A Highland Duchess

by Karen Ranney

  Ian entered the carriage, closing the door behind him. He sat back against the cushions and studied her, wondering what it was about her that was so appealing.

  She was willowy and of average height, but so were a hundred women he’d met. Her dark brown hair was thick and springy, curling in tendrils around her temples as if to call attention to the perfect oval of her face. Her eyes were almond shaped and such a piercing blue that they reminded him of summer skies over Lochlaven.

  “I find your perusal of me rather insulting,” she said.

  “Do you? Even more so than your abduction?”

  He reached over and pulled the shade down, covering the window close to her before doing the same on his side of the carriage.

  “They are both equally as distressing,” she admitted.

  “I have the feeling, Duchess, that I am going to do a great many things that will end up distressing you. Let me proffer an apology now for all of those acts.”

  “I’m not your confessor,” she said. “Instead of apologizing, why don’t you simply stop your carriage and allow me to exit?”

  “How will you explain my presence in your wardrobe to your uncle?”

  Instead of answering him, she placed her hands together and rested them demurely on her skirts. He had never been given to studying a woman’s hands before but hers were lovely, with long, slender fingers.

  She seemed suddenly intent on the small compartment fitted with a clock and a traveling quill and ink. A moment later her attention was directed to the window shade. Why he was irritated about the fact that she thought anything was more interesting than conversation with him, he had no idea.

  He’d abducted the woman; he wasn’t here to converse with her.

  The sooner he could figure out a way to get her back to her house without any damage to her reputation, the better.

  The rain on the roof punctuated the silence between them.

  She folded her arms in front of her chest and it was then he noticed she was shivering. Her dress was dotted with rain, and until this moment he’d not considered that she would be cold.

  He took off his coat, bent forward and arranged his jacket around her shoulders. She didn’t move or make it easier for him but became a solid block of flesh, her arms close to her sides. He simply ignored her fierce frown, pulled her forward and arranged the jacket so that at least her shoulders were covered.

  “I haven’t much practice in the art of abduction,” he said. “If I had, Duchess, I would have ensured that you brought your shawl or coat.”

  She didn’t answer but her frown lessened a degree or two.

  “We have a dilemma, you and I, one in which I need your assistance.”

  There, the full fury of her frown was back.

  “You have intruded upon my privacy, assaulted my uncle, and taken me from my home. Now you wish my assistance?”

  “I will concur with your litany of charges, Duchess, all except for the one about assaulting your uncle. Your uncle needed assaulting. Your cheek is still red from his blow.”

  Her hand went up to her face, her palm cradling her cheek.

  “What do you want?”

  “A piece of your petticoat.”

  If her expression was any gauge, he’d evidently startled the Duchess of Herridge.

  “We are returning to my lair, Duchess. It would be best if you didn’t know where it was located.”

  “Else you will torture me?”

  “Or kill you,” he said, smiling.

  Her eyes widened and her hand dropped, curving into a fist.

  “Only to keep you quiet, you see.”

  She didn’t appear horrified but did look at him with some caution, which still had the effect of annoying him. Couldn’t the woman see that he was no more a killer than he was a torturer? The only sin to lay at his feet was that he didn’t accept obstacles. If given a task to perform, he would complete it, regardless of the time or effort it cost. Perhaps he was tenacious to a fault.

  She grabbed his coat and hugged it to her before turning away and leveling her stare on the shade again.

  Was she trying to be irritating? If so, she was succeeding.

  He tilted his head back, expelled a breath, and rubbed the nape of his neck with one hand. “If you please, Duchess. Else, I will have to rip your petticoat myself.”

  She frowned at him. But she pulled up her skirt an inch or two, revealing a black taffeta petticoat. Quite a lovely thing it was, too, with ruches and lace. The proper mourning garment for the wealthy lady of leisure.

  “The bottom tier should do,” he said. “Would you care to rip it, or would you prefer that I do it?”

  “I would prefer that you not touch my garments, sir,” she said, bending and working at one of the seams. He reached into the compartment beside him, pulled out a small traveling quill, and handed her the nib.

  “You might want to use this to rip the stitches,” he said.

  She took the nib from him without another word. A few minutes later she handed it back to him and began to rip her petticoat. In no time at all she had a long strip of black taffeta, which she balled up and threw on the seat beside him.

  Sitting back against the seat, she closed her eyes, no doubt pretending that he was nowhere in sight.

  If he were being fair, or in the mood to be impartial, he would admit to himself that she had every reason in the world to be disdainful of him. After all, he’d invaded her privacy and then abducted her. But he’d also treated her with what kindness he could, including protecting her from her uncle.

  He would simply have to ignore her opinion of him. He didn’t know her and it was quite evident that she didn’t know him, either. Perhaps it was better if it stayed that way.

  A few moments later he flipped the shade back with one finger. They were nearing the square where he lived.

  “Your Grace, give me a few hours to figure out a way to get you home with no damage to your reputation.”

  She turned her head, finally, to look at him. “If you send a note to my uncle, and state that I have been abducted, he would give you almost anything for my safe return.”

  “Your uncle didn’t seem overly concerned about you earlier.”

  “My uncle resents me,” she said. “Every cent he spends, even gambling, comes from my inheritance. A man grows to resent such things.”

  The statement was so calmly uttered that he wondered if she’d heard it before, perhaps from her dearly departed husband?

  “There’s no excuse for a man to take advantage of those not his equal,” he said. “Whether it is status or wealth or physical stature.”

  She only looked away again.

  “Tell him to give you the Tulloch mirror.”

  He folded his arms and stared at her.

  “The one you don’t know anything about?”

  She had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “I did not, when you first asked. It was only after you described it that I remembered the mirror. It was a wedding gift from my husband.”

  He didn’t particularly want the image of the Duke of Herridge and his fresh, innocent wife in his mind. He’d met the man only once, but the memory, and rumors, furnished him with all he needed to know about the Duke of Herridge—pompous, arrogant, given to self-indulgence and easy cruelty.

  “Where is the mirror now?”

  “At Chavensworth, I believe.” She glanced at him and then away. “My husband’s family home.”

  “How far is Chavensworth from London?”

  “An hour or two.”

  He looked up at the grill separating him from the coachman and considered changing destinations.

  “You cannot think to travel there at night,” she said.

  He glanced over at her.

  �
�You would’ve made this entire situation a great deal easier if you had remembered it earlier, Duchess,” he said.

  “I cannot command my memory,” she said. “I put the mirror away the moment it was given to me.”

  “It belongs in Scotland.”

  “So you’ve said.” Her remark was accompanied by a frown, quite an imperious expression.

  Ian reached for the length of taffeta and then changed seats to sit beside her. He could smell her scent again, the same one he’d experienced in the wardrobe. He wanted to ask her what she wore, if the perfume was something developed especially for her, or if the origin of the scent was something else. Powder? A sachet? The questions, however, were intrusive, and too personal.

  Without a word, he placed the taffeta over her eyes and then wound the cloth around her head twice, tying it in a knot at the back. Not only would she be unable to see but she would be difficult to recognize.

  Abruptly she held her hands out, wrists together.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “Do you not wish to bind me? I am your prisoner, am I not?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

  She dropped her hands, bowed her head.

  “If you’re disappointed, perhaps I could engage in some very small acts of torture,” he said.

  “I do not believe you have any experience at torture at all,” she said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “People who are very good at torture rarely talk about it beforehand. They seem to derive great pleasure in surprising you with it.”

  Now that was a revelation. He didn’t know what to say to that comment. Besides, she was right in one aspect. He’d no experience in torture at all.

  At that moment he felt a surge of pity for her. No, something more than that. Compassion, certainly, but something else, an emotion he couldn’t readily identify.

  “I am doing this for your protection as well, Emma.”

  “I have not given you leave to use my Christian name,” she said stiffly, straightening her shoulders.

  How very proper she appeared, and annoyed.

  He moved to sit opposite her again. When the carriage slowed and came to a stop, he opened the door before a footman could do so, assisting Emma down the three steps.

  “There are stairs here,” he cautioned her, guiding her hand to the iron banister.

  The door opened above him, and his majordomo stood there, a look of surprise replacing Patterson’s usual impassive expression.

  Ian waved his hand in the air as if to caution the other man not to speak. Patterson nodded in response, thrusting an arm out to hold back the footman when he would have crossed over the threshold.

  Ian took Emma’s free hand, entering his house with her.

  In the next moment he would have to explain to his majordomo and at least one footman why he was standing in the foyer with a woman wearing his jacket. A woman who was also blindfolded with a length of taffeta petticoat.

  He would somehow have to do this without revealing his own identity or hers, and in such a way that would not send one of his servants running to the authorities.

  “We are playing a game,” he said, winking at Patterson. “Beyond that, it would be ungentlemanly of me to explain.”

  Emma thought him a torturer and murderer, and now Patterson and a footman thought him a satyr.

  Would this night never end?

  Not before he figured out how to obtain the Tulloch Sgàthán and how to return the duchess to her home with no damage to her reputation. His impulsive gesture for his friends was demanding a very high price indeed.

  “Brigand,” Emma said, startling him. “What happens now?”

  Patterson smoothed his face of any expression, but the footman smirked.

  Ian had never thought himself capable of embarrassment but he felt it now, a curious burning sensation flushing his skin.

  “Now, lady,” he said, “I take you to my lair and ravish you.”

  He headed for the stairs, hoping to God and all His angels that she kept silent until they reached his chamber.

  Chapter 4

  The wind had begun to escalate, coming in through the front door and up the steps as her abductor hurried her up the stairs. Emma could feel the chill piercing her clothes like tiny knives.

  At the top of the stairs he hesitated, then unknotted the silk from around her eyes. She could now see that the corridor was dimly lit by brass wall sconces, shadows pooling over the striped wallpaper and the crimson runner covering the dark oak floorboards. A small sideboard stood beside the landing, a jar of potpourri infusing the air with a sandalwood scent.

  The thief lived well.

  When he put his hand on the flat of her back, Emma felt her blood chill. She did not like to be touched.

  His jacket fell, but when he retrieved it and would have placed it around her shoulders again, she shook her head. His sound of exasperation was the only communication between them.

  He halted in front of one of the doors in the corridor, reached out and turned the handle of the door. After opening it, he stepped back, allowing her to precede him.

  Emma squared her shoulders and prayed for courage.

  “I have no intention of entering a bedchamber with you, sir,” she said, pleased to note that her voice didn’t tremble at all.

  “Your virtue is safe enough with me, Emma,” he said. “But my majordomo and probably most of the staff, at this point, believe that you’re my plaything for the night.”

  Her cheeks flushed, a sensation of warmth traveling to her temples and the spot in front of her ears.

  She shook her head, still refusing to enter the room.

  Annoyance shimmered in his eyes. She didn’t care. Although he was several inches taller, much larger, and the outcome of any struggle in little doubt, she was more than willing to fight him.

  He startled her by simply picking her up and depositing her in the middle of the room, releasing her just as quickly.

  She jerked down her bodice, frowned at him, and took several cautious steps away.

  “You need to change into something warmer.”

  She only frowned at him. She had no intention of taking off her clothes.

  He raised one eyebrow but didn’t respond.

  For several long moments they simply stared at one another.

  “Do you have a name?” she asked finally. “Or shall I just refer to you as my abductor?”

  “Ian,” he said.

  “Ian. It’s Scottish. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

  “Have you any objections to the Scots?”

  “Only if they take me prisoner,” she said.

  The room was shadowed, the windows buffeted by the increasingly fierce wind. Despite her resolve, she began to tremble.

  He approached her, but before he could touch her, she placed both hands on his chest. When she realized she could feel his body’s warmth through the finely woven fabric of his damp shirt, she pulled her hands back. For safety’s sake, she took a few more steps backward.

  “Is this your bedroom?”

  “It is.”

  “I have no intention of sharing this room with you,” she said.

  “Nor am I asking you to do so,” he said. “I merely ask that you pretend to do so. Your identity, of course, will be a closely guarded secret.”

  The furniture looked French, the wallpaper a watered ivory silk. The bed was taller than most, making her think that it was a double mattress. Was this brigand a hedonist as well?

  Two armoires and a bureau shared the space, in addition to a small writing desk covered with papers. What occupied a thief?

  Emma moved to the side of the room, taking the chair in front of the d
esk, giving him such a fierce look that he knew not to approach her.

  He only smiled in response. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’ve already had my supper.”

  “Would you like some wine?”

  “I don’t drink wine,” she said.

  “Something warm, then? Some tea, perhaps.”

  She focused on the oval rug in front of the bed, its pattern of flowers and entwined vines quite lovely. Was it Scottish?

  “You win high marks as a jailer,” she said. “If anyone wants to know if you were kind, then I’ll say you were. If anyone questions me as to your hospitality, I’ll say you were a grand host.”

  “You think me kind?”

  She glanced up at him.

  “I haven’t been appreciably kind, Duchess, since we met. What disturbs me is that you think I have been. It makes me wonder what other treatment you’ve had in comparison.”

  “Must we continue to talk?” she asked. “I find that I am excessively fatigued.”

  “All of a sudden?”

  “It has been building,” she said, biting off the words. “Ever since I was forced from my own home.”

  “I would convey my apologies for that, Duchess,” he said, his tone just as terse, “except for one fact. The house you claim as a home didn’t seem excessively comforting to me. No one will strike you here, Duchess. No one will threaten you.”

  How very strange that it was easy to smile. “You have threatened me from the moment you took me from my home, sir. It does no good to say you have not done so. Actions count louder than words. Anyone can be a brute and say he hasn’t been.”

  “Like your husband, Duchess?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I shouldn’t have taken you from your home,” he said, surprising her. “Frankly, I didn’t know what to do at the time. But it’s been done, and we must work with the situation as it stands now. Not as we wish it might be.”

  He smiled, and she wished he wouldn’t. The expression rendered him even more handsome, a darkly beautiful creature who confused her.

  He turned and walked toward the door. On the threshold he glanced back at her. “Forgive me, Emma,” he said. And then he was gone.