by Darcy Burke
“The ring was my mother’s—not her wedding ring. She still wears that. It was a gift from my father on my birth. I always think of you when I see it because of the emeralds. They’re almost as beautiful as your eyes.”
“Does this mean what I think it means?” she asked, her voice shaking. Every part of her shook now—her legs, her belly, her hands.
“I want you to be my wife, my duchess. I know this may seem sudden. You don’t know me very well, but it’s all I’ve wanted for the last eight years. I never forgot you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally managed.
“You could say yes.”
The look in his eyes almost melted her. She could see the love in his face, in the way he looked at her. She’d seen it in the way her father had looked at her mother. But did she feel the same, or were her burgeoning feelings only infatuation or, worse, gratitude for his kindness?
“I…” she began, uncertain what she would say. At the moment, her English all but eluded her.
He held up a hand. “Or you could tell me you need more time.”
When she didn’t answer, he winced. “Or you could tell me no.” He rose slowly, brushing the grass from his trousers.
She took his hand, looked up and into his eyes, bluer even than the sky on this cloudy day.
“The answer is most definitely not no.” She pressed the ring into his palm. “But it’s not yes either. Keep this for me? I hope when I am ready, you will offer it again?”
“Of course.” He stepped back, pocketing the ring in his waistcoat. The air around him was formal now, and how she wished she could bring back the easy mood of their morning.
“Thank you for the bow and arrows. I would say you have no idea how much it means to me, but it occurs to me that perhaps you do understand.”
“I do,” he said, and the answer seemed to encompass more than her thanks for the archery set. “Stay and practice as long as you like. I have some business to attend to.”
“Oh.” She had hoped they might spend more time together. “Will I see you at dinner?”
“Of course. And I’ve asked one of the maids to take your measurements. The housekeeper assures me she’s an adequate seamstress. Perhaps in a few days, you will have several more gowns. Tell the maid what fabrics you like, and they will be ordered from the town or from London, if they are not available here.”
“You are too generous.”
“I have more money than I can spend. A few dresses and an archery set are hardly largesse. And, as I said, I’m not entirely unselfish. I want you to fall in love with me.”
With those words, he bowed and started back toward the house.
“Nathan,” she called after him.
He paused and turned back to face her.
“I’m falling.”
The next days were filled with pleasant morning rides and scintillating dinners. Vivienne was all Nathan could want in a woman and more. He’d vowed not to take her again until after she’d agreed to be his wife, but he could hardly resist when, laughing, she pulled him into an empty stall in the stable, or when she opened her bedchamber door at night and tugged him inside.
She was passionate, witty, energetic, and diverting. He’d never enjoyed himself as much as he did when he was with her. He’d never laughed so much, talked so much, craved someone’s touch so much.
It wasn’t only her touch. Just the act of seeing her or hearing her voice made his heart swell and lift.
Since the day of the proposal, he had not brought up marriage again. She knew his desires, and she would give him an answer when she was ready. In the meantime, he began to look for a response to his request from the Prince Regent. She didn’t ask directly if he’d received an answer, but he often saw a hopeful look in her eyes. He shook his head when she raised her brows in question, and they waited.
One morning, about a week after the proposal, the two of them were met by Mr. Husselbee as they walked back to the house.
“Your Grace.” He gave a bow. “My lady.” Another bow. “I trust there have been no more signs of vagrants in the area.”
“None,” Nathan answered. “Did you catch the men?”
“No. I tracked them to the edge of the property and lost the trail. I think they must be long gone and someone else’s problem now. The Holland family has returned and reported nothing in their house or shed was disrupted.”
“Very good.”
Vivienne touched his arm. “I will leave you gentlemen to discuss crops and farms and livestock. Excuse me.”
Nathan watched her go, then asked Husselbee to join him in the library.
Husselbee sat in the chair across from Nathan’s desk and elaborated on the condition of the estate. Finally, he took a breath, let it out, then took another.
“Is something troubling you, Mr. Husselbee?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m not certain how to proceed. You see, ever since one of the maids ordered those fine fabrics from the town, there’s been talk. Who are such fine fabrics for? I don’t blame the girl, Your Grace. She didn’t say anything to set tongues wagging, but you know how people are.”
“Can’t we say they are for my mother?”
“Not in the proportions ordered, Your Grace. Your mother is tall and, er, ample compared to Lady Vivienne.”
“I see.”
“And there’s more talk, Your Grace. Usually when you are in residence, you host some of the local gentry for dinner or a garden party. No one has been invited to visit, and you’ve been here almost a fortnight.”
“I understand, Husselbee. Unfortunately, I don’t have a solution for you at this time. Lady Vivienne has fallen into some unfortunate circumstances—through no fault of her own—and it is best if we keep her presence here a secret for the time being.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll do my best for as long as I can.”
Nathan knew that couldn’t be for much longer.
He went to sleep late. He’d had another engaging dinner with Vivienne, and when she’d hinted she would welcome a visit from him after the servants had gone to bed, he had politely refused.
He wanted a wife, not a mistress. Oh, he liked bedding her well enough. She was enthusiastic and imaginative. But he wanted more than bedsport. He wanted a wife, a partner, a mother for his children.
He had thought she would give him an answer by now, and there had been times he had looked at her and seen something in her eyes. He’d held his breath, certain she would ask for the ring again—the ring he kept always in his waistcoat.
But she had not asked, had not declared her love for him, and because she hesitated, so did he. He wanted to hold her in the aftermath of their lovemaking, stroke her hair, and tell her he loved her. But he didn’t dare push her or pressure her to say more than she was willing.
And so he waited far longer than usual to go to bed. He’d dismissed Fletcher so his valet could rest, and Nathan did little more than shed his coat before falling into bed. He didn’t even bother to toe off his boots. It wasn’t the first time he’d slept in his clothes, although it was more comfortable when he was foxed.
Still, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only coming awake slowly at the pinch in his neck.
He opened his eyes and stared at the man bending over him. “Don’t move, or I’ll slit your throat.”
Nathan didn’t move.
“Good. Now tell me where she is, and we’ll let you live.”
“Where who is?” Nathan croaked.
“Princess Vivienne.”
Chapter 8
He hadn’t come to her. She’d waited, the lamp burning, her heart thudding, for what seemed hours. At midnight, she realized he wouldn’t come. She could hardly blame him. He wanted an answer to his proposal. He deserved an answer, and she hadn’t given it.
She’d wanted to give it so many times—wanted to tell him yes, yes, yes. She loved him, couldn’t help but love him, despite that too-handsome face and perfect body.
And because s
he loved him, she had not given him an answer. Because she loved him, she couldn’t bear to put him in danger.
But perhaps the danger was over. The assassins must have given up searching for her by now. They’d be expected back in Glynaven, undoubtedly had superiors to report to. Perhaps she could give Nathan the answer he wanted. The answer she wanted.
And she did not want to wait until the morning.
She climbed out of bed, naked, stumbled over the bow and arrows she’d left by the bed, and found her shift on the Chinese screen. She pulled it on, considered lighting a lamp, and then decided she knew the way to his rooms well enough without it.
The moment she stepped into the corridor, she knew something was amiss. The hair rose on her arms even before she saw the shadow across from his room.
Clamping a hand over her mouth, she dove back into her chamber, closing the door silently and locking it behind her.
They’d found her.
The assassins had found her.
They hadn’t given up after all. They were here, and this time they would kill her.
The sightless eyes flashed in her mind again—all those eyes and the blood on the carpets, sticking to the bottom of her slippers. She couldn’t bear to see it all again. She couldn’t shoulder the guilt of bringing death to any innocents at Wyndover Park.
She had to go. She had to flee before the assassins found her and slit her throat.
She staggered toward the Chinese screen and the boots set neatly behind it. She did not care about a dress, but she could not run without boots. She knew that well enough. She’d bent to pull them on when her mind froze, and even in her panicked state, one word broke through: Nathan.
She couldn’t leave him.
Vivienne shook her head.
He was dead. He had to be. They’d already killed him. She could save only herself now.
But her hand dropped away from the boots, and her gaze tracked to the bow and arrows near the bed. Even if he was dead, she couldn’t leave him. He would never have left her. He would have given anything to keep her safe. If there was a chance he still lived, she had to go to him.
Snatching the bow and arrows, she readied an arrow and tiptoed back to the door.
Silently, she turned the lock and eased the door open. The hinges made no sound, and if she lived, she would thank Mrs. Patton for that later.
Peering around the doorjamb, she saw the corridor was empty. For a moment, she hoped she’d imagined the shadow and the man’s form, but then she heard the low rumble of men’s voices coming from Nathan’s room.
Keeping against the wall, she crept down the hallway. Her heart beat so hard, her chest ached, and she was almost dizzy from the fear. As she neared the room, she heard the most terrifying sound yet—Glennish.
If she’d had any doubts before, she had none now. These were the assassins, and they had Nathan.
Alive.
She knew that because she heard him answer them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know any princess.”
“He lies,” one of them hissed in her native tongue. “Kill him.”
“Slit his throat, and we’ll find her ourselves. She’s here.”
Nathan would die. For her.
Vivienne stepped into the doorway, arrow nocked and ready. She assessed the situation quickly. Two men were near the door, and the third had a knife to Nathan’s throat where he lay on the bed.
“Touch him, and I’ll shoot you through.”
One of the men by the door jerked toward her, and she swung her bow toward him. “Don’t do it,” she said in Glennish. “If you know anything about me, you know I can kill all three of you before you can shout for help. If there were anyone who would help you.”
She swung her bow back to the man kneeling over Nathan. “Get off him and back away slowly.”
“I’ll cut his throat and then yours, Princess.”
“Get off him!” she shouted, afraid to wait too much longer, knowing every moment she waited was another moment closer to Nathan’s death.
The assassin didn’t move.
God! God! God!
She didn’t want to kill him. She’d never killed anyone, man or beast.
But her gaze collided with Nathan’s. His eyes focused on her, still alive, still full of love. She couldn’t allow his to become another pair of sightless eyes that haunted her.
Twang.
She loosed the arrow, heard the sickening thunk as it struck flesh. She yanked another from her quiver just as quickly and swiveled to face the last two assassins.
Nathan pushed the dead weight of the assassin off and jumped to his feet. Vivienne stood across the room, arrow trained on the two men intent on killing her. Both had drawn their knives—long, sharp weapons—and Nathan had no doubt they would use them on her and anyone else in their way.
He had to help her, but for the first time in his life, he felt utterly helpless. He had no weapon, no means to rescue her. She’d rescued him.
At an imperceptible signal, the assassins separated and began to circle the princess.
“Don’t move,” she ordered in Glennish.
The assassins ignored her. Despite her claims, she couldn’t shoot them at the same time, and if she fired at one, the other could attack. Nathan took a step toward the one closest to him. The man brandished his weapon.
“Stay back,” he ordered.
“Nathan, be careful!”
He’d distracted her, and the assassins were now on either side of her. She had to pivot from one to the other in order to keep her arrow trained on them. She was fast and agile, but she couldn’t hold them off forever. Nathan pressed his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing to throw himself at one assassin, thereby removing one target. He’d probably end up dead and without an heir. The bloody American cousin would have the title.
His poor mother.
Nathan lunged just as the dressing room door opened. He caught the distracted assassin about the waist, and the two tumbled to the rug. Nathan got in a good jab to the man’s back before he rolled and brandished the knife in Nathan’s direction.
“Let him go,” Vivienne said, her voice full of command.
“I’m fine,” Nathan answered. “I can take him.”
The assassin jabbed at him, narrowly missing.
“Or not,” Nathan muttered.
“I believe she meant me, Your Grace.”
Nathan’s head jerked at the sound of his valet’s voice. “Fletcher!”
His valet stood in front of the other assassin, the man’s knife a steel slash across his exposed neck.
“I heard a sound and thought you might require assistance, Your Grace.”
Goddamn it all to hell. “Let him go!” Nathan shouted in Glennish, kicking out to prevent his own attacker from coming closer. Thank God he still had the boots on. The knife grazed his calf and would have split his skin open without the protection of the thick leather.
“Lower the arrow,” the assassin holding Fletcher told Vivienne. The assassin was dark and short, holding his knife like a seasoned warrior, whereas the one Nathan fought was younger and moved with less certainty.
“Let him go,” Vivienne countered.
“Shoot him, Vivienne,” Nathan said, kicking at his assassin again. This time, the knife did pierce his boot, and warm blood trickled down his skin.
She shook her head, her eyes never leaving the assassin’s face. “Release him. I don’t want to kill you.”
“I’ll kill him, then you,” the assassin hissed. “Put down your weapon.”
She hesitated, and her arm wavered.
“No!” Nathan yelled. Their only chance was to kill one of the assassins. “Kill him!”
“I can’t!”
The dark assassin pulled his hand with the knife back, and Fletcher closed his eyes.
Vivienne closed her eyes and let go. She half prayed the arrow would miss, though it would mean the death of an innocent man.
&nbs
p; But she didn’t miss. Of course she didn’t miss. She never did.
The assassin screamed as the arrow plunged into the side of his face, the side exposed over Fletcher’s shoulder. The man’s knife clattered to the floor, and Fletcher went down on his knees, looking like he might fall over from the shock of it.
There was no time to help the valet, no time to render any aid to the wounded assassin writhing on the floor. He’d be dead in a moment or two. Dead because of her.
She pushed the thought aside and reached for another arrow, swung to Nathan.
But the third assassin was gone.
Nathan swiped the blood from his calf away.
“Your Grace,” Fletcher wheezed. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.” He rose to his feet, looking a little unsteady but solid.
Vivienne felt unsteady too. She wanted to collapse, to cry for days, to run into his arms and bury her face in his chest. Instead, she gestured with the arrow toward the open bedchamber door.
“We have to go after him.” She didn’t add what she’d been thinking: before he murdered innocent servants.
“Not without a weapon.” Nathan pushed the dead man on his bed over and yanked the knife from his hand. “Now I’m ready. Follow me.”
Without waiting for her agreement, he started forward, pausing at the door to sweep his gaze in both directions.
“Fletcher?”
“Left, Your Grace.”
“Stay put, Fletcher.” Nathan glanced at her over his shoulder. “Coming?”
He didn’t tell her to stay. He didn’t expect her to wait for him, like a helpless girl. This was her battle too, and he knew it, respected her need to end this herself.
Oh, how she loved him.
“I’m coming.” She raised the arrow again and followed him into the corridor.
Nothing but shadows and the distant sound of a clock’s pendulum swinging back and forth with a quiet ticking. At the first doorway, which was closed, Nathan put a finger to his lips and lifted the latch. He pushed inside, knife raised, and she followed, swinging her arrow left and right. He parted the drapes, opened the tallboy against the wall, and peered under the bed.
