Mary Blayney

by Traitors Kiss; Lovers Kiss

  “I thought I was the only one in this wing.” She dropped the basket and began backing away from him.

  Any second, he thought, she would turn and run.

  “I do beg your pardon, miss. I am so ridiculously lost.” Michael tried for his most suave voice, while ostensibly ignoring her panic. “I must see the duke and I cannot find my way to him.”

  “You’re to see the duke?” The maid picked up her basket of linens and put it on a nearby chair. “That porter is a fool. He should have accompanied you.”

  Michael nodded. It was the absolute truth.

  “Then again, he is often too busy unless you are someone the duke knows by name.”

  So the staff had the measure of the man’s failings, too. That would mean he was as ineffective as he was lazy.

  “His Grace is in his study with Lord David. It is—” she began and stopped with a shrug. “I had best take you there myself or you will wind up in the old castle with only the ghosts for company.” She gave him a wink, and Michael was not sure if she was flirting or showing him that she meant the mention of ghosts as a joke.

  Time was he knew by instinct. Not tonight, he realized, thinking back to those moments with Olivia. Lady Olivia. He had been toyed with by an amateur and fallen right into the trap, not thinking with his brain at all.

  Sweet-looking though this maid was, Michael was not interested in what she was offering. As she led him down the hall, he was sure she was doing her best to walk with a provocative twist to her step. He followed her and thought only of how much to tell the duke and how much to hold back, trying to decide what would be in Olivia’s best interest.

  They were crossing the cavernous entry hall, when the night porter caught up with him. “You! Both of you! Stop!”

  “Just ignore him,” the maid whispered. “The duke’s study is up these stairs to the left and down the hall.”

  She turned back to the porter, leaving Michael to manage on his own. “Really!” Her words carried back up the stairs. “You are the most irritating man. How many times must I tell you that my name is Patsy?”

  “That man. Who is that man? Did you let him in?”

  Michael did not need to hear any more to know that he would be followed. As he rounded the corner, two footmen stepped away from a door, clearly the entrance to the study where he would find the duke.

  “What is your business, sir? Why are you unaccompanied?”

  Before he could answer them the porter came dashing down the hall. “Stop him! That man broke in!”

  19

  THE FOOTMEN SEIZED HIM by the elbows and held him as the porter ran toward them. The porter paused barely a moment before pummeling Michael with his fists. “You lying, thieving bastard. I told you to leave.” He spoke between jabs Michael was able to avoid despite being restrained by the footmen.

  Eventually the porter managed to land a couple of punches that hurt. Michael counted that long enough to wait for the duke to take notice of the commotion outside his study. With a twist he broke free of the footmen and tripped the porter. He was reaching for the door handle when it swung open. Michael stepped back and the porter fell, face-first, into the room at the feet of the duke.

  The duke ignored the porter and gave Michael his complete attention. Michael sensed a man pushed to the limit of his patience, a man who would like nothing better than to land a few punches of his own.

  “Announce the caller,” the duke told one of the footmen.

  His voice belied the tension Michael sensed.

  The porter stood up, straightened his clothes.

  “He asked to see you, Your Grace. He had no card and was not dressed in a manner that was appropriate. It is late in the day for callers, so I sent him away.”

  “What is his business?”

  “He did not say, Your Grace.” The porter’s demeanor was so meek that Michael wondered if there could possibly be two men inhabiting one mind and body or if, which was more likely, the porter knew better than to present his superior attitude around his betters.

  “He was not asked, Your Grace,” Michael volunteered.

  They all looked at him. All except the other gentleman in the room. He was well dressed with the same blond hair and blue eyes as the duke. One more of Olivia’s brothers, Michael guessed.

  That gentleman came out of the room and stood behind Michael, just beyond his line of sight. He was the only one of the five that made Michael at all uncomfortable. He had a feeling this man knew how to fight.

  “Your Grace,” Michael began with a significant bow, “the vicar asked me to bring you a message.”

  The duke did not react in any way, though somehow his gaze grew even more intense.

  “Your name?”

  “Garrett. Michael Garrett.”

  The duke did react to that. His hand curled into a fist. “You could have given that message to the porter, but since you are here I will have it from you personally.”

  The duke turned his back on all of them and went into the study, not stopping until he was standing behind his desk.

  “The rest of you, be about your business,” the duke’s brother ordered. He waited as the group scrambled to obey. The footmen straightened their clothes and took their stations again on either side of the door. The porter moved down the hall and Patsy, with another wink at Michael, followed.

  “You. Inside.” This terse command from the duke’s brother.

  Michael did not need the direction, but went in ahead of the younger Pennistan, whose ill humor was barely concealed. He reminded Michael of Gabriel, the Pennistan he had met in France, but this one’s inclination to hotheadedness had not been cooled by a wife and a ready-made family as Gabriel’s had.

  The blow to his gut was a complete surprise. Michael stumbled back, doubled over, unable to do more than try to catch his breath and wait for the next clout to knock him unconscious. The dungeon would be next.

  “You bastard,” Olivia’s brother hissed. “Tell me where she is before I beat you to a pulp.”

  “David, control yourself.” The duke’s voice came from somewhere over Michael’s head. There were no more punches and Michael thanked God for the mercy.

  “I am far more even-tempered than my brother,” the duke said, his voice even closer now. “When you can speak again, I am inclined to hear your story before I have you drawn and quartered.”

  This was not the first time Michael’s actions had not been appreciated. Once again, England did not appear to be all that different from France. Michael took his time recovering, searching the room for a weapon as he pretended to stumble to a chair. As he straightened his clothes he was relieved to see that the duke’s brother was doing the same.

  The room was a good size but not so big it needed a fireplace at each end, though it would add to the comfort. There were doors on three walls, five in all, but he had no idea where they led to. He could make his way out the window. Or would he wind up in the lake? He could swim.

  As the silence drew out, Michael turned his attention to the duke. He was dressed in black, his white shirt and cravat a stark contrast to the dark wool of his jacket.

  He wore the medal of some order. Was he expecting someone he thought to impress or did he wear it all the time? As controlled as he appeared to be there was enough rage, helplessness and mistrust in the air to be shared by all three of them.

  “She is safe, my lord.” Michael bowed ever so slightly to the man who had hit him. He turned to the duke and spoke, with another, more profound, bow. His last. “Lady Olivia is quite safe and is indeed at the vicarage, Your Grace.”

  “Why did she send you as her emissary?”

  “Mrs. Blackford and Reverend Drummond think it best that she stay with them overnight. She is tired and was coughing when I left.”

  “Tell me what you know,” the duke commanded, still not sitting down, but standing alert behind his desk.

  “I will, Your Grace, but I hope that in return you will share what information you have.”
Michael knew better than to wait for an answer and recounted his meeting with Olivia, his efforts to save her life. He avoided the more personal moments and looked the duke straight in the eye as he spoke.

  “I found her wandering in the woods. She was on the verge of death by freezing.”

  Despite the duke’s nod, Michael could not tell if he was convinced. Meryon raised his hand and turned to his brother. “David, I know you were calling on a friend but I ask you to delay that and find Olivia’s maid. Have her gather a change of clothes and a warm cloak, but do not let her accompany you. Take the carriage and bring Olivia home. If Annie objects tell her that we both know that Olivia will be safer here.”

  Interesting, Michael thought. The least important item of interest was that Lord David had any friends at all. Of more passing interest was the duke’s reference to Mrs. Blackford as Annie, and most interesting of all was that the duke wanted his sister home so that she would “be safer.” Meryon did not think her entirely free from danger any more than he did.

  Another fact struck him: The duke knew she needed clothes. Michael had deliberately not described how she was dressed when he had found her.

  The duke did not speak even when they were alone in the room. With a silent stare the duke took stock of one Michael Garrett. It was a full minute or more before he spoke again.

  The duke pulled a basket out from under his desk and spread the contents on his desk: a dark blue cloak streaked with dirt and a bonnet with its velvet brim crushed. “You neglected to mention what she was wearing when you apparently found her in the woods.”

  “Someone brought you this.” Michael stepped close enough to touch the cloak. Wool, a fine wool with trim that was an intricate braid in shades of blue. Not sophisticated, rather simple and very well made. It told him as much about Lady Olivia as her brother had. At the bottom of the basket was a long, brown length of hair tied with a blue ribbon stripped from the bonnet. More than the dirty cloak and ruined bonnet it brought a knot of fear to Michael’s gut and then anger at the violation. He could easily imagine how the duke must have felt. To not know if she was dead or alive. One more example of hell on earth.

  Michael looked at the duke, who was watching him.

  “Yes, Your Grace, they cut her hair. It upset her greatly. More than any other aspect of her captivity, I would say.”

  The duke barely nodded and poked at the basket with his finger.

  “This basket was on the seat of my chair. I have no idea who put it here or when.”

  Michael could hear the anger in the quiet words and wondered how the footmen had escaped with their lives. He wanted more details but reminded himself that Michael Garrett was not in charge here, nor likely to be. He would tell the truth, though it was possible he would not leave with all his body parts working.

  “Lady Olivia was in her shift when I found her, Your Grace. And she was barefoot.” Tell the truth, Michael, he lectured himself, and have it over with. “I had to undress her completely. The shift was wet and was adding to the chill.”

  He tried to speak as matter-of-factly as possible, but when he looked from the duke’s unrevealing eyes to his fist, the knuckles were white with the effort to control his anger.

  Michael realized why the duke had given Lord David an errand. The mere discussion of his sister’s state of undress would certainly have earned him another punch.

  “She was near strangled, but the bruises around her throat were the only injury I could see.” He did not add “or feel.” That would be asking for trouble.

  “I believe you, Mr. Garrett, though I do question your motive for being honest.”

  There was a scratch at the door and someone opened it without waiting for permission. One of the footmen came in with a satchel.

  “The courier has only just arrived, Your Grace.”

  The duke accepted the bag with a nod and opened it without comment. There were newspapers, magazines and a flood of letters. He sifted through them until he found the one he was looking for. The duke unfolded it and sat down to read. His expression did not change but he seemed to relax. The man was worried about more than his sister.

  Michael sat in the nearest chair, though he had not been invited to, and watched.

  The duke picked up another letter and read it through. Was it a letter from the duchess? His mistress? Minutes passed as he read it and another. The tension radiating from him built again until the duke closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, his elbows on the desktop.

  One set of papers floated to the floor and Michael stood and picked it up. It was a child’s painstaking effort at a letter. “Dear sir,” it began, and told Michael all he needed to know about the relationship between the two. Formal at best. Strained at worst.

  Michael set it back on the desk.

  “I should be in London.” The duke spoke out loud before he remembered there was someone else in the room with him.

  Not that Michael needed a reminder he was of less account than the footmen at the door.

  Pushing the satchel and papers to the side of his desk the duke resumed their conversation as if there had been no interruption.

  “Mr. Garrett, the fact that Olivia was injured at all is both insult and worry. Whether she was raped or not hardly matters. No one will believe she was left untouched.”

  If he was upset, the duke did not show it in his face or his eyes or his voice, only in the way he held his hand. As though he could keep all his sensibilities in his fist and crush them there.

  “Surely, Your Grace, you came up with a credible explanation for her absence.” Michael stepped back from the desk.

  “I let it be known that she had gone to the vicar’s and been taken ill and was staying with him until she was fully recovered. Something she ate. It would not be the first time. I was vague about what it was and how long she would be there.”

  “I can see that I will have to stand in line behind Lady Olivia, you, and your brother when the men who did this are apprehended.”

  “Once David is finished with them, you will have only to head the burial detail,” the duke said.

  “Lady Olivia guessed the story that you would spread. That is why she insisted that she be taken to the vicar’s and not brought directly home.”

  The duke nodded. “Now I do not see how that explanation will work. Not if she has bruises on her throat and her hair is shorn. No illness causes those symptoms.”

  “The bruises are already fading.” Michael turned away, not wanting the duke to see the anger he could not hide. “Her maid will have some explanation for the new hairstyle.”

  Michael rubbed his face with his hand. “You are talking about her as if she was some sort of rarefied legal problem.” He wheeled back around. “She is a woman. Your sister.”

  “What is she to you?” The duke’s question was laced with suspicion.

  20

  THE QUESTION TOOK HIM aback but Michael was saved from answering by another perfunctory scratch at the door. The same footman came in.

  “The land manager is here, Your Grace. With the report on the storm damage. Lord David said that you would want to hear it.”

  Michael noted that the last was added with a note of apology. For interrupting the duke or perhaps for adding more to his long day.

  The man who came in looked as though he lived out of doors. His face was colored by the sun, his hair had a perpetually windblown look and his hands, now holding tight to his hat, were the hands of a man who was willing to work.

  “Your Grace,” the man said as he bowed. He began a list of woods and trees and crops and animals. Meryon held property all over Derbyshire and into the Peak as well.

  Michael followed the detailed account for the first few minutes, then his mind began to play with the answer to the duke’s question: “What is Lady Olivia to you?”

  The true answer to that could take a lifetime to explain. Or perhaps his lifetime would illustrate it. The girl he had found in the woods was his next step to
ward redemption. His next step toward creating a life that would free him of the war years and the memories that plagued him.

  Not that all of his dreams were nightmares. And that was the crux of it. There were times when he wanted to stay Raoul Desseau forever. When he thought it would be easier to play a role that freed him from truth and allowed, even welcomed, lies.

  That temptation not to return to face the life he had abandoned weighed on him as much as the crimes he had committed. Those were done for a greater good and God would forgive them. But could He forgive the weaknesses that made honesty such a challenge: pride, stubbornness, selfishness.

  That was what Michael had been thinking about when a naked woman had wandered into his life. Facing her, he knew he had a choice, and that choice would define the rest of his days as ones filled with honor or defined by self-interest.

  Michael did not know how long he considered the question but eventually he realized the room was quiet and the duke was watching him with cynical interest. “Have you been able to come up with an answer to my question?”

  “I will tell you the truth, Your Grace.” Michael felt virtue ease his conscience at that decision. “I gave thought to leaving her there, sure as I was that her story was not a happy one and that death was more reward than punishment. But that would have been a coward’s way. Instead I chose to try to save her, not knowing anything about her. I did it because all life has value. Even life that others deem worthless.”

  If the duke thought that last was directed at him, he ignored it. “So if she had been a murderer you would not have regretted the effort?”

  “Not for one minute, Your Grace. Murder is not the worst crime a man or woman can commit.”

  “I imagine you can speak about that with insight.” As he spoke, the duke opened the long desk drawer in front of him and drew out a letter.

  Michael was standing just on the other side of the desk and he could see the handwriting. He recognized the impatient scrawl as that of Lord Gabriel Pennistan.

  “I have been expecting you for the better part of a week, Major Michael Garrett.”