Duke of Treason

by Lisa Torquay

  He wanted more.

  He wanted her.

  That was an asinine idea.

  Thoughts forced into dispelling, he entered a long passageway. In recent years, his father used one of the dungeons as a cellar, since the kitchens did not have one. The old Duke restored the dungeons, keeping their original features; and servants often cleaned them. They still displayed their peep-hole iron doors, wide open, and inside they exhibited chains hammered to the stone. One would travel in time down here and feel like the Norman invaders. Or the poor Britons! Who knew?

  As he found what he had been looking for, he climbed the stairs up to the hall. Passing by the former chapel, he saw her inside, standing in the middle of it, appreciation all over her.

  The chapel did not have any function these days though it held the relics from far away centuries. Not a big room, with columns, arches, a nave, and a chancel illuminated by arched windows with diamond glasses.

  “Annabel.” He called. She changed into a simple peach high waist dress of gossamer silk that floated around her.

  Abruptly she turned to him, her lashes lowering at once. “Oh, Your Grace.” She curtsied.

  He rested the bottle on a side table and advanced further into the chapel. “As of this afternoon, I assume we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you think?” The fading early evening light played with her liquid eyes when she deigned to lift them to him.

  A rather hard glint came to her expression, erased in a swift blink. “If you say so, my lord.”

  Her posture graceful but cold, he wondered what changed since he left her inside the castle upon their arrival from the fields.

  “What got into you to ride unchaperoned?” He must have more insight about her intentions, and he would.

  “Unchaperoned?” She breathed an airy small laugh. “I hardly conceive a widow needs one.”

  “A woman alone through the fields can be dangerous.” He defended. “There are many temporary workers helping with the sowing.” His steward had reported the hiring of at least fifty men, strangers to this area.

  She became serious at that. “I see.” She joined her hands in front of her, so proper he could tell it was not natural. “I will be more careful next time.”

  Did she always have to test his temper? “I said there will be no next time.”

  She lifted her chin in that exasperatingly defiant and arousing way. “And I am not one of your soldiers for you to command!”

  He parted his legs, arms crossed over his chest. “But you will answer me what you are doing here.” He glared at her, his patience threadbare.

  “I already told you.” Her hands flew to her hips, which made her breasts pull up to his view. “I came to visit Tintagel and since you hold me here as a prisoner, I cannot proceed with my trip.”

  His lopsided suspicious smile made her revive the summer he used to smile with spontaneity lightening his fierce features.

  “You really expect that after catching you searching my bedroom, being threatened with your knife and seeing my horse stolen I would take you on your word?” Standing there in that so manly posture, she admired his muscled arms through his shirt. Added by his broad shoulders though she should not permit her eyes to wander.

  “It is none of my business if you do not believe me.” Did he want to corner her? He was certainly succeeding. She made her answer firm as not to show the tension he caused in her.

  “You will have to do better than that.” His deep tone did more than reply to her, it seduced her senses and they wanted to hear it forever.

  “Fine.” She said vehement. “I wish to leave here and then you can proceed with your life and I with mine.”

  “Oh, and what life would that be, Countess?” He did not disguise his disdain. “A trip to the milliner? Another dress?”

  Anger rose unrestrained. “You cannot be this stuffed!”

  “Or maybe you will cheat on another soon-to-be ex-paramour.” He disregarded her response, the loathing clear in his low remark.

  Her eyes bulged choleric, she tried not to take his bait. But… “Who would be this ‘ex-paramour’?” She defied. “You? Again?” She made herself smile smugly. “How boring to fool the same man twice.” Her words flew like fire arrows. He dared insult her? So dared she.

  The tempest in his splendid murky eyes told her she hit the mark. Recomposed in a flash, his face became a mask. “Are you offering?”

  A quizzical look came over her. “Offering?”

  “You say you are going to cheat me twice; it means we are having a second-“ the pause filled with meaningful intention, “tryst.” His stare pierced her so deep it roiled her insides. “This time I will not offer marriage, needless to say.” The loathing back. “You can be my mistress. It is the only position I will avail to you.”

  The man had no limits to his insults! The impetus to slap him was almost a physical pain that made her fist her hands until her fingers ached. She would not lower herself to that and give him the taste of her lack of control. “If you despise me so much, why are you keeping me here?”

  She did not realise how it happened, but they stood toe to toe, fulminating each other. She had to bend her head back to keep her eyes on him, the view of him unbalancing her even further.

  His expression hardened. “Because I want to know what you are up to here.”

  Forcing herself to act casual, she placed her forefinger to her chin, as if uncertain what to retort. “Please, do tell which answer you want apart from the truthful one I have given you more than once.”

  He chuckled humourless, while his attention caressed her from head to toe. “You have not given me an answer…” He paused, his stare lowering to her lips, that tingled. “ …to my proposition, I mean.”

  He lowered his head closer to hers, their noses inches apart. The traitorous memories of the afternoon flooded back to undermine her. He deliberately kept their conversation on two levels for a reason he alone understood. “That deserves no comment.”

  “If you say so, my lady.” He mimicked her remark from earlier.

  “I do, Your Grace.”

  Words silenced, they stood there, glares duelling, hers headstrong, his ferocious. The concept this man did not deserve any consideration for being a criminal did not help her because his eyes became greener with more than loathing. This made her breath short and uneasy. Suddenly, their bodies started talking a whole different language. Uncalled for, she lifted her mouth that unnecessary inch towards his and could feel his breath on her lips. A breath that quickened, at the same time her insides pulled her to him, though she did not move. His nostrils flared as she found it impossible to forget that overheated kiss.

  She must find the strength to break this spell… no, curse. It could only be a curse to be this drawn to a traitor. With titanic effort, she filled her lungs with cool air.

  Even not willing to cede ground, she found the will to step back, for his proximity was meddling with her senses. “If you will excuse me.” She curtsied in a derogatory manner and left the pretty chapel.

  Reaching her chambers, she closed the door and leaned on it, head bent back, breathing with difficulty due to her boiling anger. At him, for his crude words; and at herself for feeling as she did.

  * * *

  “Report.” Romulus ordered the man under Miller, appointed to follow the countess discretely, as he came in the solar.

  He spent a hell of a night, plagued by her lures and the suspicions of her motifs. He tossed and turned, and wanted, and craved, thoughts jumbled. Morning found him turned inside out with sexual frustration and vexation.

  They did not meet at dinner, as they avoided one another with careful distance and he broke his fast all too early, due to his non-existent sleep. Which meant he had not encountered her then either.

  “The lady is in the armoury, Your Grace.”

  “Doing what?”

  The man lowered his head. “I could not tell, Your Grace.”

  Romulus’ brows pleated hal
f irritated, half quizzical. “How is that?” The sole thing she might do there was to examine the weaponry.

  “The lady is in breeches, on the wrestling ring, performing some-“ he cleared his throat.

  “Go on.” Impatience on his tone.

  His deferential attention back to the Duke, he took courage. “Performing some movements, or training, my lord.”

  That other men may have seen her tightly belted breeches and the flare of her tempting hips made him see red. He preferred to burn in Hades rather than let others realise it though.

  His stance on neutral, he stood. “Alright, Clark. You take a pause. I will see to the matter in hand.”

  “Very well, Your Grace.” He bowed relieved and left.

  As soon the man left, Romulus headed to the armoury. Coming there, he stopped short. Bare feet, delectable, indecent shirt and breeches, her back to him, she concentrated in full on a series of movements unthinkably resembling wrestling. What the blazes did she do that for in her life? He slammed the door shut in a dry clap.

  Startled, her head swivelled to him. Her midnight hair caught in a practical chignon, wisps falling to her face, the light from the windows beaming on her liquid eyes. She had to be the most majestic woman in the human race. He was in for another sleepless night, he guessed grim.

  “You wrestle.” He emitted, unable to say anything else.

  Her poor-man’s shirt had simple strings at the neck, as buttons were too expensive for working-class to afford. She wore no neck-cloth to go with it.

  He was in hot water.

  “Yes.” Her skin shone with a sheen of sweat and he imagined rubbing his face to hers to smell her. “Though I am not very good at it.” She interrupted his voyeur reverie.

  “What for?” He uttered.

  She turned from him and continued with her movements as if he was not there. That stung. Yesterday’s squabble possibly the cause. He did not feel proud of it, no. He lost his temper as it had been hard to deal with her defiance and his thwarted desire all at once.

  She shrugged. “To defend myself.”

  “Let us see how good you are.” He defied her before he could think better of it. He undid his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves and kicked his shoes.

  She turned to him anew, a neutral expression on her unflawed face. “Be my guest.”

  It was not uncommon for women to wrestle though they mostly came from the labour strata, he knew. Many fighting clubs in town presented female matches that used to attract many male patrons. That she, a countess, did it surprised him.

  He climbed up the ring and glanced at her. She undertook defensive stance, upper body bent forward, feet apart, arms held in the air. They measured each other for long seconds. He hesitated concerned with how much force he should use. He made a move towards her, minding not to be too forceful. She took him in full, using his weight against him and throwing him on the wooden planks. He fell with an unexpected thud, stupefied.

  “Not very good, you say.” He commented as he stood up, on alert.

  “That was what I said, yes.” She retorted tartly.

  They engaged again, and she dodged every one of his advances. He came on to her, she tried a kick, he grabbed her foot and overthrew her. She met the boards without a sound.

  “That is a tad different from men’s wrestling.” He observed, while she regained her feet.

  “More adapted for women.” She readied for another strike.

  The next engagement had them holding one another, attempting to send one to the floor again. His hand placed on her tiny waist, at the same time hers detained him at his chest. For a moment, they glared each other impassive, electrical undercurrents flashing in the air. They did not make it and both fell, she over him. Sweat ran down their necks when their eyes clashed as opponents. And then became heated with something else. Annabel clambered up to her feet leaving him to deal with his… secondary reactions.

  Defensive stances, they ogled one another attentive for the next move. He delved in her liquid eyes and, for a heartbeat his concentration faltered, his blood forgetting the fight to heat at a whole different stimulation. She blinked rapidly as if she felt the same.

  Both got a grip when they came at each other again. They knew what to expect and kept their ground as neither overcame the other.

  Romulus was enjoying himself overly much. The chance to touch her now and again a perk. She proved to be a respectable opponent, nevertheless. He found it difficult to overcome her even if shorter and less muscled than him. Amazing. He charged one more time.

  She never yielded, giving blow by blow, kick by kick and held her ground for a long time. Their match undecided until he got distracted by her falling hair in midnight strands. She took advantage of it and threw him down, winning the match.

  Standing over him, a magnificent amazon, all haughty and proud, he rejoiced. Oh, but the woman revealed to be a box of surprises.

  And then she placed her delicate foot on his chest. What the…!

  Their glares meshed tenacious. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face, hands on her waist, nothing short of a general.

  “Apologise for yesterday, my lord.” Came the boon for her victory.

  “You leave no ground uncovered, do you?” His lopsided smile told of admiration.

  “Exactly.”

  “Please, accept my apologies, my lady.” What else was he supposed to do? He had exceeded himself, anyway.

  “Apologies accepted, my lord.”

  At the precise moment she would withdraw her foot, he held the satiny skinned limb and in a quick turn, put her to the ground and pinned her there. She might have won, but she also had him incinerating with want.

  She stared at him with indignant shock at once transformed in something diametrically different.

  His mouth descended on hers ravenous, invading her in a kiss he had wanted to repeat since the blasting last one.

  In between moans, her hands came to his dishevelled sleek hair as she pulled him to her with the same greediness as him. Undisguisedly carnal, their mouths wide open, their tongues devouring, their bodies seeking each other, there was no room for holding back. Anabel arched into him as he cradled his hard ridge into her. He continued ravaging her, while his hand traced her flaring hips, her ribs on her coarse white shirt.

  He came up for air and their ragged breathes resounded in the armoury, their eyes returned to each other, hers darkened with desire. Her scent of woman and arousal flooded his nostrils. He wanted them naked, mingling their drenched skins, he craved to drink in her, all of her.

  “I should have taken you under that tree.” He murmured hot, his fingers unlacing the strings on her neck. “I should have taken you every damned day of that summer.” His palm snuck into her shirt and covered her pebbled round breast, only to have her thrusting it into his palm. Her long lashes came down with delectation. His finger squeezed the eager bare nipple, she sighed. “Should have gotten you with child.” He rumbled on her neck. “You would be bound to me forever.” Gaping her too big shirt, his mouth found her dusky nipple.

  If perdition could be found on this Earth, this was it. Utter, complete. Irreversible. There was no other woman in humanity that ever made him this spellbound. He savoured her as if he had found paradise. And he had, because, now, she cradled him between her soft thighs, her hand on his hair, pressing him to her. What a good idea to kiss a woman in breeches. His hazy thought produced before he moved to the twin breast.

  Annabel was losing contact with reality. Fast. Dangerously. She pressed her whole body to him with a hungry whimper, so desperate to give herself what she wanted, what he wanted, any delay becoming sheer torture.

  His sensuous lips came to plunder her mouth yet again, mindless, and he did it, thirsty, his hand going ever down her irresistible curves.

  A flash of reality intruded in her foggy, steamy head. What was she doing? To surrender to a man who despised her. A man who proved to be the highest criminal in the country. She could not sink t
his low. It would be a regretful feebleness she would not be able to live with, though she knew it would be luscious, decadent while he touched her, took her. That unyielding erection so missed for so many reasons. A man in full possession of his health, capable of satisfying a woman until she could not remember her own name. Until she had lost all dignity. Until she failed to look in the mirror ever again.

  No!

  As his fingers reached her belt, she grabbed his muscled shoulders and yanked him up, her gaze wide open, an unfathomable expression in them. He released her at once.

  “This cannot be!” A hoarse mutter. Standing up, she tied her shirt, put on her slippers and vanished from the armoury as if there was an infantry after her.

  Stare fixed at the empty absence she had left, still lying there, his desire roaring like a furnace, Romulus had to tackle her unpredictable response. As he raked his hand through his dark brown hair, he stood. He thought of punching himself for this weakness, but regret passed far from him. He would have not missed it for the life of him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Flushed, sweat and annoyed, Annabel took refuge in the library, away from prying eyes. She braced her hands on the reading desk and exhaled. The morning had been the most delightful she could remember. And that was the problem.

  She had revelled in sharing her skills with Romulus, measuring forces with him, having the chance to touch his muscled body, even if charging at it.

  And then, darn it! She took leave of her senses. The moment he pinned her on the boards she did not stand a chance. The delicious weight of his on her, his dishevelled hair, his male scent, the kisses, and ardent caresses. His steamy words echoed in her head, those which she had not found her voice to answer, so enthralled had she been. She touched her lips, still dazed with the pleasure that coursed through her. She must never have tasted it. It was bound to be addictive. But not with him! Gracious me, not him!