The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree

by Julie Johnstone

  The click of the pistol firing exploded in Arabella’s ears, followed by a bellow from Canning and the deafening boom of the shot. One moment she was standing and the next she was flying sideways through the air. She slammed into a small table, clutched it in desperation, and went down hard on her back. Her head hit the ground, spiking pain through her skull to join the agony of her burning arm. Above her, the table tilted and then fell and smacked her on the head. Warm blood ran in a path down her forehead and pooled in her ear. She screamed, or she thought it was her screaming, but a deep roar filled the air.

  Panic hit Justin like fists. Darlington was going to shoot Arabella. Rage swept the panic away in a tide and calculation sent his hand to his dagger. His fingers closed around the hilt, and with a breath for steadiness, he threw the weapon at the same moment the pistol shot exploded in the room. He let out a bellow of anguish and fear, and for one terrible moment, he was sure he was too late.

  Except suddenly Arabella was flying sideways instead of backward as she would have if she’d been hit. Darlington swung around, his face twisted with fury. A crimson stain spread rapidly down the man’s arm. As Darlington reached up to pull the dagger out of his shoulder, Canning—to Justin’s shock—let out a bellow that filled the room and smacked his son over the head with a large candelabra. Darlington’s legs buckled under him, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

  The pounding of footsteps behind Justin alerted him to someone’s approach. He glanced over his shoulder to see Davenport, tight-lipped and red-faced, clutching Miss Morgan with one hand and his pistol with the other.

  Justin swiveled back around and raced across the room to where Arabella lay with a table on top of her. Blood covered her forehead, the side of her face. It soaked her hair and left a crimson stain on the tile beneath her head.

  “No!” he roared, ripping the table away from her still body and falling to his knees beside her. “Don’t die,” he demanded, afraid to touch her lest he hurt her more, yet afraid she’d die and he’d never get to hold her in his arms again. Flinging caution to the wind, he gathered her to him and cradled her head.

  “Arabella,” he whispered, his fear of losing her overwhelming him. Trembling violently, he brushed his lips against hers. “Don’t leave me. I need you. I do. I don’t want to, but I cannot seem to crush the need. Please, please stay with me.”

  Tears blurred his vision as he stared down into her pale, unresponsive face. Behind him, feet shuffled, and then Davenport clasped him on the shoulder. “Is she—”

  “I think so,” Justin said brokenly, crushing her to him. He’d lost her and he’d never even really had her. “Arabella,” he moaned.

  “Did you check for a pulse?” Davenport asked.

  His hands shook as he pressed his fingers to her neck, groping for a pulse, willing one to come. A faint beat throbbed against his skin, and he let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

  Arabella awoke with a gasp and a scream. And to blackness. Fear choked her. She tried to bolt upright, but a strong, firm hand pressed her back against pillows so soft that she knew instantly she was not in her bed.

  “Shh, Arabella. You’re safe,” came a deep, soothing voice she recognized at once as Justin’s. She turned her head—by God, that bloody hurt—toward the body she sensed beside her.

  “Justin?”

  A sharp inhalation filled the air, followed by a scrape and a sudden flaring of light. She winced immediately and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “My God, I’m sorry,” he croaked, his voice sounding raw.

  “No,” she managed through teeth clenched against the pain. “Don’t be sorry.”

  His hand cupped her face. “That was unthinking of me. The physician did say light would likely bother you for several days, but I was so eager to see your eyes open once more.”

  “Leave the candle lit. I want to see you, too.”

  “As you wish,” he replied, and then a rustling sound filled the silence, followed by the scraping of wood against the floor. “I’m moving the candle so it’s not directly in your face. There now. Open your eyes again.”

  She did so tentatively. He’d placed the candle on a bedside table that seemed somehow familiar to her and moved the furniture away from her head. It was near his leg, and his face was illuminated by the flame. Her breath caught as she stared at him. Reddish-brown stubble covered his jaw, his green eyes had dark shadows underneath them, and his eyes were bloodshot. “You look terrible.”

  He grinned. “You don’t look so terrific yourself what with your head wrapped in a bandage and your hair all matted. I washed the blood out, but—”

  “You did what?” She didn’t bother to try to disguise her surprise.

  He shrugged, displaying his discomposure. “I didn’t trust your lady’s maid to protect your head as it needed to be. So I did it myself.”

  “I don’t have a lady’s maid,” she murmured, her mind reeling with the knowledge that Justin had been so worried for her that he’d washed her hair himself. A duke. A spy. A hardened man who didn’t display emotions had shown her how much she meant to him without telling her. Warmth spread throughout her body.

  He cupped the side of her face with his palm. “I hired you a lady’s maid because you need one.”

  She pressed her hand over his much larger one. “I appreciate that, but it’s not necessary.”

  “It is,” he said fiercely. “To me. I want you better as soon as possible, and a lady’s maid will ensure you are not trying to care for your mother and father while you are healing.”

  “My parents!” she gasped, overcome with the realization that she had no idea what had happened after she hit her head or even where she was. “Where am I?” she demanded. “Where’s my father? Jude? The letters?” She struggled to sit up, but he gently stopped her. She scowled. “Justin, I have to—”

  He set a finger to her lips. “Canning and Davenport took Jude to the Carthright Home to get help. He will be under lock and key until he is sane, if ever. You are at my townhome because your house was too small for me to stay there along with a lady’s maid, your father, your mother, and the nurse for your mother.”

  She batted his hand away. “My mother?”

  He nodded. “Your father told me, or rather he told me some and wrote the rest, about Howick and Brougham and the threats against your mother. I put the fear of my hands into Brougham.”

  “Your hands?”

  “Yes. I explained how quickly a man can die when I use them as weapons. Especially men who forget their places. He quite forgot he was the queen’s lawyer, and he should not be making threats to innocent people such as you or your father, who know nothing about any letters, again.”

  “I see,” she whispered. Her gratefulness made speaking hard. Justin had ensured her father would not be bothered again and he’d ensured her mother’s safety, as well. “What of the letters?”

  “What letters?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Justin,” she chided. “I know you are trying to protect me, but I must know.”

  “I promised to keep Brougham’s treasonous behavior a secret from the king in exchange for his and Howick’s words that they would use the letter I gave them to ensure the king did not obtain his divorce.”

  Relief made her almost dizzy, but then another concern gripped her belly. “What if they lied to you?”

  “I read the letter I gave them. It’s enough to keep the king from getting what he wants but not to topple him from his throne. Besides,” he said with an air of nonchalance, “I made it very clear that I could not speak for whether you would keep the secret of who your parents were. But I thought perhaps if they kept their promises, you might agree that keeping your true identity a secret would be for the best.” He stared into her eyes with an unwavering gaze. “But if you don’t wish to do that, I will back you. I will be there for you no matter what.”

  She bit down on her lip to keep from blubbering her love for him. “My parents are George and Ophelia Carthrigh
t. They are the only parents I have ever known. They are the only parents I ever want to know.”

  He nodded. “I thought you’d say that.”

  The pride in his voice made her smile, but when she thought about what his actions to help the queen could mean for him, fear gripped her. “What of you? I mean with the king? Will he—”

  “He’ll never know. I am going to see him tomorrow, and I will explain that his letters were burned so he need not fear anything.”

  “But your vow.”

  His lips pressed together in a thin line. “Yes, my vow. I can no longer keep the vow to put the king above all else. Thus, I’ll be retiring.”

  Guilt and nervousness pricked her. Did he blame her? Was he angry that she had inadvertently put him in this situation? She swallowed hard, afraid to ask. “What will you do?” she asked instead.

  “Oh, I imagine I’ll be quite busy.” He leaned in close, a devilish look coming into his eyes. “I’m getting married, you see.”

  It took a moment for what he said to sink into her muddled brain, but when it did, she could do nothing but stare at him.

  “Say something,” he urged in that velvety tone of his. He took her hand and squeezed gently.

  “Why?” she asked, settling on the most important question clamoring in her head. “Why do you want to marry me?”

  He placed a hand on her belly while holding her gaze. “You could be carrying my child.”

  Disappointment filled her, but she battled it back. She knew he did not speak of his emotions, but that didn’t mean he did not love her. She needed to be sure, though. “I may not be. And I have decided I want to marry for love. Nothing less.”

  He gave her a narrowed, glinting glance. “You love me.” His voice was carefully colored in neutral shades, but suddenly his vulnerability displayed vividly in his shining green eyes.

  “I do,” she said, trying desperately to keep her own voice from shaking, an almost impossible task given telling him how she truly felt required letting go of every barrier she’d ever erected and standing naked and vulnerable before him. “I do love you. Desperately. Crazily. Madly. For as long as I’ve known you. But how do you feel about me?”

  He glanced away, turned back toward her, and then abruptly stood.

  Her heart jerked as he strode to the window and stared silently out into the darkness. She wanted to call to him and tell him never mind to her stupid question, he could grow to love her, she loved him that much, but it would not be true. She needed to know he loved her.

  He jerked a hand though his hair and then came close to her again, looking down at her with an intensity that wrapped around her and made her shiver. “I cannot put the king first because now there is you. You are first. You have my hands to hold you, bathe you, nurture you, kill for you if need be to protect you. I do not want to live without you.” He sat on the bed and gripped her hands in his. “Will that do?”

  “That will do,” she whispered as tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks. He’d not uttered the words, but she knew they were in his heart. One day he would say them when he felt safe making himself vulnerable to her. He would tell her he loved her.

  Justin awoke long before anyone else in the household, and as he had done every day for a week—except the day he had gone to see the king and resign as a spy—he crept down the hall to the bedchamber where Arabella was recuperating, and he cracked the door to ensure his bedridden patient was still well. From the doorway, he trained his gaze on her chest, hidden under the white coverlet, and he waited for the rise and fall that would let him know she was breathing evenly. When it came, most of the tension drained out of him, but not all of it.

  He was intensely cognizant of how important she had become to him. It was as if he could not breathe properly until he was sure she was breathing properly. He had to gain some control over himself and his rampant emotions. He needed her in his life, could not imagine it without her, but he refused to rip out his heart and hand it to her. His damnable heart had to stay in his chest where it was safe.

  How hard could it be to manage that? He didn’t want to be like his father. Never that. He would never be a cold and uncaring husband. He would lavish attention and affection on Arabella so that she would know in her heart how he felt. But to say the words… He shuddered. That would be to willingly give her control of his heart.

  She wanted that. He knew she did. He could see the desire for him to tell her he loved her in her eyes. All week, he’d contemplated how to make her happy now and when they were married, and he’d settled on ungodly amounts of attention, which was quite easy to give her. Every single moment with her felt like a gift, but he could not rid himself of the notion that the gift would be taken away if he fully gave in to the way her presence made the beat of his heart shift.

  He watched her breathe for several more minutes before he eased the door shut and went back to his own room to change and fetch her breakfast. The house was now teeming with servants he’d hired for her. It made him uncomfortable to have so many people underfoot and tangled in his personal life, but he wanted everything to be perfect for her. He knew the maids thought it very odd that he brought her a breakfast tray every morning himself, but he didn’t give a damn what they thought. After collecting the tray and the paper, which he’d been reading to her every morning, he made his way back to her bedchamber and knocked.

  “Come in,” she called.

  The sound of her sweet voice tightened his chest. He opened the door, and he grinned at the sight of her, sitting in the enormous bed, propped against a mound of pillows, bright-eyed but totally disheveled. This woman was going to be his wife. It both filled him with joy and terrified him at once.

  “You look ravishing,” he said as he closed the distance between them, set down the tray, and leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. He inhaled her flowery scent and, for once, welcomed the onslaught of emotions she made him feel.

  Her eyebrows drew together and her hand came to her hair as he sat on the edge of the bed. She pursed her lips, but there was a playfulness in her gesture. “I can feel my tangled hair and know I don’t look ravishing. I look frightening, I’m sure, but I love how you lie to me.” She grinned.

  “It’s not a lie,” he replied, thinking how his soon-to-be wife used the word love quite a lot. “Has your maid not been in to see you and dress your hair?”

  Arabella nodded. “She has, but she’s rather rough with the brush and I have a sensitive scalp.”

  Now he frowned. That was not perfect. “I’ll dismiss her at once and—”

  “Don’t you dare!” Arabella gasped. “She is young, but she will learn. I simply didn’t feel up to instructing her this morning. Besides, it’s awfully odd to have someone else, a stranger, brushing my hair when I’m used to doing it myself.” She glanced at her bandaged arm. “It’s too bad for you that the arm I use to fix my hair is the one that was injured.” She cocked her head, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “I suppose you will have to put up with my looking unkempt.”

  An absurd idea struck him, but one that quickly transformed from absurd to tantalizing. “I’ll brush your hair for you.”

  “You?”

  He nodded and slid his gaze to the top of her creamy breasts. He longed to touch her in any form or fashion, even if it meant simply holding her head to brush her hair. “I promise,” he said, purposely making his voice deeper, “I will be very gentle.”

  She rewarded him with a pretty blush, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “My brush,” she replied huskily, “is over on the dressing table.”

  He nodded and retrieved the silver brush, his blood simmering slowly at the idea of the intimate gesture he was going to perform. How odd that such a normally mundane task could kindle his desire for her. She scooted forward on the bed, and he settled behind her, unaccountably aware of her heat and the thin dressing gown she wore. He slid his hand behind her hair, fighting the urge to delve his hands under her gown and cup her breasts. As his fi
ngers closed around the delicate column of her neck, he groaned at the need that hardened him, and she hissed through her teeth.

  He stilled and leaned so near her that his chest brushed her back. “What is it, darling?” The endearment felt completely right. “Am I hurting you?”

  Her hand found his thigh and settled there as she turned her face toward his, their lips a hairbreadth apart. “I ache because I want you. And I want you because I love you.”

  There was that word love again, but he rather liked how it flowed from her mouth. He pressed his lips gently to hers, and they both sighed into each other’s mouths. He kissed her slowly, carefully restraining the need ravaging him. She was still recovering.

  After a moment, he broke the kiss and brushed his fingers across her swollen lips. “If I don’t stop now, I’m afraid I won’t be able to, and then I might hurt you in your present state. So be a good girl and help me.”

  She giggled but nodded and faced forward. He picked up the brush he had set beside him and eased it gently through her hair. “Is this good?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, her weight seeming to settle in the hand that gripped her neck. He was awed and humbled by the trust she freely gave to him. They sat in silence for a bit, as he slowly rid her hair of tangles. When he was finished, they settled together side by side on her bed, and he read to her about the queen, her mother. The trial was going well for her. She had the favor of the people of London, and it seemed that the king’s ploy to get a divorce would likely fail. When Justin had read every detail there was, they sat for a moment, hands intertwined and gazing at each other.

  Arabella finally spoke. “I hope for her sake the king does not get his divorce.”

  Justin nodded. “You are kind and have a forgiving heart. Many people in your situation would hope just the opposite.”