“You know nothing of the sort.” Book in hand, she pushed against his hard chest, and instantly felt a corresponding twinge in her side. She fought to keep her features neutral, but by his growl and headshake, she must have given something away. “Your quick strides are hardly helping the situation.”
Being carried in such a manner felt awkward. The tangle of her sodden redingote around her legs made them of little use, and she didn’t know what to do with her arms and elbows. At least, not until he turned swiftly past an outcropping of rocks.
A rush of dizziness swept over her, forcing her to hold on to him. The thick muscles beneath her hand felt as solid and unforgiving as stone. Had she first thought that the layered cape offered the mere illusion of broad shoulders? Oh, how very wrong she was.
Then again, perhaps this was merely clever padding and she should investigate further . . .
“Please, Miss Bourne,” he said, making her jolt with guilt and a bit of embarrassment. Yet, when he continued, she realized he wasn’t chiding her for having inquisitive fingers, but for something else. “You must not tax yourself by fumbling over endless words of gratitude for my assistance. I’m sure you would have been content to linger upon that rock for days on end.”
Jacinda bristled at his mocking tone. Once again, she stiffened in his arms to gain some sort of barrier between them. “Appreciation to a man who has made it abundantly clear that every one of his actions is done under extreme duress? Ha. I suspect that you would have liked nothing more than to leave me on the beach and forget you ever saw me.”
He grunted in response but did not deny the claim. Then he pulled her closer as he leaned into a steep portion of the hill, rendering all of her efforts of separation ineffective.
Impossibly, he showed no signs of strain, as if he were carrying nothing more than an empty basket in front of him as he climbed. Since there was certainly no padding to his shoulders, there likely wasn’t any in the firmness of his torso either. Fortunately, this time, she managed to resist squeezing him to be certain. She would give him the benefit of the doubt. Which was far more than he had given her during this brief exchange.
Scrutinizing his features from this intimate distance, she looked for clues, hoping to spark a memory of how they came to be acquainted. Right off, she noticed that the flesh around his eyes appeared dark, shadowed, and tinged purple as if he had not slept. There was also a substantial growth of cinnamon-colored whiskers along his cheeks and jaw, just above the rumpled edge of his cravat.
“Wouldn’t a gentleman shave before donning a cravat?” she asked, wondering if perhaps she might recall seeing his face once she could, in fact, see it.
He slid her a wary glance. “Usually, I am not called to the beach to rescue an injured woman at such an early hour.”
Would he have her believe that he took time to tie a cravat as he rushed out the door? It seemed unlikely, for the garment was decidedly flat and wrinkled. To her, it was more plausible that he’d only just arrived home—and possibly from a night of carousing—when he’d learned the news of her. “Were you traveling last night?”
He glanced down at her, his furrowed brow revealing a jagged vein on his forehead. “Surely you have other thoughts to occupy your mind at present.”
Hmm . . . She must have touched on a nerve.
Curiosity rose within her in a storm of tingles. They felt like small, prickling alarms of awareness that told her, There is a mystery here that needs to be uncovered.
“A goodly many, indeed,” she said, watching him closely, her fingertips burrowing beneath the flaps of his cape to the edge of his shoulder. But only for a surer grip, of course. “Yet since I only have memories enough to fill the past half hour of my life, I am trying to stitch them all together to form a more cohesive pattern. But there are pieces that do not fit.
“For example,” she continued, “you were all politeness to the doctor and Miss Beels, and yet quick-tempered with me. I find that quite suspicious, especially when—as you say—we have no long-standing acquaintance.”
It was only after she spoke that she realized the remark did her no favors. Nevertheless, the man clearly detested her, and had from the very first moment he’d seen her upon the beach.
He kept his gaze straight ahead, but the muscle along his jaw twitched. “We have not met above two times.”
“Only twice? Come now.” She tsked. He must take her for a fool. “How am I to believe that I have earned your ire in so few encounters?”
“Perhaps you have an innate talent for it. Or perhaps my terseness has caused you to form an incorrect assumption. Needless to say, these are not the best of circumstances for either of us.”
An evasive answer, if ever there was one. “If what you say is true, then I am not to blame for your irritability, and yet you offer no concrete explanation or even a gentlemanly apology for your rudeness toward me.”
“I never apologize, Miss Bourne,” he said, his eyes a cold pine-bough-in-winter hazel. “And I suspect that is the one thing we have in common.”
His expression closed off once more as he focused on the path, leaving her to mull over his statement. What could she have done—and in only two instances—to necessitate her apology to him?
She wasn’t surprised when a ready answer did not come forth. Though, it was rather arrogant of him to speak with such certainty of her character if they were hardly acquainted.
Just when Jacinda managed to keep her thoughts together, the pain in her head suddenly returned, full force. Briefly, she closed her eyes and gave in to the comfort his steady cadence provided.
“It isn’t far now,” he said, his gruff tone edged with a trace of gentleness.
She didn’t know what to make of him. Irritability and petulance notwithstanding, he had something of a sympathetic heart. After all, he could have left her on the beach, or even waited until she fainted before assisting her up the winding path. Therefore, it seemed a reasonable assumption that he was compassionate to anyone who showed signs of frailty.
Hmm . . . Perhaps even enough to take pity on her and divulge more information?
Jacinda wondered if she should feel guilty for the quick turn of her thoughts to manipulation. She didn’t, of course. Not even a little bit. In fact, she felt compelled to stop at nothing to satisfy her curiosity.
Musing over this, she glanced forward. A dozen paces ahead of them, the doctor leaned heavily on his cane while Miss Beels bobbed her head in apparent conversation. And further, beyond a copse of spindly, battered yews, she caught a glimpse of a pair of white stone towers topped with toothlike crenellations that all but disappeared into a thick shroud of gray clouds.
Rydstrom Hall, she presumed before another turn made it impossible to see more. Though surely such a forbidding and romantic set of towers would have been permanently stamped upon her memory, had she ever seen it. And yet, none of it was familiar to her.
Jacinda was already fed up with not knowing who she was, why the duke despised her, or why she was here. If she could just uncover the answer to one of those, she was certain the rest would fall into place.
Feeling that it was her only course of action, she tucked her chin slightly toward her chest and lifted her eyes in an effort to appear shaken and defenseless, instead of single-mindedly plotting to suit her own purpose. Then, as if she might have scripted it herself, a blast of cold wind blew, causing a perfectly natural shiver to bore through her—though she might have dramatized the sensation with a quivering chin for effect. “I don’t know what I would have done without your assistance. My only wish is that I’d made a better impression on you when we met previously.”
A crack of thunder accompanied the dark, skeptical look he gave her. Another gust of wind lifted the flaps from his shoulders to press against the back of his head as the first icy sprinkles of rain fell upon them. “You would do well to give up your coquettish manipulations. They’ll only serve to prolong my ill temper.”
Humph. She narrowed her
eyes and wrinkled her nose at him, her hand tightening around the spine of her book. Drat that man! Sympathetic heart? Apparently not where she was concerned.
“For all I know this foul mood is your permanent state.” Then, because she felt like it, she used the front of his coat to wipe away the droplets from her face.
In the same instant, she caught a fragrance that seemed to spark a memory . . . perhaps. She wasn’t certain. All she knew was that a warm tremor raced through her, tunneling deep in her midriff.
The aroma was pleasantly disarming—sweet, earthy, and with a subtle base of something darker, bolder—like a blend of cedar and cloves. She gasped in wonder that she even knew what those things were. And even though she couldn’t see this memory, she felt as if it were just out of reach.
She tried to angle closer to capture it. Then, as luck would have it, the storm broke over them in a hard clash of rain, thunder, and wind. The duke expelled an oath, hitched her higher in his arms, and started to run.
She was forced to hold on tighter, too, but this time she did not mind. With the book secure between them, she unabashedly slid both arms around his shoulders, and curled into him. And with his head bent to shield them, her face naturally nestled into his cravat.
This close, she could hear him breathe, hard and swift, the air rushing in and out, matching the rhythm of his hurried steps. The firm press of his chest, rising and falling, made her aware of how her own flesh yielded to his, rocking against him, her breasts pliant and yet taut. Tantalizing waves of heat rose from him, practically inviting her to burrow closer.
And she did, settling deeper into the crook of his neck. With her eyes closed, she drew in another breath, no longer feeling the cold around her.
“Miss Bourne.” His voice was a hoarse, brusque growl, his shoulders stiffening beneath her hands.
Jacinda was so completely focused on seizing the elusive memory—or whatever it was—that she didn’t realize he’d stopped. Her brain gave every indication that they were still moving together. She could feel her stomach sway with it, pulsing.
Somewhat dazed, she lifted her head from his neck, her face near enough to see the rim of russet striations surrounding his enlarged black pupils. She could even feel the heat of his breath against her lips.
Her lids grew unexpectedly heavy and her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Yes?”
His own gaze dipped lower and he swallowed. “Are you able to stand?”
Able to, yes. Wanting to? Not entirely.
She licked her lips. “Of course. I told you all along that I was capable of”—she stopped short when he quickly lowered her feet to the floor—“fending for myself.”
A door closed behind her with a heavy thunk. The corresponding, booming echo startled her and she was thankful to still be pressed against his side, his warm, solid body providing a measure of comfort.
It was only now that she realized they were indoors, the deafening patter of rain muffled. Glancing behind him, she saw a wide, recessed stone archway filled with an immense oak door, complete with iron braces. Together they stood in a snug, unadorned entry hall made of smooth blocks of white stone, but void of rugs or windows.
Directly ahead, a brace of flaming torches hung on either side of another thick door. The opening revealed a larger, longer hall with high stone walls lined with shuttered window casings and arched alcoves that gave a sense of having been part of this land since the day the earth was formed.
Further into the room, there were ancient rugs and tapestries aplenty, and a fire burning in a great hearth. A genuine medieval castle, by the look of it. Jacinda nearly laughed because, for some strange reason, it suited the duke perfectly.
Then, an amusing notion crossed her mind that the irritable duke planned to keep her in a dungeon.
She was about to make a jest and ask him that very thing when an older man in a blue coat with brass buttons emerged from the shadowed vestibule. The soles of his shoes clapped smartly on the flagstone as he stepped around them to address the duke. When he bowed, the flickering light from a nearby wall sconce illuminated a ring of wispy gray hair that surrounded his baldpate.
“Your Grace, the guests are in the juniper parlor.” Though he did not smile, he gave a sense of contentment in the way he drew in a deep breath that puffed out his chest.
Abruptly, the duke removed his arm from Jacinda’s side, then frowned at the way her hand lingered on his shoulder. “Miss Bourne, if you have recovered . . .”
She should probably feel guilty for clinging to him. Even with a misplaced memory, she realized that it likely wasn’t appropriate. Reluctantly, she lowered her arm. He took an immediate step apart from her, leaving her cold and half tempted to pretend to swoon just to have his arms around her again. But then she thought better of it. Best to save a fainting spell for when she needed it most.
“Now then, Fellows,” the duke began. Walking through the broad doorway, he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the butler. “Where is Mrs. Hemple? Still breakfasting?”
Jacinda followed him and, seeing his actions, decided to remove her wet redingote as well. Though, needing both her hands, she handed over the wrapped book to the duke, muttering, “Hold this, please. Thank you.”
“No, sir. Mrs. Hemple is”—the butler paused, surprise in the lift of his wiry brows as his gaze darted between Jacinda and the duke, before clearing his throat—“seeing to matters within the keep. Consequently, after young Henry’s announcement, I’ve taken the liberty of securing a guest chamber for Miss Bourne.”
The duke frowned down at the book in his hand as if he didn’t know why he was holding it, and then gave it to Fellows. But, of course, this left him with the only free hands to assist her out of her coat.
She presented her back to him. “If you would be so kind . . .”
A low growl rumbled out of the duke, but he set his warm hands on her shoulders, nonetheless. At least, briefly. Then, in a single, fluid movement, he peeled off the wet outer garment, turning the sleeves inside out along the way. Then he handed it to Fellows, who in turn handed Jacinda her book, humor glinting in his cloudy gray eyes.
Clutching Emma, she grinned even as a shiver passed through her, nearly making her teeth chatter. “We’re quite good at this roundabout, aren’t we, Mr. Fellows?”
“Indeed, miss.”
Then, abruptly, the duke muttered an indecipherable oath beneath his breath, snatched his own coat away from the butler’s arm, and settled it over her shoulders.
The heavy weight of it was startling as much as the warmth was soothing. She wanted to be aggravated at the duke, but she couldn’t, not when the fragrance of sweet, warm cedar enveloped her, eliciting that same flutter of familiarity that burrowed deep into the pit of her stomach. Now she wanted to curl inside his coat and live there.
It wasn’t until she glanced down to ensure her book was safely out of the way when she saw the likely reason for his actions. Even through the barrier of her burgundy wool dress, the hard, pebbled state of her nipples was blatantly evident. And at last, she felt a heat of her own making spread through her.
Though, in her own defense, the cut of the gown revealed nothing else scandalous. To her, it appeared modestly cut, skimming down her slender waist and the slight curve of her hips. All the same, she tugged the lapels of his greatcoat closer, the bottom of the garment dragging on the floor.
She lifted her gaze to thank him, but only saw his profile and the muscle ticking in the hard line of his jaw.
“Miss Bourne will only be staying until the storm passes,” he said to Fellows. The clipped precision of the words left no doubt that she was unwelcome.
Truth be told, she already knew this. Yet that didn’t stop the unexpected wave of loneliness that washed over her. She had no friends here in Rydstrom Hall, and no memory of others anywhere else.
Not exactly a warm and comforting realization.
“Yes, of course, sir,” Fellows replied, disapproval marked in the hard line o
f his thin, colorless lips. He cast a kindly glance toward Jacinda. “Given the circumstances of her injuries, Dr. Graham suggested a quiet room for the duration. I thought the tower would be best.”
The notion of a dungeon returned to her. Only this time it wasn’t amusing.
She offered a patently false grin to the duke’s inscrutable profile. “If it would make you feel better, I’ll take a room that comes complete with iron bars on the window and a wooden beam across the outer door.”
“You have just described the gull chamber in the lower tower. But we only use that for prisoners,” the duke said, turning to her briefly, his expression impassive. Then he directed his attention to the butler. “Fellows, what room have you prepared?”
Fellows expelled an audible exhale. “The gull chamber, sir.”
The duke slid her a glance, offering a highly unsympathetic shrug and a subtle lift of his brows. Then he gestured forward with a casual sweep of his hand. “Right this way, Miss Bourne, if you are able.”
“Of course I am.” Her first few steps down the hall were a trifle unsteady, however. Part of the reason was due to her exhaustion. The rest stemmed from the weight of his coat and her garments, and the squish of her boots. Something slithered down her calf as well. She was fairly certain that it was not a wayward sea creature, but she surreptitiously shook her leg just in case. This caused her echoed steps to falter out of rhythm and slow.
The duke didn’t seem to notice. He simply forged ahead like a man on a mission to be rid of her as soon as possible.
Fueled by irritation, she quickened her pace on the flagstones, passing another arched alcove, and pressing her free hand to the hitch in her side. Then, finally, she caught up with him, reaching a narrow corridor.
Entering this dimly lit nook, she saw a set of curved stairs, illuminated by a meager light from some mysterious place above. However, when he walked ahead of her, his shoulders blocked out nearly all of it. And with no handrail to aid her, she did her best to keep her wrapped book and a gather of wet garments in one hand, while the other pressed against the inner curve of the cold, pitted wall.
How to Forget a Duke Page 8
