by Lara Temple
A scarred mercenary...
Or the Disappearing Duke of Greybourne?
Rafe has spent years running from his true identity. He’s a lone wolf, living far from aristocratic England and his violent father. Then unconventional Cleopatra Osbourne requests his protection as she crosses the Egyptian desert. In Cleo he discovers a fellow outcast—and a fierce desire! Cleo must return to London, and here lies Rafe’s dilemma—because following his heart means claiming the title he’s avoided for so long!
“You should try living up to your namesake, Cleopatra—trust no one.”
She considered his words, and his warning, and tried to understand why, other than her still being alive, she did trust him. Perhaps it was the foolishness that often comes with fear and despair—clinging to a rock protruding from the ocean though one knew it was as dangerous in its barrenness as the great wide sea.
Yet she did trust him, and it worried her. Trust meant lowering one’s guard and that meant...trouble. She tried to put her thoughts into words but they scuttled away, like night crawlers before an encroaching lamp.
For a moment the darkness settled on them again as the fire dimmed. Then a spark shot upward, followed by a lick of flames as the fire found more to feed its hunger. It lit his profile against the fading light on the horizon.
“I rarely do trust anyone,” she said tentatively. “I do not mean I trust you wholly, but I think, if I am right about you, you will try to fulfill your bond and that is far more than most men...most people do.”
LARA TEMPLE
The Return of the Disappearing Duke
Lara Temple was three years old when she begged her mother to take dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life: by day an investment and high-tech professional who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls, she loses herself in history and romance—at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help weave it all together.
Books by Lara Temple
Harlequin Historical
Lord Crayle’s Secret World
The Reluctant Viscount
The Duke’s Unexpected Bride
The Return of the Disappearing Duke
The Sinful Sinclairs
The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge
The Rake’s Enticing Proposal
The Lord’s Inconvenient Vow
The Lochmore Legacy
Unlaced by the Highland Duke
Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress
Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal
Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This book is for all those who love life, but lie awake worrying. For those used to shouldering burdens, but wish for a shoulder to lean on, even if only for a day. I wrote Rafe and Cleo’s story just for you...
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Excerpt from Redeeming Her Viking Warrior by Jenni Fletcher
Prologue
Greybourne Hall, Hertfordshire
—Christmas 1800
The day he ran away was the day the lake at Greybourne Hall froze.
It wasn’t a thick cover of ice, just enough to glaze over the last dark jade glimmer of water like a dead fish’s eye staring heavenwards. Snowflakes frosted the reeds and swirled up the banks in fairy-tale gusts into the open door of Greybourne Chapel. Safely inside, they hovered for a moment to glint in the pale morning sun, before falling to the unusual chequered floor in abeyance, just like all the unhappy people crowded inside.
Unlike most chapels, there were no pews or cushions and no one was allowed to sit on the carved stone benches that lined the wall. Everyone from the Duchess and her son to the grooms and scullery maids were on their knees.
Everyone but Rafe’s father, the Duke of Greybourne. The Duke stood above them like a rearing bear, his fists clenched and raised, his voice spewing damnation upon them all.
Rafe had years ago ceased listening to the roaring rumble of his father’s morning sermons. When he’d been younger he’d distracted himself with daydreams about great feats of bravery. Now he would soon be sixteen and had other things on his mind.
A month ago, the object of his fantasies had been Lizzy, the very pretty daughter of the postmaster in the village near his school. But that was a whole month ago and now his mind dwelt with delight on the new parlourmaid Susan who was kneeling across from him.
She had big blue eyes and freckles over every inch of her that he could see, which was not very much, but his mind imagined much more. She was some years older than he and he’d heard from the servants that she fancied Lowell, the head groom. He knew, too, that this...tingling had little to do with courtly love, but she was so...so everything. She was plump and had the most charming giggle that would make his insides clench and his outsides perspire.
She was also, at the moment, the only reason to be grateful for his father’s daily Hell and Damnation sermon. So while his father ranted about descent into sin and something about frogs, Rafe’s gaze kept slipping back to Susan’s bowed head, her rounded shoulders, the generous bosom not even the unflattering apron could hide...
She peeped up suddenly and caught him. Embarrassment struck him even harder than lust. There was nothing he could do to stop the scalding blush that rushed upwards. Her mouth curved and even through the fumes of his combusting body he could see the compassion there and felt its sting.
They both looked away and, if his father had not reached the apex of his sermon, the incident might never have happened. But just then the Duke’s voice boomed. ‘Fornication shall bring thee down!’
And Susan giggled.
Silence.
As swiftly as the scalding heat had come it fell away, because he knew his father. They all did. Silence during a sermon was an ill omen. Rafe barely had time to gather his wits before his father lunged. He saw the Duke’s hands, great twisted claws, reaching, closing around her freckled throat, raising her clean off the stone floor. Rafe had never seen such horror as in her blue eyes. She gaped up at the Duke of Greybourne, her mouth twisted, her cheeks both pale and stained with colour, the freckles like specks of blood.
No one had yet moved when Rafe launched himself at his father. He saw them all, like chess pieces rooted on their ivory and ebony seats. Then he saw nothing.
The next thing he knew, his face was half in the snow, the flakes dancing in and out of his mouth as he breathed in harsh coughing bursts. He was aflame with pain and something was burying him in the frozen ground. He could see white and dark and the length of his arm flung out to his side. The snow about it was pink.<
br />
‘That’s right, Master Rafe, deep breaths.’
It was Lowell, the groom.
‘Susan...’ Rafe croaked and there was a moment’s silence which made Rafe struggle to rise once more. But Lowell held him down.
‘Susan is well, Master Rafe. You stopped him afore he did harm and there’s many that’s grateful. You stop thrashing and I’ll let ’ee be. You’ve nothing broken that I can see, but you took some blows before we got you away and you’ll likely be sore. Best come inside now.’
‘I wanted to kill him!’ The words burst out, chasing away the new flakes that fell.
‘Ay, well,’ Lowell said as he took his substantial weight off Rafe. ‘Brave words, but best learn to fight proper afore you try next. You’re a right big lad and like to be bigger yet, but you’d best put some brawn on those inches.’
Rafe shoved to his shaky feet, twisting away from the groom’s attempt to help him. The cold pinched at his skin and tears at his eyes and he stalked away before they came.
* * *
He was shivering by the time he reached his room, but he stopped in the doorway. His mother was on her knees again, but this time by his school trunk. A maid placed a stack of shirts into the half-full trunk and at a signal from his mother she scurried out the door.
‘What are you doing?’
‘That should be evident, Rafael. I have ordered the carriage to be prepared and you will depart within the hour.’
For a moment he stood in shock but then anger came once again to his rescue.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong! This is Edward all over again—he did nothing wrong and you sent him away. Where will you send me, Mother? To Egypt as well? Or perhaps to the Antipodes?’
‘Do not be dramatic, Rafael. Until term begins you will stay at up at the Lakes. You like it there.’
‘In the summer,’ he exclaimed.
‘Do lower your voice. Dr Parracombe is with your father and has given him something to calm his nerves, but...’
‘Calm his nerves? He...he tried to kill Susan! How many more times will dear Dr Parracombe have to calm his nerves when he attacks one of us or the servants? He doesn’t need a doctor; he needs a cell in Bedlam!’
She surged to her feet—he was already over six feet, but though he towered over her she was absolutely in control. Her face was as cold as the lake, her eyes grey and flat.
‘You will never speak those words again, Rafael. Ever. Your father’s religious convictions merely lead to occasional...unbefitting effusions. That is all it is. One day you will be Duke of Greybourne and you must learn that life demands sacrifices.’
Sacrifices.
‘So you are sacrificing me,’ he said, far more calmly than he felt.
‘If that is what you choose to believe.’
‘I will tell you what I choose, Mother. If you send me away instead of him, I swear to you I’ll choose not to return to Greybourne so long as he lives.’
They stood in silence for a moment, then she inclined her head.
‘Perhaps that is best. Now go wash and change. And say goodbye to your sisters.’
* * *
Rafe leaned his bruised cheekbone glumly against the cold glass of the carriage window and watched the snowflakes melt and slither down. They’d stopped again to change the team of horses. They were probably close to Manchester because the courtyard was full of gigs and carriages and carts, with ostlers and passengers weaving between them, hunkered against the cold. Everything was in shades of brown and grey and again he felt the same rising choke of misery and fury.
Then at the edge of the courtyard he saw a flash of bright red, like fresh blood on the snow. He took his purse and stepped out on to the cobbles. A crowd had gathered to watch, some cheering, some less enthusiastic, but all curious as some two dozen red-coated soldiers marched along the muddy road.
The soldier bringing up the rear was a rather squat man, with the face of a cheeky gargoyle under his dark stovepipe shako. He stood very straight for his short stature. A little boy dashed out from the courtyard and marched alongside him for a moment and the soldier smiled down at him and patted his head without breaking step.
As the young boy ran back through the courtyard Rafe stepped forward, pulling a coin from his pocket.
‘Who were those soldiers?’ he asked. The boy stared at the coin, but was as quick to answer as he was on his feet.
‘Thirty-Sixth Foot returned from Ireland, sir. That was Sergeant Birdie, sir. My brother served with him, sir.’ All this was spoken in a hushed whisper, but with such pride Rafe smiled for the first time since coming down from school.
‘Sergeant Birdie,’ he repeated, flashing another coin. ‘Which way are their barracks?’
‘Over Bolton way, sir.’
‘Bolton...?’
‘That’s north, sir.’
‘Excellent. I’m heading north myself.’
‘Are you, sir?’ the boy asked, a little dubious, but his curiosity was nipped in the bud as Rafe slid him a third coin and stepped back into the carriage.
Bolton. Birdie. Brave new beginnings.
He’d need a new name, too...
Something simple that would draw no attention. Common, unobtrusive...
Grey...
Chapter One
Syene, Upper Egypt—1822
‘Ta’al. Come in.’
The deep voice was entirely English.
So far, so good, thought Cleo as she took a deep breath and opened the warped wooden door.
The stone floor was hard under her feet, but she knew she was standing on a paper-thin bridge over an abyss. Her next step would either move her towards safety or perdition.
She entered the room and stopped, her hand still on the door, because the man who turned to face her was not at all what she’d expected.
Certainly he was large. Very large. She was a reasonably tall woman, but he would tower easily over her brother’s six feet.
More to the point, he was very bare. At least his chest was, but there was a great deal of it.
Not that bare-chested men were entirely unusual in Cleo’s experience. Over the years since she and her brother had joined her father on his travels, she had been to places where bare-chested men and sometimes women were not unusual. Still, this man was not what she was accustomed to.
Then there were the scars. They mantled his shoulder and streaked along the right side of his neck. Between his size and his scars and the fear that had taken up lodging in her belly this past week, he was an intimidating sight.
Except for the shaving lather.
A lathered jaw should not make any difference to whether he was to be feared or not, but somehow it did.
‘What do you want, boy?’ The man wiped his razor on the towel and turned back to the gritty mirror propped on a high windowsill.
At least his words confirmed what she’d overheard in the marketplace—he was English, thank God.
‘I’m afraid I’m lost, sir.’
‘Lost? This is a rather unusual part of the world in which to lose yourself. How did that happen, Mr...?’
‘Patrick.’ Cleo offered her usual name, watching as the giant worked away at his shaving, the muscles of his back rippling like the Nile over the boulders of the cataracts. Acting the boy had once been quite easy, but she was out of practice. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘I’ve been in Meroe looking for my father and brother, but they disappeared so I decided to return to Cairo and see if they are there.’
The giant was watching her in the mirror, the speckled glass giving his pale green-grey eyes a strange blank tint.
‘Yet here you are in my humble rooms instead of on a boat down the Nile. Would you care to rephrase your predicament?’
‘I don’t quite understand, sir.’
‘Don’t you? At least h
alf a dozen dragomen approached me the moment I entered town, offering various services. If you only need help reaching Cairo, any one of them would be willing to help for a reasonable price.’
The giant wiped his face with the linen towel and turned. For a moment surprise and a surge of pity chased away her fear. The scars were more evident from the front. They climbed up the side of his throat like ivy, twisting along his jaw and ending in a whitish blade just at the base of his ear.
She should not be surprised. The merchants she’d overheard in the market had called him nadab, or scar. But he was otherwise so alarmingly perfect his face could have modelled for a fallen angel, with pitch-black hair and stormy eyes. Apparently, this angel had not managed to evade the fire in his fall. The whitened skin along his jaw twisted as he smiled.
‘Squeamish, boy?’
‘No. I can’t help thinking how it must have hurt. I’m sorry I stared, sir.’
His smile softened. It felt like a door opening a little wider.
‘Staring is honest,’ he replied. ‘It’s the looking away I can’t abide. So, what is it you want from me other than directions to Cairo?’
Cleo glanced over her shoulder, listening. She’d sneaked past the innkeeper, but the men would likely search all the inns in Syene. And then... She did not know what would happen then and preferred not to know.
‘I’m afraid to travel on my own. I heard in the market you might be on your way north. I don’t have much, but I can pay my passage.’
The giant gave one last swipe to his jaw with the towel and draped it over his shoulder as he approached. He was definitely enormous and there were more scars decorating him than she’d realised. They were dwarfed by the burns, but they danced across his bare flesh like decorations—whiteish flicks and weals, as if someone had used him for dart practice. She forced her eyes upwards from the expanse of bare skin and the dark hair that trailed down his chest towards his trousers. His eyes weren’t any more comforting—they were a strange metallic greenish-grey and she could discern nothing in them but her own reflection.
