Chev winced, turning his head to the side. Behind his lids, the mast swayed, and then split apart from the ship, splashing into the sea.
Suddenly he knew there was more. So much more. And he wasn’t ready for any of it.
“And,” Hurtheven continued, oblivious, “they will also want to know where you have been—as would, well, everyone, by the way.”
Where had he been? The damp stench of a cave stung Chev’s nostrils.
On an island. Or not.
He could not say for certain. However—he glanced down at his arm—his first attempted escape ended with a lead ball in his wrist...which had then led to an amputation.
Saw jaws rattled his bones and then a gravelly, female voice filled his ears.
Le pauvre bébé. The poor baby. Je pense que je te préfères comme ça. I think I like you better now. Plus facile à maîtriser. Easier to subdue.
He saw her face. The pirate.
He slammed the stub of his arm against the hard surface beneath him.
She disappeared.
“No answers.” What he had was a devil of a headache and a chill that had seeped into his bones. “Hurts, Hurtheven. Bad.”
“I know.” Hurtheven’s voice softened.
“I cannot go home.” Not like this—weak and left cowering by a few phantom whispers.
Hurtheven was right. Everyone would want to know where he’d been. And Chev had locked the answer in an unfolded memory.
“You can’t go home,” Hurtheven amended, “before you’ve been to the Admiralty.”
“You don’t understand.”
Hurtheven flashed him a startled glance. His lips flattened as he thought. “We’ll store you at Ash’s, then. Until you regain your strength.”
“Ash?” He frowned.
“Weren’t here for that either, were you? Our old friend has been fully fitted with the dubious mantle of his mad father—the Duke of Ashbey.” Hurtheven stopped abruptly. He tilted his head. “For now, let’s just say Ash’s habits are such you could stay with him as long as you need, with no one the wiser.”
Ashbey. Chev fitted the family name to the other face he’d remembered when he’d first awoken.
Hurtheven rubbed his chin. “Perhaps this isn’t the worst of ideas. You, Ash, myself.” He chuckled. “Who’d have thought our brotherhood would reunite?”
Eta Rho Zeta. The ink on his ankle. A name for the secret triumvirate inspired by some American society Hurtheven’s uncle had founded. Three school boys, taking for themselves the mantle of gods—Zeus, Hades and Poseidon.
Poseidon. He snorted. What hubris. If the sea god existed, no wonder the waves had been intent on his death.
“You were always a bit touched,” Cheverley said.
“Entitled, yes. Arrogant, often. But my mind’s as sound as the king’s.”
Cheverley expelled a rough, involuntary chuckle. Hurtheven glanced askance with a half-smile. He squeezed Cheverley’s shoulder.
“My God... Chev.” His smile faded. He shook his head, and then he turned away. “It is really you.”
The hearse jostled, parting the curtains and illuminating Hurtheven’s face. Lines—deep cut—chiseled his forehead and wetness glinted in the corners of his eyes.
Thirteen years.
Vastness hit Chev all at once—an expanse that set him adrift in uncertainty.
In bone-deep fear.
Hurtheven wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and stiffened. “The sea spit you up. For now, be grateful.”
Grateful?
There was much he didn’t know. So much he had yet to understand. He turned his head to the side. Heat from Hurtheven’s hand seeped into his skin. Warm. Comforting.
Grateful. Yes. For now.
He had made it out of the storm. He had made it back to land. As for the menace lurking just beyond the grasp of his consciousness?
That was too large to be faced—or exorcised—with weakened limbs and a mind engulfed with fog.
First, he must regain his strength. Because when those memories came, they would bring a fury stronger than the sea.
Chapter Three
Spring 1806
UNDYED WARP STRINGS stretched far above Penelope’s head, giving the ancient loom rescued from the ruins of Ithwick Castle the appearance of a massive harp. Instead of producing music, however, Penelope’s skilled fingers—carefully guided by the image in the mirror beyond—slowly transformed bobbins of colored thread into representations of the things Cheverley held dear—Pensteague, his longbow, arrows and quiver, Ithwick Manor, Ithwick Castle’s ruins, and the sea.
Conspicuously left out of her design for Cheverley’s shroud? Herself and Thaddeus.
The young bride he’d left. The son he’d never met.
Yes, Chev’s father—the duke—had given him an impossible choice. But, had Cheverley chosen to stay, they might have prevailed by working together, either in the courts or through the duchess’s influence.
Even the amendment to Cheverley’s will had hurt almost as much as it had helped. Certainly, the will had placed Pensteague in her possession, thus ensuring her and Thaddeus a home whether or not their marriage was challenged.
But the amended will had been witnessed by Ashbey and Hurtheven and dated just a few months before Cheverley went missing—which meant he arranged to see his friends when he hadn’t taken the time to meet his son.
She pursed her lips and tucked her anger back inside as neatly as she tucked away her tightly knotted hair.
She’d had far too much time to think these past few weeks—too much time to splash fruitlessly in puddles of regret.
She missed Pensteague. She missed bearing witness to the camaraderie between the former navy men who’d taken refuge in her home. Without them she felt Chev’s loss more keenly—something she had not anticipated.
Just like she hadn’t anticipated how ardently Mr. Anthony, Lord Thomas, and their guests would compete for her attention. They had never shown the least bit of interest in her before, but now they showered her with praise. Their unwelcome advances left her little choice but to retreat to the loom whenever the duke rested.
Carefully, she moved her shuttle between strings and began another row of black thread—not for the first time, either.
During the day, Penelope cared for the duke or wove, but, by night, she searched for the estate records Mr. Anthony had hidden while Mrs. Renton removed half of Penelope’s knots. She hoped the delay would give her more time to find something that could oust Anthony and Thomas from the estate, some proof of ill intent.
Unfortunately, Penelope had yet to uncover any evidence that would convince a solicitor—let alone a judge—that Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas were willfully attempting to usurp the duchy. However, she’d noticed enough oddities to convince her they were not merely self-indulgent libertines, consuming what they could until Thaddeus came of age.
First, there was the matter of the missing books. And, suspiciously, the duke improved under Penelope’s care. She couldn’t yet make sense of His Grace’s words, but just yesterday, with Thaddeus’s assistance, the duke had been strong enough to take a full turn about the library.
The only change she’d made had been to prepare the duke’s medicines and food and provide daily encouragement and exercise. She suspected His Grace’s illness had not been the sole result of accidental misfortune but had been magnified by neglect and malevolence. And, if her suspicions were correct, Mr. Anthony and Lord Thomas were far more dangerous than even Mrs. Renton believed.
She checked her progress in the mirror, startled to see Mr. Anthony’s reflection.
Though cousins, Anthony bore little resemblance to Cheverley. Where Chev’s features had been angular, Anthony’s were round. Where Chev’s eyes had been light and his gaze penetrating, Anthony’s were dark, and they peered, mouse-like, from beneath a carefully greased fringe of hair.
She shifted her leg, reassured by the presence of her knife.
A woman alone
could never be too careful.
“Ah, Penelope.” Anthony strode into the room without permission. “I knew you would eventually sense my presence.”
“Mr. Anthony”—she might be obliged to endure his familiarity. She was not obliged to reciprocate—“is something amiss?”
She turned but did not stand.
“Amiss? No.” He smiled. “I came to check on your progress. You’ve been working on this morbid project for how long—eight weeks?” Anthony glanced over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be farther along?”
“Good work takes time,” she said. “A tapestry of this quality would take a weaver far more talented than I months to create. And certainly, you would not wish me to memorialize my husband with anything less than my best work.”
Anthony’s gaze traveled over her features, lingered on her lips, and then returned to her eyes.
“Pray do continue.” He seated himself on a bench against the wall. “I will observe.”
She blinked. How was she to concentrate with his cloying presence? “I prefer solitude.”
“That is unfortunate. I prefer to stay.”
His intentional provocation snaked through her like a living creature. She held his gaze for a long moment, allowing the disturbance to settle.
Petulant and selfish, Anthony used provocations like arrows, weakening his opponents with repeated dings meant to induce outrage. She polished the nick to her dignity and turned to resume her work. Outrage was an effective weapon.
A weapon she intended to hold in reserve.
“What would you say,” Anthony began, “if I told you Mrs. Renton unties your knots every night?”
She met Anthony’s gaze in the mirror, eyes steady. “Mrs. Renton has been gracious enough to assist. I grieve for my husband, and this tapestry contains everything he held dear. Is it so surprising I find mistakes when I review the day’s work?”
“Not surprising at all.” Anthony paused. “As a matter of fact, Lord Thomas and I have, of late, had several discussions on the topic of your...perpetual grief.”
Her heartbeat quickened. “You needn’t trouble yourselves with my concerns.”
“What kind of family would we be if we did not?” Another skin-crawling smile. “We all—every man present—long for your presence. How could we not? So, we’ve decided that one of us should sit with you, every day...as a means of comfort and support.”
Her shuttle slipped from her fingers, knocking against the bobbins as it fell.
“Perhaps then,” he continued, “you will make fewer mistakes.”
“How surprisingly...kind.”
“Come, Penelope.” He leaned forward. “You must realize I’d offer more than kindness, if only you would allow.”
She rose from the chair and he, from the bench.
“Must I again remind you again that I prefer to be addressed as Lady Cheverley, Mr. Anthony?”
He ignored her protestation. “Is it not time to accept your fate? Surely you have not resigned yourself to a life without love.”
She flashed him a warning glance. “I am a married woman.”
“Which is it?” A faint smile graced his lips. “Grieving widow, or married woman? You cannot be both.” He waited. “Very well then, don’t answer. But hope—unwarranted hope—is nothing more than cruelty. If Lord Cheverley were alive, would he have gone for so long without word?”
No. Cheverley had written regularly before he’d disappeared. Long letters detailing his feats of bravery and closing with words of devotion.
And, as much as she’d treasured his letters, the reminder of his absence made her ache.
Anthony lowered his voice. “I would never leave you alone, if you were mine.”
She stiffened. “I belong to no one.”
He veiled his lids and whetted his lips. “Penelope...”
She turned away. Had he actually intended they kiss?
She lifted a handkerchief to her face and pretended she hadn’t noticed.
“Pardon,” she sniffed. “The subject is not, naturally, an easy one.”
He clamped hot hands on her shoulders. “It’s well past time you made future arrangements. For the good of the duchy.”
“The duchy.” She kept her voice light, though the heat in his hands made her ill. “Why should my marital status matter to the duchy? And, if the good of the duchy is your aim...”
Anthony cocked a brow.
“...Aren’t you concerned how rapidly your guests have been draining our resources?”
“Our?” he queried.
“Yes, our. We are family, as you pointed out.”
“What makes you think Ithwick’s resources are being drained?”
“Come now, Mr. Anthony.” She repeated his phrasing while removing his hands from her shoulders. “The lavish meals you supply your guests have decimated our supply of beef, deer, chicken, and pheasant.”
“I hadn’t realized you’d been paying such close attention.” He paused. “Did you just refer to the gentlemen staying here as my guests?”
“Of course, they are your guests. And, at this rate, to keep them fed, you will soon need beg pork from my home farm.”
“Your home farm. Ah, yes. The codicil. I have my doubts about that, you know.”
Inner bells clanged alarm. Sternly, she reminded herself she had the loyalty of Cheverley’s friends.
“Are your doubts strong enough to challenge the Duke of Ashbey and the Duke of Hurtheven in court?” she asked.
Anthony’s grin vanished. “Lord Thomas believes you are harmless. But I warned him you had a cunning little mind. Did you think you had me fooled?”
“I haven’t any idea what you mean. In no way have I been trying to fool—”
“If anyone will beg,” Anthony interrupted, “it will be you.” He plucked a carefully folded gazette out from beneath his waistcoat. “I am afraid, my lady, your reputation, or what little you had, anyway, is in tatters.”
The newspaper crackled as it unraveled. Bold, black letters shouted, “Captain’s Widow Ready to Set Sail.”
“Try running to your late husband’s friends, now,” Anthony taunted with a curled-lip sneer. “Let us see how your would-be lover Hurtheven responds.”
She met his gaze, furious. “Why on earth would you do this?”
“I’ve done nothing.” Anthony raised his brows. “You, my dear, left your little cottage and your noble naval charity scheme and willfully joined a household full of eligible gentlemen mere weeks after your husband was declared dead. Clearly, even the papers comprehend the nature of your stay.”
“I spend my time caring for the duke and weaving! I wouldn’t know your gentlemen friends one from another.”
“Please,” Anthony scoffed. His inhale whistled in his nose. “Did you really think we believed you were here to weave a shroud? That you are driven by duty and devotion to care for a duke who tried to ruin you?”
With a huff, she wrestled the newspaper from his grip and then threw the it on the floor. “That is what I think of your attempt to besmirch my name.”
“Ah.” His smile returned. “There is the impudent little miss with the audacity to marry a duke’s son.”
“I beg your—” She shut her mouth. She’d never beg anything from Anthony, figure of speech or no.
“Such an odd wedding, too,” Anthony mused. “An anvil marriage in the dead of night. The duke, as I recall, was more than a little displeased. Isn’t that how Lord Cheverley ended up a midshipman despite being the rather advanced age of sixteen?”
The salted wound stung. But she owned Pensteague, now. There was nothing Anthony could do. “If my marriage could have been disproved,” she replied, “the duke would have done so long ago.”
“Who said anything about disproving your marriage? Such a wild imagination you have.” His scent enveloped her as he leaned in. “It makes me wonder how wild you are in—”
She smacked him without thought—jerking back as an angry, red blotch appeared on
his cheek.
Anthony plucked her hand from the air and ran his thumb over the still-burning flesh. Then, he kissed her palm.
“Settle, sweet.”
Nauseating. Indecent. “Let me go.”
“Poor dear—first the loss of your husband, then the spectacle of a trial, and then the duke’s devastating illness. Perhaps Lord Thomas is right. Perhaps all of this has made you too overwrought to properly care for the duke and the ducal heir. Perhaps we should, as Thomas wishes, send Thaddeus to school and you...to a place where you could properly convalesce.”
Breathe in. Evenly. “Are you threatening me?”
“Me? I do not make threats.” His gaze swept her person. “I devise solutions. However,” he dangled his sentence like a lure, “I believe I could persuade Lord Thomas to forgo making arrangements...”
“If I abandon Ithwick and return to Pensteague House.”
Had she thought his gaze mouse-like? Rat-like would have been more apt.
“If you agree to marry me.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“Why? Because you know how much I abhor your tainted blood? True, but not so much that I’m blinded to your...assets.” He moved his thumb against her palm. “Think clearly, sweet. You can save your reputation in one, easy sweep. The matter is simple, really. You are a widow in need of protection. I am a man”—his gaze dropped to her chest—“more than willing to protect.”
“Never,” she whispered.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” His smile reappeared. “For now, I trust you will comply with a much simpler request.”
Instinctively, she yanked back her hand.
“Oh”—he snorted—“what a delightfully vulgar mind you have. You’ve no need to look so revolted. I merely ask that you preside over a soiree for our neighbors.”
“Why should I preside over a gathering that proports all is well at Ithwick?”
“Because all is well.” He lifted his brows. “I don’t believe I’ve made myself clear. In this, you do not have a choice. You will preside over a soiree next week and you will finish this ridiculous project by month’s end. Then, we will wed.” His eyes flashed. “Or, you will find yourself convalescing somewhere even Ashbey and Hurtheven will not be able to assist...that is, until you come to your senses.”
His Duchess at Eventide Page 3
