The Desires of a Duke: Historical Romance Collection

by Darcy Burke

  “Mercer made it clear in the ransom note that I’m to follow his instructions to the letter,” Alaric said starkly. “If I don’t bring the gold to the quay alone and unarmed at nine o’clock, he’s going to kill Emma and Patrice. I won’t take that risk.”

  “He might kill them anyway. You as well.”

  Alaric saw emotion flare in the other man’s eyes. Fear. Fury. The same feelings that ran molten through his own veins.

  “Whatever it takes, I will see your sister safe,” he vowed. “It’s me Mercer wants.”

  “You’d trade your life for Emma’s?”

  “Whatever it takes,” he repeated.

  Kent studied him for a moment. “My wife was right after all.”

  “About what?”

  “You truly do care for Emma.”

  Alaric’s cheekbones heated. He felt suddenly exposed—and he didn’t like it. “I told you my intentions were honorable,” he said stiffly.

  “There’s a difference between an honorable marriage and a loving one.”

  A knock on the door cut short the conversation. Alaric tensed.

  Kent checked his watch. “Right on time.”

  The investigator opened the door and ushered in a fellow dressed in the loose jacket and trousers of a man who worked on the water. The newcomer’s most distinguishable feature was the curly auburn hair beneath his cap. His freckled face split into a grin. He and Kent exchanged bows—and then slapped each other on the back like old friends.

  “As I live and breathe, six years and you don’t look any different, sir. Except your clothes—quite dapper now, ain’t you?” The stranger winked. “Told you a wife would do you good, didn’t I?”

  “Indeed you did, old friend,” Kent said with a faint smile. “But time to reminisce later. As I mentioned in my message, I’m afraid I’m here on urgent business.”

  “I’m at your service, sir.”

  “I’m deeply grateful to hear it.” Kent turned to Alaric. “Your Grace, this is John Oldman, a former colleague of mine at the Thames River Police. He moved to Portsmouth six years ago.”

  “Call me Johnno. Everyone does,” the man said cheerfully.

  “I beg your pardon,” Alaric said, “but how is it that you’re to help us?“

  “Kent says you need a way to hide in plain sight on the water. I can provide that.”

  “How?”

  “Johnno and his brother-in-law operate one of the largest barge services here in Portsmouth,” Kent explained. “A third of the barges that travel between ship and shore are theirs. With Johnno’s help, we’ll surround the quay where you’re to meet Mercer.” The investigator’s eyes burned with a fierce light. “Unbeknownst to that blackguard, we’ll block his escape route. We’ll capture him—and get Emma and the dowager back.”

  Finally, Lady Patrice stirred.

  Emma had begun to lose hope, her desperation mounting as pale light seeped through the shutters of the window. She could hear the activity above, the shouts and heavy bootsteps as the villains readied themselves for Alaric’s arrival.

  For the ambush.

  She had to free herself and Lady Patrice before Alaric arrived. Before he fell into Mercer’s deadly clutches.

  “Lady Patrice,” she said as loud as she dared, “please, open your eyes.”

  The dowager’s lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks. Slowly, her head turned toward Emma. “Miss Kent? Where—where are we?” she said in a trembling, befuddled voice. “What has happened?”

  Emma wanted to weep with relief. Instead, she said in calm tones, “We’ve been kidnapped, Your Grace. Mercer is holding us hostage—and he means to kill Strathaven when he brings the ransom money. We must stop the villain, and I need your help.”

  “Kill Strathaven?” Lady Patrice pushed herself to sitting and though she weaved a little, she said firmly, “We cannot allow that to happen. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Remember we’ll be watching from the barges,” Will said. “One wrong move from Mercer and we’ll move in, cut off his escape.”

  “Aye,” Alaric said.

  The two of them were standing on the quay Mercer had designated for the exchange. Besides him and Will and the trunks of ransom, the dock was abandoned, positioned within a small isolated cove. Near the entrance of the cove, he saw two of Johnno’s vessels patrolling the waters. They appeared like the other ubiquitous barges, and he prayed that Mercer would be fooled.

  “It’s a quarter to nine. You’d best go before the bastard shows up,” Alaric said.

  Will didn’t move. Gruffly, he said, “Don’t get yourself killed, all right? I’d hate to lose my only brother.”

  Alaric’s chest tightened. “If anything happens to me, you’re the last of the Strathaven line. Take care of the title.”

  Will’s eyes widened. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I don’t want the bluidy dukedom—”

  “I know,” Alaric said simply. “But promise me you’ll look after it anyway.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Will raked a hand through his hair. “But ... aye. Have no worry, Alaric, but that of saving your lass.”

  Alaric clasped his brother’s shoulder in silent thanks. He was startled to find himself pulled into a rough hug. The embrace ended just as abruptly.

  His face ruddy, Will muttered, “I’ll be watching from the barge.”

  After the other left, Alaric turned his attention back to the mouth of the cove. Minutes later, he saw a small covered vessel approaching, moving steadily toward the inlet, churning a white line in its wake. It passed through the entrance of the cove and minutes later arrived at the quay.

  Alaric’s muscles tensed as a figure disembarked onto the wharf, his face shielded by the brim of his hat. The bastard looked up.

  Alaric’s gut clenched. “Where’s Mercer?”

  The dark-haired ruffian casually withdrew a pistol, pointed it at Alaric. He crossed over and, searching Alaric’s pockets, removed the firearm. He made a tsking noise as he tossed the weapon into the water.

  Shaking his head, the brute said, “Nobs ne’er are any good at followin’ instructions.” He gave a short whistle—and two more cutthroats emerged from the barge. “Boys, have a look inside those trunks.”

  The pair opened the lids, and Alaric saw the avarice glittering in their eyes.

  “I’ve brought the ransom,” he said evenly. “Give me the women.”

  “You ain’t in no position to make demands, yer lordship.” To his comrades, the cutthroat ordered, “Tie ’im up, boys. We’re bringing ’Is Grace back to the main ship.”

  On a barge near the cove’s entrance, Ambrose swore softly. He’d been monitoring the events on the quay through a telescope.

  “I don’t see any sign of the women or Mercer,” he said. “The villain sent his lackeys to get the money.”

  “Those bastards have Alaric now,” McLeod growled. “We’ve got to head them off before they leave the cove.”

  “We can’t,” Ambrose said in frustration. “If Mercer doesn’t get his gold, Emma and the dowager will die.”

  “If we don’t stop them now, my brother will!”

  “We have no choice. Strathaven was willing to take the risk, and we must see this through.” Cursing, Ambrose pounded his fist on the barge’s railing. “Johnno,” he said in clipped tones, “signal the other barges. We’ll have to follow the bastards to their ship, but we cannot, under any circumstances, be seen.”

  “Just like the old days. Don’t worry, sir,” Johnno said, “I haven’t lost my touch.”

  Jaw clenched, Ambrose prayed that he was making the right decision. The lives of three people—one of them his sister—depended upon it.

  Chapter 33

  “Help! Someone please! She’s not breathing!” the dowager cried.

  Emma heard a curse from outside the door, the guard’s key inserting into the lock. Heart pounding, she stood at the ready, arms raised, be
hind the door.

  It opened, and the guard rushed in. “What the bleedin’—”

  Stepping out behind him, Emma brought the stool down with all her might. The heavy wood cracked against the back of his skull. With a groan, he toppled to the ground.

  She set down her weapon and crouched next to him.

  “Did I ... is he dead?” she said, her voice trembling.

  Squatting on the other side of the fallen figure, Lady Patrice shook her head. “He’s breathing. He won’t be out for long.”

  With hands that shook, Emma searched the guard’s body, removing a pistol and a vial of clear liquid, which she passed to the dowager. Just as she was reaching for the rope on the man’s belt—she planned to truss him up—a beefy hand gripped her wrist. She jerked, her gaze flying to the guard’s face. His eyes were open, and he bolted upright, his expression menacing.

  A scream rose in her throat—

  A small hand with a red ring slapped fabric against the brute’s face. He let out a moan and fell backward, his head whacking against the floor. This time he didn’t move.

  “See how you like a taste of your own medicine,” the dowager said.

  Emma saw that Lady Patrice had dumped the contents of the vial onto the hem of her petticoat, using it to subdue the cutthroat.

  Emma’s brows rose. “Your Grace, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “I may be a duchess, but I am Scottish,” the other replied tartly. “Now how are we getting out of here?”

  Emma clasped the pistol. “We’ll locate the lifeboat. If we can escape before Alaric arrives, he needn’t bargain with that monster.”

  “An excellent plan.”

  Emma led the way out of the cabin and into the dark and narrow corridor. Listening to the pattern of footsteps overhead, she headed in the direction away from the activity. Minutes later, she saw steps up ahead, light filtering in from a trapdoor at the top.

  Emma crept up the steps and carefully pushed the trapdoor open, just enough for her to peer out. Daylight shocked her pupils, momentarily blinding her. When the dots cleared, she could see that they were below the quarterdeck. She spotted a pyramid of barrels just paces away—possible cover. Boots suddenly crossed her line of vision; she let the trapdoor fall immediately, her heart thumping like a rabbit’s.

  A minute or so passed. She cracked open the door once more.

  The way looked clear.

  “I’ll have to go out and look for the lifeboat,” she whispered. “Wait here, Your Grace.”

  The dowager nodded.

  Inhaling for courage, Emma pushed the door open and scrambled out, making a dash for the barrels. Pulse racing, her back against the curved containers, she waited for a bark of discovery. None came. Scouting the environs, she estimated about a half-dozen yards to the side of the vessel, where a lifeboat might be located. Her muscles readied to make the sprint.

  Mercer’s voice in the distance made her freeze.

  “Welcome aboard, Strathaven,” said the earl in snide tones. “I have been expecting you.”

  Alaric took quick stock of the situation.

  Mercer and six cutthroats, plus the other two bringing the trunks up from the barge.

  Nine villains in all—not the best of odds, especially since Alaric’s hands were bound and he was flanked by a pair of brutes. Yet if he bought some time—distracted Mercer—Will and the others might yet arrive. He didn’t dare scan the surrounding water to see if Johnno’s barges had managed to follow the cutthroats’ snaking path to the present ship. If Will and Kent had lost the trail, finding Mercer’s ship amidst the flotilla of vessels in the harbor would be akin to searching for a needle in a haystack.

  He couldn’t worry about that now.

  You have to trust Will and Kent. Stay focused. Be on the lookout for Emma and Patrice.

  Coolly, he said, “This wasn’t our agreement, Mercer.”

  The earl gave a harsh laugh. “There is no agreement, Your Grace. In case you haven’t noticed, I hold all the cards. You’ll do as I say.”

  “I brought the money,” Alaric said evenly. “Count it, if you wish. But you must honor your word as a gentleman and release Miss Kent and the dowager duchess.”

  Mercer stepped forward and backhanded him. Alaric’s head snapped to the side.

  “You’ve ruined me. Thanks to you, I’m not welcomed in Society any longer.” The earl’s urbane face contorted with rage. “You’ve destroyed everything!”

  “You did that to yourself. Or perhaps you needed help even for that,” Alaric said in tones designed to goad. “Perhaps Webb came up with the stock scheme, and you were merely his lackey, following his orders.”

  “The plan was mine, damn you! I recruited Silas Webb, not the other way around. I saw United’s failing prospects and hired Webb to help topple it from the inside. The company’s demise was inevitable. A sure thing. But then you came along, ousted Webb, and turned the venture into a bloody success. I’ve lost everything because of you.”

  “You lost everything because you made a bad investment—and compounded matters by having me poisoned and shot.”

  “What poison?” Mercer snarled. “What are you—”

  “Get away from him!”

  Alaric’s gaze jerked in the direction of the clear, feminine tones. Relief exploded in his chest—replaced instantly by bone-deep fear. What the devil is she doing?

  Emma came toward them like some avenging angel, her unbound hair sweeping past her shoulders and a pistol in her small hands. She aimed it at Mercer.

  Mercer gave a nasty laugh. “You’re not going to shoot.”

  “Aren’t I?” Emma said calmly. “Your henchman underestimated me as well. Now he’s below deck—and he’s no longer moving.”

  At her declaration, the seasoned cutthroats exchanged uneasy looks, a few shaking their heads. Alaric interpreted the silent male message: Females—they’re an unpredictable lot.

  “Untie Strathaven.” Emma’s finger tightened on the trigger; she was within several feet of Mercer now. “Or I’ll put a hole through your heart.”

  After an instant, Mercer snapped, “Do as she says.”

  The lackey next to Alaric untied his wrists. Before the rope hit the ground, Alaric swiveled, securing Mercer in a chokehold and simultaneously grabbing the pistol from the earl’s belt. He pressed the barrel to Mercer’s temple.

  Emma hurried to his side, her gun now pointed at the band of ruffians.

  “You can’t shoot all of us,” Mercer gasped. “Put down the gun, and I’ll spare you and the women.”

  “Drop your weapons,” Alaric growled at the cutthroats.

  Mercer’s henchmen looked at one another, their expressions uncertain. Then the dark-haired brute, the one who’d met Alaric at the quay, guffawed.

  Stepping forward, he said, “I don’t think so.”

  Alaric dug the gun in deeper, making Mercer wheeze with fear. “I’m serious. I will shoot.”

  “So go ahead—kill ’im,” the leader said with a sneer. “With the bugger gone, that’ll mean more gold for me an’ my men. You’re just savin’ me the trouble o’ killin’ ’im meself, isn’t that right, boys?”

  Assent rose from his crew, and they came to stand behind him with ominous solidarity.

  Bloody Christ. A mutiny.

  “What?” Mercer spat at his employee. “You infidel! You foul betrayer!”

  “I’ve ’ad enough o’ you lordin’ it o’er me an’ the boys. You ’aven’t paid us ’alf what you promised, ye bloody skinflint, an’ I’m tired o’ waitin’,” the leader snarled, levying his own gun.

  Acting on pure instinct, Alaric released Mercer and dove for Emma. He knocked her to the deck, covering her body with his as a blast tore through the air. Heart thundering, he looked into her pale face.

  “You all right?” he rasped.

  “Yes. You?” she said.

  He jerked his chin, looked back and saw—

  Mercer still standing, his expression st
unned.

  The cutthroat leader, his mien equally startled as he looked down at the scarlet blossoming over his chest. A second later, he crashed to the deck like a felled tree.

  “Aboard, men!” came a guttural cry.

  William.

  More gunshots rang out. The ship shook as barges bumped it on all sides. Through the haze of gunfire, Alaric saw the guards jumping aboard, his brother leading the charge. A familiar lanky figure leapt onto the ship.

  “Kent,” Alaric shouted. “Over here.”

  The investigator ran over. “Emma?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured her brother.

  “Take care of her,” Alaric told the other man. “I’ve got to help Will.”

  “Be careful, darling,” Emma called after him.

  He entered the fray, which had turned into a vicious free-for-all. He spotted Will by the mast, wrestling with two burly brutes. The one behind Will had him by the throat; the one in front reached down and pulled a knife from his boot.

  Alaric took aim and fired.

  The blade-wielding villain jolted and collapsed to the ground. In the seconds that it took Alaric to run over, Will had already freed himself of the remaining ruffian. He sent his foe into oblivion with a powerful hook to the jaw. Alaric didn’t have time to compliment his brother’s technique for another pair of brutes advanced upon them, circling, blades flashing.

  The brothers stood back to back.

  “I’ll take the bigger one,” Will said.

  “Like hell you will,” Alaric said.

  The larger bastard made the decision for them, charging Alaric, who feinted left at the last moment, plowing his fist into his attacker’s belly. The brute bowled over, and Alaric wrenched the other’s arm, forcing the villain to drop the knife. He hauled his foe up and finished the job with a facer that sent the other sprawling.

  A minute later, Will dispatched the other cutthroat.

  Meeting his brother’s gaze, Alaric cocked an eyebrow. “What took you so long?”

  “Always have to be the best, don’t you?” Will grumbled.

  Alaric scanned the deck, counted the enemy subdued by his team. His nape went cold.