If I Were a Duke

by Eva Devon

  Eleanor, as nimble as a mountain goat, led him up over the rocky face of the ben and easily took him down a narrow ravine until at last they came to a small burn that wound its way between the shoring hills. In the distance, he spotted a waterfall, its plume dancing down into a waiting pool.

  “Some say there is a hiding place behind the waterfall,” she informed him. “It’s said that it is a place that supporters of Bonnie Prince Charlie hid when the English soldiers came into these parts.”

  “Should we find out?” he asked mischievously, ready to sprint naked into the pool if she’d but agree.

  “I already have,” she teased.

  He adored seeing her in such good humor. Clearly, London made her ill at ease though she had warmed to it. No, this was where Eleanor was meant to be. And he loved to see her in her element, like some wild fairy queen.

  “Have you, by God?” he asked, swinging her towards him, encircling his arms about her waist.

  She slid her hands up his arms and nodded her dark head. “Och, yes. You see, I was a most curious child. One day, I snuck up into the hills, doffed my frock, jumped into the pool and swam to the back.”

  “And?” he prompted, astounding by the idea of her childhood adventure. He never would have pictured it. But he should have. Eleanor was a woman of surprises.

  “Nothing, alas. It is a lovely story and naught else.” She gave a mysterious smile. “But there are standing stones.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you not been to Stonehenge in England?”

  He gazed down at her sheepishly. “I confess a group of young bucks went, but we were all deep in our cups. I remember hugging something tall and grand and cold. It was not my best moment.”

  She laughed. “Tony, you’ve the heart of an adventurer. But if you’ve an affinity for embracing ancient stones, I shallna be the one to stop you.”

  He pulled her up on her tiptoes. “And if I prefer embracing you?”

  “Again,” her eyes danced, heating. “I shallna stop you.”

  This time, it was he who led her down the small, quiet glen that felt as if it were hidden from the world. A magical place of old ones, and old beliefs. It was theirs. Secret. Magical. Away from the world.

  They wove their way through the tall, waving grass until they stood before a swath of deep purple heather. Soon, it would be gone, the blooms faded until spring.

  Despite the slight chill in the air, he pulled her down to the verdant ground. He tugged off his great coat and laid it out for them to rest upon.

  He lay back, propping his head on his arm and he contemplated the beautiful woman who had somehow come to accept him. She had such a good heart. And he knew that her life had been a cold one. It was evident in the way the servants spoke about the past. In how she had no friends nearby. How so many still seemed frightened that the least little bit of mischief would displease him.

  It was going to be a long road. But they would heal Castle Ayr. And he hoped that Eleanor would be healed, too.

  Gently, he stroked a lock of coal black hair back from her face. Damnation, how he loved her hair.

  “Kiss me,” he urged.

  She did not pause, but pressed her mouth lightly to his. It was not a kiss meant to incite his wildest passions, but it was intimate nonetheless. While he dearly would have loved to make love to her here, he knew the importance of simply holding her. Of making her understand he wanted to be close to her, not just her physical form.

  So, he eased her down beside him and they gazed up at the bright blue sky.

  The wind danced through the grass and heather, and the air was filled with the sound of fast rushing water.

  Somewhere deep in his heart, he felt the urge to do something he hadn’t in years.

  Le grá dhuit níl radharc am cheann,

  Eibhlín a Rún,

  Is trácht ort is saidhbhreas liom,

  Eibhlín a Rún;

  Ó mo mhórdháil ró-ghreidhnmhear thú,

  sólás na Soillse’s tú,

  Ó mo lile thú, mo mheidhir is tú,

  mo bhruinneal thú go deimhin.

  A’s mo chlús dá bhfuil sa choill seo’s tú.

  As mo chroí ’stigh níl leigheas gan tú,

  Eibhlín a Rún.

  The song tumbled out of him, playing on the air, spinning around them and creating a deep sense of contentment. This was life. This was what it was meant to be, here in the arms of the woman he loved.

  Her breathing had slowed and she’d grown very quiet as she listened to him sing.

  But as he allowed the last note to slip past his lips, he kissed the crown of her head, his heart so full he could hardly bear it.

  Her fingers curled tightly into his shirt. “That was Gaelic.”

  “So it was, lass,” he said into her hair.

  “That’s illegal.”

  “And don’t I love flouting the law,” he teased. The war upon the Highlanders was a brutal one and a similar one was brewing in his homeland. But now was not the time to think of pain. Now was the time to think of other far more happy things.

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “It’s a love song,” he whispered.

  His heartbeat began to pound, a quick pace as words rushed up out of him. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Eleanor.”

  He waited, still hopeful. Knowing that they had come so far in such a short time.

  She laid there for a long moment. He could barely feel her breathing.

  “Eleanor?” he asked softly.

  She sat up abruptly, her eyes wild. She shook her head. “You canna, Tony.”

  “Why can’t I then?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. A deep sense of foreboding began to take hold of him as he realized the extent of her distress.

  She scrambled back. “You dunna love me.”

  He reached for her. “Eleanor—”

  “No!” She stopped him with a raised hand, her gaze panicked. “You’re besotted. It’s this place. We like each other. We’re friends. But you dunna love me.”

  “I don’t?” he echoed, hollowly, his happiness draining from him. “I’d no idea you knew me so thoroughly.”

  “Please, listen,” she all but begged. “Please. You dunna and you willna. And. . . And. I canna love you.”

  Without waiting for his reply, she stumbled to her feet and rushed away from him. Her feet stamped down the heather, the small purple flowers crushing beneath her walking boots.

  He watched her go, watched his happiness slip away. He could not make sense of how it had suddenly all gone so terribly awry.

  He did not follow. It would be fruitless. It was clear from her entire demeanor that she needed to be alone. But that grim feeling that he’d thought was gone from him seeped back into his bones.

  Was this to be his life then? Always shoved away by his wife? Always left hoping, waiting to be accepted?

  What had made her this way? For he knew she cared. It would be impossible to feign the feeling he’d seen from her in these last weeks.

  No, Eleanor cared. He knew it in his sinew. So, why would she not let him care for her?

  He had to find out or all was lost. For he could not live like this. Even if she could.

  Chapter 21

  Eleanor paced the stone ramparts, her boots beating along the rough walk. She gave not one whit that the cold north air wrapped itself around her body, whipping her skirts about her legs and tearing her hair from its pins.

  She paced and paced, walking like a mad ghost, staring out to the hills as the sun slipped down beneath the horizon. Those last soft blue and gold lights died just as her own heart cried out in agony.

  She’d paced this parapet once before. She’d paced it waiting for news of her love. He’d been dead. Everyone was dead.

  Could the world not understand that? Could it not do this to her any longer?

  She’d buried every person she’d loved. . . She’d not even seen them put into the earth. No, she’
d been cut off from them abruptly, left adrift in this cold, brutal world. For years, her heart had ached for the loving parents she’d once kissed goodbye and never seen again.

  She’d been so lost then. So. . . Orphaned. She’d known then what this world was capable of. Its cruelty. Its fickleness. If one cared, loved, then one lost. One was racked by agony. James, too, had gone from her, a kiss goodbye and he’d never returned. Once again, she’d spiraled into hell.

  She’d walked and walked these glens. She had traced the loch, as if just looking hard enough, walking far enough, might bring them all back to her.

  But they never came back.

  The sound of their voices, the memory of their embraces, the touch of their hands. . . All of those things tormented her. They did not bring her comfort, for she was alone in her pain. The ribbons that had held her secure had been cut and she had flown away into the brutal emptiness of one untethered.

  The castle had kept her from completely losing herself to mindless grief. Its day to day necessities. But she could not take that chance again. She could not dare to be rendered apart again.

  She could not let someone love her. People who loved her died. They vanished from her, never to be found again. She could not let that happen to Tony. She could not let that happen to herself again.

  She would not be able to bear it. As she stopped, her feet wooden on the old stones beneath her soles, she knew, without a doubt, it had never been fear of betraying James that had kept her distant from Tony. She’d not been honoring James’ memory, keeping her heart faithful.

  Oh no. She’d been protecting Tony. Protecting herself. No matter how much Tony desired it, she could not let him love her. She could not love him in return. The agony of loss was not worth the chance of love.

  And then there was that simple, unavoidable fact that she was incredibly unlucky. She dared not risk it again. Not when Tony could be a victim of it.

  She turned to the stone wall, and grabbed it with her hands. She let out a wild cry, screaming her pain into the falling night. The sound was lost on the harsh wind, swallowed up into the freezing, starlit night.

  It was impossible to tell how long she stood like that, looking out to the bens, railing at fate, her heart full of fear. Fear that she’d begun to love her husband and what that might mean.

  But the door to the staircase which spiraled down to the great hall opened. Margaret climbed out onto the rampart.

  “Your Grace?” she called loudly, her gown flying about her legs.

  Eleanor could not reply. It felt too much like another day. Another terrible moment. So, she did not. She forced herself to stare outward, letting the wind fill her eyes with tears. She was not crying. She was not.

  “Your Grace,” Margaret insisted. “The duke has not returned from your walk.”

  Eleanor tensed. Those words penetrated her dark thoughts and she forced herself to face Margaret. “What?”

  “He has not returned and night is falling,” Margaret said, her face white. “Could he have gone to the village?”

  She blinked and water slid down her cheeks. She dashed it away. “I-I dunna know. Margaret, we fought.”

  “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. But we are concerned for his safety.” Margaret’s face was tight with worry. “Should we be?”

  He’d just told her he was falling in love with her. Her heart twisted as if it had been stabbed with a blade. She knew what happened to those that loved her.

  “Yes, you should,” she called. “We must search. Now.”

  Margaret nodded then wordlessly waited for Eleanor to join her.

  As they descended the narrow, turning staircase, Eleanor braced her hands on the rugged walls for balance. “We shall gather a party.”

  “Surely, you will wait here, Your Grace,” Margaret protested.

  “I will not,” she bit out. “It’s my fault, you see.”

  “Your Grace?” Margaret whispered.

  She stopped on the stairs and twisted her head towards her maid. “He loves me. He’s out there, no doubt hurt, and it is because he loves me.”

  Dawning saddened Margaret’s eyes and she whispered the most shocking words a maid ever could. “Oh, Eleanor.”

  But Eleanor would not listen to kindness or comfort. She knew what she had to do. And she would do it.

  *

  “Bloody son of a pox ridden troglodyte,” Tony cursed as he hobbled along the rocks. He couldn’t believe it. He? A man who could scale rigging like a squirrel could run about on a tree had tripped in a hole and bashed his ankle. It was damned embarrassing.

  Granted, he’d been distracted. He kept seeing Eleanor’s horrified face again and again as he’d tried to convince himself that all would be well.

  The light had fallen and, well, he’d stepped right into a fox hole.

  It had hurt like the blazes but he’d known worse. The only trouble was, it had slowed him considerably, not being able to put even a hint of weight on it. The downward slope of the ben was sharp. And he had no desire to go arse over teakettle down its picturesque side. Even he had a bit of dignity, no matter what Eleanor might think.

  Still, even as he inched his way down the slippery ground on his arse, his palms grating over stones and rough bushes, he worried about Eleanor’s descent. She’d been most upset.

  Now, he knew that sometimes it was best to leave a woman to her anger. A man, too, really. He’d learned that long ago from his mother who was very wise in the ways of humanity. But there had been something far darker than he’d ever seen in Eleanor in the hidden glen.

  The sound of voices hit him first.

  Then he spotted the torches halfway up the ben.

  He groaned, sat down for a moment, then realized he was simply going to have to face telling them that he was not as agile-footed on the landscape as his wife. He supposed he had to be grateful they’d not just assumed he’d gone off to the pub what with his rather recent reputation.

  “Hello,” he called in the voice which could reach the quarterdeck from the crow’s nest in a wicked squall.

  A commotion of noise met his hail. And he sat there, waiting, knowing it was all he could do.

  “I’m up here!” he called again.

  Within mere minutes, he heard a set of running feet. They weren’t at all thumping like he’d expected but fleet.

  The torchlight blazed through the darkness, casting him in its amber glow.

  Eleanor stood in fiery glory, a fierce warrior queen of old. Her cloak was flying about her as she stared down at him. “Thank God,” she bit out.

  “Well, not God really,” he replied, hoping to calm her. He’d never seen her so upset. “Just be glad the fox was not an overzealous homemaker. The hole could have been a good deal deeper.”

  She ignored him and fell to her knees beside him. Driving the butt of the torch into the ground, her gaze swept over him. “You’re delirious.”

  “I am not, lass,” he assured her calmly. “I’m quite well, although bit flummoxed at needing to be rescued. A man’s pride and all that, but I’m doing quite well except for a turned ankle.”

  She seemed to refuse to believe this. She ran her hands up and down his frame as if certain she would ascertain something dire.

  When she carefully examined his skull then braced her hands on the sides of his face and searched his gaze, he stilled. She was possessed. This was not simple concern. She was terrified.

  “Eleanor?” he whispered.

  “You truly are all right?” she gasped.

  “I am,” he confirmed, longing to hold her, but not daring to. He doubted she would allow it in her state.

  She stared at him, her pink lips parted, shadows darting over her face. Her breath came in jagged takes as she seemed to struggle to believe he was mostly unharmed.

  “Truly, Eleanor, all is well.”

  Nodding, she stood. Then she wiped her hands on the front of her cloak and turned. Without a word, just as a group of torch bearing servants crested the smal
l ridge, she vanished into the darkness.

  “Eleanor!” he yelled, desperate for her to stay. Desperate to understand. But it was for naught.

  She was gone and he was alone with the servants who meant him well.

  Cursing, he waited for them to hoist him up and take him back. And once they did, once and for all, he was going to discover what the hell was going on.

  Chapter 22

  Tony sat in the library, foot propped up on a cushion, doing his best not to look like an invalid. The snifter of brandy helped as did the roaring fire.

  Still, he was ill at ease. Determined, but not at ease.

  Eleanor had been avoiding him. Oh, she’d seen to his every comfort. Food, blankets, brandy, reports and it had only been hours. He could only imagine her care if he had the influenza. She’d clearly fallen into her role as the caretaker of Castle Ayr, something he realized that made her feel safe, secure.

  Even so, he had not seen her.

  He bloody well couldn’t have that. So, he’d sent her a note, asking her to come to him, or else be prepared for him to find her even if he had to wield a cane while searching every cranny of the castle until he found her.

  She was lingering outside the door. By now, he knew her step and it was damned well putting him on edge. He wasn’t angry with her. He was bloody terrified. What was happening to them? To her?

  “Eleanor, you’re not a coward,” he called. “Now, enter.”

  There was a huff of noise and the sound of Eleanor clearing her throat. But she took the gauntlet up and strode into the room.

  It was like being transported to that day just before their marriage. An imperious coldness had settled over her. Her hands were folded before her skirts and she gazed on him with an unreadable expression.

  “Do you require anything for your entertainment, Ayr?”

  “I don’t bloody well want to be entertained,” he growled, his frustration brimming and throbbing right along with his ankle. “I wish to converse with my wife.”

  She gave a nod of acquiescence and then chose a chair as far away from him as possible. The wide fire which was large enough to roast a deer in separated them.