Kidnapping the Duke

by Killarney Sheffield

  He set her on the bed and yanked off her wet slippers. “So you decided to commit suicide with my horse?”

  “I—I was trying to escape….”

  Without a word he stalked from the room. He was back a moment later with a hammer and nail which he used to prevent the window from being opened again. “You were trying to commit suicide by going out in the cold after I spent three days nursing you back to health at your bedside,” he groused.

  “Three days?” Mouth agape, she considered his words. Three days I have been out of it with fever? Even more astounding the duke sat by my bedside? “So you are just going to keep me prisoner here?”

  He turned from the window with a smirk on his full lips. “Seems fair to me since you have held me captive for the last six days.”

  “I only actually kept you captive for three of those days.” The pettiness of her complaint made her bite her lip.

  “Three days should suffice. Someone should be along soon to inquire about me after the storm.”

  “Oh.” She fumbled in her reticle for a silk handkerchief.

  He handed her his. “Get in bed.”

  Handkerchief halfway to her dripping nose, she glowered at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am not going to defile you, as you put it earlier.” He flipped the quilt back over the sheets. “You are still ill and you will have a relapse before I can turn you over to the constables if you do not rest.”

  Pouting she climbed between the covers. It seemed he didn’t care if she got sick and died, only that she lived long enough for him to get his justice at the hands of the law. The idea shouldn’t have bothered her, yet it did. After all, they weren’t marriage prospects; they weren’t even friends.

  Chapter Eleven

  After a light breakfast of tea and toast, Felicity slept the afternoon away. By the time she awakened, the sun was riding low on the horizon. She lay there for what seemed like hours, staring at the beams crossing the ceiling and listening to the mantle clock tick. The rocking chair creaked. Logs shifted in the fireplace as more were added. The poker clinked back into the holder and then soft footsteps padded to her open bedchamber door.

  Lowering her gaze, she spied the duke leaning against the door jam. “You are awake I see. How do you feel?”

  “Weak and restless,” she mumbled, not wanting to talk to him.

  “Think you can keep down some ham and cabbage soup?”

  Her stomach growled and she nodded.

  Straightening, he turned away and his footsteps receded to the kitchen.

  Flipping back the covers, she slid her legs off the bed and perched on the edge. Once her head stopped spinning, she got to her feet and padded barefoot into the common room. The lodge was spotless, the dishes done and put away, floors swept and the tangy scent of pine soap mingling with ham and cabbage soup. She was impressed with his domestic skills.

  He strode from the kitchen with a bowl of soup and a buttered biscuit. “Sit by the fire where ’tis less drafty.”

  She did as commanded and he handed her the bowl and biscuit. When he returned to the kitchen to get his own, she balanced the soup in her lap and set the biscuit on the hearth. The tantalizing odor of the soup filled her nostrils. Though still stuffy, they seemed to open from the warmth.

  As if reading her thoughts he returned with his bowl and smiled. “I used lots of onion and garlic. It will help open your passageways.”

  She dipped her spoon into the golden broth swimming with onions, leeks, bits of ham, cabbage and carrots, blew on it, and took a taste. Never had she had such a simple, yet amazingly flavorful soup. She took another spoonful. It was simply wonderful. The spicy warmth spread through her, and she couldn’t help sighing out loud. His chuckle drew her attention from her bowl of hearty comfort.

  His eyes twinkled. “I take it you like my offering?”

  “Yes, very much.” She looked down at her bowl, embarrassed to have admitted it. “You would make some peasant a wonderful wife.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Thank you, I think.”

  They ate in silence for a while by the cozy fire.

  Curiosity loosened Felicity’s tongue. “So, how is it a duke knows how to make soup?”

  “I like cooking.” When she cast him a skeptical look he continued. “After my mother died, I spent much of my time here at the lodge with my father, or hiding in the kitchen at home to escape the tutor. And to tell the truth, I had dreams of cooking for the Prince Regent.”

  She froze with her spoon half way to her mouth. “The Prince Regent? Really?”

  He blew on a spoonful of soup. “Yes, it is said the Prince has some of the finest cooks in the world.”

  Deep in thought she finished her meal. The duke was neither like any she had imagined, nor anything like his sire, it appeared. What kind of noble cooked, cleaned, and nursed people back to health? It was both amusing and bizarre. In truth, his brother Christian was more a noble in actions than he. Had luck been on her side when she kidnapped the wrong brother, or against her? At this point she feared the latter. Surely Christian would have been easier to manage.

  After the meal she curled up in the chair and stared into the flickering flames, as the duke took care of the dishes. Overcome by melancholy, either from failing her mission, or simply the after effects of her illness, she allowed a few tears to fall. Was she to spend the rest of her life in a dank, dark prison? If she threw herself on the duke’s mercy, would he let her go? If he was as kind as he made himself look, he might. Still, he was the son of the Black Duke. It occurred to her at that moment she had no idea where the name for the vile duke had come from. Had she named him thus, or had her father referred to him as such? Then again, did it matter?

  In need of a distraction, she picked up the latest of the duke’s discarded newspapers. The political headlines did not interest her, so she flipped to the second page. A bold headline caught her attention:

  “Hanging Mob Strikes Again.”

  Curious she read on.

  “The notorious Fletcher Street mob struck again last evening. Sir Wendell Waxton was found hung by his neck from the oak at Trademan’s Junction on the outskirts of the city last eve. Sir Wendell was accused of the alleged rape and murder of a young scullery maid, Eva Smith. The case was set for trial next month. Over the last ten years the mysterious vigilance committee has dealt their own form of justice without waiting for the mighty arm of the law to get to the bottom of many heinous accusations. The group is rumored to be run by the notorious Black Rider, the identity of the actual individual unknown. There is a $1,000 pound reward for any information leading to the arrest of members of the group…”

  She flipped the page and scanned the articles, skimming over ondits about who had an upcoming ball, who was courting whom, and the usual gossip.

  “I found a stack of more entertaining reads than the paper in one of the trunks in the loft, if you are interested.”

  Closing the newspaper, she looked up at the duke as he crossed to the fire with a couple books in his hand. “What kind of books?”

  He held one out and read the title. “A Pirate’s Diary.” With a grin he read the next one, “Seven Years Sailing the World.”

  “I am not sure I want to read about a pirate’s dirty deeds, but perhaps the sailing one might be interesting.”

  “Suit yourself.” He handed her the sailing one and sat in the chair opposite her with the other. “I myself will not be tortured by nightmares after reading about pirates before bed.”

  They settled down to read. It didn’t take long for Felicity to become engrossed in the tale of a young sailor’s exploits.

  * * *

  Felicity yawned and, for the first time, became aware of the man snoring in the chair across from her. Closing the book in her lap she looked over at him. His book was open in his lap, but he was fast asleep with his head tipped back against the wing of the chair. One hand rested on the book while the other dangled over the edge of the arm res
t. One long leg was tucked under the chair while the other was outstretched before him. As quietly as possible she got to her feet and set her book aside. On tip toe she headed for her bedchamber, pausing when her gaze fell on the chain and shackles lying beside the chopped railing. She glanced over her shoulder at the man in the chair. He was clearly exhausted from watching over her, so this might be her last chance to gain the upper hand and rectify the situation.

  With caution she made her way to the shackles, eased them up off the floor, careful to keep them from rattling. Noticing the key on the table, she snatched it up too and, on tip toe, returned to where the duke sat. Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she eased the heavy chain to the floor. When it rattled she froze, fearing it would wake him. He kept on snoring. Heaving a small sigh of relief she took one shackle and put it around his outstretched ankle. The click as she closed the ends together made her cringe. She peeked at the duke. He shifted slightly, but kept snoring.

  Now what to shackle him to? There was nothing substantial close enough to tether him to except the railing he butchered with the meat clever. Since he freed himself before, she decided to forgo that idea. She glanced up at the low rafters above. If she chained him to one, he would have very little movement and therefore no chance to reach any would-be weapon. Plan in mind, she climbed up onto her vacated chair and, on tip toe, reached up to clamp the other shackle to the beam. Unfortunately she fumbled with the key. It slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. A half snore, half snort issued from the sleeping man and his eyes popped open. Before she could clamp the ends of the shackle together, he sprang from the chair. She yelped when he grabbed her arm, yanking her down to the floor.

  “Thought you could take me hostage again in my sleep, did you?” His thunderous expression made her cringe.

  With a squeal she kicked him in the shin. He let her go with a howl. In desperation she snatched up the key and darted for the door.

  “You little vixen! Come back here!”

  She almost made good her escape, but he caught her by the hem of her dress. She tumbled to the floor and he landed on her legs, effectively pinning her face down on the rough boards. The key flew from her fingers and clattered across the floor. “Get off me!” His hand grasped her ankle, and she froze as cold metal encased her skin and clicked shut. “What do you think you are doing?”

  He rolled off her and lay panting on the floor. “I…am…shackling…you…like…you… shackled…me.”

  A fit of coughing claimed her as he got to his feet. By the time it subsided he caught his breath. Towering over her, he scowled down. “Give me the key.”

  She glowered back at him. “I do not have it.”

  He glanced at the table. “It is not where I left it, so hand it over.”

  In effort to hide the key she wiggled backward. His eyes narrowed. He glanced past her, spied the key and gleaned her intent. They both scrambled for it at the same time. Her feet tangled in the chain and she tumbled to the floor. As luck would have it, he became caught up in her skirts and landed beside her. They reached for the key at the same time and in their haste sent it skidding across the wooden planks. It dropped into a finger-size hole between the polished wood planks and disappeared from sight.

  “Now look what you have done!” Felicity griped.

  He turned an incredulous stare on her. “Me? You knocked it out of my hand.”

  “No, you knocked it from my hand.”

  With a groan he crawled over to the hole and peered down it. “Come fish it out.”

  “Why me?” She affected a pretty pout.

  “You have thinner fingers.”

  She rolled into a sitting position and crossed her arms. “I refuse to fish it out unless you promise to let me go.”

  His expression darkened. “I will do no such thing.”

  “Then I shall not retrieve the key.” To prove her resolve, she stayed put.

  He groaned. “Would you rather stay chained to me?”

  Felicity bit her lip. Again, this was not going exactly how she planned it to. “No.”

  “Well?” He lifted a brow with a smirk.

  “Very well.” Left with little choice, she crawled over to peer down the hole. “I cannot see it.”

  “Reach down and feel for it.”

  She squeezed two fingers into the crack as far as they could go but felt nothing beneath. “I cannot reach it. My fingers are not long enough.”

  The duke let out a low growl of frustration. “Bloody hell.”

  “I beg your pardon? Such language in front of a lady is appalling.”

  His jaw clenched and his eyes sparked with fury. “This coming from the only woman I have ever heard to utter ‘fie and fire’?”

  Tipping her nose she snubbed him. “Fie and fire is nowhere near as bad as bloody hell.”

  “Says you,” he groused.

  Wrapping her arms around her knees, she bowed her head. “Now what?”

  “I guess we are stuck together until someone comes looking for me and can find a smithy to remove the shackles.”

  “Nooooo,” she moaned.

  “Yes, I am afraid.”

  He got to his feet and extended his hand to help her up. “We might as well get some sleep.”

  Once on her feet she dropped his hand. “Sleep? Just how do you propose we do that?”

  “The bed in the master chamber is large enough for two.”

  Aghast she stared at him. “You cannot be serious!”

  He shrugged. “Well, I am not going to sleep on the floor.”

  Arms akimbo, she stared him down. “Oh yes you are, because I am sick and cannot possibly sleep on the cold floor.”

  “Then I suppose you are stuck with me.”

  When he headed for the bedchamber, there was nothing she could do but follow. They stood at the foot of the wide bed. The cat, curled up on the corner of it, opened one eye, stretched, and promptly went back to sleep.

  “So…” The duke cleared his throat. “What side of the bed do you prefer?”

  Miffed she snipped, “The middle.”

  “Hum…that will be cozy.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the chair.

  She stared at him in horror. “What are you doing?”

  “I am getting ready for bed.” His brows furrowed but his blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “Oh, no, no, no. There will be no nakedness. ’Tis not proper.” She swallowed, unable to keep her eyes from his sculptured chest and abdominal muscles. Her breath quickened. Never had she imagined a man’s body being so perfect. Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and run her hands down the bronzed muscled plane. “Oh, good Lord.”

  He snickered. “’Tis just my shirt, Felicity.”

  In effort to get a hold on herself, she turned her back on him and climbed into bed. After wrapping the quilt tight around her body, she wiggled to the edge. Holding her breath she closed her eyes. The feather tick dipped beneath his weight and he tugged on the quilt. “What are you doing?”

  “I am trying to remove my portion of the blanket from beneath you.”

  She held tight to the blanket. “I am not sharing my blanket with the likes of you.”

  “Then we shall have to get up and retrieve another from the common room.”

  They would have to get up, and she would be treated by another glimpse of his perfect physique. She pursed her lips, more like tortured or assaulted, she told herself. “All right.” Shifting her weight, she allowed him a generous portion of the quilt. “I swear if you move from your side of the bed, or touch me with any part of…you, I will bash you with a skillet again.”

  He snickered causing the bed to jiggle with his mirth. “Your threat is dully noted. Good night, Felicity.”

  Ignoring him, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  She was dancing at a ball. The room was warm, though strangely quiet. The faceless gentleman she swirled across the floor with smelled like…ho
rses and spices. His hand on her waist was firm and strong. Envious faces looked on, including the awful Lady Rebecca Carivale, who, if looks could kill, would have committed murder. This was her dream come true. With a sigh she snuggled closer. Hot breath tickled her ear.

  “You might have care where you wriggle your delightful derriere, Felicity.”

  “Mmmm,” she mumbled confused by the faceless voice.

  The hand slipped down to caress the swell of her hip.

  As the fog of her dream lifted, she became aware something was amiss. The warm hand, which seemed so right in her dream, was now foreign and unnerving. With a jolt she opened her eyes. There was no ballroom, only the rough wood walls of the hunting lodge. Gasping she sat upright and the offending hand slipped from her hip. Furious she scrambled from the bed, forgetting about the chain and shackles. Tangled with the sheets, chain and skirts, she tumbled to the floor.

  The duke peered over the edge of the bed, not the faceless noble in her dream. “That was a graceless exit from the bed if I ever saw one.” He chuckled.

  Furious and embarrassed,, she climbed to her feet. “How dare you maul me in my slumber!”

  He sat up, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Maul you? I did nothing of the sort. You were talking in your sleep and when I went to wake you, you wiggled your derriere up against me.” The corner of his lips turned up in a small cheeky grin. “And I will have you know I was nothing but a gentleman in the face of your tortuous arousal of my manhood.”

  With a squeal at his openness she snatched up the blanket and held it in front of her. “Get out of my bedchamber!”

  He chuckled. “I think you are forgetting something.” His pointed look directed her gaze to the ten foot length of chain connecting their ankles.

  “Oh fie!” Face heating, she clutched the blanket to her. “I forgot.”

  The duke rolled from the bed with cat like grace. “By the feel of it, our fire has gone out. Come on.” He picked up his shirt, shrugged it on, and led the way to the common room.