Gambling on the Duke's Daughter

by Diana Bold

Dylan had said his mother was an artist, but the word didn’t begin to describe the depth and beauty of her work. Fiona had painted from her heart; that much was obvious.

  Many of the paintings were of Aldabaran. She’d painted her home from every angle and season. There were also pictures of the forbidding rocky cliffs, and the churning sea far below.

  But the portraits were by far the most arresting. Natalia took a few steps toward one of a small boy, his gray eyes sparkling with laughter. “Dylan.” She reached out to touch her husband’s painted cheek, enchanted by the image of the carefree boy he’d been.

  “Aye.” Mrs. Macpherson’s wistful voice startled Natalia, so lost had she been in her own reverie. “That was always my favorite. I found it a great comfort, during all those years when the lad was gone.”

  Natalia raised a brow, still struck by the obvious affection the old woman had for Dylan. “The countess was very talented. How sad to think of her dying so young.”

  “Sad, indeed,” Mrs. Macpherson murmured. “Not a day goes by that we don’t mourn her loss.”

  “How did she die? Was it childbirth?” Another portrait caught Natalia’s attention, and she moved toward it. This one was also Dylan, but, strangely, in this one, he was full grown.

  “Oh, if only she had.” The old woman shook her head. “How much easier that would have been for all of us who were left behind.”

  Natalia turned, reluctantly looking away from the picture of Dylan. “What happened to her?” she asked, wondering if she really wanted to know.

  Mrs. Macpherson approached, and she, too, seemed captivated by the picture Natalia had been examining. “She used to come home every summer. But that year, the earl came early to fetch her back to London. They had a terrible row, and later that night, she fell from the cliffs.”

  A cold chill traveled down Natalia’s spine. “She fell?”

  Mrs. Macpherson blinked back a rush of tears. “They say she jumped, took her own life. But I’ve never believed it. Not our Fiona.”

  Dylan had never said anything about his mother’s death, and now Natalia knew why. He’d been so young. A mere child. How had he dealt with such a devastating loss? Perhaps he hadn’t, which would account for the nightmares that left him trembling and drenched in sweat.

  She returned her gaze to the portrait. In it, Dylan stood at the edge of the cliffs his mother had fallen from. Wind whipped his hair and clothes. But his pale eyes shone with love.

  She wanted him to gaze at her this way. As though she were the only thing in the world that mattered to him.

  “How did she know what he would look like?” The accuracy of the painting amazed her, given the fact that Fiona had never lived to see the man her son would become. Had Fiona painted this portrait after she decided to kill herself, perhaps in an effort to imagine the grown man she’d never know?

  “Why, he posed for it. Fiona always did love to paint Patrick.” Mrs. Macpherson gestured to another painting, which Natalia hadn’t examined yet. “I’ve always like that one, of the two of them together.”

  Patrick? Upon closer examination, she realized the portrait was of Patrick. The resemblance between the two men really was remarkable. Still trying to fit the pieces together in her mind, Natalia turned to look at the other painting Mrs. Macpherson had indicated.

  The two of them together.

  The dark-haired man and boy stood on a grassy hill, the man’s hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. The man smiled down at the boy with such love, such pride, and the little boy looked up at the man as though he’d hung the moon. Patrick and Dylan.

  Father and son?

  It all made sense now. Dylan’s resemblance to Patrick—his lack of one to Sherbourne. The Macphersons’ absolute delight upon seeing Dylan again—the Earl of Warren’s shameful lack of interest.

  Why should the earl care for Dylan, if Dylan wasn’t truly his son?

  Natalia glanced back at Mrs. Macpherson, who obviously realized she’d said too much. “Shall I continue to call you Mrs. Macpherson? Or shall I call you Grandmother?”

  The old woman’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, no. You mustn’t. The lad must never know.”

  “Why not?” Natalia asked. “I think he’d like to know. I think it would make him very happy.”

  “Does it bother you, lass?” Mrs. Macpherson shook her head, as though she couldn’t believe Natalia’s easy acceptance of what she’d learned. “To find the man you married is not the aristocrat he seemed? That he is only a Scottish groom’s son?”

  “No,” Natalia whispered. “It doesn’t matter to me. Not at all.”

  It was the truth. From the beginning, she had cared for him because he wasn’t like the vain, foppish aristocrats she’d known. And this revelation didn’t change that. If anything, she loved him even more.

  How hard it must’ve been for Dylan to believe his own father hated him.

  “Patrick has always wanted young Dylan to know the truth. But he couldn’t give the boy the kind of life the earl could.” Mrs. Macpherson rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “But keeping the secret meant losing his only son. It almost killed him when the earl took the lad away.”

  “How terrible.” Natalia ached for both men. How lonely they’d both been, when their pain could so easily have been avoided.

  “Patrick thought he’d never see Dylan again. That’s why he brought Fiona’s paintings down here. So he could see the lad’s face each night before he fell asleep.”

  Tears stung Natalia’s eyes as she looked around at the paintings. Each one was a glimpse into Fiona Blake’s life. She’d told Dylan seeing his mother’s work would be a chance to get to know her, but she hadn’t realized how truthful the statement had been.

  She understood Fiona far more than she wanted to.

  Fiona had been forced to marry a man she didn’t love. And the man she did love had been forbidden to her. How easily Natalia could have shared her fate.

  But Fiona had been strong. She’d found a way to continue to see Patrick. During those months she’d spent at Aldabaran, she’d been free. Her friendship with Patrick flourished, while her marriage fell apart. Apparently, Patrick and Fiona’s passion had gotten away from them, and Dylan had been the result.

  Somehow, Warren must’ve found out. No wonder he treated Dylan so poorly. Was that the reason he’d come after Fiona the summer she died? What had he said to make her take her own life? Had he threatened to take her sons away from her?

  Natalia realized Mrs. Macpherson was worried Natalia would tell Dylan everything she’d learned here today. Natalia wanted to do exactly that, but it wasn’t her place. If Dylan were to learn the truth, Patrick should be the one to tell him.

  “I won’t say anything to Dylan,” she assured the old woman. “And I understand why Patrick wanted her paintings. He must’ve loved her very much.”

  “Aye, he did,” Mrs. Macpherson agreed. “He loves her still.”

  Was Patrick’s son capable of such love? She hoped so.

  With a wistful sigh, Natalia turned her mind back to the matter at hand. Somehow, she had to convince Mrs. Macpherson that Dylan needed to get to know his father.

  “Patrick should tell Dylan the truth. It doesn’t matter anymore. Dylan has Aldabaran and my dowry. No one can take those things from him.”

  Mrs. Macpherson nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right, lass. I’ll speak to Patrick.”

  “In the meantime, I did promise Dylan I’d find some of these paintings. Do you think we could take a few of them downstairs? Some of the landscapes and maybe the one of Dylan as a boy? I don’t think he should see them all. Not yet anyway.”

  Mrs. Macpherson gave her a grateful look. “Yes, I think that’s a fine idea. We’ll take the ones you mentioned down to the laird’s room. It will be a nice surprise for the lad when he returns.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Dylan remained away from the house most of the day. During the morning, he explored his land, his excitement and
sense of possibility growing by the moment. For the first time in his life, he could taste happiness.

  It tasted wonderful.

  Afterward, Patrick talked him into visiting the village pub. They spent a very enjoyable afternoon, drinking fine dark ale and discussing plans for Aldabaran. Nearly every man in the village stopped by to meet him and share a pint. They laughed and joked and welcomed him back. For long moments, he forgot the uneasy memories lurking in the back of his mind.

  But the more Dylan drank, the more last night’s revelations plagued him. Was his dream a nightmare or memory?

  What secrets remain locked within my mind? He wanted to be rid of them because he sensed they held the power to destroy this fragile peace his marriage and inheritance had granted him.

  “Is something bothering you, lad?” Patrick lifted a questioning brow as Dylan signaled for yet another drink. “If I had such a pretty lass waiting, I’d be in a considerable bit more of a hurry to get home.”

  They were finally alone, since most of the village men had gone home for supper. Only the barkeep, the serving girl, and a few diehard drinkers in the corner remained. Still, Dylan lingered, wondering how to broach the subject of the cave.

  “You needn’t worry on that account.” Dylan gave Patrick a satisfied grin at the mere thought of his lovely wife. “Things between Natalia and I are better than they’ve ever been.”

  “Good.” Patrick returned the smile. “Glad to hear that. She seems a good sort.”

  “Very good. The best.” Dylan took another deep swig of beer, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and gave his companion a considering look. Patrick’s reminder of what waited at home gave him the impetus he needed to get to the point.

  “Natalia isn’t the problem. My worries are of an entirely different sort.” He might as well ask the questions that plagued him. Better to know for sure than to wonder.

  Patrick frowned and placed his mug on the scarred table where they sat. “Is it something to do with Aldabaran, lad? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Dylan glanced at the few remaining patrons then lowered his voice. “Is there a smugglers’ cave in the cliffs below the keep?”

  A neutral mask dropped over Patrick’s face. “Aye. Why do you ask?”

  “Ever since I was a child, I’ve had these nightmares.” Dylan gave a self-deprecating smile, embarrassed to admit such a weakness. “At least, I always thought they were nightmares. But last night, I remembered some things, and it occurred to me that perhaps I’ve been reliving something that actually happened.”

  Patrick sat back, stroking his chin. “If you’re telling me you don’t remember what happened the night your mother died, I’m not certain I want to remind you, lad.”

  The night Mother died.

  Dylan closed his eyes as an image flashed through his mind. His mother, standing on the cliffs in the rain...

  “Tell me, Patrick. Tell me what happened.”

  Patrick shook his head, misery etched in every line of his face. “I don’t know exactly what happened that night. I don’t know what you saw that frightened you so badly. But when the storm was over, Fiona lay dead upon the rocks, and you were nowhere to be found. I always thought you must have seen her jump...”

  “I hid in the cave.” Dylan shuddered, overwhelmed by sudden memories of that dark place. He had been so alone. Cold. Afraid. He’d known he’d never see his mother again, and he’d been terrified by what would happen if he gave up the tenuous security of his hiding place.

  “It took me three days to find you, lad.” Patrick’s voice broke, and he swallowed convulsively before continuing. “You were curled up in that cave, whimpering like a wild thing. Half-starved, nearly frozen to the bone, and you wouldn’t say a word, not one word to me.”

  Three days?

  “Oh, God.” Dylan buried his face in his hands, remembering. “My father... He was there that night, wasn’t he?”

  Patrick was silent a moment, and then laid his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Aye. The Earl of Warren arrived unexpectedly that afternoon.”

  “He and my mother argued...”

  “Do you remember what they argued about, lad?”

  Yes.

  Dylan lifted his head, stunned by the words that echoed inside his mind. He met Patrick’s eyes—his piercing, blue-gray gaze—and all the pieces fell into place.

  He’d seen eyes that color before. He saw them every time he looked in a mirror.

  “They argued about her lowborn lover. About the bastard child she’d tried to pass off as the earl’s legitimate son.” The words were wrenched from somewhere deep inside him, from that dark place where they’d remained hidden all these years.

  Patrick released Dylan’s shoulder and then groped for his mug. He took a long deep drink. “I didn’t think he knew, lad.”

  “Then it’s true. You’re my father.” What a huge, life-altering thing, to be summed up in so few words.

  “Aye, it’s true.” Patrick lifted his hand, as though to touch Dylan again in some way, then apparently thought better of it. “You mustn’t think any less of your mother. She tried to be a good wife to the earl, but nothing she ever did was good enough for him. Summer after summer, she’d arrive with bruises on her face, her lovely spirit nearly broken by his cruelty.”

  “So you seduced her.” Dylan felt numb, as though he were listening to the story of someone else’s life, not his own.

  “I loved her. I tried to comfort her.” Patrick took another drink, then met Dylan’s gaze. “And when you came along, I loved you, too. More than life itself.”

  Dylan gave a bitter laugh. “If you loved me, you would have told me the truth. You wouldn’t have sent me to live with the man who hated me, who saw in me a constant reminder of how he’d been cuckolded. He beat me, too, you know. Every time I was within reach.”

  Patrick flinched and looked away. “I didn’t know that. Christ, lad. I’m so bloody sorry.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Dylan stood and threw a handful of coins on the bar. Blinded by despair, he made his way through the maze of empty tables and out to the deserted cobblestone street.

  Night had already fallen across the sky, but a full moon hung low in the east, dimly illuminating the shadowy landscape. Dylan sagged against a rough wooden post. He blinked to accustom his eyes to the darkness and told himself that it didn’t matter.

  So, he was the bastard son of a groom instead of the legitimate son of an earl. What difference could it make, at this late date?

  But it did matter. It will matter to Natalia...

  He hadn’t even been good enough for her when she believed he was Warren’s son. What would she say when she realized how low she’d actually married?

  “Dylan, wait.” Patrick emerged from the pub seconds later, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. “Please, son. There’s so much more I need to say to you.”

  Son.

  “Don’t. Call. Me. That.” Dylan’s anger ignited, and he enunciated each word with deadly fury. “You weren’t there for me when I needed a father, and I sure as hell don’t need one now.”

  “Listen to me,” Patrick insisted. “It killed me to lose Fiona. But when it seemed I had lost you as well, I was sick with grief. I promised God that if He helped me find you, I’d never ask Him for anything else.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Then why did you give me up? Why did you give me to the man who killed my mother?”

  Patrick drew in a sharp, shocked breath. “Warren killed Fiona? Are you sure, lad?”

  “Aye.” Dylan gave a tired nod and started walking, leaving Patrick to follow or not, as he chose. The events of that long-ago night flashed before him like distant lightning.

  His mother’s tear-stained face. The earl’s hand, raised to strike. The rain. The sea. The cave. All bright searing glimpses of his haunted past.

  “Tell me what you remember,” Patrick demanded, hurrying to keep up. “Please, Dylan. I beg of you. Let me put this nightm
are to rest.”

  “I will,” Dylan snapped. “But first, I need you to answer the other part of my question.”

  Emotionally lacerated by the evening’s revelations, he needed to know why Patrick, who was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a father, had given him up to a monster like Warren.

  “I’ll answer anything you want if you’ll stop walking for a bloody minute and turn and face me like a man.” Patrick’s frustrated bellow stopped Dylan in his tracks.

  “Face you like a man?” Dylan spun around, grabbed Patrick by the collar, and shoved him up against the crumbling wall of the nearest house. “How dare you say such a thing to me, after what you’ve done?”

  Patrick’s eyes filled with anguish, and he did nothing to defend himself. “I know you’re hurting, lad. And I’m sorry for my part in it. But I thought I was doing the right thing. Your mother had such plans for you, and I knew I could never make them come true. I wanted more for you than I could give. It seemed a fitting punishment for my sins to have to live without you.”

  Patrick’s words had an unmistakable ring of truth, and Dylan released him. He understood Patrick’s motives, misguided as they may have been.

  “All the riches in the world can’t make up for the lack of love,” Dylan told his father.

  Patrick let his head fall back against the rough stone wall. “You were loved, lad. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you and wonder how you fared.”

  A small kernel of warmth blossomed in the vicinity of Dylan’s heart, burning away years of pain and disappointment. His choices were simple. He could either hold onto his anger and freeze out this man who was everything he’d always wished his father could be, or he could let the past go and live in the present.

  Tentatively, Dylan held out an olive branch. “We’ve lost so many years... But I don’t think it’s too late to start again, do you?”

  Tears sprung to Patrick’s eyes, and he pushed away from the wall, embracing Dylan in a bone-shattering hug. “There’s nothing in the world I’d like more, lad.”

  Dylan gave a shaky laugh, overwhelmed by emotion as his father awkwardly released him. “I lied when I said I didn’t want a father. I need one more than ever.”