The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever

Chapter 3

Her words rang with the clarity of truth, and he saw in them no hint of pity or self-loathing. She was stating a simple fact.

The woman without name or country was without family too. Without support and allies.

She was entirely alone.

And she was ready to submit herself to her fate with dignity.

His heart squeezed at the sight of her just then, her eyes quiet and knowing, her mouth relaxed and accepting. She would walk into the cage her father had manufactured, and she would do it with her head held high because that was how Lady Della MacKenzie did everything.

Something inside of him slipped, like stone falling to gravel it made a noise that rang through the stillness deep within him. He pushed it aside, walked away from Della to pace to the other side of her bedchamber.

“There must be someone else. A cousin. An aunt.” He turned and held out a hand. “Your mother. Della, where is your mother?”

He knew the answer even before she spoke.

“She’s dead.” Her voice was quiet in the room, and it was as though the temperature around them dropped several degrees. “She died when I was nine.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he said, “My mother died when I was ten.”

He didn’t need to tell her that, and really, it hardly had relevance in their current situation. But for some strange reason, he had wanted to comfort her through a shared experience. Now was most certainly not the time, and yet he felt a small measure of relief as her eyes widened at his revelation.

“I’m so very sorry,” she said softly.

All he could do was nod, his throat suddenly tight. He paced away, hoping if he didn’t look at her, he could regain his ability to speak.

“You must have distant cousins. An old aunt or some such.” He glanced at her. “Everyone has a doddering old aunt somewhere.”

She gave a now familiar shrug. “If I have one, I have no knowledge of her. I wasn’t…” She looked up at the ceiling as if gathering her thoughts. “I wasn’t exactly brought round to the family things. My mother’s marriage to the MacKenzie was a black mark on the family, and my grandmother did her best to hide the evidence of it.”

He stopped, arrested by her words. “Black mark?” He took a step toward her. “Evidence?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, the urge to flee springing up inside of him.

He’d known this trip was a bad idea. He had told his sisters he deserved a moment of peace, but he knew it was only a farce to keep them from knowing the truth of the matter. They had husbands to care for them now, and surely a few days away couldn’t hurt. But with every word Della spoke, he found himself caring more and more, which would never do. He made it two steps toward the door before stopping and swinging about.

When he reached her, he took her by the shoulders. “You are not a black mark, Della. You are not evidence.” He spit the word as though it were poison, and he had to rid his mouth of it. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Her lips were right there. Her soft, pink lips. So full. So tantalizing. He was right. He wouldn’t need to bend in half to kiss her. He had only to dip his head, and he could taste her like he’d wanted to since the previous night.

Not now. Why now?

He didn’t want a wife yet. He didn’t want another woman to protect. Another woman for whom he was responsible. Not yet.

He would look for a wife at the start of the new season in London next year. Not a moment sooner.

He would leave Della MacKenzie to her fate. She wasn’t his responsibility. She was prepared to accept her future; he knew that.

So then why did he dip his head? Why did he capture her lips? Why did he wrap his arms around her?

Oh God, this was heaven.

She fit.

It was the first time he’d ever had such an innocuous thought when kissing a woman, and yet it was the most incredible thing when he realized it. She slipped perfectly into his arms. The perfect height. The perfect shape. The perfect everything.

She was hesitant and shy, and he realized this was likely her first kiss. He shouldn’t be kissing her at all. He should stop immediately, but he knew he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Strangely, it felt as though he’d been waiting for her kiss his whole life, and now that he’d started, he couldn’t give it up.

But he must.

He eased away, breaking the kiss at the last possible moment. He kept his eyes closed as he gathered himself, steeled himself for the reality of when he opened his eyes again.

Finally he let his lids open, and he studied her face. Her eyes were still closed, and her lips were slightly parted.

She was utterly still.

In the short time he had known her, he had not seen her so settled. She moved with the nervousness he was beginning to understand consumed her, and when she wasn’t moving, she was trying very hard not to, to remain unseen and thus, undetected like a hare in the hedgerow.

She spent so very much on so very little that it startled him to see her at peace in that moment.

He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to keep kissing her. He wanted to see her relaxed and satiated, limp with contentment.

He took a full step back, a foggy memory resurfacing in his brain.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought at some point in the night she had ended up in his arms. The memory of her body curving against his was like a ghost that haunted him. Her scent, lilac and fresh air, lingered, and he knew he had buried his nose in it. He knew it even as he couldn’t remember it.

Had his body betrayed him in its sleep? Had he done more than was proper when he’d innocently shared a bed with her?

He couldn’t quite remember, and yet, now that he’d felt her in his arms, now that he’d traced the curves of her body—God, her curves had the power to end him—he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d held her before.

He took another step back and now her eyes fluttered open.

“Della.” Her name came out hoarse, and he stopped, cleared his throat. “Della, I should—”

He stopped, completely this time, and drank in the sight of her.

It was as though she were transformed. In that small space where just the two of them existed, it was as though he were seeing the real Della MacKenzie for the first time. The girl shrouded in nervousness and fear was suddenly revealed for what she was.

A beautiful, strong woman.

He blinked, the realization rocking him.

He swallowed. “Della, propriety would dictate that I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was ungentlemanly of me, and I should beg for your forgiveness for taking such liberties.”

Her eyes darkened, and the corners of her mouth tightened. It was subtle and had he not grown so familiar with her expressions, he would have missed it. It was the nervousness and fear returning, stealing over her like darkness across the land at sundown.

“But I won’t ask for your forgiveness.”

Her expression froze.

He reached up and took her shoulders in his hands to ensure he held her attention. “I won’t ask for forgiveness for something so exquisite as your kiss.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I won’t ask for forgiveness for taking liberties with you, Della. No matter what happens now I’ll be forever grateful you allowed me the pleasure of your kiss.”

He released her before she spoke a word and paced away, putting much needed space between them.

He turned back to her when he was safely on the other side of the room. Her features remained relaxed, her eyes slightly wider with his pronouncement, but otherwise, she remained still, her hands loose at her sides.

“You’re certain there’s no one else who can protect you?” he asked after several beats.

She merely shook her head, the motion heartbreakingly brave.

He felt his decision like a physical thing, the winch of a drawbridge releasing its last measure to bring the two sides together.

He squared his shoulders.

“I have no claims on you, Della MacKenzie.” He shook his head. “I will be forever sorry I could not help you.”

Something skated over her eyes then, and he watched it like a shadow racing across a stone wall.

She wanted him to help her. She wanted him to change his mind. She wanted him to do something.

But she didn’t say that.

Instead, she raised her chin and brought her hands together in front of her. “I know, Your Grace.” Her words were clear and firm. “I shall remember our time together fondly.”

Her smile wobbled only the slightest of degrees, but she seemed to swiftly collect herself, her chin going up another notch.

He watched her for several seconds, this woman so crippled by those who were supposed to love her and yet rising above it with strength and grace.

The resolve in him tightened to a painful degree, and he sucked in a breath.

He gave a bow. “I suppose one day I might see you in London, Lady MacKenzie. Perhaps as the wife of a viscount or an earl. Depending on who should win this ridiculous match your father has concocted.”

Her smile did falter now as a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Perhaps, Your Grace.” She gave a shrug, smaller than her usual ones. “It should be lovely to see you again someday.”

Her words struck him squarely in the chest.

He gave another bow. “If only time should be so kind to us. Farewell, Lady MacKenzie.”

Pushing her trunk aside, he ducked out the door before she could speak another word. If she said anything further, it would render him entirely useless, and that would do her no good at all.

Not if she wanted him to save her.

* * *

She watched him leave.

His carriage rolled through the gates of MacKenzie Keep not an hour later. The family quarters were housed on the second floor in the estate house that had been built in later years to attach perpendicularly to the great hall and the original stone keep. Because of this she was able to watch him leave from where she sat on the window bench in her bedchamber.

It was as though he couldn’t leave fast enough.

The thought twisted in her chest, but she shoved it aside, her fingers straying to her lips as they would so often that day.

He had kissed her.

She never thought she’d ever be kissed.

Not like that. Not out of desire.

Once more she had the sense of feeling small and fragile, a sensation she would never grow tired of. Her whole life she had felt like nothing more than a burden, too large when circumstances dictated she take up less space.

But not with him.

Not with Andrew.

She felt like herself with Andrew, whoever that might be. She still wasn’t sure. But it was different and light and fresh, and she knew she wanted to discover more of it.

Except he’d left.

He’d left her there with those men and her father.

She wanted to feel angry, sad, hurt, but she felt none of those things because he was right. He had no claim on her, and he could do nothing more to protect her from her father’s machinations.

Not unless he married her, and she knew someone as wonderful as the Duke of Ravenwood would never marry someone like her.

It just wasn’t done.

Andrew would return to London and marry some society debutante. She had never seen one, but she had ideas. Her mother had been detailed and persistent in all the ways Della was not a lady, and from these reprimands, she had crafted an idea of what a true lady looked like, sounded like, and acted like. It was all the things Della wasn’t.

She hid in her room as long as she was able to. She spent most of that time on the bench under the window that faced the gates, her mind playing tricks on her that Andrew would return, that he would change his mind and come back for her.

Eventually she got up and went through her trunk, trying to see things the way Andrew had. He had said to pack a single bag, only taking what was irreplaceable. She sorted through her gowns and underthings, her slippers and boots.

An hour later she concluded he was right.

Her gowns were worn, her shoes in need of attention. She had never noticed before how much neglect showed in her clothing, and she suddenly felt…guilty. Guilty of what though? It was as though she had let the neglect she suffered show on her clothes when she should have kept it a secret.

She didn’t want others to know. She didn’t want their pity or concern.

She wanted to be loved.

Wasn’t that what she’d always wanted?

It wasn’t her fault though that such neglect reflected on her clothing. Her grandmother was not inclined to order her new gowns, telling her she’d order more when Della lost some weight. Della had never pushed the matter and had only ever asked for books. She preferred novels, the more adventurous the better. It seemed she’d given herself away with her devotion to reading.

She threw her gowns and shoes back into her trunk, returning to the window bench with her Melanie Merkett novel and her tin of shortbread. Then she curled up on the bench, a quilt spread over her lap and opened the novel, letting herself get lost in the private inquisitor’s endeavors.

Except her mind kept wandering and the shortbread remained untouched.

She couldn’t pry her eyes from the main gates, hoping Andrew would return.

He didn’t, and eventually she was forced to dress for dinner.

It was much the same as breakfast. She was largely ignored except for the occasional vulgar insult from one of the men who was supposed to be vying for her hand. Her father rather enjoyed such insults as displayed by his boisterous laughter at any jab directed at her, and she knew the man had earned a mark in his favor.

Her future husband would be determined by his prowess at insulting her.

The food remained untouched on her plate, and she willed the clock to move forward so she may excuse herself.

At some point, the men became lost in a heated discussion over a stag they’d been stalking that day and whether the animal had crossed the stream onto the neighboring parcel or if it had climbed farther into the hills on MacKenzie land.

When her father requested a fourth bottle of the estate’s exclusive whiskey label be brought up from the cellars, she took the opportunity to excuse herself.

It was the first time she had spoken during the length of the meal, and suddenly, the men focused their attention on her.

Their lecherous, drooling attention.

In that moment, the coming hours of darkness flashed before her.

Why hadn’t she thought of this?

The previous night Andrew had been there to keep her safe. Tonight, she was alone. She stood in her spot at the end of the table, her untouched meal in front of her, as these vile men surveyed her like nothing more than a rack of succulent pork.

Her father would do nothing to protect her. In fact, she was sure he would encourage the men to sample the goods, so to speak.

Bile rose in her throat, and she pushed her chin higher.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said without meeting anyone’s eyes.

She waited until she’d turned the corner into the circular stairs before picking up her skirts to hurry. She didn’t want them to see her fear. Somehow, she knew they would enjoy it.

She gained her rooms moments later and slammed the door shut, shoving the lock home.

She stared at it. The flimsy block of wood that wedged in an elbow of rusted metal secured to the door frame with a couple of bent nails. In the old estate house it was the height of security, and yet Andrew was right.

It would keep no one out. Not someone determined to enter her rooms.

She backed away from the door, her hands fisted in her skirts. Her heart pounded in her chest so loudly she feared it would erupt directly from her breast.

She remained fully dressed, her gown, chemise, and crinolines serving as illusory armor. They would no more stop an intruder than that terrible lock, but they made her feel better.

She retreated to her window bench, once more curling up on it, her hand automatically going to the comforting weight of the Melanie Merkett novel.

Time seemed to drift around her. She knew it still ticked by much as it always did, but it was also different. She waited, knowing that at any moment someone would come to break in her door. He would come to—

She couldn’t think of the word. She couldn’t think of the violation that was to come.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, but the stone of the window casing was icy against her back, and she grew stiff from the cold. Still, she did not move. She kept her hands wrapped around her novel and watched the door.

She didn’t know how much time passed before she heard the first footsteps on the stairs. They were unsteady and scraping as though the man were deep in his cups.

She swallowed and for the first time in what seemed hours she let her eyes close.

One of her father’s selected bastards had finally come for her.

Oddly, her heart stopped pounding, and her muscles relaxed. It was as if faced with the inevitable, her body’s response dissipated.

She opened her eyes and raised her chin.

The knock came seconds later.

“Oh, Lady MacKenzie.” He spoke in a singsong voice, the words slurred and followed by a tittering laugh. “Oh, Lady MacKenzie,” the man tried again but failed when another laugh broke through his words. “Lady MacKenzie, be a darling and open this door so I mustn’t exert myself.”

She stayed where she was, her lips pressed firmly together.

There was more laughter now, and she realized it was more than one man standing outside her door in the corridor. Her skin rippled with apprehension. Would more than one of them attempt to rape her?

She reached for her shortbread tin, holding it and her novel against her chest like a shield. She pressed herself farther into the window alcove, her back nearly pressed against the glass.

The men at her door began to argue now, their voices no longer watery and slurred.

“I say, I was here first. I should get the first run at her.”

“That’s hardly relevant if you haven’t the equipment to see the deed done.”

There was shuffling as though one of the men had taken hold of another.

“Now see here—”

“Ah, lay off him, Roger. He’s only a child. He wouldn’t know a pussy from a panhandle.”

This was met with uproarious laughter.

She backed up farther and farther, her feet digging into the cushion beneath her as if to propel her backward.

Only the window opened behind her just as she reached it, and she tumbled backward.

A scream erupted into her mouth at the moment the pull of gravity hit her, but it was stopped by the hand clamped over her lips. Her back hit a solid wall of chest, and arms came about her. Familiar arms. Exquisite arms.

Realization hit at the moment lips pressed against her ear, whispering, “Don’t scream or we’ll never get you away from here.”

Andrew.

Relief. Euphoric, all-encompassing relief flooded her, and her legs went watery with it. She still clutched her novel and tin to her chest, her eyes blinking at the worn stones of the exterior of the keep, her mind scrambling to make sense even as she attempted to regain her feet.

She looked down, not understanding where she was.

She stood on the roof of the cloistered walk that ran along this side of the estate house where the family’s quarters were housed. It was a more modern addition to the keep after the addition of the manor house.

It was a good six-foot drop from the window above, and for the first time, she was grateful for her height. She finally peered up through the darkness to find Andrew watching her.

She shook her head, and he bent, pressing his lips once more to her ear.

“I’ll explain later. We need to get out of here.”

He turned and hustled her to the edge of the roof where a scraggly pine jutted up along the side of the cloistered walkway. The ground was more than ten feet below, and she realized Andrew must have used the pine to gain the roof.

She would need to climb down then. She stopped at the edge of the structure and pulled her hands from her chest, eyeing first the novel and then the tin of shortbread. She would need her hands to descend, and yet, the thought of losing either pained her.

Andrew watched her from the darkness, and something clicked inside of her. She tossed the tin of shortbread and shoved the novel into the bodice of her gown. She reached the tree first and swung out onto the nearest branch.

The sticky limbs clung to the fragile fabric of her gown, and several times she was forced to stop and yank her skirts free. More than once her machinations were met with a terrible ripping sound, but her need to get away overshadowed any concern she might have had for the only gown now in her possession.

When her feet touched the ground, she felt another surge of relief, but she knew they were not out of danger yet.

Andrew dropped to the ground beside her, and without hesitation, he took her hand, pulling her in the direction of the gates. Once the gates would have been closed at night, but these were far quieter times, and her father was rather too drunk by nightfall to order them shut. They rounded the front of the keep as an explosion of noise erupted from the front door.

Andrew tugged her into the shadows along the remains of the original bailey, blocking them from sight of anyone coming. He pulled her into the cocoon of his body, tucking her carefully against his chest. It was perhaps the first time in her life she had felt safe, and yet the very thing that could end her freedom forever lurked not yards from her.

The commotion at the front door appeared to be a drunken scuffle. She wondered if the fight she’d heard outside her bedchamber door had spilled onto the front park when the cramped quarters of the stone corridor could no longer contain the melee. Her father stepped into the doorway then, backlit by the many candles in the great hall’s chandelier. He glowed with an evil hue as he laughed at the gentlemen fighting just outside his keep.

She wanted to hate him, but instead she only felt frustration. Those stupid men were blocking her escape.

The book she’d shoved into her bodice dug into her chest, and she knew what she must do. Reaching in, she tugged the book free and laid a gentle hand on Andrew’s arm, so he released her. She held a finger to her lips as she eased out of his arms.

She kept to the shadows along the bailey, ducking behind one skeleton arch after another. When she was a good distance from the front gate, she stood in the shadow, eyeing this side of the keep. She raised her hand with the book in it, keeping her eyes on the windows that flashed in the moonlight. She took aim, pulling her arm back as far as possible, and then let the book fly.

Again, she was both grateful for her height and her strength as the book soared through the darkness and found its target.

The sound of breaking glass shattered the near-quiet of the night, and she ducked into the shadows as the attention of the men turned in her direction.

No, not in her direction. In the direction of the breaking glass.

“It’s the stag! He’s come for us!” came a shout from the front lawn.

She watched from the darkness as the drunken lot of them scrambled over one another to be the first to get to the door, but her father was already there, bewilderment plastered over his features as they collided with him. They all went down in a heap of curses and flailing appendages.

She didn’t wait. She retraced her steps through the dark, finding Andrew where she’d left him.

He smiled, his white teeth bright in the darkness. A flash of pride spiked through her, so foreign and new she couldn’t quite believe it for what it was. She would enjoy it later though. For now, she only wished to be free.

This time she took his hand and pulled him in the direction of the gates. They slipped free just as the cursing behind them turned to cries of outrage and pain as the men tried to right themselves.

Once outside the gates, she headed for the road, but Andrew tugged on her arm. She turned, and he motioned to the trees that bordered the road leading down into the village. She followed without hesitation as he pulled her into the darker space beneath the trees.

She wasn’t surprised when they came upon a horse, tied to one of the trees. She canted her head in question. Surely they could have reached the village on foot in time to secure a carriage before her father realized she was gone.

He pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear.

“My carriage is waiting for us in Brydekirk.”

Brydekirk? Well, that was several villages over. She shook her head.

He leaned down again. “It was the first village I found with a blacksmith willing to marry us.”