however, relinquish her father’s gaze.

“Ye see my bonny daughter here,” he said, extending a hand in her direction.

The gentlemen about the table sent leers in her direction, but she ignored them all.

Suddenly a hand found hers under the table. It took all her strength not to react as she felt the now familiar curve of Andrew’s fingers, the pressure of his grip as he slipped his hand into hers and held fast.

She curled her fingers around his, but she hadn’t the time to think of it because just then her father said, “Gentlemen, I’ve asked ye here to vie for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

* * *

The causeof her sudden invitation to MacKenzie Keep had lingered around her like a ghost, but to hear it spoken aloud was something else entirely.

She was going to be sick.

Likely for the first time in her life when her nerves had frayed to an insurmountable level, food did not appeal to her.

She dropped her gaze to her lap, to the hand that covertly held hers so tenderly. She returned her attention to her father, who appeared to be enjoying the collective intake of breath and general mumblings around the table.

It was several seconds before Della thought to look at the other men scattered about the table and when she did, she wished she hadn’t.

They were all looking at her.

No, not merely looking.

Assessing.

Cataloging.

Leering.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze to hold steady, when suddenly Andrew squeezed her hand beneath the table. It took all her fortitude not to look down. Not to see the thing that was happening at that very moment.

Someone was reassuring her.

Andrew was reassuring her.

The notion was so foreign to her she wanted nothing more than to observe it in reality, but she daren’t lower her eyes. She daren’t let anyone suspect something was happening between them.

Because she didn’t want Andrew to become a target.

It was odd this. Della had always been alone. Had never had someone over whom to worry. She wasn’t sure if it were refreshing or merely added to her already heightened nerves.

Her father seemed pleased with the reaction around the table because he finally sat and helped himself to eggs and toast and a hearty helping of sausages.

The viscount stirred first. “You’re saying you’ve chosen us as potential suitors for your daughter? I hardly see why we should be pleased with the notion.”

Her father’s eyes flashed as he speared a sausage. “Ah, but I haven’t gotten to the juicy bit, now have I, Strickland?”

Strickland toyed with his napkin, sending a scornful glance at Della. “Is there a juicy bit?”

She did not have a great deal of experience interacting with the opposite sex. Her grandmother did not think it necessary to expand Della’s social circle, and so it left her rather unschooled in that moment. Was the viscount suggesting she was somehow lacking or was he making a rude innuendo? She couldn’t be sure.

“No matter the result, I think it would be in your best interest not to insult the intended before the game has begun, don’t you think, Strickland?” Andrew said calmly from beside her.

She couldn’t help but look at him. His voice was like steel while at the same time it sounded like he was speaking of nothing more than the weather.

Was he defending her? Once more she couldn’t be sure. To her, these men were speaking in riddles. Books were far easier to understand.

Strickland set down his napkin and returned his attention to her father.

“I say, Ravenwood, I took a gamble on inviting ye here. Rumors always suggested ye were like a nun in a cloister, but yer turning into a right fine bloke.” Her father’s laugh was grating.

Andrew’s attention never wavered from his plate. “I think it’s rather too early to make such judgments.”

More laughter from her father.

“Well, be that as it may, I think ye find yerself rather inclined to participate, Ravenwood. There is, after all, a great deal of money at stake.”

The table went silent at this, and every foggy head around the table suddenly perked up, their attention turning to her father.

“Money?” said the lecher Mitchum who had first told her to hush up when she’d arrived at the table that morning.

Her father leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. “Of course there is money. I wouldn’t plan to marry me only daughter without a dowry to match her—” The gleam in his eye turned malicious. “Magnificence.” His laugh now bordered on vulgar.

Della found herself pulling her stomach taut as if this would reduce her somehow, as if by holding her breath she could make herself smaller. It was something she had started doing at such a young age, she couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t done it. Anything to make herself take up less space as if by doing so it would help ease the burden she had placed on the people around her.

That she should do it now spoke to how engrained it was in her.

She had not seen her father more than a handful of times since her birth, and now he summoned her to auction her off, and she still felt as though she were the burden. It was horrible and silly and nonsensical, and she felt every inch the fool for believing it.

But that was just it. She did believe it. She did believe she was the burden because she’d been the burden for so long. It was hard to believe anything else.

But it seemed her father wasn’t finished.

“Of course, I wouldn’t be giving away such a fine specimen without expectin’ something in return.” He ripped off a piece of toast with more brute force than was necessary, crumbs scattering across the table. “The gentleman who wins my daughter will swear his fealty to me.”

The men assembled about the table seemed to absorb this, their gaze focused on the MacKenzie.

“Whoever takes me daughter’s hand will swear his allegiance to the MacKenzie in the marriage contracts. I shall expect his favor in all political dealings. Do I make myself clear?”

Della didn’t know entirely what this meant. She had assumed it was enough that he should get rid of her through marriage, but no, he had something far more sinister in mind.

She would be his pawn in a political power scheme.

Oddly, the assembled men laughed, the sound grating at her taut nerves.

Andrew let go of her hand and stood, the laughter about them fading as the MacKenzie took in the man standing next to her.

“I beg your pardon, MacKenzie, but I am not in want of a wife as it were. I have familial matters to attend in London. Do pardon my sudden departure, but I find I can no longer stay.” He bowed and with the scrape of his chair, he left.

He left her.

Coldness swept over her, swift and complete, and she tried so very hard to keep from watching him leave the great hall. Leave her. It shouldn’t matter. She was left so frequently. What was once more?

Except now if she closed her eyes, she could feel his lips against her skin, hear the way he whispered her name in his sleep.

Involuntarily her eyes drifted to each man around the table and found those same assessing gazes staring back at her. Her skin crawled, and her stomach churned.

“You don’t care to make an alliance, Ravenwood?” MacKenzie called after the Englishman.

Andrew stopped several feet away and only half turned to face her father.

“I’m sorry if you were led to believe differently, MacKenzie, but I only form alliances based on merit. Not on bribery.” With that, Andrew left, and she was entirely alone.

The MacKenzie grew quiet then, and she feared the silence even more than the leering glares sent in her direction.

Finally the MacKenzie settled back in his seat and crossed his arms over his barrel chest.

“I hope the lot of ye dinnae prove as virtuous,” he said, eyeing each of the men in turn.

There was a beat of silence, and then the rest of the table broke into the same raucous laughter that was beginning to grate her ears.

She stood, having eaten nothing.

“If you will excuse me,” she said with a nod.

“Where da ye think yer going, lassie?” her father called after her. “Looking for a final tup from yer beau?”

More of the same laughter.

She dropped her napkin to the table and held up her chin.

“No,” she said calmly. “I just find myself rather…bored.” She spoke the last word with a shrug and turned to retrace her steps back across the great hall and up the circular stairs to her rooms, silence ringing behind her.

She held herself together long enough to make the stairs, and only after she’d spiraled upward did she allow the tremors to come. But once released, the shaking overtook her, and she was forced to sit down on the top step, the worn stone cold beneath her. She laid her head against the wall beside her, allowing the icy smoothness of the rock to soothe her.

Until someone placed his hand over her mouth.

She started, the scream sticking in her throat as she registered whose hand it was.

Andrew.

Her heart thudded instantly, and she tried to stand up, but between the slippery rock and her clinging skirts, she struggled. Andrew slipped his arms around her and hauled her up to the corridor above, holding her tightly against him without moving. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, and a thrill shot through her, remembering what it was like to wake in his arms.

But the embrace was awkward, and she knew this was not a moment of tenderness.

He was listening. Listening to see if someone had followed her.

When silence was the only thing to surround them, he eased her back, his hand slipping down her arm to capture her hand.

Her silly heart sang with the casualness of his touch, of the way he so perfectly knew what to do.

On soft feet they made their way down the corridor to her rooms. Once inside, he locked the door behind them, and then, seemingly unsatisfied, pulled her heavy traveling trunk over to block the door.

“Andrew—”

He held up a finger to his lips, and she shut her mouth immediately. He touched his ear, and she looked about them, wondering who could possibly hear them through the stone walls.

But it wasn’t that which concerned him. Because just then, he dropped to his knees, peering beneath the bed. Next, he poked behind the tapestries and the drapes, behind the bed curtains and finally, scoured the dressing room.

Having found no stowaways it would seem, he returned to the main bedchamber and approached her with such directness, his face hard with determination, she almost wanted to step back.

Almost.

She raised her chin. “Andrew, you mustn’t—”

“We need to get you out of here.”

The words stopped all the thoughts in her head.

“Get me out of here?”

He looked about the room as if surveying it for escape or perhaps something else.

“Pack your things.” He shook his head. “No, you can’t pack. We can’t let him know your intentions. Only pack what will fit in a satchel, something easy for you to maneuver.”

He picked up the cloak she’d discarded over a chair the previous night as if looking for some kind of bag beneath it.

“Andrew, I think you must know—”

“We can use my carriage. It will be slow, but we must only get you to Bewcastle. Return you to your grandparents, and then—”

“Andrew.” She spoke loud enough now that he stopped in his hasty search of her belongings for a satchel that would do for his intentions.

His eyes were so dark when he looked at her, and she felt a heat curling in her stomach.

She didn’t want this to end.

Whatever this odd encounter was between them, no matter how illogical, she just wanted to be with this man forever. It made no sense, and yet it made perfect sense.

She had never felt more like herself than she had with him.

She swallowed. “Andrew, I can’t leave. Don’t you understand?”

He came toward her, his hands flexing into fists at his side. “But you must leave. You cannot allow that man to marry you off to—”

She shook her head. “I have no say in the matter, Andrew. My father is allowed to do with me as he wishes.”

He stalked away at this, pushing his hands through his dark hair. She memorized the way it curled over his collar, and she wondered if he wore it that long or if he were in need of a trim.

“No one is allowed to treat a human being as not more than—” He stopped entirely as he appeared to struggle with his words. “We must only return you to your grandparents. They can help. They’ll see to your wellbeing.”

She shook her head, hating to put into words what she knew to be true. Either he didn’t see her, or he refused to understand, because Andrew continued.

“We can make Bewcastle by nightfall if we hurry. Where is a satchel? You must start packing at once. Just take what is irreplaceable.” He gestured to the frayed cloak he had left on the chair. “Surely your clothes are in sore need of replacing so leave those.”

Finally she stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm, and he stopped, arrested at the moment of her touch.

He looked at her; he really looked at her, and for the first time, she felt as though someone truly saw her. It was beautiful and heart-wrenching, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.

“Andrew, my grandparents don’t want me.”