Devil in Duke's Clothing (Royal Pains Book 1) (14 page)

“Oh, Maggie,” he cried out as he reached his own sparkling finale.

Pulling out of her, he spilled his warm seed onto her belly before collapsing beside her, panting and perspiring. He nestled against her and buried his damp face in her hair.

“Rosebud,” he whispered in her ear. “Do you remember what you said earlier about not being able to watch me with someone else?”

“Yes, Robert. I remember.” She’d rather not be reminded, especially in the syrupy afterglow of orgasm.

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her so hard she could barely breathe. “I do not think I could bear it, either.”

Chapter Seven

Maggie watched breathlessly as Robert, clad only in his shirt and belted plaid, reached behind a set of tooled-leather books and triggered a hidden lever. Within seconds, the bookcase rumbled like thunder and swung out from the wall.

A cocktail of comingled distress and surprise quickened her pulse. No wonder she’d never located his secret chamber. Not in a million years would she have guessed it might be hidden within the walls of the library.

Six days had passed since he’d told her King Charles could dissolve their marriage—six days during which she’d been fitted for new gowns, learned about the ideas of Thomas Hobbes and Renee Descartes, and worried herself sick about the royal guillotine hanging over their necks.

Six nights had passed as well—nights she’d spent alone with her anxiety, tossing and turning. Not only did her husband avoid her bedchamber, he’d not so much as kissed her the entire time. During the daylight hours, he was cold and distant, lectured rather than discussed, and scarcely said two words together when he could be bothered to appear for a meal. Clearly, something troubled him deeply. Nay, not troubled.
Tortured.
But, try as she might, she could not get him to open up about his woes.

Now, suddenly and without explanation, he’d sought her out and insisted on showing her his secret chamber. Why? They were setting off toward Edinburgh at first light. Could this not have waited until they returned? Or, did he fear, as she did, she’d not return to Balloch as his wife? Panic closed around her heart like an Iron Maiden. If the king annulled their marriage, what would become of her?

She’d be royally screwed in more ways than one.

“Come on.”

The duke held a pewter candlestick. When he stepped into the passage behind the bookcase, she followed.

Her vision adjusted to the dim glow. The entrance sealed behind her. A shiver went through her as she followed her husband and the only light deeper into the unknown.

The smell greeted her first: leather and wax with hints of dank, dust, and a faint sweetness she could not identify.

He stopped before an old wooden door with iron strap hinges. A small window was cut into the wood at eye level. Had the family hidden priests down here in times past?

“Wait here,” Robert said.

The groan of the hinges lifted the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. Robert and the candle disappeared inside, leaving her alone in total darkness. Her heart raced and her perspiration dampened her skin despite the coldness of the air. Had he brought her here to beat her?

His hand closed around her wrist, scaring her so badly she nearly wet herself. He yanked her across the threshold and slammed the door, unsettling her all the more. He’d lit several candles, but she could still barely see.

As her eyes adjusted to the low lighting, the chamber’s austere furnishings materialized out of the shadows. The bed—a large four-poster occupying the center of the small room—took shape first, followed by a painted cupboard on a stand near the door. In the far corner, a Eucharistic prayer chair faced the wall. Another supported a large wooden cross.

Maggie swallowed hard. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Did he re-enact the passion of Christ in here?

Her gaze landed on a wall-length board of pegs. From them hung a daunting array of whips. Fear scurried up her spine on tiny ice-cold feet. Her pulse quickened and her stomach tightened.
 

Reluctantly, she returned her attention to the prayer chair. A shelf just above held two devotional candles, a statuette of St. Francis of Assisi, and a cat o’ nine tails.

Strike me blind!

This was where he punished himself and where he brought the whores he whipped for sexual gratification.
 

She’d been wrong about him. He wasn’t the devil on her shoulder, he was an angel and demon rolled into one. A walking paradox. On the one hand, he professed to respect women as his equals. On the other, he took pleasure in debasing them. How could two such disparate men reside within a single body?

She turned to find him studying her, his eyes dark and questioning. Was he attempting to read her, to gauge her reaction to this place? If so, what did he expect? Shock? Fear? Abhorrence? She felt all of those things. He’d vowed not to hurt her, but no longer could she trust his promise.

Inflicting pain was the room’s sole purpose.

Finding her courage, she took a turn around the chamber.

He followed.

The cabinet was painted with the stations of the cross; the sheets on the bed were of fine Italian silk; the cross was outfitted with leather straps—for restraining his victims, ostensibly.

The prayer chair, she gave a wide berth.

“Say something, Maggie.”

She rounded on him with terror in her heart. “For what foul purpose have you brought me here this evening?”

He stood there a moment, raking his fingers through his hair as he regarded her with circumspection. Finally, in a low voice, he said, “Not the one you suppose.”

“I
suppose
you intend to punish me for some wrong I cannot fathom.”

“No,” he said. “I have brought you here to punish
me
.”

Her mouth fell open. “Punish
you
? Whatever for?”

“I should never have married you.”

Anguish bit her hard. She turned away, unable to face him. “Is that why you’ve been so sullen the past few days? Because you regret our marriage?”

“No.” He took hold of her shoulders. “‘Tis not the marriage I regret. ‘Tis the position I’ve put you in with the king—put both of us in.”

“I do not take your meaning,” she said, growing frantic. “How will punishing you help our situation?”

“’Twill not help
per se
, but might absolve me of some of my guilt. You promised you would beat me again if I wished it and I am calling you to honor your pledge to me now.”

Her sense of justice rose up in revolt. “I did not beat you, Robert. I struck you once in play. ‘Tis not in my nature to inflict pain—especially upon my own husband.” Rounding on him, she met his tormented gaze. “Please, Robert. Tell me what is wrong.”

“I’ve fallen in love,” he said contritely.

Fear plucked her heart like a string out of tune. “With someone else?”

“No, you silly nit. With you.”

The air left her lungs. After his behavior of the past two days, she was sure he wanted King Charles to dissolve their union.

“If, perchance, you were to inform the king we are in love, he might see fit to give us his blessing.”

Robert held her at arm’s length and searched her face. “Is that the truth? Are we in love?”

“I believe so.” He was not an easy man to love, but love him she did. Her heartache over the past few days had made the depth of her feelings known to her. “Do you think it will make any difference to the king?”

The spark of hope fled his eyes. “The king is not a bad man on the whole. He is, however, deeply distrustful, believing all human motive stems from self-interest. He thinks ill of everyone and, given his position and the vindictiveness he’s experienced firsthand, he’d be a fool not to be wary. But he also is selfish, Maggie. He favors only those who serve his interests.”

“He sounds like an odious brute.”

“More a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Do not presume his heart will be touched by a bond of mutual affection. If our union serves him—or, leastwise, in no way threatens his interests—he may see fit to sanction our vows.”

Questions crowded her mind. “If you knew all this at the outset, why did you not seek his royal blessing before we were wed?”

He let her go and turned away. “I had my reasons.”

“What reasons? Pray, tell me, Robert, so I might come to understand why you have put us both is so tenuous a position.”

He stood there a long while with his back to her before saying, “Aye, well, if you must know—and I suppose you must—there were two reasons. Firstly, I wanted you with too great a passion to deny myself any longer than I already had. Secondly, I knew the king had in mind for me a bride of his choosing.”

“What?” She was stunned to her core. “Who?”

“One of the ladies of the court he’d tried in vain to seduce. And the king, like most men, desires nothing so much as that which eludes him.”

Maggie blinked at him, unable to grasp his meaning. “So, why marry her to you?”

“Because she’d demonstrated an interest in me the last time I visited the palace.” His voice was as gray as her hopes. “Marrying her to me would have all the appearance of doing her a great favor—one he’d expect her to repay.”

“Even if she was your wife?”

“He knows what I owe him and sets no store by vows of fidelity—his own or anybody else’s.”

“Does he have no regard for the queen?”

“Nay. Nor anyone but his brother, ‘twould seem—and even poor James is not invulnerable to the king’s hostility, though the duke fares far better than the queen. Charles at least shows deference for his brother, whilst he shows only contempt for his wife. When they entertain, the royal couple occupy opposite ends of the banquet hall, he surrounded by his mistresses, she by her ladies in waiting, most of whom her husband beds regularly.”

Fury flared deep inside the cockles of Maggie’s heart. “How despicable. Does the king have no morals, no scruples, no sense of propriety? Does he have no fear of God?”

“He has his own odd opinions about religion and morality.” Robert shook his head. “He believes, for instance, that delving too deeply into religious matters will undermine the state; he also thinks all appetites are free and God will never damn a man for allowing himself a wee bit of pleasure. In short, he has tailored his beliefs about God to fit his hedonistic lifestyle, rather than the other way around. He thinks to be wicked, and to design mischief, is the only thing God hates.”

“Does he not see his own malice?”

“Nay,” Robert said. “When it comes to self-reflection, he wears oversized blinders.”

Maggie wanted naught to do with such a selfish and decadent man and now dreaded their trip to the palace even more than before. As she stood there wringing her hands, Robert’s request to be whipped pushed through the other thoughts veiling her mind.
 

“May I ask you something?”

He still kept his back to her—just as well, given her distress. If he looked at her, she might fall apart.

“Of course.”

“Why do you wish to be punished by my hand? From what guilt do you seek expiation?”

“I would rather not say.”

She heaved a sigh of exasperation. “That is, of course, your prerogative, Robert. But know I will not grant your request unless I know the reason.”

“I will tell you tomorrow. In the carriage. On the way to Edinburgh.”

“Why not now?”

“Because, if you knew, you might refuse to go.”

Alarm reverberated through her like a struck gong. “And what if I refuse to go regardless?”

He rounded on her then with a heated gaze. “You will go if I have to tie you up and carry you to the carriage over my shoulder.”

Maggie’s hands fisted in rage. How dare he threaten to take her to Edinburgh by force. She had to know what he kept from her that warranted such brutish behavior—and a bad beating. Tonight. Right this minute. Her gaze darted from the rack of whips to the prayer chair. If he wanted a flogging, she would give it to him. But to further her own ends.

“Fine,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Have it your way. If ‘tis a flogging you desire, ‘tis a flogging I shall give you. Now, off with your clothes, husband, and get down on your knees whilst I select something suitable to beat you with.”

To her surprise, he began to undress. Heart fluttering like a bird inside her ribcage, she crossed to the rack of whips. There were single-tail buggy whips, multi-tail floggers, and assorted riding crops. A ceramic umbrella stand beside the display held an array of canes. She pulled out a gentleman’s walking stick with an ivory handle carved to resemble the head of a snake. It seemed appropriate somehow and would do the job creditably.
 

Turning round, she found him kneeling on the prayer chair, shirtless, but still in his kilt, his head bowed in contrition. Pity tempered her anger as her gaze roamed over his repentant posture.

Holy Mother of God. A crosshatch of fine scars covered his back and shoulders. Tears pricked her eyes and squeezed her throat. Had he done the damage himself? Why? To feel what Jesus felt whilst being scourged by the Romans or to expiate some inner darkness of his own? He claimed his erotic proclivities, though unconventional, were “natural.” Deep down in his heart of hearts, did he doubt his own rhetoric?