“Silence, Your Grace,” Miss Palliser ordered Edward. “I must take the boy with me, but he will be returned.”
Leo prepared his aim. His hands were steady. His heart was ready. He could do this. He could save his nephew. He bloody well had to, for if he did not, Leo could not bear it. His life had been lived, his mind was tainted, and he had already accomplished what he wished.
Why could the wench not have chosen him as her victim instead?
The undeniable rustling of someone racing through the dense forest behind Clay broke the silence. Leo tensed, wondering if it was another Fenian, but then he saw the swirl of skirts and flaming hair, and knew it was his sister-in-law Ara instead. He took advantage of the commotion.
Held his breath.
Pulled the trigger.
His lone shot rang out.
The bullet struck its target, hitting Miss Palliser, cutting through her gray frock. A dark-red stain instantly spread as her body jerked forward. Her pistol fell from her slack hand. Blood ran down her arm in a rush.
Goddamn it!
He must have hit a vein, and while he had wished to injure her, he still needed the vile female alive so he could interrogate her. She crumpled to the ground.
Edward broke free of her and ran toward Clay and Ara, shouting. “Papa! Mama!”
Leo rushed forward, wasting no time in binding Miss Palliser’s hands and ankles before withdrawing his knife and cutting a strip from her petticoat. He tied it above her wound tightly, fashioning a tourniquet to stay the blood pouring from her body. He retrieved her weapon and checked it, and that was when he made a most curious discovery: the gun bore no bullets.
She had been holding Edward hostage with nothing but an empty pistol and her own bravado. He pocketed her gun and stared down at her ashen face, wondering who in the hell she was.
He looked up at the happy reunion of Clay, Ara, and Edward—hugs, kisses, tears, proclamations of love—and vowed he would strip her, whoever she was, of every speck of information she possessed concerning the Fenians.
And when he had finished, he would destroy her.
Chapter Six
Bridget woke to aching arms, sore wrists, and a searing pain in her right upper arm and shoulder. She blinked, disoriented for a moment. Confused. Why was she not in her chamber? Where was the young duke?
This chamber, while nonetheless well appointed, was not her apartment with the three large windows, early morning sun, and charmed view of the verdant Harlton Hall park. The bed linens did not smell sweetly of lavender, but instead of stale sweat and the murk of sickness she recalled so well from her youth. She was bound to the bed, and she had been stripped down to her chemise.
That was when she remembered.
Someone had shot her. There had been the suddenness of the pain, tearing through her upper arm. The warm, wet trickle of blood—so much blood. It had been on her hand, red and dripping down her arm. And then the shock had set in, her teeth had rattled and her mouth had gone dry.
She recalled the leafy green trees overhead as she fell to her back, the shouts, the anxious voices of the young duke’s mother and stepfather, sun piercing through the boughs, glinting like the promise of a far-off land. A land without suffering, pain, or fear. Then the dark abyss of nothingness had claimed her.
Now, she was a prisoner, being kept in a strange place, attended to by a servant who refused to answer her questions aside from the necessary. She had been injured, the woman tending her—Annie—had said, and then had suffered an infection. Aside from those bare facts, she knew nothing.
For three days, she had been fed nothing but broth and gruel, wallowing in her own filth. No one heard her when she screamed. Or if they did, they were not inclined to answer.
She could recognize nothing. The window dressings had remained closed, with only thin strains of sunlight on the periphery to tell her whether it was night or day. Her female captor was pretty, but cruel. She seemed to take pleasure in Bridget’s every discomfort. Two times a day, she appeared to aid Bridget in the use of the chamber pot and delivered her broth and gruel. In the evening, she brought her tea.
As lucidity slowly returned to her, and she had begun to regain her ability to comprehend, she had dared to ask questions.
Where am I?
Who is responsible for this?
Why am I being held here?
Each time, the woman remained silent. Each time, Bridget grew more frustrated. The tea the woman brought her was sweet. Laced with laudanum, she suspected, and she would have foregone it had she been given anything else to drink. When she slept, she returned to the darkness. She saw Cullen there, waiting for her. She forgot who she was, what she had done, and it was easier.
But this was the first time she had been bound.
A shudder racked her now as she searched the chamber frantically. In her state of half-wakeful confusion, she was desperate for the answers she had been seeking ever since she had regained consciousness.
Who had tied the knots on her wrists while she slept, cradled in the arms of the opium her jailer fed her?
Whoever it was, Bridget knew one fact without question: she needed to escape.
Now.
Her first instinct—tugging at her bindings—only served to draw them tighter. A sudden, damning prescience settled over her then. When she had first come to, she had been caught up in her last lucid memories—of Mr. Ludlow imploring her, his wife racing through the forest. Of the lad trembling in her arms. She had imagined Mr. Ludlow had delivered her to the authorities, that he had secreted another weapon upon him somehow.
But an awful, niggling sensation within her told her she had been wrong. Horribly, foolishly wrong. She had no doubt who had brought her here, to wherever she now was. No doubt as to who had tied the devil’s knots digging into her flesh. No doubt either as to whose bullet had burned through her body, leaving her weak and wounded and sick.
It could be none other than the Duke of Carlisle.
Though she knew it was futile, she tugged harder with her uninjured arm, an animalistic sound of desperation hatching from her throat. Of course it would have been him who had shot her. What else would he do to her now that she was completely at his mercy?
John’s words pricked the edge of her memory. The Duke of Carlisle is as black as they come. A heartless killer. One of the most dangerous men in the League. He is our greatest enemy, one that must be challenged with great caution.
As if he had been conjured, the door to the chamber opened, and Carlisle himself stalked over the threshold. His dark gaze settled upon her with searing scorn. Long, elegant fingers slammed the portal at his back. He did not resemble a duke in the slightest. He was dressed in black trousers and white shirtsleeves, nary even a waistcoat.
“You are awake, madam?”
She said nothing, but his presence was enough to make her instinctively tug at her bindings once more, even as a raw and terrible pain ricocheted from her wound all over her body. Nausea swirled in her stomach at the sudden virulence of the agony.
“I would not do that were I you,” he said calmly. “It will only make the binding tighter and more painful.”
Fear blossomed inside her, for she recognized the face of a predator when she saw one. This was not the same man who had kissed her with passionate persuasion at Harlton Hall. The man before her wanted to tear her apart, piece by piece.
Despite his warning, and though she knew she should remain still, she pulled again savagely. A fresh, stinging pain cut through her, beginning at her wrists and surging up her arms. The wound reminded her with a vicious intensity that she was a fool. So too did it remind her of her abject failure. She had faltered when she could have bluffed. She had doubted when she should have stayed her course.
She had been bested by the man before her, and she did not like it. Bitter, futile anger coursing through her, she jerked again, with all the force she possessed. She bit her lip to stifle the cry of agony she would have otherwise emitted, not
wanting to give him the pleasure of her pain.
He had crossed the room with calm, purposeful strides and stood at her bedside. “You would be wise to remain still. You suffered a great deal of blood loss with your wounding, and after that, infection set in. I should hate for you to tear open your stitches, forcing us to begin this process again. I’ll be no one’s nursemaid, and I am told by Annie she grows tired of being yours.”
“I will not be still,” she seethed, pulling at her restraints once more. “You shot me, you madman.”
“Mm.” He reached out, stroking one of her wrists over the cruel, cutting rope. Back and forth, his touch at once soothing, yet terrifying. “Says the madwoman who held a gun to an innocent child’s head.”
She would not have hurt the young duke. Never. But she would not defend herself. Not to him. Bridget maintained her silence, telling him with her eyes what she thought of him. He was the enemy. A ruthless, cunning man. A fearsome opponent. Here now, after all her days of recuperation, was the devil to collect his due.
“Do not touch me,” she spat when his fingers curled around her wrist, his thumb rubbing tender circles over her pulse.
“Are your fingers burning?” he asked.
Yes.
“I feel nothing,” she vowed.
“Do you know what I find odd, madam?” He continued rubbing her wrist, as if he sought to ameliorate her pain, which she knew could not be farther from the truth. “You attempted to spirit a young duke away from his family, and yet your pistol was empty.”
“You disrobed me,” she charged instead of responding.
“You were bleeding.”
“Because of you.”
“Because you absconded with an innocent boy,” he returned coldly. “I shot you because you were holding a pistol to the lad’s head, and I had no other recourse.”
Yes, much to her shame, she had done that. The fearful breaths the boy had taken, the accusing brightness of his gaze, the trembling in his small form…all these remembrances added to her shame. She had never meant to involve the boy or cause him alarm in any way. If she had not been desperate, she would not have used him as she had done. She would never have done John’s bidding in the first place.
“He would not have been hurt,” she said.
“Your lack of ammunition is rather surprising, madam, even to me. I don’t suppose the Fenians trust a cunny with a loaded pistol.” The bite of his tone, so at odds with the tenderness of his touch, nettled her.
And though she had no doubt it was just as he had intended, she reacted all the same. “They trusted me with ammunition. It is merely that I refused to hold a loaded weapon to the head of a young boy.”
Her soft heart had ever been her downfall. Bridget O’Malley was tougher than a wizened old tree, but when it came to children, even her jaded, cynical soul could weep. And though her days with the young duke had been limited, she had developed a fondness for the lad.
“You admit to your connections to the Fenians then.” His tone was clipped. Scornful.
“I admit to nothing but the ability to carry ammunition,” she said stoically, well aware she had said more than she should have. “I admit to knowing how to load and shoot a firearm.”
“I do not give a damn what you do or do not know about a pistol, madam. You held a gun to the temple of an innocent child. You had no compunction about dragging him from his bed and luring him away from his home.” His thumb pressed painfully into her wrist then, emphasizing the bitterness and rancor in his voice.
She clenched her teeth. “He was not hurt.”
“You betrayed his trust. That will mark the boy forever.” He pressed again. “What is your real name, madam?”
“Jane Palliser.”
He was expressionless—calm, almost—but his touch was anything but. He seized both her wrists in punishing grips which would have made her cry out with pain had she not bit her lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of her own blood.
“Try again, damn you.”
His face was near to hers now, his gaze boring, and she could see the delineation of each whisker on his jaw. He had not shaved in several days, she would wager.
“Jane Palliser,” she repeated, goading him in part because she wanted to see how far he would go, and also, because she was no fool. If she revealed her identity, he would find a whole world of other means to hurt her.
He squeezed harder. “A warning, lady. You do not want to test me.”
“A warning in return. I will not be broken.” While her wrists were bound, her legs remained free, and she wasted no time in using her knee against him.
But her motions were slowed from the time she had spent in the sickbed, and she was still weak, in spite of the days she had spent recovering. He sensed her action before she could finish the follow-through, catching her knee beneath her chemise and stilling her in the act of smashing him in the groin.
“Do not fool yourself,” he said with dangerous intent, his tone as smooth as silk, butter rich and deep. He gripped her bare skin, and she felt the contact like a brand. “You will be broken by me. I will crush you, madam. Before I deliver you to prison, I will know your every secret.” His hand slid higher, jolting her as he made contact with her thigh, gripping her there as he joined her on the bed, his large body dominating hers with ease.
She hissed out a breath, grinding her jaw. Even weakened and in pain, she could not deny the pleasure Carlisle’s rough touch sent through her.
How was it her body could so betray her with a man she loathed? How could the biting grip of her enemy upon her make her heart pound and the flesh between her legs tingle?
Being wounded had addled her. Likely, her mind had been afflicted by the fever. It was the only explanation she would accept.
She jammed her thighs together, keeping his hand from traveling higher. “More villainous men than you have tried to break me and failed, Duke. You do not scare me.”
“Darling, there is no man more villainous than I.” He smiled, but it was a hard smile, one laden with menace. “I ought to scare you. I ought to bloody well terrify you.”
“Perhaps it is you who should fear me,” she challenged, meeting his gaze. She was desperate. At his mercy. But she didn’t give a damn. She had her pride, and she would go on fighting until she could fight no more.
“You?” His smile deepened, his gaze traveling over her in a manner intended to mock.
Instead, her entire body went flush with warmth.
Remnants of fever, no doubt.
“Aye, Duke,” she responded, allowing the brogue she hid to emerge. “You ought to fear me. There’s nothing more dangerous to a man than a woman he wants to bed. Especially when that woman is his enemy.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, but aside from that, he remained still, one hand clamped on her thigh, and the other on her wrist, the heat of his body radiating into hers. “If I had wanted to bed you, I would have already done so.”
“Lie to yourself as you will, Your Grace.” She did not believe him, nor could she resist the mocking jibe of his title. Though he burned with a banked fury, and his every touch was punishing and cruel, the attraction between them was as potent and undeniable as ever, simmering just beneath the surface of the moment.
“You’re a bold thing, aren’t you?” His voice was almost soft as he asked the question.
“I am whatever benefits me,” she told him, and it was perhaps the most honest statement she had ever uttered. She had made her way through life on her wits, hard work, and determination, but she had also learned how to bluff. How to be a hundred different versions of herself to gain whatever suited her most.
“What would benefit you is telling me the truth,” he countered. “Beginning with your name.”
She did not hesitate in her response. “Jane Palliser.”
“Jane Palliser is a fiction, and a poor one at that.” He tightened his grip on her wrist once more. “I can make this easier for you. Grant me the information I want, and
I will help you as best I can.”
Did he think she was stupid enough to trust him?
His handsome face did nothing to distract her from his intention of sending her to prison.
“A tempting lure, but one I’ll not accept.”
“Do you want me to hurt you, madam?” he asked then, pinning her with his glare in much the same fashion as his massive body.
“Do you want to hurt me?” she asked. And perhaps there was something wrong with her—some part of her was broken—but she was breathless, awaiting his reply. She wanted the brute in him, it was true. Something in her relished challenging him. Pushing him beyond his limits.
Even now, exerting painful force against her, he remained calm. Ducal, almost. She wanted to see the animal beneath his gentleman’s skin. Wanted to feel his bite, his fury. Wanted to bring him so low, he had no choice but to admit he was no different than she was.
“You do,” she said into the silence, prodding him. Provoking him. “Hurt me, Duke. You like pain, do you not? Does it bring you pleasure?”
“Nothing about this is a pleasure.” He released her, his lip curling, and rose to his full, impressive height. “Tell me what you know. I can force the words from you, or you can give them freely. Naturally, one will be better for you than the other. You seem the sort who wishes to save her own skin. I can give you that. I can make certain you are treated fairly in prison. All you need to do is give me the information I require.”
Treated fairly in prison.
Did he hear himself?
Bridget vowed, then and there, she would escape him. Before he could take her to a dark cell and abandon her to her fate, she would do what she must to get away. She had been in prison once, could still recall the fetid scents, the anguished cries of the incarcerated, the dart of rats in the darkness.
No.
She would not be going back to a prison cell. No matter what it cost her. She would do anything—anything—else first.
“I have no information,” she lied with ease. “I do not even know what information you desire. You seem to think me some sort of great criminal, when in truth, I am a governess who made a dreadful mistake.”
Heartless Duke Page 7
