Heartbreak and Honor

by Collette Cameron

  After scooting from the bed, György gave a handsome bow. “György Faas, Yer Highness, and these be me sisters, Tasara and Lala.”

  “It’s Your Grace, György, not Your Highness.”

  I think.

  Tasara’s attention swung between the duke and her brother. Harcourt undoubtedly had been treated like royalty his entire life.

  “Grace? Are ye sure, Tasara?” György pulled a silly face and snickered. “That be a lass’s name.”

  The duke chuckled again, the rich timbre resonating from his chest. “So it is. Most embarrassing, I’ll admit. But, I’m afraid, someone started the ridiculous tradition far too long ago for me to change things now. I’m just grateful they didn’t select Chastity or Prudence.”

  “Aye, me too, Your Chastity.” György clutched his belly in glee and laughed harder, unaware of his impudence at addressing a duke so informally. “Dinnae ye have a given name?”

  “Indeed, I do. Several as matter of fact. I’m named Rochester after my father, though I prefer to be addressed as Harcourt or Lucan, which is part of my middle name, Lucan-Ashford.”

  His agreeableness irked Tasara. No doubt he could charm the fur from a fox and have the creature thanking him for the honor of losing its hide.

  “Pray tell me, why is an English nobleman helping to free Scottish Highland travellers?” Tasara flung a glance to the entrance, unwilling to lower her dagger until a familiar face appeared. “And where the devil is everyone else?”

  The duke leveled the children a guarded glance. “The others are either dealing with the . . . ah . . . remnants of the ugly business downstairs or searching chambers for more hostages.”

  The whoosh of doors opening, and then banging closed, carried into the chamber while footsteps thudding on the stone floors verified their rescuers searched this wing of the keep.

  “I don’t believe there are other captives.” Tasara partially lowered her knife and shoved her hair behind her ear again. “Isobel Ferguson fled this afternoon. The Blackhalls mistook her for someone else. I know of no others being held.”

  “Yes, the wretches confused her for my cousin.” His deep voice soothed her fraught nerves. “Your father witnessed Miss Ferguson escaping and raced to inform her brother.”

  “He did?” Her prayers, answered at last. Tasara had known Dat watched the keep from the forest. “Father is here?”

  “He is.” The duke motioned toward the door. “Along with a slew of other gypsies and McTavish clansmen.”

  “Is your cousin Scots, then?” Absurd how pleased the knowledge Scottish blood might run in his ancestral lines made her.

  “Yes, Lydia’s the daughter of Laird Farnsworth of Tornbury Fortress, my mother’s second cousin. Or maybe it’s third cousin once removed. I cannot get the extended relative rigmarole correct. I just know we share a common ancestor somewhere.” The duke pointed at her knife. “You can put the blade away. I mean you no harm.”

  She frowned, still not trusting his conviviality.

  The guards carried an enormous key ring. The metal loop wouldn’t fit inside a coat without leaving a noticeable bulge. His grace’s pocket—if he truly was a duke—contained no such telltale lump.

  Mayhap he wasn’t who he claimed. Wary, she adjusted her clasp on her dagger. “How did you get the key to open the door?”

  “I didn’t use a key.” He withdrew a narrow piece of metal from inside his jacket. “I picked the lock.”

  Having never seen a lock pick before, it might have been an oversized toothpick or nail cleaner for all she knew. Tasara gave a short nod. Curious, that—a duke carrying around a lock pick. What other peculiar habits did he have?

  Never mind. She didn’t want to know.

  Strolling to the room’s center, he buttoned his jacket. Several dark blotches marred the fabric and his pantaloons.

  Blood.

  A shudder rippled through her, and she involuntarily sought his sword. Had he killed someone during the rescue?

  Possibly, given the violent nature of her abductors.

  Why would he risk his life for strangers, Highland travellers, to boot?

  Society—principally the snobbish English—never withheld their contempt of the black tinkers, lumping them in the same inferior category as the persecuted Roma. Each a people scorned and shunned worse than lepers because their customs and traditions differed from what Polite Society deemed acceptable.

  “So, why are you here?” Tasara waved her hand in an arc.

  “I had just arrived at Craiglocky to visit my cousin when this disagreeableness began. Miss Ferguson’s brother is a long-standing friend of mine, so naturally, I insisted upon helping.” The duke did wink this time and grinned too, the boyish actions sending her unsteady pulse cavorting again.

  Aye, a ruddy dangerous man, he was indeed. Hazardous to simple, gypsy maidens unused to a rakehell’s practiced wiles.

  “Besides, I’d grown a bit bored.” He struck a dramatic pose. “And what could be more invigorating or honorable than rescuing a beautiful damsel in distress?”

  Comical and glib of tongue too. Slick and sly, like most blue bloods tended to be. However, he’d seen to their freedom, and as such deserved her gratitude. Regardless of her misgivings, a smile tugged one corner of Tasara’s mouth.

  “Damthel in a dreth?” Lala spoke around her thumb while flapping her grungy skirt back and forth. “Me have a dreth.”

  “Indeed you do, fair maiden.” The duke bent low in an exaggerated bow. “And I shall see you safely delivered to your father.”

  Lala smiled, her thumb securely anchored between her small teeth.

  Tasara pulled in a long expanse of air and fought back tears of relief. Their ordeal had finally ended. She’d not been as brave or strong as she would have liked, but she hadn’t crumpled into a worthless, sobbing mass either. Travellers were resilient and sanguine despite their hardships.

  She bent and slid her blade into its sheath inside her boot.

  Harcourt, smooth and silent as a Scottish wildcat, ambled to her. A ray of corridor light bathed his face as he gazed downward.

  Her traitorous heart gave an excited tremor. So different from the shaggy-haired, broad-faced men of her clan.

  Sharp hewn features, high cheekbones, a square jaw, and surprisingly black-lashed eyes and dark eyebrows bespoke his aristocratic heritage, no doubt many generations old. His sculpted mouth spread into a knowing smile, revealing square teeth and a charming dimple in his right cheek.

  She wanted to touch the indentation.

  Verra attractive and verra dangerous, indeed.

  Angelic? Or devilishly handsome? Which better matched the man’s character and personality?

  “What say you, a trifling reward for my efforts? I’d ask for the honor of a waltz, but we’re not likely to have the opportunity. Perhaps a kiss instead?” He dipped his head, his lips mere inches from hers.

  She’d never been kissed.

  “A kiss? Ye canna kiss her.” György’s tone turned belligerent. “Ye dinnae ken each other, and ye nae be wed.”

  Harcourt grazed her lips with his, a butterfly wing’s wispy touch, no more.

  “How dare you?” Tasara stiffened her spine and thrust her chin out. Mindful to keep her voice tempered for the children’s sake, she glared at him and fisted her hands. “What, because I’m a traveller, you think I’m fast and free with my favors?”

  “No. Never free,” Harcourt murmured for her ears alone while trailing a finger over her lips. “If you lived closer to London . . .”

  Did he suggest he would pay for her favors, the conceited, insulting bounder? A scarlet haze of rage momentarily blinded her. Tasara jerked away from his touch and let fly with a solid punch.

  Lucan’s grunt of pain and the impact of Tasar
a’s blow resonated loudly in the chamber. The wench had walloped him in the face. Damned hard, too.

  “Thithter, why ye hitted the man?”

  “’Cause he be a duke, that be why,” György sneered. “Gentlemen should nae be forcin’ kisses on unwillin’ lasses like these Highland whoremongers did.”

  “György.” Tasara shot her brother a stern look. “Watch your language in front of your sister, young man.”

  Had Tasara been accosted?

  Bloody hell. Lucan should have assumed as much. He touched his already swelling flesh in disbelief. He’d have a deuced difficult time explaining the discolored eye. He heard the hoots and snickers already. Unless he convinced the others the injury resulted from fighting the Blackhalls.

  Yes. Just the thing.

  No one should suspect anything else. He’d fought a battle, hadn’t he? Even if the scuffle ended almost as quickly as it began. Still, hand-to-hand combat might give a chap a bruised eye.

  Pulse careening, he sucked in a deliberate, tempering breath. Tasara riled his temper, further piquing his desire to taste her lips.

  Most women of his acquaintance simpered and fawned in his presence, mistakenly thinking he preferred compliant, biddable ladies. A wise man treaded warily around their deceptive kind, not vixens speaking their thoughts and planting men facers. He doubted Tasara capable of subterfuge.

  György—wise child—had hit the mark, straight on.

  Lucan didn’t go round stealing kisses, but then, gypsies didn’t go about clobbering dukes either.

  Posture rigid, she retreated until the back of her knees collided with the bed. Lala scrambled into Tasara’s arms, and György—glowering at Lucan—scooted to her side.

  Noble little lad.

  Quite an age difference between the three. Tasara must be in her late teens and the youngest couldn’t be more than, what? Three? Four?

  Lucan probed the tender flesh with his fingertips and winced.

  You bloody well deserved it.

  He had, dammit.

  Propositioning women, especially ones who’d undergone the distressing ordeal she had experienced these past weeks, was beyond the pale. But when she’d gazed at him, her eyes luminous and mouth parted—the tempting honey-spot near her lower left lip taunting him, begging to be kissed—he’d lost his last vestiges of reason.

  His senses, already highly attuned and stimulated from fighting, swiftly transformed to sexual arousal. Not typical behavior for him and most disconcerting. He prided himself, above everything, on being a gentleman. Instead, he’d been an imposing cur, and chagrin chafed his conscience.

  Lucan adored women.

  He enjoyed playing the gallant and the flirt—enjoyed complimenting aging dames, shy spinsters, and plain wallflowers as much as he did confident, pampered beauties. And he enjoyed dancing, which made him a hostess favorite since they relied upon him to coax the shyest of maidens onto the dance floor at least once.

  He’d been set on securing Tasara’s freedom, and once they returned to Craiglocky, drinking himself senseless to obliterate the two men’s faces he’d killed storming the keep. This to rescue a woman he’d never met and wouldn’t ever see again.

  Well, not only to free her, but also to assuage Sethwick’s rage and reap vengeance on the Blackhalls for stealing his friend’s sister away. Insult Sethwick and you insulted Harcourt. Plus, the barbarians had designs on Lydia. Their interest in his cousin bore further investigation. Why the Blackhalls had held the gypsy lass prisoner, he hadn’t the faintest notion.

  The three forms, huddling in the dimness, stared at him.

  What color were Tasara’s eyes, anyway?

  By God, why did he care?

  Still probing his swollen eye, he sighed. “That was abominable and unpardonable of me, and I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Faas. Please, let me assure you I’m not in the habit of imposing myself on women.”

  “Hmph.” She jutted her dainty chin up a degree, and Lala, thumb firmly planted in her mouth, rested her head against her sister’s shoulder. “Handsome is as handsome does.”

  He couldn’t see Tasara’s eyes clearly, but Lucan didn’t doubt they skewered him. Better not turn his back or he might find her dagger buried to the hilt somewhere on his person.

  Chapter 3

  “Tasara, wee ones.”

  Upon hearing Balcomb Faas, Lucan stepped into the hallway.

  The gypsy rushed along the passageway.

  A group of sweaty, rumpled travellers and Highlanders followed in his wake, including McTavish, better known as Viscount Sethwick in England. Several men sported split lips, cuts, and bruises, as well as bloodied and torn clothing.

  “My children be there, Yer Grace? Be they safe and well?”

  A wicked abrasion marred Balcomb’s cheek, and he limped in his haste to reach the chamber. A crimson-streaked slice along his thigh revealed the cause of his uneven gait. The diminutive man had fought with the fury of a dachshund downing a badger.

  “Dat, Dat.”

  A joy-filled smile stretched across the traveller’s thin, haggard face when Lala bolted on her short, chubby legs from the chamber. He knelt and then gathered his daughter against his chest.

  Not far behind her, György threw himself into Balcomb’s embrace. “Dat, I’ve missed ye.” The boy whispered into his father’s shoulder, his scrawny arms encircling the gypsy’s neck.

  Tasara edged by Lucan, her eyes downcast, yet proud defiance in the set of her shoulders and angle of her head. Bedraggled and exhausted, her colorful clothing hung loosely on her slender frame.

  Had the Blackhalls intended to starve them, for God’s sake?

  Still, his first view of her in full light stole his breath.

  Her ebony hair hung in waves past her narrow waist. A pert, upturned nose graced her heart-shaped face. Fine brows swooped into arches above her eyes, the color undecipherable as she kept her lashes lowered. Twin cherry spots glowed upon her ivory cheeks.

  Several bruises—some vivid in their newness and others older and fading—marred the slender column of her throat and below her elbows. Her lower lip, split and swollen, revealed she’d been struck recently.

  Gutless bastards.

  Tasara possessed an unusually delicate countenance and bone structure, especially for a Highlander. The hearty Scots generally bore strong familial and clan features and claimed a sturdy stockiness she lacked. Come to think of it, elements of her speech rang with unexpected refinement too.

  Perhaps her parents were educated.

  “The Blackhalls?” Lucan canted his head toward the noises filtering upstairs and exchanged a significant look with Sethwick.

  Sethwick’s gaze rested on each of the Faas children in turn before meeting Balcomb’s closed expression. “Dealt with.”

  His curt answer revealed what he wouldn’t in front of the little ones. The carnage Lucan witnessed before sprinting upstairs wouldn’t soon be forgotten. Hopefully, the worst of the gore would be cleared away before they descended.

  Sethwick’s attention fell on Lucan’s eye, and his lips quirked into a half-smile. “Harcourt, your pretty face is going to sport a dandy blackened eye.” Several men chuckled, and Sethwick slapped Lucan’s shoulder. “But if that’s the extent of your injuries, I’m most grateful. We’ve a few men who didn’t fare as well, I’m afraid.”

  No need to correct Sethwick’s wrong assumption.

  György poked his tousled head above his father’s shoulder. “He nae should have tried to kiss me sister.”

  The crowded passageway grew tomb-silent. Every gaze, but Tasara’s, focused on Lucan. Hers seemed permanently affixed to the floor, her black lashes fanning her pinkened cheeks as she fidgeted with a clasp at the front of her embroidered shirt.

  Heat scorc
hed Lucan, culminating on his face. Devil take it, blushing like a lad in short pants caught sneaking a bonbon.

  Well, her lips were a sweet treat of sorts.

  He wanted a taste of her mouth, but not until it healed. Damn and blast, he’d have hurt her if he succeeded in stealing a real kiss. Might have, even with the gentle sample he’d snatched.

  Humor glinted in more than one male gaze, and Lucan fought to maintain eye contact with the smirking Scots. The gypsies, their faces bland, peered at him accusingly. A specimen at Bullock’s Museum or a medical laboratory received less intense scrutiny.

  Lucan snagged Balcomb’s attention.

  The tinker scowled, disapproval creasing his weathered face and stretching his mouth into a single condemning line. He held his peace, although his dark regard chastised severely. Did fear of confronting a duke prevent him from rightfully defending his daughter’s honor?

  The notion left a sour taste in Lucan’s mouth.

  Another inequality brought about by status. A duke could do no wrong, a gypsy no right. Preposterous and unjust. He’d witnessed far more unscrupulous behavior amid the upper ten-thousand than amongst commoners and those lowly born.

  Lala pulled her thumb from her mouth. “Thithter hitted the preddy man.” She pointed at Lucan before ramming her thumb home between her rosy lips.

  A few muffled guffaws and choked-off laughs—even amongst the travellers—greeted the announcement, but Tasara’s sweet mouth firmed into a thin ribbon as color swept her once more.

  Sethwick’s incredulous expression earned a twitch of Lucan’s lips. Reverse the situation, and he’d be laughing his arse off.

  A muscle in Sethwick’s jaw worked, yet he remained mute

  Rarely did something render Craiglocky’s lord speechless. In fact, Lucan couldn’t recall a single time his glib-tongued, diplomatic friend didn’t have precisely the perfect thing to say.

  A jot of censure hovered in Sethwick’s eyes.