The Haunting of a Duke

by Chasity Bowlin

  She was blushing. He was such a wicked man. “No, I have not."

  He continued the torment with his skilled mouth. He explored her silken flesh, finding the spots that made her shiver, and the ones that made her moan. “That is a shame. I would like to see that. I cannot imagine anything more erotic than watching you touch yourself... Watching you bring yourself to release... That is what I did when I came back to this room that night. I lay here in this bed, tormented by the scent of you, by the images of your glorious body in that diaphanous gown."

  She didn't know what to say. Her entire body was suffused with heat, partially from embarrassment and partially from a keen desire. His words and the searing heat of his lips on her flesh were more than she could bear. Her back arched, her head falling back, as she gave herself up to his questing touch.

  He trailed his hand over her stomach, “I am thinking now of what you will look like when my child is growing large in your belly. You will look ripe and lovely, a vision of feminine glory. Your breasts will grow larger and more sensitive, and when your belly is too large, we will have to find very creative ways to make love, but find them we will, because I cannot imagine not making love to you. Every time I look at you, I want you more."

  She shivered, trembling at his touch. But she raised her head and met his gaze. Her face was flushed with the heat of passion; her softly parted lips were plump and swollen from his kisses. She was the most tempting thing he'd ever seen.

  When she spoke, her voice was soft and husky—carnal. “Then take me,” she said.

  He flipped her onto her back and grasped the neckline of her chemise. Rather than strip it from her, he rent the fabric, baring her to his voracious gaze. He opened his breeches, buttons skittering in his haste. She reached down and took his shaft in hand, her slim fingers gliding over the velvet-covered steel of his manhood. He gritted his teeth, his breath hissing out between them. He gripped her wrist, tugging her hand away, and drove into her, again and again. She gasped and moaned beneath him, crying out as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her. Her body contracted, clenching him tightly, pulsing around him as she took her pleasure. In that moment, he was lost.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Alistair arrived shortly before dinner, his timing inconvenient for everyone else. His lack of consideration surprised no one, but his presence did appear to lighten Eleanor's mood considerably so Rhys was happy enough to tolerate him. They dined somewhat informally that evening, as Lord Ellersleigh and Lord Pommeroy were their only guests and both were such frequent visitors as to be considered practically members of the family. It didn't escape him that both were suspects, that either of them could have been responsible for the deaths of both Melisande and Elise.

  Conversation during dinner was civil, if not warm. Except for Eleanor's fawning over her son, that is. Never close, in adulthood Rhys had come to despise Alistair for his recklessness and irresponsibility. His cousin gambled with an appetite that could only result in ruin. He whored in the same fashion. Rhys knew of several brothels where his cousin had been banned, in some cases for nonpayment, and in others for his less than gentle treatment of the women serving him. In light of these recent discoveries, Rhys had decided it was best to have his potential enemy where he could keep an eye on him.

  When the dessert course had been finished Phyllis, Eleanor and Emme rose to retreat to the drawing room. He, Michael, and Alistair retreated to the library for a glass of port before joining them, while Pommeroy retired to his room and a less than discreet maid. As he watched Emme walk from the room, he felt his protective instincts rearing their ugly head. He would not allow her to be harmed, no matter the cost.

  As they crossed the hall to the library Michael leveled him with a stare that said, patently, he was being an idiot. He knew that. He had managed the entirety of dinner without actually speaking to Alistair. At some point or other, he would have to.

  He turned his attention to his cousin and said, “Alistair, how are things at Arden Hall?"

  Alistair's lip curled as he responded. “They are impoverished, Your Grace. As it was you who cut me off, I am sure you are well aware of it."

  He hadn't cut him off. He'd simply rerouted the payment of Alistair's inheritance to his creditors rather than directly into his greedy hands.

  Rhys casually poured a glass of port for all of them, and seated himself behind his desk before answering. “You are not cut off, cousin, as you know. Once your creditors are paid, the full amount of your jointure will be reinstated to you and then you may choose any path to hell that is of your liking."

  "My creditors grow impatient. They were willing to wait when it appeared I would be your heir, but as you are recently wed, and according to gossip, fornicating like a rabbit, they are less inclined to wait for their money."

  Rhys’ jaw tightened, but it was Michael who spoke, effectively defusing the situation. “I believe you misspoke, Lord Arden. It cannot be fornication for they are married. Fornication only applies to sexual congress without benefit of marriage. It would be copulation. Or perhaps I have it wrong. We could call on the vicar tomorrow for clarification."

  Alistair turned a cold stare on Michael but said with a civility that was somewhat surprising, considering that Michael had just made a fool of him, “I concede to your greater knowledge of both fornication and copulation, Lord Ellersleigh. I doubt there could be a more expert opinion in all of Britain.” Alistair excused himself and left the room.

  "That was enlightening,” Michael said. “He'll certainly cooperate and answer any questions you might have about your late wife now."

  Rhys glared at him. “I didn't do anything. I simply asked after his estate. Most gentlemen find that to be a compliment."

  Michael shook his head. “How did you survive the army? Good God, man. Next time, just ask him straight out. Leave off with the social niceties. You were never particularly adept at them anyway."

  Nonplussed, Rhys sipped his brandy and considered his cousin's illustrious history of misadventure. Alistair was a year older than Jeremy had been and it was no secret that he had always felt it grossly unfair that he had been denied the opportunity to be the Duke of Briarleigh.

  Could Alistair have murdered Melisande? He had been a boy at the time, a lad just turned sixteen. He supposed it was possible, but it seemed unlikely. What motive could there have been for it?

  He considered carefully, before broaching a subject that was tender for the both. “When you discovered Melisande, she was still alive, wasn't she?"

  Michael's expression became shuttered and his voice was curiously flat when he responded. “Her heart still beat, and she spoke a few words, but she was so grievously wounded. There was nothing I could do for her."

  "You were just a boy, of course, you couldn't save her. Is that why you defied convention and became a physician? You couldn't save her, so you committed yourself to saving others?"

  "I never gave it a thought."

  Rhys chose not to prod him on that note, and asked instead, “What did she say to you?"

  It was time for the truth to come out, Michael realized. He had protected his friend for as long as he could, and it was time to open the festering wound and let the poison out. “There are many things about that day that I did not tell you but it's time, I fear, for the ugliness and brutality to be revealed."

  Rhys didn't respond. He simply waited. It would be a difficult story to tell and a difficult one to hear. His body tensed, almost as if for a blow.

  Without preamble, he leaned forward and refilled their glasses. He had never pressed Michael before, for the simple fact was he hadn't truly wanted to know. He could no longer afford to ignore past tragedies if future tragedies were to be averted.

  The silence stretched on for several moments before he began to speak. Michael, normally so glib and loquacious, was somber and subdued. His grief was still tightly reined.

  "You know of course that she had
suffered terrible wounds to her head and those wounds truly were what ended her life. What I never told you was that those wounds were not the only injury she suffered. When I found her, her clothing was... she was exposed, and whoever had done this had used her brutally."

  "She was raped."

  The very idea of it left him reeling. His mother and the servants had known. They had prepared her body for her burial; they would have seen evidence of her injuries. Michael had lived with it for all of those years, had borne that horror alone.

  Michael continued, “Yes and there was a ribbon about her neck, and bruises. Whoever had done this had tried to strangle her before simply bashing in her skull."

  His gut clenched, and his blood went cold. The knowledge seeped into him and left him shaken. She had been a child. He certainly understood that there were men and women for whom that was arousing. It sickened him in general, but learning that his sister had suffered, had lost her life at the hands of such a monster was unbearable. The grief that he had buried so deep inside intensified, flaring and igniting a fury like nothing he had ever known.

  Michael met his gaze. His jaw was tightly clenched and his voice was pitched low, filled with grief and anger, but buried within his words was also his guilt. “When I found her, she begged me to cover her, not to let anyone else see. She was ashamed, and it was never my intent to conceal things that would hurt you, only to honor her request."

  "Ellersleigh, I will say this once and only once. No one in this family has ever blamed you or held you responsible in anyway. If nothing else, it has always been a relief to me that she did not die alone. She loved no one else in this world the way that she loved you. I actually pitied you for having been the one to discover her, for I know how you loved her and as for keeping those secrets, they were kept for the best of reasons, which was to protect us."

  Michael's head dropped forward, and Rhys did not acknowledge the tears that burned in his friend's eyes. Just as he ignored those that burned his own. Melisande did not need their tears. She needed their focus and skill.

  Emme awoke the following morning. Rhys was beside her. He hadn't made love to her during the night, an unusual occurrence. He had come into their chamber in the wee hours of the morning and had climbed naked into the bed. She could feel the comforting weight of his arm around her and feel his hair-roughened leg against hers. She looked at him over her shoulder. His face was relaxed in sleep, making him appear younger. His dark lashes fanned against his tanned cheek, and would have been the envy of any woman she knew. Dark stubble shadowed his cheeks and chin, and his hair fell across his forehead, giving him a boyish appearance. There was nothing about him that she would alter.

  As if feeling her eyes on him, his own eyes opened and he smiled at her. He tugged her closer. “Good morning. Don't get up yet. I enjoy holding you."

  She sighed and snuggled closer. “Only for a few minutes. We have much to do today."

  He kissed her shoulder. “I know and it will get done, but for now, the bed is warm and so are you."

  Emme allowed herself to enjoy his embrace but his hands began to roam. “I don't think holding me is all you have in mind."

  He grinned. “When you are this close to me I find that my good intentions carry little weight."

  He cupped her breast, measuring the weight in his hand, and teasing the nipple into a turgid peak.

  She placed her hand over his, stilling the movement.

  He sighed. “What pressing engagements do we have this morning?” he asked.

  "You are going to tell me what Michael is doing here and do not attempt to convince me that he is simply here to enjoy a holiday."

  Rhys rolled onto his back and stared up at the wooden canopy of the bed. “He liberated a journal from one of Elise's compatriots. And he told me the truth about Melisande's murder."

  Emme rolled over and placed her hands on his chest. “Liberated?"

  Rhys chuckled. “Ellersleigh is not above seducing the enemy."

  "Is that an effective technique?” she asked, moving her hands.

  What was she about, he wondered? He let it go for a moment, enjoying the gentle slide of her hands over his skin. Finally, he asked, “And what favor are you attempting to seduce from me?"

  Emme sat up and met his gaze. She knew that he would be reluctant, but she also knew what needed to be done. “Rhys, I need to go into the tunnels with you. I can take you to the place where I awoke that first evening."

  "No,” he said, emphatically.

  Emme's breath huffed out as she glared at him. “It must be important Rhys or I would never have been led there! There is something that we are meant to find!"

  He rose from the bed, seemingly oblivious to his nudity as he strode toward the window. “It's impossible. The tunnels are too dangerous. Half of them are crumbling, some have flooded. What if you were injured?"

  "What if you are injured? You've already been shot by this madman! The longer this goes on the more desperate he will become!” she retorted.

  Anger, hot and dark, coursed through him. He couldn't believe how reckless she was being. When he managed to rein in his temper enough to speak, his voice was cold and laced with steel. “Need I remind you that you are carrying our child? If you were to fall—It is impossible. Do not suggest it again."

  "Are you my husband or are you my keeper?"

  He strode back toward the bed and donned his discarded breeches. His jaw had hardened and his voice was clipped when he spoke. “I am both. If you think to defy me I will have you locked in this room. I will protect you with or without your approval."

  "You sound like my stepfather. Am I not capable of making up my own mind? Of knowing what is best for me?"

  "Do not dare compare me to that man. I have never misused or abused you. My only concern is for your safety. I am your husband and it is my duty to protect you, even when you haven't the sense to protect yourself!"

  The last words were flung out angrily as he quickly pulled on his clothes and stormed from the room.

  Emme glared at his departing back. Tears burned her eyes, but she angrily dashed them away. She would not give into melancholy and spend her day weeping just because he was being a bore. She climbed from the bed and rang for Gussy. If Gussy noted her mood, she wisely chose to ignore it as she helped her bathe and dress.

  By the time her toilette was completed she had regained her composure but was still quietly furious at him. She was also determined. She could not shake the feeling that there was something in those tunnels that she needed to discover, and she would not allow either his protective instincts or his high-handed manner to deter her from her course.

  Determined, Emme made her way down the stairs to the breakfast room. Rhys was there ahead of her. He looked up as she entered and took in the set of her shoulders and stubborn tilt of her chin. His lips firmed in response and he returned to his coffee and the neatly pressed newspaper in front of him. Emme ignored him as well and filled her plate. Michael outwardly appeared to be oblivious to the tension between them and filled the silence with idle chatter.

  "Emme, Rhys was telling me how charming your younger sister is. I understand she is to make her come out next year?” Michael queried, sipping his coffee and praying that it would ease his aching head.

  He had imbibed far too much the previous evening, dulling physical pain and the twisting knife blade of old memories as well.

  Emme looked at Michael sharply. “Lord Ellersleigh, I would caution you to behave when my sister is present. I don't wish to do injury to you, but given the appropriate provocation—"

  "Pax, pax!” he said, chuckling. “It was idle conversation, Your Grace and not indicative of my intentions. For once my intentions are completely honorable. It was simply curiosity."

  Emme leveled a dubious stare at him. She detected no sarcasm in him, but then with Michael she could never be certain. He was so innately charming that it was difficult to see beneath the surface.

  "Of course, forg
ive my presumption."

  He shrugged. “It isn't actually presumption. Historically speaking, my motives usually are suspect. However, I have no wish for your scowling husband to shoot me and at your request I am sure he would."

  Emme was on the verge of retorting that her requests meant little to her husband, but Lady Eleanor entered the room escorted by Lord Alistair. Lord Pommeroy trailed in behind them, looking sallow and grotesque. He and Alistair had arrived together that morning, both of them dressed in their clothes from the night before. While Lord Alistair was only beginning to show the signs of dissipation, Lord Pommeroy's face had become a testament to his excesses.

  She swallowed the retort in deference to the newly arrived and cast a disparaging glance at her husband. He met it with a raised eyebrow that both challenged and provoked her. She said a quiet good morning to the newcomers. She didn't wish to give Eleanor more ammunition by displaying a lack of manners.

  Eleanor gave a slight nod of acknowledgement but all of her attention was focused on Alistair. The fawning and preening from dinner the night before continued. Alistair, on the other hand, looked sullen. His face was bloated and his eyes were bleary, but next to Pommeroy, he looked the picture of health.

  He didn't fill his plate but poured himself coffee instead. As she watched, he slipped a silver flask from his pocket and poured a copious amount of liquid into his cup and into Pommeroy's as well. Everyone else at the table was aware of the tableaux but discreetly remained silent.

  Michael attempted to engage them in conversation, but Eleanor only had interest in her son and Alistair had interest only in his liberally enhanced coffee. Pommeroy looked ready to cast up his accounts on the breakfast table.

  Rhys was still tense and angry and Emme found the situation to be exhausting. She pushed her plate away and stood. Dutifully, the gentlemen rose to their feet, as well, their manners ingrained in them since birth. Rhys finally spoke.

  "I shall see you this afternoon."