Duncan didn't know why he heard it, or how he had time to react. His Mohawk father must have taught him well.
One moment he was in his saddle, the next he was flying through the air, over the railing, taking his musket with him. He hit the cold, knee-deep water, then the gravel bottom, with a splash.
Duncan rolled hard, coming up on his feet at the stream's edge, spraying water. From where he crouched, he could see the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from the bridge's rail. Had it been Duncan's chest the arrow had hit, he knew he'd have been breathing his last bloody, gurgling breath at this very moment.
With the instinct he had nurtured living among the savages, Duncan lifted his loaded musket to bead in on the enemy. He knew without seeing, without hearing, where his attacker lay in wait.
Duncan caught a flash of a brown coat in the crook of a tree and pulled the trigger, not needing to take time to aim.
The would-be assassin fell from the tree, dead before his grizzly face met the cold water of the riverbed. Duncan had shot him in the face, blowing away the top of his head.
Duncan crept along the shore, toward the would-be assassin, looking this way and that, fearing there might be another. With the single load in his musket discharged, he had nothing to rely on to defend himself but the sword he wore on his belt.
Duncan kicked the killer onto his back. He could barely recognize the face as human, but he didn't think he knew him. The man's wet, blond hair was cropped short, as if he'd recently come from sea; what was left of his head . . .
Duncan smiled grimly. He was comforted to know that he hadn't lost his ability to shoot true in these months he'd wasted as a gentleman in England. Once he returned to Maryland, he knew he would need to call on his capability to hunt and to protect himself, and others, once again.
Satisfied that the man was dead, Duncan reached down to pick up the bow that had fallen from the tree with him. It was not well made.
The sound of hurried hoofbeats sent Duncan hiding behind a massive oak. When the horse appeared, Duncan stepped out, recognizing the rider as young Eli.
"What happened?" He swung down off his mount. "I heard the musket-fire, my lord." He looked at the body at his feet. "Are you all right?"
Duncan gave the dead man's limp arm a kick. "Know him?"
Eli grimaced in shock.
Duncan guessed he'd never seen a man's face blown off before. Never seen one skinned off either, he speculated.
Duncan's saw the gamekeeper swallow hard. The boy was beginning to look a little green.
"Hard to tell," Eli said after a moment. "I don't think I know 'im. Look at his clothes. He ain't from these parts. Looks like he's out of London to me."
Duncan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring out into the forest thoughtfully. "I'd guess the same."
Eli looked at Duncan. "Why—why would someone want to kill you, my lord?"
Duncan turned away to search for his horse, who had shied in the commotion. Already his mind was churning with theories. He didn't bother to answer the boy.
Was someone trying to kill him, or was this just a strange accident, a case of mistaken identity? He called to his mount, standing in the distance, and the horse trotted to him. Duncan picked up the leather reins. He'd have to go back to the cottage and borrow some clothing or dry his own. And what about the scaffolding? he wondered, shivering, from the cold. He was not a paranoid man, but neither was he a foolish one. Had that been a freak accident as well . . . or not?
Thirteen
Jillian stood near the fireplace, warming her hands. Duncan sat behind her at his desk, penning a letter. The hour was late; the tall case clock on the landing had just chimed eleven-thirty. Jillian was tired, but she had waited all day for Duncan. After going to bed without him last night, knowing he was annoyed with her, she wanted to make amends. Besides, she had something she wanted to discuss with him.
She heard him sprinkle sand on the paper to dry the ink.
"Duncan," she said softly.
"Yes?"
He had not given her his full attention, but she went on anyway. "Duncan, I've been thinking about Beatrice."
"Um hm."
"About a husband. Father has had no prospects, and now my sister Margaret wishes to wed."
"Um hm."
Jillian turned to him, putting her back to the warm fire. She was afraid if she didn't ask him now, she'd not get the nerve again, so she just blurted it out. "Duncan, could we take Beatrice with us when we go to the Colonies?" She went on a little faster, not giving him time to answer. "We could find her a husband there. I'm sure we could. Will says there's ten Englishmen for every woman in Maryland. He says everyone is looking for a wife with decent teeth." She twisted her hands in her white linen night rail with the Irish lace. "What do you think?"
He was staring at the letter on the desk, yet she knew he wasn't reading it. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke. He funneled the sand from the sheet of paper back into a small ceramic pot. "I'll consider it. I suppose finding her a husband would be the least I could do."
"Oh, Duncan." She came toward him. "I can't tell you what it would mean to me!" She stopped at his chair and dropped her hand to his shoulder. "Thank you."
He pushed back in his chair and stood. She remained beside him as he caught the hem of his linen shirt and pulled it over his head.
Jillian couldn't resist reaching out to touch the patterned tattoos that covered his chest. The colored figures fascinated her. Some were actual pictures that she could recognize, a bird, a dagger, but others were Mohawk symbols that Duncan had had to explain. "What's this one?" she asked.
Duncan's shirt fell from his fingertips to the floor. It was obvious to her that he enjoyed her touch, inexperienced or not. "It tells of a battle." He pointed to a blue cloud. "This is the smoke of the enemy's musket. This, the Mohawk victory." He indicated a flash of ochre lightening.
She nibbled on her lower lip, her hand still resting on his chest. She looked up at him.
His gaze met hers, and she knew that his anger over last night had passed. He leaned closer to kiss her, his movement deliciously slow and tantalizing.
Jillian sighed. If there were one thing that could be said for her marriage, it was that the sex between them was good. "Come to bed," she whispered.
He brushed his lips against hers, the sexual charge evident in the warm, still air of their bedchamber. "I'm coming."
Jillian stepped away from him and walked toward the bed, removing her night rail. She was still shy about allowing Duncan see her unclothed, but it was so obvious that he enjoyed it, that she found herself displaying herself, even when it wasn't necessary. She liked the way he watched her, as he watched her now.
She slipped out of the robe and laid it over a chair. She could hear Duncan undressing behind her. When she turned to sit on the edge of the bed, his gaze was on her. She smiled. She liked this power her sexual allure held over her husband. It was tangible proof that he cared for her on some level.
Jillian slipped between the sheets, but made no attempt to cover her bare breasts. Duncan had removed his boots and stockings and was now unlacing his breeches.
Jillian knew her cheeks colored as she stared shamelessly at her husband. His male organ fascinated her almost as much as the tattoos did. He slipped out of his breeches and his member sprang forth, already growing stiff with desire for her, from the confines of the broadcloth.
Duncan let his breeches lie on the floor where they fell and walked about the room extinguishing the candles. He left one burning on his side of the bed and then climbed beneath the sheets.
Jillian came to him immediately. She wasn't yet so bold that she would initiate their lovemaking, but she sought him out, at least for the comfort of his strong embrace, one thing he'd never denied her.
"Oh, Jilly, Jilly," he whispered in the near-darkness. "Aren't you a sight for tired eyes at the end of day?" His hand found her breast and stroked it. Already she could
feel her nipple growing taut in anticipation.
She rested her head on his shoulder, running her hand over his chest. The sleek, hard muscles of his body fascinated her. Everything about his virile body was engaging; it was so different from her own, so full of strength and hardness.
Jillian could sense he was preoccupied—and certainly not with concern for finding Bea a husband. "You went to New Forest. Did you find a caretaker?"
"Aye." He caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Nearly found an arrow in my chest, too."
"What?" Jillian sat up to look at him, peering into his face. "What do you mean? Someone shot at you?" He continued to caress her breast, but for the moment all Jillian could think of was his welfare. "Someone accidentally shot at you? I thought no one hunted your land except by permission."
"I'm not certain it was an accident."
Jillian searched his handsome face for understanding. Now that she had grown used to the bear claw tattoo on his cheek, she found she liked it. It made her husband different from any other man. "I don't understand. You think someone tried to kill you? Who?"
He brought his hand up beneath her chin. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry!" She stroked his cheek, now stubbled with a day's beard-growth. "Someone may be trying to kill you, and you say I shouldn't worry? What happened to the man who shot at you? What did he say?"
"Ouch."
She frowned. "Ouch?"
"I killed him."
Jillian stiffened. Just when she thought perhaps she was beginning to understand Duncan, she realized she knew nothing of him. Her husband had killed a man today and not thought to mention it until nearly midnight. Her voice wavered. "You killed someone today, Duncan?"
"Would you have rather he'd killed me?"
"No. No, of course not."
His hand was on her breast again, stroking her, comforting her. "The odd thing is that no one knew where I was going today," he said, kissing her forehead.
"No one? I knew. You must have told someone else."
"No, I didn't. I'm sure I didn't."
She traced the circle of flesh around his nipple with her forefinger. "You—you didn't tell Algernon, did you?"
"Algernon? I haven't spoke to my cousin since last week when he came to me for another advance on his allowance. He's been out about town—with one of his whores, no doubt." Duncan laid his hand over hers, ceasing her caress. "Why do you mention Algernon?"
Jillian hesitated. She wasn't a carrier of tales. She didn't want to see Algernon in trouble. The man was harmless; she actually felt sorry for him. But if Duncan were in danger, she knew it was her duty as his wife to tell him anything she knew. "Algernon . . . he's been speaking some nonsense about having the courts return the earldom to him."
Duncan tipped back his head and laughed genuinely. "Have the courts return the title? You jest."
She smiled. "He says they made a mistake. He's says it's all rightfully his."
"And what reason does he give?"
"No reason. He—he said I shouldn't have married you." She paused. "He said I should have waited for him."
Again, laughter. "So that's it. My cousin is jealous of my beautiful wife." He ran his hand down her bare arm. "And why shouldn't he be? Poor man. He thought we'd all been murdered and he'd inherited his uncle's fortune. He had for a few years. I can't blame him for being angry. After his parents died when he was a babe, he was passed about. He lived with us, with Grandmother, sometimes with his aunt. He truly got the short end of the stick being born the son of the younger Roderick brother."
"I knew he was harmless. That was why I didn't say anything before." She thought for a moment. "So you're certain you told no one you were going to New Forest today?"
He sighed. "Let's not talk about it anymore. Here in my bedchamber is the one place I want to get away from the world."
"All right." Jillian had more questions, but she wouldn't press him tonight. It was a wonder he'd said anything about the incident at all. She rested her head on his chest again. Her hand brushed his flat, hard belly, and went lower.
Duncan groaned. "Minx. I married a minx."
"You want me to stop?" Her voice grew sultry as her fingers met with the dark, curly hair of his groin. "I can stop if you want me to, husband."
"No." His voice came huskily in the darkness. "Don't stop . . ."
"He said what?" Beatrice giggled, reaching for the china coffeepot set on the table. She and Jillian were waiting for the dowager to join them for an afternoon refreshment.
Jillian turned from the hearth where she'd been stoking the fire. The chill of England's north winds had hit London hard last night, and suddenly winter was truly upon them. Jillian was actually relieved to see the month of December. Duncan hadn't mentioned when they would be sailing for the Colonies and she hadn't asked for fear of the answer, but she assumed that they would now wait until spring.
"Duncan said he would consider allowing you to go to the Colonies with us. He said he might help find a husband for you."
Beatrice clutched her woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. "You're serious. Oh, I don't know, going so far across the ocean to that sinful land. Mary Maston said Indians walk right into your house whilst you dine. She says the conditions are dreadful. I don't know that I can do it. I don't know that I can go."
"Stuff and nonsense!" Jillian said, repeating the dowager's favorite saying. She came around the table set for tea. "You were perfectly willing to go when you were supposed to marry Duncan."
"That was different," Beatrice answered, wide-eyed, as she slipped into her seat. "That was when I was going with my husband. It was my duty. It's entirely different now."
Jillian leaned over the back of her chair. "Come, sister. Think of the adventure of it. I was looking at the maps on Duncan's wall. It looks like we'll take the southern route through the Caribbean Islands. We may even stop in Jamaica for supplies."
"I'm not the adventurous sort." Beatrice stared at her china plate, folding her hands neatly. "You are, but I'm just not."
"Such stuff and nonsense!" The dowager appeared in the doorway of the parlor. A footman trailing behind her lifted her cloak from her shoulders. It had grown cold enough in the house in the last few days that all three women had taken to wearing their cloaks when they moved from room to room in the drafty house.
"Daphne." Beatrice came out of her chair, smiling. "You look lovely today."
The dowager touched a red curl. "Madame Dupree just touched up my hair. It's not too bright, is it? I don't want to look like anyone's leman!"
Jillian linked her arm through the dowager's and led her to the table. "Not at all. It looks beautiful, especially for a woman your age."
Daphne allowed Jillian to help her into her seat. "That was what I told my husband, God rest his soul." She picked up her linen napkin and tucked it into the décolletage of her mint-green gown. "I said, Forrest, you'll carry me out in my coffin a redhead. No gray hair for me, not as long as the good lord is still making henna and French hairstylists!"
Jillian laughed, taking the chair beside her. "I may consider that thought myself someday." She ran a hand over her own red tresses.
"Indeed you should." The dowager turned to Beatrice. "Now what is this about your not being interested in a little adventure, Bea?" She reached for a cream-filled pastry.
"I . . ." Beatrice looked meekly to her sister for support.
Jillian poured the thick, hot coffee into tiny cups. "I've asked Duncan if Beatrice can accompany us to Maryland. I want him to find her a husband there."
The old woman took a healthy bite of the sweet. "And you don't want to go?"
Beatrice wrung her hands. "I—I don't know."
"Ah, what a world you ladies have been born into. Me—I'm too feeble, too locked into my ways, but you have the chances of a lifetime. I'd have liked to have seen the American Colonies once. The Indians intrigue
me." She waved her ring-encrusted hand. "I'm too old for that now, but not you." She pointed a bony finger at Beatrice. "You've just begun to live, woman. Use some good sense. Don't spend your life hiding behind a gilded chair. If my grandson will escort you to that wilderness of his, I say go. You'll meet the right man." She winked. "And then you'll be more than willing to share in an adventure or two with him."
Beatrice stared at her plate, chastised.
Jillian reached out to take her sister's hand and squeezed it. "Daphne's right. It will be an adventure, you and I going together to the colonies. And we will find you a husband."
"F—father would have to give his permission. I—I don't know that he will."
"Stuff and nonsense." The dowager reached for a chocolate-iced cake, still chewing on the cream puff. "He'll be more than willing to pass the responsibility of another daughter off to the earl." She glanced at Beatrice. "No offense meant, sweetling, but we all know that's the way men are."
"My sister forgets. Th—the earl didn't yet agree to take me."
Jillian gave a wave of confidence. "Leave both men to me. I'll see to it."
The dowager chuckled, wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "No doubt you will, sweetling. I have utter faith in you and your feminine wiles."
Jillian was just reaching for the coffeepot to refill the dowager's cup when she heard an angry shout. All three women looked at each other. There was no mystery as to whom the voice belonged. The string of bellows that echoed through the east wing could come from no one but Duncan.
Jillian pushed out of her chair. "I'd best see what's about."
The dowager chuckled. "I suppose you had. Good luck." She returned her attention to her plate. "Now, Beatrice, dear, pass this old woman that plate of sweets, will you? I'm famished!"
Jillian picked her cloak off the chair near the parlor door and swung it over her shoulders as she went out. She could still hear Duncan shouting as she hurried down the passageway.
She found him in the front hallway, where the recently replaced swords hung in a grand circle over his head. She spotted a footman standing near the front door, trembling in his boots.
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 14
