Let Sleeping Dukes Lie

by Emily Windsor

  No, she wished herself back in London because she felt a coward.

  Never had she been one to run away from problems. In fact, quite the reverse – she normally confronted them head-on, relishing the contest.

  But she had run from Alexander.

  She consoled herself that it was only for a short while, to gather her strength and visit home, but the devil on her left shoulder scolded that she should have ripped that newspaper from Alexander’s nose and swatted him over the head with it.

  Scowling at the dawn sunshine, which now beamed through the Nelson Inn’s meagre window, she gathered her valise.

  The packet boat’s departure had been delayed due to the weather, but this morning, at this unspeakably early hour, the Welsh stone glittered under a low sun and the trees began hauling themselves to upright after the storm’s battering.

  She had thought…maybe… Perhaps… Alexander would…

  But he hadn’t. And why should he? She’d told him not to follow after all, and he had his ordered life, his vocation and he needed very little else.

  Perturbed at her contradictory thoughts, she meandered from the inn, the poor maid and guard who had accompanied her to Wales dragging their feet behind.

  Puddles of water sluiced the lane to the harbour, forcing one to hop for dry ground, but people bustled briskly after the rain, and she spied several of her fellow inn guests waiting by the modest packet boat.

  Her title had procured one of the few cabins aboard – or the captain’s, she suspected – and she couldn’t quite believe that barely a few months earlier she had made this trip to England a mere Miss Quinlan, taking the stagecoach to Fetter Lane and the White Horse Inn.

  Such mundane thoughts, she groused, as the passengers manoeuvred to board, and she glanced back at the harbour wall, a light salt breeze fanning her cheeks. A few onlookers waved from the stone quay and she scanned the heads for no good reason.

  Straightening her shoulders, she vowed to enjoy the voyage on a rippling sea, to take pleasure from sighting Waterford’s coast and being greeted warmly by her uncle and his hounds.

  The Irish captain, with flashing smile and weather-beaten skin, personally helped her aboard – little wonder with the amount she’d paid for the cabin. Her maid scrambled below but Aideen stayed on deck, a rosy Irish woman making room for her at the bow rail.

  “Are ya off home then, darlin’?” She nudged Aideen’s elbow.

  “I… Yes, madam.”

  “The name’s Mrs O’Driscoll. And did ya like England? The bread’s appalling but the shops are mighty fine.”

  Aideen smiled. “You have the way of it,” she replied, watching as they hauled up the boarding plank.

  “And the fellas? What did ya think?” the woman asked, blue eyes bright.

  “I think…” One of the sailors gave the word to weigh anchor and panic settled within her. “I think I’d like to get off.” But it was too late and too crowded. Passengers pressed from behind, waving to well-wishers, and a few pigs had joined the laden boat, which two boys chased while a lady shrieked.

  “Ya canna, darlin’.” And the woman patted Aideen’s gloved hand, cold despite the leather. “Did ya leave a handsome English lad behind, then? I’ve noticed they’re hopeless with feelings, although our lads could do with saying less and meaning it more, I’d sa–”

  A commotion at the harbourside caused the woman to pause, frowning, and assuredly a hulking white horse was causing the well-wishers on the quay to scatter like seeds.

  Aideen’s heart skittered for a moment, her fists clenching on the rail as she leaned over.

  Could it be…

  Shouting, a man flew off the enormous animal and began jabbering at the harbour gang… A small man with chestnut hair, and Aideen drew back, feeling stupid at her hopeless thoughts.

  One of the gang threw a line out to the boat whilst the captain grumbled his annoyance. A lad caught the heavy rope and hastily lashed it around the rail as passengers and crew alike babbled with either interest or frustration.

  The captain cleared the way and strode to the rail, hands on hips. “Who in the hell has stopped my boat from leaving?” he bellowed for both hell and the heavens to hear, causing mothers to close hands about their children’s ears.

  Another commotion and the poor well-wishers were once again forced to flee as an immense sweating black horse galloped onto the harbour quay.

  A gentleman sat atop, dark hair gleaming in the sunlight, features taciturn and stubbled, raven-black cloak shrouding him.

  Mrs O’Driscoll crossed herself. “Mother Mary, protect us. The devil himself has come to toss us all into the abyss, I never should have flirted with that soldier.”

  But Aideen couldn’t answer or agree or even nod at the apt summation.

  The devil on horseback glared at the captain, the spirited animal spraying the crowd with lather. “The Duke of Rakecombe has. And you won’t have a boat unless you drop anchor this instant. You have something which belongs to me,” he snarled.

  Wisely, the captain muttered his acquiescence.

  “What do ya suppose it is?” the woman asked, nudging. “A crate of spirits or… Ya’ve gone awfully pale, darlin’.”

  Excitement, fear, anxiety and a hundred other emotions fluttered within Aideen. He was here. Why was he here? Saints in their cowls, he looked handsome and dishevelled and…angry.

  He threw a leg over the horse, ably dismounting to the quay. Mrs O’Driscoll goggled as he flung his cloak back over his shoulders to reveal…more black, except for a dusty white mangled cravat. An ebony cane was dis-attached from his horse’s saddle and clenching it firmly, he strode towards the packet boat.

  “Duchess!” he bellowed from the quay, even though only twelve feet separated man from vessel. Aideen tucked herself against the large lady. Not that she was faint-of-heart but…

  “Have you the Duchess of Rakecombe aboard that boat?” he yelled again, ramming his cane on the stone.

  “Aye,” the captain agreed. “Black-haired young lady in red. A fair fetching little pi–”

  A dead-eyed stare halted his words.

  “Oh,” Mrs O’Driscoll gasped, staring down. “That sounds like you, darlin’. Coo-ee, Mr Ya Grace Duke? She’s here.”

  Being tossed into the limpid abyss presented more appeal than her husband’s wrath, but a Quinlan never hid, so she straightened her shoulders and tipped her head up.

  She would not step off this boat, however, unless some very pertinent questions were answered to her satisfaction.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  The passengers, crew and well-wishers fell silent, breaths held, and for a moment, he simply stared.

  “You will remove yourself from that vessel and return home with me,” he stated.

  Mrs O’Driscoll clucked her tongue and Aideen could only agree.

  Overbearing buckeen.

  “Why?” she asked, and her fellow Irishwoman nodded, pursing her lips.

  A fluffy cloud shifted, allowing a beam of sunlight to tinge his black hair with red, the wind blowing it awry, and even Mrs O’Driscoll sighed at the handsome sight, but his face tightened, and he placed fists on his hips, looking for all the world like the autocratic haughty duke he in fact was.

  “You are my wife and belong at my side. ’Tis your duty.”

  “Ooh,” murmured the passengers. Not the answer a boat full of romantic Irish folk were looking for.

  She tapped her finger on the rail. “Not acceptable. Give me one good reason why I should step off this boat?”

  “And get on with it,” a voice belted out bravely from the back, “I wanna get home to my own colleen.”

  “I…miss you,” he growled low, but the light sea breeze wafted his words for all to hear.

  Mrs O’Driscoll nudged her. “Not good enough, I’d say. I miss cake and my best friend Dierdre but ’tisn’t the same.”

  “And?” Aideen prompted.

  He scowled. �
��Do you really wish me to speak my heart in front of the residents of Milford Haven, a boat full of scurvy sailors and a disparate group of nosy passengers?”

  Everyone nodded, pressing closer. “And who’s he callin’ nosy?” someone muttered.

  Well, when the duke put it like that… “Yes, I do.”

  His shoulders slumped, and she suddenly worried that maybe she’d pushed him too far. He was a proud duke after all.

  Alexander could jibber about wifely duty all he wanted, but a man didn’t follow that rutted road on horseback for days on end, endure a soaking and end up saddle-sore unless he felt…something.

  She would be brave and reveal her heart first.

  “I love you.”

  But her words had been overlaid by his deeper tone. The same admission, the same pledge, the same truth.

  His head lifted and shoulders eased, gaze directed solely at her from the quayside. “I apologise, Aideen. I apologise for being an utter arse. For not telling you of my fears, for shunning you when all I wanted to do was haul you close, for not telling you before today that I love you so damn much. Indeed, have loved you from the first.”

  The words exploded in her heart, hurling out that emptiness which had dwelled within.

  “Aaah,” sighed the passengers before all fell quiet, witnesses to the eternal play of love.

  “And I love you, Alex, so very deeply.”

  A handkerchief was whisked out by Mrs O’Driscoll, but even so another nudge hit Aideen’s ribs. “If you want anything else from him, say it now. ’Tis doubtful you’ll ever get another chance.”

  Aideen ordered her tumbling thoughts.

  “Charlie, you nodcock, the line!” yelled the captain, and they all turned, mouths agape as the rope slipped away into the depths, a red-cheeked lad biting his lip.

  “M’peepers were on the goings-on,” he bewailed, as the breeze caught a half-unfurled sail and the boat lurched.

  Rakecombe pivoted to the harbour gang but the gap between quay and boat grew.

  “I’m sorry, Ya Grace,” declared the captain. “Boat’s turning with the tide.”

  “Nooo,” Aideen wailed, leaning over the bow rail, arms flung out, Mrs O’Driscoll keeping a firm hand on her red skirts.

  Another rope was thrown from the quay but the beleaguered lad fumbled, and it fell listlessly into the harbour depths.

  Rakecombe wrenched off his cloak, and shoving that and his cane at the chestnut-haired man, he then strode away. Aideen’s heart plunged, her eyes sliding to the ever-widening breach of blue that separated them.

  “Lord have mercy!” gasped Mrs O’Driscoll, and Aideen raised her head in time to see her husband charging full pelt along the quay towards the dawdling stern of the packet boat.

  Her pulse thundered to his steps as he gained speed and threw himself from the edge, a slender black figure lunging through the air, fingers outstretched and face determined.

  Shocked gasps and stuttering applause broke out even before the passengers knew the outcome.

  Frantically straining to peer along the side, she heard no splash but instead could see Alex gripping the rail, swinging his long legs up, willing hands hauling him over.

  A hubbub ensued at the stern, grumbles and cheers alike, and she craned her neck to see over the crowd.

  Passengers began sweeping to the sides, and a child was grabbed and hauled into his mother’s skirts. The duke seemed to have no problem cutting a swathe, even without his cane, although a few pained gasps could be heard as he stomped on toes.

  And then there he was, stood not five ducal strides from her.

  No obstacles between them.

  A nudge to her waist. “He’s a fine piece o’ Englishman, to be sure,” Mrs O’Driscoll whispered, before winking and shoving a few more folk aside to give them room.

  Fine indeed.

  A towering intense duke with a curl dangling over his forehead, a few days’ stubble gracing his chin. Black thread ran through a black waistcoat she hadn’t seen before. Noble, upright, those verdant eyes glittering with passion as they caressed her face.

  She saw a man honourable yet haughty, caring yet ruthless.

  She saw the complete man she loved most desperately.

  “I have been alone for so long, Aideen,” he rasped. “And it has taken time for me to learn. But without you, I am a mere husk. Dry and barren, an unfeeling body without warmth or pleasure.” He shook his head, taking two strides. “I trust you unconditionally, my duchess. With my own life and with yours. We’ve no need of rules between us.”

  Moisture stung Aideen’s eyes.

  Another purposeful step. “When you entered my life, I finally began to feel joy once more. Lost emotions coursed through me but I fought, Aideen, I fought so hard to subdue them. Yet you shattered my defences, invaded my senses with your care and your touch, and I will fight no longer. I will embrace that joy, hold it close and never let it go. Never let you go.”

  “Oh!” sighed Mrs O’Driscoll, dabbing her cheeks. “How romantic. Mr O’Driscoll just told me I made a fine colcannon.”

  Passengers hemmed in for a better view of the love-struck sinister duke.

  He took the last two strides, and his calloused hand reached out to stroke her cheek, eyes pained. “When I heard your scream in that warehouse, I wished the earth to swallow me, to never release me, and that kept me silent. The fear. But I never disregarded you, Aideen. I couldn’t as you are entrenched in my heart. I need you, my love. Be at my side always…please.”

  “I do not wish to be anywhere else, Alexander,” she whispered.

  Warmth lit his serious eyes. “Then let us stride forward together. With everything life has to offer and in whichever direction it takes us.”

  “Ahem,” murmured the captain, “that would be Waterford then, if it’s all dandy with the both of you? We’re too far out to turn now, but no matter as ’tis a fine day for a crossing.”

  Her duke pulled her into his arms, secure and tight, whilst delighted Irish folk broke into cheers.

  “Well, my unquenchable fire? Shall we?”

  Aideen smiled, and Alexander lowered his head to kiss his duchess with ruthlessness, sincerity and love.

  Epilogue

  Three days later. The River Suir, Waterford, Ireland.

  “May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind illegitimate children chase you so far over the Hills of Damnation that the Lord himself can’t find you with a telescope,” repeated the Duke of Rakecombe, peering up at his wife.

  “Very good,” she flattered, so he tugged a lock of hair until she was forced to bend down for a kiss.

  The river gurgled its delight while he savoured the taste of early strawberries on his wife’s lips and, as he lay with his head in her lap, he couldn’t think of a better place to be than by this river, kissing his wife and learning curses.

  As Rainham had instructed, he’d taken just a sennight to honeymoon with his duchess in Waterford, and not only had he met Aideen’s father but also the infamous Uncle Seamus.

  Her father had ranted about weak-willed English maggots, but a half hour in the study alone with him had seen a change of opinion. He was still the Duke of Ruthlessness after all, and love, as Jack had proclaimed, didn’t bring about miracles.

  Then the much talked-of Seamus…

  At this very moment, the jovial chap was bellowing to his dogs further along the river after they’d all enjoyed a picnic together. Her uncle was without doubt ingenious, an artisan, and he’d promised to craft a new cane for Rakecombe – an Irish wolfhound would grace the head this time, with onyx black eyes and a cherry tongue.

  Aideen and he would return to London in a few days, as Napoleon gathered his strength and battle loomed.

  Fraught times lay ahead, but Aideen would always be by his side, not separate but joined, for as long as forever would allow them.

  The previous day, they’d discussed and agreed upon precautions for both their protection once they returned to the ci
ty. She’d removed a leaf from a tree with her red-enamelled pistol and nearly gutted him with her little knife. He’d apologised again for not trusting her, and thanked her for saving his life.

  Talking late into the night, he’d offered to leave his work behind, but Aideen had tugged his hair and told him not to be ridiculous, that the country needed men like him more than ever with the coming danger.

  Both of them had heard the unsaid words of sacrifice and love, care yet worry.

  Long fingers brushed the curl from his forehead, halting his thoughts.

  “Blasted thing,” he said lazily.

  “I adore it,” she declared. “You appear…boyish.”

  “How dare you!” And before she had time to struggle, he reared and rolled her back, pressing his wife onto the woollen blanket with the weight of his body. “I shall have to ensure my ruthless mien returns for London.”

  “Oh good.” She grinned, eyes hinting of dark chocolate on this bright day. “I miss my duke’s cold stares and curt nods. They make me feel all peculiar.”

  He stroked her cheek, suddenly serious. “I am that creature as well, Aideen. Priggish and aloof, but I will try not to–”

  A kiss took his words, long and slow. “Don’t you dare,” she commanded. “It would be akin to me supressing my curses. ’Tis a part of you and a part I rather love. I love all of you, Alexander. The cold, the hot, the passionate, the ruthless. They make you.”

  “My Aideen,” he whispered, lowering his head.

  “Do you think,” she purred, as he plotted kisses along her bare shoulder, the sleeve having coincidently lowered with his teeth, “that I might at last know what your tattoo stands for?”

  He smiled against her skin, deciding he would confide tonight about his alias’s initial, but for now…

  “Desperately in love? Dying for you?” he teased, but she shook her head, laughing.

  He stole that laughter with a searing kiss and her body arched.

  Mindful of their location, he gentled his touch. “I am both of those, my love,” he murmured against her lips. “You are my wild River Suir, forever flowing with life and spirit, beguiling my mind with your melody, stealing my soul with your eyes, twining your grip around me. You quenched my ire and I was swept away with nary a chance to breathe.”