Forbidden to the Duke

by Liz Tyner

  Neither moved.

  ‘Bellona,’ the duke gasped out. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  She could not speak. She could not.

  ‘Bellona.’ He called her name again.

  It was Rhys. Her brain knew it. But her body wouldn’t move. Her pounding heart took all the power from her voice. Pushing against him made no more difference than hurling herself at the strongest rock on Melos. Fear overpowered her, and her mind could not free itself from the terror.

  ‘It’s me. It’s Rhys,’ he said. ‘Bellona.’

  Shudders racked her body.

  He still held her knife hand, but his other arm pulled her into an embrace. ‘You’re safe.’ His voice rumbled softly, a caress in words. ‘It’s me. I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you.’

  The bulwark of his strength didn’t frighten her, but terror still controlled her even though her mind translated the scene into the reality of the moment. She rested her head against his shoulder. The only movement she could make.

  He pulled her even closer. He murmured to her and he lightened his clasp, cradling her now. Her body shook and he didn’t speak again, just held her.

  Minutes passed. The knife handle was pulled from her hand. She had no strength to hold it. She didn’t have the ability to stand without his help. His other arm went around her.

  Her face stayed buried against him, the silken threads of his waistcoat against her cheek. His male scent soothing her. He didn’t clench her tightly, but she burrowed into him, regaining her composure as the shaking stopped and her heartbeats slowed.

  ‘I thought…’ she whispered.

  ‘You thought to hurt me?’

  ‘No. I did not know. I could not think,’ she said. ‘I did not know it was you.’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  She whispered again, ‘I did not know…’

  He kept her folded into his arms, crushing her against the fabric of his clothing, surrounding her with the fortress of his strength.

  His chin rested against her forehead. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘I didn’t recognise your voice at first.’ She shut her eyes, taking solace from his hands clasping her back, holding her.

  ‘Sweet, much as I’d like to hold you, I have something I must attend to.’

  ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘I understand.’ He squeezed her. ‘We can talk about it later.’

  She gripped him. ‘I could have hurt you.’

  ‘I know.’ He mumbled the words, his lips against her hair. ‘You could have.’

  He pushed himself away from her. ‘But you must get to bed now.’

  She reached out, unable to let him go, and confusion hit her mind. She felt the sleeve of his arm, but he jerked back.

  Something was wrong.

  ‘I…’ She clenched her right hand, letting her own fingers brush her palm. Wetness.

  ‘I— Did I—?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you did.’

  ‘You’re cut?’

  ‘It does feel that way. I appear to have grasped the blade before I was able to get to your hand.’

  She gasped. He stepped further away.

  ‘Rhys—we must get a light. You’re bleeding.’

  ‘I’ll attend to it. You go back to your room.’

  ‘I’ll summon help.’ She turned to run, but he captured her arm with his right hand, grip warm and tight.

  ‘Shh… I. Will. Attend to it.’

  ‘But, Rhys… Are you hurting? We must—’ He must not be hurt. He could not be hurt. Her breaths gasped from her.

  ‘Bellona. The servants. I do not want talk, but really I should look at it. There is a light in my chamber.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. She slipped from his grip and caught the fabric of his sleeve, pulling him in the direction of his room. ‘Quick.’

  Inside the room, the stain on his white sleeve looked like nothing more than a shadow until he stopped by the lamp.

  Blood dripped from the hilt of the knife.

  Red. She gasped. Death. She could hear the screams of the women of her homeland. She could have done to Rhys what the man who’d killed her uncle did.

  Her knees weakened, but she did not fall. He put the knife on the bedside table and opened his hand. The skin parted where his palm had slid down the blade.

  ‘You cannot die.’ She appraised his body, looking for damage. ‘You cannot.’

  ‘I am not planning to.’ He pushed the skin together and held it. ‘Bring me a flannel. I need to stop the bleeding.’

  She rushed to get the cloth and took the fingers of his hurt hand in hers, and he moved his free hand aside while she pressed the cloth against the wound.

  ‘You must remove the blood from yourself as well,’ he said. ‘You look as if you have been in a fight. Are you cut?’

  She noted the red splotches on her arm for the first time. Her own fingers showed red. She examined her arms and hands. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m thankful.’ He shut his eyes briefly and shook his head. ‘I’m thankful I am the one that felt the blade and not both of us. That would be hard to explain.’

  ‘It should be stitched,’ she said, bending over his hand. ‘I will do it. I know I can.’

  He took a step away. ‘Damned if I let you near me with a needle. I’ve seen your embroidery.’

  ‘I will be slow.’

  ‘Bellona.’ His eyes widened. ‘We have a physician. I have been bled before and I survived. It is merely releasing some of the humours. I do not like it, however. Your method is a bit painful.’

  ‘I will take care of you.’ She moved to the washstand and splashed water from the ewer into the basin. She swept her hands through to remove the red. The water turned a bloody tinge, but no cuts showed on her own skin. She turned back. His eyes were on her and his gaze didn’t move as she watched him.

  She took a cloth, her hands dripping water, and rushed to his side. ‘I’ll care for it. Sit. Sit on the bed.’

  Keeping his hand clasped over the cut, he held his elbows wide, still standing. ‘Would you undo my cravat and the buttons on my waistcoat? I’d prefer not to get more bloodstains on the fabric…’

  She wiped her hands dry, tossed the cloth to the bed and stepped closer. With a quick tug, she slipped the knot free. Then a swift snap.

  The force of her pull on his neckcloth jerked him sideways.

  ‘Damnation, woman. Do not break my neck.’

  ‘Pardon. I did not realise it was wrapped around so many times.’

  ‘You almost snapped my head from my body. You do wish to kill me,’ he muttered, then leaned forward again. ‘So unwrap it or merely slip it free by pulling gently at the sides and front.’

  She finished her task, surprised at how comfortable she was this close to him. To be alone with him was quite different from anyone else.

  She folded the cravat and put it on the bed.

  Reaching up, she slipped the delicate buttons of his waistcoat free, moving back so he could raise his hands as she finished.

  At the last one, she stopped, looking up into the dark eyes as she undid the final clasp.

  ‘Are you…’ she asked, ‘in pain?’

  The lightest nod.

  When she turned, her eyes locked on his hand. She sucked in air through her nostrils.

  ‘You look a bit rattled,’ he said. ‘Do not have the vapours.’

  ‘Your Grace. Please. Sit.’

  He looked at her. ‘Bellona, I believe you can call me Rhys now.’

  She paused. ‘I am sorry I hurt you.’

  ‘I know. I believe you.’ He held his hands clasped a bit more and stepped away. ‘What I don’t understand is the knife. I thought your weapons were taken.’

  ‘Not the one I carry in my boot.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded. ‘How remiss of me. The blasted boots. Your reticule knife was removed, but it was strictly an oversight on my part not to have someone collect the knife from your boots. That’s th
eir charm, isn’t it? That’s why you wear them?’

  She answered with her eyes.

  He stared at her bare feet and his eyes trailed up her body clad only in her thin nightdress, leaving warm currents in their wake, causing a frisson in her stomach. ‘I would say that you do not have another knife hidden about you right now. Is that a safe assumption?’

  ‘No—yes, I do not have a knife.’ The words. They scared her. She’d just told a man she was unprotected. The walls in the upper rooms were solid… The duchess would not hear a scuffle. No one could answer her if she called out for help. In the servants’ quarters, there was a chance someone might respond, but not here.

  He watched her, but without the darkness she feared. ‘You should go so I can summon assistance.’ She lost all thoughts he could ever harm her. He was injured and he cared that she not be discovered in his room.

  The red on his hand reminded her.

  She had done that.

  ‘I will summon my valet,’ he said.

  As he moved forward, she threw her body between him and the pull. ‘I cannot go to my room.’ He stepped to brush her aside, but she flattened her palms on his chest. His eyes widened. He felt rather like a wall. A wall of muscle and skin and male. ‘Your Grace.’ She thought it best to address him such at the moment. ‘I will worry.’

  He leaned close. He’d been drinking brandy some time in the evening. His eyes shone with an emotion that jumped into her and caused a heating sensation that somehow managed to touch her entire body.

  ‘Sweet. It’s his job. I will tell him that if I die he must alert the entire household. So, if you do not hear, then you will know I am well.’

  ‘I am not leaving. He may care for you if you wish, but I am to stay and see that it is done right.’

  ‘You cannot be found in my chamber in the middle of the night, particularly with blood on both of us. The man is discreet. He will not speak of it, but I fear he would have an apoplexy keeping silent on that. I would then have to replace him and I simply do not have the time.’

  She lowered her eyes to her palms still resting on his chest and then slid her hands away, before looking up again. ‘I will care for you.’

  ‘You will?’ He smiled. ‘Just as you cared for me a few moments ago?’

  Surely he would live if he could jest. She nodded and took the cloth from the counterpane, holding it towards his clasped hands. ‘Yes, Rhys.’ She daubed at the smears on him, taking the red from his knuckles.

  When she indicated that she wanted to reach the cut, he did not open his grasp, but extended his fingertips to clutch the cloth.

  ‘Let me,’ she said, refusing to release it.

  ‘You’ve already attacked me once in the night. Don’t struggle with me now. I might stumble backwards and knock myself in the head.’

  ‘If you stumble now, you will land on the bed. Sit on the bed so I can see the wound better.’

  He sat on the edge. She was no closer than before until she perched beside him, her shoulder aligned with his. She wiped the cut clean.

  ‘What happened to bring you out into the hall with a weapon?’ he asked.

  She pressed on the wound. ‘I awoke from a nightmare and thought you were…someone evil.’

  ‘And you only cut my hand?’

  She pressed harder.

  He flinched. ‘Go more lightly with the cloth. You’re making it worse. Leave and I will send for my valet. I just do not wish for him to know how this happened, but I suspect he will notice the cut and the shirt will have to be burned.’

  ‘How dear are the lamps?’ she asked.

  ‘I have no idea. They’re lamps.’

  She sighed. ‘Break the glass of one and tell him you stumbled.’

  ‘I can do that. But when you turned to get the cloth, I noticed a bloodstain on your back. How will that be explained away?’

  ‘The maid will not notice after I finish with the garment.’ She peered at the cut. ‘Move your fingers.’

  He did.

  She rested her forehead against his shoulder momentarily, then straightened again. ‘That is fortunate. Now do not move them again.’

  She held the flannel tight against his hand. He reached to pull it away, but she clasped it. Determined, he took the cloth and put it against his palm, closing the fingers of his right hand over it.

  ‘You don’t have to tend this. I’ll break the lamp, call the valet and now you can go back to your room and get some rest.’ Then he pushed her aside so that he could stand, reached with his left hand, picked an unlit lamp from the side of the bed and crashed the globe against the table. The glass shattered and he sat the base back on to the table.

  She met his eyes. ‘I’m still not leaving, Rhys.’ She rose and moved, planning to search out another flannel. But before she left, she gazed over him to reassure herself he was not about to die.

  He returned to the bed, stretched out lengthwise, his head at his pillow and his ankles crossed. ‘Sweet, you may return to calling me Your Grace at any time.’

  She spoke over her shoulder. ‘You must recover. You would need a big spot to be buried in and the man who cares for the gardens would grumble if I asked him to dispose of you.’

  ‘Bellona, you do not just dash a duke into a hole in the ground. You must have a bit of a ceremony first.’

  ‘Yes, Rhys. I suppose it would take some time just to dig a hole for your boots.’

  She could feel his eyes on her as he digested her words.

  ‘Even if you address me as Your Grace, I suspect you’ve always seen me as no more privileged than one of the sailors on the ship that brought you to England.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve always seen you as a duke.’ She continued searching for a useful cloth, only stopping to look at him. ‘But the men at sea are quite skilled in things that matter. You are skilled in books and learning, and I suppose that has a place besides writing letters.’

  She found another flannel inside the washstand.

  ‘Thank you.’ He exchanged the reddened bandage he had for the new one, pressing it once more against the wound. He shut his eyes. ‘Would you bring me a brandy glass and the bottle?’

  She went for the drink, splashed some in the glass and then returned. He pushed himself upright with an elbow, his injured hand still gripping the cloth. He downed the liquid and held out the empty glass. She refilled it with the same amount. He looked at it, frowned and drank more slowly before handing the glass to her once again. The fresh blood smears on the flannel pressed to his injury caused her stomach to clench.

  Putting the glass and bottle on the table, she returned to the dressing chamber and found another flannel for his cut. When she returned with it, he took it from her and placed it over the other one.

  His eyes moved over her, reminding her of the way water in a stream followed the movement of the current.

  ‘If you wish to get the dressing gown from my wardrobe, you may wear it,’ he said. ‘I would not want you to catch a chill.’

  She moved to the dressing chamber. She didn’t feel cold at all and she didn’t think he’d been overly concerned about that. When she opened the wardrobe, she reached out, running her fingers over the silk and linen in front of her. Nothing looked as if it had ever been touched, but everything had rested against Rhys’s body. She took the banyan, wrapping it around herself, amazed at how well shaving soap smelled. The garment drooped from her shoulders and dragged on the floor, but felt like a royal robe.

  ‘This is so…’ She snuggled into it. Then paused when she met his eyes. They’d narrowed, but she couldn’t see behind them.

  Padding back, she sat in a chair, looking across at him.

  ‘You can’t sit there all night and stare at me.’ He pressed against the flannel. ‘That will surely enough do me in.’

  ‘If you die because I’m looking at you, I will take note of it, since I have never even been able to pain my sisters by giving them my harshest look.’ An army cou
ldn’t have taken her from the room. ‘I need to stay to make sure if you fall asleep, you don’t get blood on the covers.’

  ‘You sound like my mother. You have been spending too much time with her.’

  ‘I think she will agree with you and so do I.’

  He adjusted the pillow with his left hand. ‘I suppose I should not have been traipsing about in the dark, but I have done it often in the past year. If I walk enough, then I sleep without my own dreams and I prefer that. The nights are so long after I have finished with my ledgers.’

  ‘The dark frightens me. I always had my sisters close by when I was young. I had never been alone in the night until I sailed here. Sometimes I feel smaller than Willa. And now it has caused your injury. I didn’t want to hurt you. I would rather my hand be cut.’

  ‘I believe you. I didn’t mean to grab the blade. I didn’t know you had a knife in your hand until I reached the hilt. Then it was a little late to reconsider.’

  ‘You could have been hurt much worse.’

  ‘So could you.’ His voice rose in exasperation. ‘Granted, you did me an injury, but do you realise what could have happened?’

  ‘It’s better to have a knife than nothing. Even the smallest man is stronger than I am.’ Rubbing her fingertips together, she examined them for red. ‘It is important I protect myself.’

  ‘Why? Why do you feel it is so important?’

  She looked at his hand and let her gaze linger over the rest of him. Tall. Shoulders the same width of Stephanos’s. But he tried to see her and not just the reflection of his power from the fear in her eyes.

  She shook her head. ‘It is…how I must be,’ she said. ‘How I have always been. At least for a long time.’ She crossed her arms over herself.

  ‘The ship?’

  ‘That was the second time I knew I could die at a man’s hands.’

  The memories she kept in her thoughts always, of the island, and that day of violence, flashed in her mind. ‘One day when I was young, I heard shrieks. But I thought it was happy noise. I wasn’t close enough and I wanted to see what was happening. I ran to the people and saw them crying, but I could not go on.’ There had been more than tears. There had been wailing—begging the heavens to reverse time and bring her uncle back to life.