Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  “Have you previously injured your—” he paused to find the word “—prey?”

  “No. A warning shot is usually all that is necessary, though I’m quite adept at wounding haystacks.” Self-deprecation threaded through her words. “Surely, you are more practiced than I. You have been abroad. Seen war.” Her hands paused as she reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. They hovered there, long fingers so still and steady they might have been carved from marble. “Fought for your beliefs.”

  “Yes.” He might have said more, but the fingers began to briskly unbutton his waistcoat as if the pause in her movements had never happened.

  “What was it like? Fighting, marching—doing something worthwhile?”

  “Cold and hungry,” Wulf said flatly. “But I wasn’t a soldier for long. I was a spy.”

  “Well, that is news.” Bea efficiently continued to unfasten the buttons, though her fingertips seemed to tingle now that she was so close to him.

  His words were not a surprise. She had not suspected it before, but hearing him say it aloud seemed natural. She might have guessed the truth had her mind thought to consider the possibility.

  The way his eyes saw right through a person, his sense of honor, the even temperament—and his easy acceptance of a highwayman as a makeshift surgeon. Wulf’s adaptability would have proven useful as a spy.

  “Such an appointment would suit you,” she concluded. “I did not know you were assigned to espionage.”

  “I do not often speak of it. Few English drawing rooms are concerned with clandestine meetings in dank rooms in the French countryside. Not every cottage is as well-appointed as this one.” He winced as she drew the waistcoat over his wounded arm. “But it is in the past. Unlike your secrets, mine are now of little interest.”

  “I suppose that is true.” Bea dropped the waistcoat beside his other garments, studied the cravat he still wore. She wondered just what lay beneath that fine cloth and starched linen. Such broad shoulders filled the fabric, so able to bear the heavy burden of the dukedom. “Do you intend to expose me?”

  Her hands were heavy as she lifted them to his cravat, but only because a strange anticipation filled them. She began to slowly unwind and loosen the starched fabric. With each movement, the space between them seemed to swell with something powerful, even mesmerizing. Bea looked into his lean, handsome face and caught the roguish gleam in his eyes.

  She could not breathe.

  “That remains to be seen.” Wulf purred the words as the last loop of the cravat lifted away, revealing a squared jaw shadowed by stubble and the strong column of this throat.

  Everything in her went warm and needy as he stared straight at her with heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze skipped hotly over her body, lingering here and there. The irises appeared black in the dim cabin, though she knew their color.

  There was power in that gaze. Power and lust that sent licks of heat moving over her skin.

  “I must maintain my reputation.” Pulse quickening, she released the cravat and let it drop to the floor. “Such as it is.”

  She wanted to touch him. To skim her hand over that sharp jaw, feel the rasp of thick hair. Even lean down and set her lips to his.

  “What may I call you, aside from the Honorable Highwayman?” The question rumbled from his chest, a low sound that skimmed over her senses. “You are undressing me, after all. Surely I might have your name?”

  Chapter 4

  She could not give him a name.

  ‘Lady Beatrice Falk’ would reveal everything, though Wulf would not likely remember the girl nine years his junior who dreamed of riding to the hunt and going to battle. He would not remember the woman careful to hide from her brother’s drunken guests—for more than one reason.

  But he would know the Falk name.

  “That is a very long pause.” Amusement twined through Wulf’s deep voice. “I assume you are planning to lie?”

  “I did intend to lie, but I cannot think of a proper one.” It was the truth, which was no less dangerous than lies. “Nor will I give you my name—for obvious reasons.”

  “An honest highwayman, but not a foolhardy one.” Callused fingers took her hand, brought it to his lips. Pressing a firm, sculpted mouth against her knuckles, he murmured, “In any case, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Her breath drew in. Pushed out. Flames crackled beside them, the howling wind fighting to penetrate the walls. Wulf kept her hand in his, watching her as if nothing else existed just then. It was an intoxicating sensation.

  Bea drew back. His mouth was too full and sensual, his scent too strong. Everything about him made her want. And Bea knew the dangers of wanting and excess and lust. It did not matter if it was lust for drink, or pleasure, or dice, or silk.

  Or making love.

  Wulf would be a dangerous man to toy with. It would be too easy to fall under his spell and forget herself.

  “Your wound still requires tending.” Perhaps her body would cease this heady need if she focused on the practical. “If would be so kind as to remove your shirt, it will be easier.”

  Bea did not wait for him to consent. She strode to the shelves lining the north wall and retrieved one of the iron kettles stacked there. Without bothering to don her greatcoat or scarf, she threw open the cottage door and stepped into the storm.

  Wind whipped up a crystalline tempest to pelt her face. Ignoring the fury, she scooped snow into the pot. Icy cold stung her skin and made her fingers burn as she filled the kettle nearly to the brim. Then she wrestled the door closed and turned once more into the warmth.

  Into Wulf.

  He’d come up behind her, tall and half-naked as she’d commanded—and just there. His lips were close, and the thought of pressing her mouth to his filled her with need. She wanted to brush her fingers over the broad expanse of his chest and the blond hair sprinkled there.

  “I thought it might be heavy.” Wulf’s voice was rough, his eyes dark with desire as he carefully removed the kettle from her hands.

  He felt it as well, then, this tug between them.

  “Perhaps it is the hit to my head that makes me take leave of my senses, but I believe this evening will be very—” he paused, pinning her with those deep blue eyes. “Engaging.”

  “Oh, do you?” Bea knew precisely what Wulf was thinking just then, and sent him a slow, knowing smile. “Clearly, you are not in your right mind.”

  “Oh, yes. I am in my right mind,” he said softly.

  His gaze was so hot, so dark, it set her body alight.

  Dangerous, indeed.

  “If you would bring the pot?” She moved around him, striding toward the fire and the chair. Giving herself to the Duke of Highrow would be foolish. She would risk too much, in too many ways.

  Yet Wulf would make any woman cross the line.

  Chapter 5

  “I’ve no convenient petticoat to bind your arm with.” Bea stared into the melting water. Little remained of the snow now, just a few swirls of white. Testing the surface with a fingertip, she judged it warm, but not hot.

  She had begun to breathe properly again as she tended the water. Still, her body was tight, her mood edgy. Bea did not want to be cautious, but pleasure must always be approached with attention.

  “We might as well use my shirt as a bandage,” Wulf suggested. “’Tis a loss in any case.”

  The sound of rending fabric rose into the air as she removed the iron pot. She swirled the kettle once to even the water temperature, then turned to see him tearing strips from the bottom edge of his lawn shirt. He ripped again, firelight burnishing the shifting muscles in his shoulders.

  She was no stranger to the male body, but Wulf’s body was more. Masculine and virile and strong. And so very tempting.

  Caution, she reminded herself.

  Settling once more into the crude chair, he laid the strips of his ruined shirt over his thigh. White against the deep black. She strode forward, trying not to slosh the warmed water—but thinking of wher
e that trail of blond hair led.

  The one that disappeared beneath the waist of his breeches.

  Her cinnamon scent filled the air around Wulf again as his highwayman drew close. She set the water on the floor, then quickly unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it. Clad in shirtsleeves and a plain waistcoat, she leaned forward to study his wound.

  The pain had dulled now—shoulder, head—giving way to an intense craving for her. One that balanced on the keen edge of pleasure and torment.

  Competent fingers brushed against his thigh as she retrieved one of the clothe strips he’d laid there. Wulf went hard, fought not to touch her. To accept the gentle ministrations as she dipped the fabric in the water and carefully sponged away the blood.

  She narrowed her eyes as she worked, leaned closer. He carefully studied each feature of her face, memorizing its contours. A strong nose, eyes he could see now were hazel, and a narrow, pointed chin. A lush, full mouth.

  The dandies in London might not call her a diamond of the first water, but there was something arresting about her face, her confident manner.

  “You are very beautiful,” he murmured.

  She stilled, frozen as she bent to reach for the pot of water again.

  “No one has ever called me that before.” Moving slowly, she dunked the cloth, then looked directly at him as she straightened. That level, honest stare was almost difficult to meet. “Someone said I was a handsome woman once, but no one has ever used the word beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful. It is true.” So true, just the look of her dried his throat. Her face was fiercely lovely, full of feminine strength. Everything about those features might have come from an ancient goddess.

  “Well. You are the first to think so.” She breathed deep, let it out again, and continued her task. “If you intend to flatter me into becoming your lover, it will not work.”

  “I see.” Amused at both of them, he studied her fingers as she worked. Long, quick, elegant. “Thank you for being straightforward about that.”

  “I am a highwayman, and I take my pleasure where and how I want, but I am careful.” She slid him a mischievous glance, long lashes flashing over eyes not quite green, not quite brown, but a mixture of both. “And you are wounded.”

  “Hardly,” he snorted.

  “I must admit, I did a poor job shooting you.” She probed the area gently, pursed her lips. “It is not even worth stitching, truth be told. Salve over the next few days and clean wrappings should do it.”

  “To be felled so low over so small a wound,” Wulf quipped, and had the pleasure of seeing her lips turn up with humor.

  “But felled by the Honest Highwayman, so that must be some comfort,” she added.

  “True.” Which made him curious about her. She was certainly no village housewife or servant. “Who are you? It is whispered you give away everything you take. Why do you do this at all?”

  “I am tempted not to tell you, but it is no secret among the villagers—though they may not answer if a duke were to ask.” The rag plopped into the water as she dropped it, then reached for the remaining strip of his shirt. “There are many in need. The lords write their laws, the orators in London shout about poverty and politics and money, but that does not change what is here. Right here, in the village. Many are prosperous, and many others are not. Children die of hunger from time to time, or the aged cannot pay for a surgeon or buy a tincture from an apothecary, and we lose them too soon.”

  “Few of my tenants are in such dire circumstances. I see that they are cared for during the lean times.” He disliked feeling the need to defend himself but found he could not let the statement remain unsaid.

  “You are particularly kind, then.” She wound the torn cloth around his shoulder, binding it tightly. “Many are not, and those in the village are unsupported. There was a young widow who gave away her four children a few years ago—to work for others for free, rather than as paid servants—because she could not feed them. They are fed and clothed now, so I cannot blame her. Yet I would have helped if I could.

  “There are many who sit in London, in their finery and with their fancy brandy, visiting Parliament each day where they have a chance to make a difference.” She breathed deep, then continued. “They think nothing of those who are less fortunate.”

  “I see.” Perhaps Wulf might have been included among such company. He championed his own causes, but he had not often considered the circumstances of the poor. He doubted he would ever neglect the subject again. “Still, there are other, legitimate methods to see the poor are cared for. Pamphlets, treatises, even laws. Look to those who have made a difference before, making people think with their words. Skulking around at night and engaging in highway robbery is not necessarily the best method to support your cause.”

  “My method is practical, at least, and immediate.” Annoyance flashed over her face. “Those I steal from possess more than enough money, and usually spend it on drink or gambling or women. Jewelry and fashionable gowns. New curtains for a drawing room, simply for the sake of new curtains.” She tied the ends of the fabric and stepped back, examined her work.

  “You rob those with excess and give to those in need.” Fascinated, Wulf cocked his head, considered her firm expression. “And when you shoot your prey, you tend to his injuries.”

  “I suppose I do.” Her lips slowly curved with resigned humor, softening the features that had hardened and making him want to kiss her as much as her irritation had.

  He was certain there was not another woman in all of England quite like this one.

  “You are an extraordinary woman.”

  She laughed at that. Threw back her head and laughed, long and loud. “You would not think so if we were anywhere but here, in this cabin.”

  “I think I would.” Which brought another question to his mind. “Would I meet you somewhere else?”

  “No.” Though her smile remained and her gaze was steady, the word was flat. He had heard similar tones in the secret hiding places of France and Belgium.

  “Why do I think you are lying?” he asked softly.

  “Because I am a thief.”

  “True.”

  “I am also a passable surgeon.” She grinned at him, eyes snapping once more with good humor. Stepping close, this time between his legs, she adjusted the binding on his arm with gentle hands. “You are quite cleaned up.”

  “Thank you, though it seems strange to say, as it was you who shot me.”

  Though she had no need to remain in front of him, she stayed, her thighs brushing against his. No petticoats and skirts between his skin and hers, only buckskin and wool. Wide, beautiful eyes met his, held. Still, she did not move away.

  Heat speared through him, lust ground at his control. Her body called him. The nip at the waist of her waistcoat, the flare at her hips, the soft rounding of her belly. So many gorgeous lines and curves to follow. Unable to keep himself from touching, Wulf reached out with his good hand, set his fingers lightly on her waist.

  Her breathing quickened, and her eyes went dark.

  “Now that your injury is tended, what shall we do?” A feline smile moved across her face. “Games, perhaps?”

  Chapter 6

  Bea set her lips to his, took and tasted, simply because she wanted to. Caution be damned. The iron kettle on the floor was ignored, the shirt he’d discarded only a whisper in her mind.

  Instead, the heat of him thrilled. The scent of him made her yearn.

  And his mouth. It gave sweetly and still greedily consumed. He tasted of winter. Of lust. Of need. She wanted more before she even understood the want. Every inch of her body was lit with fire as brilliant and hot as the flame in the hearth.

  Wulf’s face tipped up toward hers. The hand at her waist curled around to her back, drew her closer as his injured arm rose. A warm, rough palm pressed against her cheek, his thumb feathering across her skin.

  His strong thighs came together, holding her in place but not trapping her.
Relishing the hard muscle against her softer curves, she let the sensation settle into her body, let it fuel her mouth. She moved her tongue over his lips, then pressed inside to tease.

  Every movement simmered in her blood.

  “Madame Highwayman,” Wulf murmured. “Your mouth is more dangerous than your pistols.”

  In one strong, fluid move, he rose to his full height, the expanse of his chest filling her vision.

  She had to touch.

  His skin was smooth and hot. Muscle rippled beneath her fingers, the heat of his skin warming her cold fingertips. Though she felt the strain of his control, he waited. Daring, tempting, and releasing her all at once.

  “Just how much do you want to play?” The rumble of his deep voice vibrated against her palm. “How far do you intend to go?”

  “I don’t know yet.” But she knew how far she wanted to go.

  “Decide.” The tone of his voice lowered as he stepped closer, and she dropped her hand.

  He was barely an inch away. She wanted to touch again. More. Drawing her gaze upward, she let it linger on his mouth. Considered just what to do. Then two strong, callused palms cupped her face. Firm, hot lips bent to hers. Claimed.

  His mouth sent lightning straight to her toes. Wrangled so much need and brought it to the surface. She could not stop her hands from roaming toward his shoulders, curving them around his neck. Settled her fingers in thick strands of blond hair.

  Tugged a little. Just because.

  His low, needy growl followed, and his mouth nipped once in response.

  Suddenly she could not touch enough of him. Her hands roamed over his skin, down the muscled torso to grip his waist. The buttons of the fall-front breeches were just there, so she flicked them open. The breeches slipped to the floor to reveal—everything.