Claiming the Courtesan (8 page)

“You promised you wouldn’t touch me,” she said sharply.

“An offer I’ve decided was a mistake,” he said gently. He curled his fingers over her slender bones, testing her fragility and her strength.

“I won’t let you do this!” she cried out. Twisting from his hold, she dove awkwardly for the fire irons. It was the first ungraceful action he’d ever seen her make. “I’ll kill you before
I let you take me again,” she panted, raising the poker. Her exquisite face was white with tension.

Without shifting from where he stood behind her empty chair, he laughed dismissively. “Don’t be a fool, Verity. What are you going to do? Beat my brains out?”

“If I have to,” she said. Her perfect breasts heaved under their covering of black bombazine, and strands of hair from the severe hairstyle broke free to brush her cheeks.

Her defiance wasn’t a surprise. After all, he’d taunted her into fighting him since the abduction. “You know I can get that poker away from you in the blink of an eye.”

“You can try,” she said unsteadily.

“Put it down. You achieve nothing except my displeasure.” He stepped toward her and extended his hand in a gesture of command. His voice became harder as he continued. “And considering you’re completely at my mercy, that might be unwise. So far, I’ve been remarkably restrained in my actions. Things could go much, much worse.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

“Well, I should,” he murmured, beginning to circle her.

The poker remained uplifted, and he couldn’t doubt she meant to use it. He supposed he should be nervous facing this furious Valkyrie brandishing an iron club, but instead he felt more alive than he had in three long months.

“I should never have trusted you,” she said, edging around to keep him in view.

“Don’t pretend you ever did,” he said softly and with unexpectedly genuine regret.

His response must have puzzled her, because she frowned and for a moment forgot to watch his eyes. Smoothly, he ducked around her. With ease, he avoided the poker she aimed a little too late at his head. Grasping her arms from behind, he tugged her back against him.

“Let me go, you foul cur!”

He ignored her insult. He wished he could ignore how warm she was. This close, he couldn’t help but notice how she trembled. Fear lurked very close beneath the surface of her resistance. But then, he’d immediately understood that.

“Drop it, Verity.”

She struggled in his grip. “No, you bastard!”

“Tut, tut, language.” His grip slid down to her wrist and tightened just short of pain. “Give it to me or I
will
hurt you.”

Something in his voice must have convinced her, because with a despairing exhalation, she dropped her makeshift weapon. It thudded on the carpet at their feet.

He turned her so she faced him. “This is absurd,” he said mildly. “Anyone would think you were a frightened virgin. And you must know I’m the last man in creation to fall for that act. For a year, I’ve had you each way from Sunday. What secrets can your body possibly hold for me now?”

Her eyes were desolate with defeat above the sullen line of her mouth. “I am no longer your mistress,” she said dully.

He flung her away with an exclamation of disgust. “If we didn’t have to travel on, I’d demonstrate how untrue that is.”

She frowned in obvious confusion. “Travel on?” she asked after a fraught pause.

“Yes. I told you in the carriage we headed north without delay.” He spoke over his shoulder as he headed out of the room. “I’ll be back in half an hour. Use your reprieve to decide cooperation is the safest way to proceed.”

T
he depressing awareness of failure and the more galling knowledge that she’d behaved like a silly little fool accompanied Verity as Kylemore escorted her to the carriage half an hour later.

Tall, brooding, ominously quiet, he stalked beside her as they left the rose room and descended the stairs. She had no idea what he was thinking behind his mask of aristocratic hauteur. After her attack on him, she supposed he must be fuming. One large hand circled her arm with an implacable hold that told her he had no intention of letting her go until he’d wreaked his cruel revenge to his satisfaction.

Just what had she expected her theatrics with the poker to achieve? A woman’s fury would never cow the duke. She’d been so afraid that he’d meant to rut over her on that brocade-covered bed that fear had disordered her reason.

If she brought herself to murder him, she’d hang—which would put a more permanent end to her long-term plans than anything Kylemore devised. If she injured him, she’d only
make him angrier than he already was. The grim acceptance seeped into her heart that until he tired of her, nothing short of death could end this persecution.

From the beginning, she’d fatally misread the truth of how he felt about her. In London, she’d assumed he’d wanted her because winning the notorious Soraya complemented his prestige. A year’s intimate contact with the duke had taught her that he rated his standing in the world highly indeed.

But now she looked back and considered in a different light altogether his six years of pursuit and the fortune he’d paid to gain her. The light of the Duke of Kylemore’s obsession.

For her.

She’d heard rumors about madness in the Kinmurries from her earliest days in the capital. She’d always discounted the talk as overblown gossip. Until now.

She shivered, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Worse, he was perceptive enough to note her terror and use it against her.

Once they were outside the manor, she saw why he hadn’t tied her up again. Macleishes surrounded her. Their set expressions indicated they wouldn’t hesitate to act should she show the slightest sign of mutiny.

But her chastening humiliation in the rose room meant rebellious impulses had temporarily deserted her. Pitting herself against Kylemore’s physical strength had been a mistake. She still cringed at how easily he’d disarmed her.

Two more Macleish sons traveled on with the duke. With no great interest, she watched them climb up next to the driver. One set of jailers was much the same as another. The only jailer who really mattered was the lean, powerful man pressed so close to her side.

Kylemore bundled her into the coach without a word. He followed her inside, sat opposite her, knocked sharply on the
roof, and they were away. He didn’t release his proprietary clasp on her arm until they picked up speed.

How she wished she’d controlled her temper at the house. Now he was more careful than ever to stop her eluding him.

It was a long time before Verity finally asked the question that had puzzled her since their arrival at the manor. “Have we already reached Scotland?”

He roused himself from his abstraction. He hadn’t spoken since they’d started north again, what felt like hours ago. She expected him to sound hostile or angry, given that she’d just tried to smash his skull, but he spoke with his usual urbane calmness.

“No. We’re still in Yorkshire. Why?”

“The Macleishes.”

“They’re caretakers at Hinton Stacey. I only open the house a few weeks a year during the shooting. Otherwise, the Macleishes run it for me.”

“They seem remarkably devoted to you,” she said sourly. Mary Macleish’s automatic and sincere praise of the duke had shocked and bewildered her. The woman had described someone Verity didn’t recognize.

By the light of the carriage lamps outside, she saw his cynical smile flicker. “They know which side their bread is buttered on.”

But Verity thought it was more than that. The Macleishes treated the duke like a hero. Did he conceal a better man within than he let the world see? And would that better man relent in his quest for retribution against his mistress?

Unfortunately, she doubted it.

He reached out and took her hands. “We both need to sleep.” He laced her hands together and tied one end of the cord to his own wrist.

She was too tired and discouraged to protest. What good
would it achieve anyway? He’d do what he wanted with her. That was the unvarnished reality of being his captive.

After four days on the road, Verity viewed her short stay at Hinton Stacey with a nostalgia she’d never have believed possible. She had no more steaming, perfumed baths, no more freshly cooked meals served on fine china that gleamed in the candlelight. And as for the large bed that had terrified her into attacking her abductor, it was laughably removed from the sleeping arrangements she endured on that endless journey.

They traveled night and day. She grew to hate the rattling, constantly moving carriage almost as intensely as she hated Kylemore.

Kylemore, who didn’t touch her but who wanted to so much that every moment between them was as sharp and cutting as a new knife. Kylemore, with his iron nerves and his nonchalance and his eternal surveillance. Even when she relieved herself in some isolated thicket, he and his henchmen patrolled the area within earshot.

It was mortifying. It was infuriating. It was clearly meant to break her spirit.

Verity Ashton’s spirit was harder to break than most. She refused to succumb to weakness or fatigue or anxiety. Hating Kylemore with every shred of her being gave her the strength to endure.

Enough of Soraya remained for her to consider subverting one of the Macleishes. The youngest boy, who she guessed was about sixteen, cast shyly admiring glances in her direction when he thought nobody noticed.

But the part of her that remembered working as a servant revolted at the prospect of destroying someone’s livelihood for her own purposes. The Macleishes were abetting a crime,
but they were only the Devil’s helpers. The blame lay with their master. Such a greenling didn’t deserve to face destitution for his loyalty to an evil employer.

She’d hoped some rustic Lancelot might turn up to rescue her when they changed horses, but Kylemore held his hand over her mouth every time they stopped. And he always sent someone ahead to make arrangements so the changes happened smoothly and with notable speed.

On the fourth night, they camped in an abandoned crofter’s cottage instead of going on. Verity was so sick of the rattling, cramped conveyance that she didn’t question this change in their wearisome routine.

They’d crossed the border the day before, and with every mile, the roads worsened. Today, the carriage had lurched and bumped so violently that she was surprised none of her teeth had shaken loose.

As darkness closed in, she sat on the carriage rugs, which the Macleishes had spread for her comfort upon the sod floor. She watched silently as they prepared the evening meal. Oatcakes and salt herring yet again.

Verity, you’re getting soft,
she told herself.
There was a point in your life when oatcakes and herring would have seemed a feast
. But self-castigation didn’t keep her from thinking that she’d sell her soul for a hot bath and a meal she ate with a knife and fork.

At least the roof was whole and she was, mercifully, dry. The temperature had dropped, and a sullen rain fell outside. The dank wind through the unsealed windows was a bleak reminder of how far north they’d penetrated. It might be August, but she was cold.

Wondering where Kylemore was, she shifted closer to the fire. He’d never left her alone and untied before. She didn’t
waste what remained of her energy in making escape plans. Even if she managed to evade the Macleishes, where could she go in this depopulated wasteland? What a brutal place this Scotland of Kylemore’s was.

She heard voices and the sound of horses outside. The duke strode in, his dark hair sleeked back from his high forehead and his manner as purposeful as ever. She eyed him resentfully. Even after coming in out of the rain, he didn’t look as if he’d been dragged through a muddy hedge.

Oh, no. His Grace had taken advantage of his lackeys’ valeting skills. His Grace’s linen was white and pristine.

His Grace made her want to scream.

“Andy and Angus have arrived.” He addressed the Macleishes. “We’ll sleep here tonight. You can take the coach down to Kylemore Castle tomorrow.”

More travel plans. She lost interest. She didn’t know where they were. She didn’t know where they went. Even if she did, her opinion was of no importance.

Kylemore brought over her meal and sat next to her, stretching his long booted legs toward the fire. She’d become inured to his silence. Leaving Whitby, his humor had been to mock and berate. But since she’d threatened him with the poker, he’d hardly said a word to her. The longer they traveled, the further he withdrew into himself.

She didn’t fool herself into thinking that the lack of communication indicated he no longer hungered for her. He hungered, all right. He just didn’t do anything about it. And the delay was gradually sending her mad.

Why didn’t he just take her? What did he wait for? Certainly not her consent. If he preferred privacy, it would be easy enough to send the Macleishes ahead while he took his pleasure.

When they’d left Hinton Stacey, she’d been sure he’d meant
to use her without delay. That passionate kiss, regretted more than she could say, had made any protest she voiced moot. But aside from binding and unbinding her, he’d barely touched her.

She was free now, but she knew that he’d tie her up before they slept. She’d reached such a pitch of exhaustion that she could no longer muster even a murmur of objection.

She bent her head and began to eat, although she hardly tasted the humble fare. She was so tired that she wanted to lie down and never move again. Every bone and muscle ached. Perhaps a bed on the ground would provide more rest than sitting up in the coach, but she doubted it. Her abused flesh felt every bump and hollow in the floor beneath the rugs.

Two newcomers joined them around the fire—clearly, the Andy and Angus Kylemore had mentioned.

Then she recognized the overgrown thugs who had assisted so efficiently at her abduction. Her dinner tumbled to the ground as she surged upward on legs that trembled after so long in the carriage.

“What have you done with my brother?” she cried shrilly. “Tell me what you’ve done to Ben.”

“Hold your peace, woman!” Kylemore leaped to his feet and was behind her in an instant. He slid his arms around her waist before she could launch herself upon the two men.

As if a puny creature like her could damage those man mountains. Although she’d dearly love to. Her boiling rage made a mockery of her earlier apathy.

“Let me go!” she snarled, fighting against the duke’s imprisoning hands.

“There’s no use shouting at them. They don’t have the English.”

Kylemore addressed the men in what she guessed was Gaelic. One of them replied readily enough, while keeping an uncertain eye on Verity.

“Your brother is fine.” Kylemore’s deep voice rumbled close to her ear. She tried to ignore the clean, male scent of him. He still smelled like the outdoors, although now it was an outdoors washed clean by the freshness of rain. “They released him in the abbey and have followed us ever since.”

Verity gave up her futile struggle. Bitter experience told her he’d only let her go when he was ready.

“They just left Ben there no worse for the encounter?” she asked, not bothering to hide her mistrust.

Another exchange in Gaelic before Kylemore answered her, still, damn him, without moving away. His breath brushed against her cheek and made the blood surge hot beneath her skin. “Apparently.”

“I don’t believe you,” Verity said coldly, stifling her disquieting sensual awareness. “Ben would come after me.”

More Gaelic. An infuriating burst of masculine laughter. Even the younger Macleishes joined in. Kylemore’s grin was a flash of brilliant white as he released her and stepped in front of her, elegant, handsome, impervious.

How she hated him.

“I’m sure he would have if he’d had a stitch of clothing to cover himself with,” he said.

Anger surged up as strongly as it had when he’d snatched her from her brother’s care in Whitby.

“You, sir, are a member of a barbarous race,” she said with contempt. “All of you disgrace the name of men.”

The duke’s smile froze on his face. “At least none of us is a thief or a liar, madam,” he said in the frigid voice that always sliced her to the quick. It was a voice he’d never used when he’d spoken to Soraya. Not until the day she’d rejected his marriage proposal.

She raised her chin and cast him a disdainful glance. “I was an honest whore. A pity neither you nor your men can lay claim to so much virtue as that.”

Proudly, she returned to her corner. Curling her legs under her, she stared sightlessly ahead and tried not to watch the Scots’ triumphant hilarity. She blinked away the first tears she’d shed since this ordeal had started.

Poor Ben. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead. Her heart grieved for her brother’s humiliation and his anguish when he failed to find her. It hadn’t missed her notice that Kylemore used mainly side roads. Nor that now they were in the wilderness, anyone would find it impossible to pursue them.

Her brother was resourceful and clever. He’d find her, if anyone could. As it had so many times since she’d left Whitby, that frail hope beat back her dangerous weakness.

Her jailers caroused late around the campfire, drinking some disgusting spirit the new arrivals had brought with them. Verity sat on the rugs in the shadows, but she didn’t fool herself that the men’s seeming distraction put freedom within reach. Every time she so much as shifted, Kylemore’s cold blue stare settled on her.

The duke didn’t join in the revelry, although she was surprised at his level of familiarity with his henchmen. He’d never been a model of sociability, but she knew him enough to recognize the strong bond he shared with these men. She couldn’t imagine a group of English servants behaving with such ease in the presence of their aristocratic master.