His father had sat in that chair many times to hear clan grievances. He had always ruled with authority from that chair, and more than a few men had died by his sword in this room.
The duke was standing at the window, and Amelia stopped when she saw him. “Uncle, you are here as well ?”
“Yes, my dear. Lord Moncrieffe requested it.”
She looked up at Duncan and gave him a small smile, though he could see there was uncertainty in it.
He did not return her smile. How could he, when he was thrashing through everything that was bleak and vicious inside him? He was about to politely receive the disgusting piece of scum he had been hunting for the better part of a year. The scum who had raped an innocent woman—the woman he once loved—and mutilated her body. The scum who burned peaceful crofts and shot women and children for their mere knowledge of the rebel ion.
That same man was about to walk into this hall and question Duncan’s right to claim Amelia as his wife.
He took a seat in the chair. He lounged back in it, spread his legs wide while he gripped the armrests with both hands, for he needed to squeeze something.
“Get behind me, lass,” he said, tossing his head, his mind smoldering with aggression, which he did not even bother to hide from her.
It was impossible now to act civil, to play the part of a charming, amiable gentleman, when his gut was churning with deadly hatred. At this moment, despite the fancy clothes and ridiculous wig he felt compelled to wear, he was a Scottish Highlander, a warrior, and a savage. He was chief of this clan, and he had been trained from birth to fight and kill in order to protect those in his care. It was taking every ounce of will he possessed to restrain the beast lurking inside him, lying in wait for his mortal enemy.
Amelia said nothing as she lifted her skirts and stepped up onto the dais. She stood just behind his left shoulder.
Duncan sensed her apprehension, but that was not his primary concern. What consumed him most was his own self-control.
The duke remained by the window while Iain stood in the opposite corner. Duncan sat very still , staring straight ahead at the door at the far end of the hall , his battle-roughened hands opening and closing around the armrests, his warrior senses attuned to every sight and sound.
At last the door opened, and in walked Richard Bennett, Amelia’s former betrothed. Heroic English officer. Rapist and murderer.
Chapter Twenty
When Amelia saw Richard for the first time since her abduction, something inside her lost its point of reference.
Her former fiancé was dressed in his impressive red uniform with shiny brass buttons. He wore tall black boots, polished to a perfect, brilliant sheen. He looked almost like her father in his younger days, and the recognition of that fact penetrated her convictions most disturbingly. Golden-haired and strikingly handsome, Richard carried himself with an impressive confidence as he walked the vast length of the great hall , his footsteps echoing up into the ceiling timbers, his gray eyes fixed on Duncan the entire time.
Fergus, Gawyn, and Angus strolled in behind Bennett and spread out across the back of the room.
Amelia’s heart began to pound. She had not known of their presence at the castle today. What was their purpose?
Why did Duncan want them here?
Richard stopped in front of them and gave the obligatory bow. Duncan, in all his silks and finery, sat on his throne like a great and powerful king, saying nothing.
For the longest time, no one spoke, and Amelia felt like her heart was going to explode out of her chest. She rested a hand on the back of Duncan’s chair.
“I request a private conversation with Lady Amelia,”
Richard said.
“Your request is denied.”
Amelia was uncomfortably aware of her future husband’s flagrant show of disrespect. She glanced anxiously at her uncle, but he appeared to be taking it all in stride.
Richard’s cheeks colored with anger, and his gaze shot to hers. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yes,” she replied, unnerved by his familiarity. She had formal y ended their engagement. She was no longer his “dear.”
He turned his attention to Duncan. “You behave with dishonor, my lord.”
“I’ll behave any way I damn well please, Bennett, especial y if it means you’ll be troubled by it.”
“Duncan…,” she whispered, seeking only to remind him of his promise to her.
He whirled around in his chair and glared up at her accusingly, as if she had just betrayed him in the worst possible way, then stood and hopped off the dais, slamming heavily onto the floor.
Though he was dressed in a sophisticated costume of silks and lace and wore a wig of shiny black curls, he walked with a dangerous, threatening swagger, circling around Richard like a carnivore assessing its prey. He palmed the hilt of his sword with a quiet, unbroken obsession. He had never, in her eyes, appeared more frightening.
Richard rotated a full circle, never taking his eyes off Duncan. Amelia stepped forward anxiously.
“Indulge me if you will , Bennett,” Duncan said. “Do you remember a young Scottish lass by the name of Muira MacDonald?”
Oh, God. … She had thought Duncan would address the legitimacy of their engagement before anything else, but clearly she had misjudged his priorities. Foolishly so, she supposed. all of this had always been about one thing.
Muira. It was why he had abducted her in the first place.
Her eyes turned to Angus. He stood against the far wall , watching the exchange with dark, sinister satisfaction.
“I do not recall any woman of that name,” Richard replied.
“Think harder, Bennett. You took your pleasure with her in an apple orchard, against her will . You let your men take their pleasures, too; then you murdered her in cold blood. You sliced off her head and sent it home to her father.”
Amelia sucked in a breath and glanced at her uncle. He seemed distressed by the explicitness of the account but strangely unsurprised.
“I know not of what you speak, Moncrieffe,” Richard firmly said, “and I am here to challenge your betrothal to Lady Amelia Templeton. You are aware, sir, that when she arrived here she was already promised to me. Her own father, the late Duke of Winslowe, approved the match.”
“Aye, I am aware, but now she belongs to me, and as a result, is under my protection. Do not forget, I saved her from the Butcher.” He was still circling around Richard with his hand on his sword.
Richard followed his every move. “She was mine to protect, not yours.”
Duncan stopped and changed direction, circling back the other way. “But your protection of women is rather selective, Bennett, do you not think? You seek to protect one, but not others. The lady deserves better than that.”
He laughed. “And you think you can do better? That you deserve her affections? Clearly you are a brute, Moncrieffe, just like your father. You have no cause to accuse me—an officer in the King’s army—of anything! I am here to ensure that she is safe, and from what I have seen thus far, it appears that you have coerced her into accepting your hand.
You may even be in legion with the infamous Butcher of the Highlands yourself—in which case I will see you hanged for treason.”
Duncan shook his head with loathing. “If anyone in this room is going to hang, Bennett, I assure you it will not be me.”
“I have done no wrong,” Richard insisted; then he tossed his head toward the window. “But your rebel clansmen led me on a wild chase into the north, while Amelia—
miraculously—was being delivered back here.”
“Miraculous, indeed,” Duncan said with spite. “Now tell me about what you did to Muira that day in the orchard. tell me about the message you sent to her father, the Laird MacDonald. I want my future wife to hear it straight from your own mouth.”
Richard shot her a desperate look. “Do not listen to him, Amelia. He is trying to smear my good name only to have power over you, and t
herefore seek connections through your uncle. He means to distract you from his true purposes as a Jacobite traitor.”
Duncan chuckled bitterly. “You’re as good a liar as you are a murderer.”
“Your Grace!” Richard shouted over his shoulder. Amelia’s uncle strode forward. “May I have your word as a witness that the Earl of Moncrieffe has threatened me today, and that he has become involved in suspicious activities, and is an accomplice in the abduction of your niece, Lady Amelia Templeton?”
“I am witness to no such thing,” her uncle replied. “The earl provided my niece with a safe haven upon her escape. That is all I know.”
“Your Grace!”
When her uncle did not retract his statement, Richard changed the direction of his plea. “Amelia. tell me now if this man has compromised you, or forced your hand in any way. If that is so, I will bring the law down upon him.”
She spoke firmly, even though her head was swimming with fear.
“No, Richard, it is not true. I was not coerced. I accepted his proposal freely, and with love in my heart. So please, gentlemen, take your hands off your swords. If I mean anything to either one of you, there will be no fighting today.”
“Amelia,” Richard protested.
She stepped down from the dais. “Richard, I am sorry if my letter caused you pain. It was not my intention to hurt you. I will be forever grateful to you for saving my father’s life on the battlefield, and I appreciate that you have come here to ensure my safety and happiness, but it is over now. I am sorry, but I do not love you. I love Lord Moncrieffe.”
Something trembled within her.
Richard strode forward. “Amelia. This is absurd. The man is a Scot!”
She raised her chin. “There is nothing more to say, Richard. You must go now. Please, just go.”
Duncan and Richard glared at each other for a tension-filled moment; then at last Richard made a move to leave.
Duncan stopped him with a hand. “Nay, Colonel Bennett.
You will not be going anywhere just yet.”
Please, no. …
“Take your filthy hands off me, you detestable Highland vermin. You’re all alike.” Richard looked up at her again.
“Amelia, don’t be a fool. You cannot think to marry this man.
He is the son of a whore.”
Anger reared up in her. “Richard, you forget yourself! The earl’s mother was the Countess of Moncrieffe, daughter of a French marquis and a great scholar and philanthropist.”
Richard scoffed. “No, Amelia. Moncrieffe’s father left his fine French wife for the village whore, and was excommunicated for it.” He regarded Duncan as he spoke.
“The great Scottish laird then butchered the bishop responsible, and was promptly reinstated as a good Catholic. When his whore died giving birth, he returned to his wife and brought his bastard son back to the castle. This is the man you wish to marry, Amelia—the son of a sinner, who is now most certainly burning in hell .”
Her gaze shot to Duncan. “Is this true?”
His eyes were blazing. “Aye.”
Al at once, there was a startling scrape of metal from the back of the room and Angus came striding forward with his sword gripped in both hands. He drew the blade back over his shoulder. He meant to slice Richard in half from head to foot!
Angus crossed the full length of the hall with the fires of hell boiling in his eyes, and Richard stumbled backwards a few steps towards the dais, scrambling in a panic to draw his own sword.
Amelia bolted forward. “No, Angus! Please stop!”
In a lightning flash of movement, Duncan drew a pistol from under his coat, cocked it—and aimed it at Angus.
“Lower your weapon,” Duncan said, his instruction a clear and certain order. “You’ll not be killing this man today. I told you I’d have my vengeance—and have it I will .”
“What about my vengeance?” Angus shouted with malice.
“You’ll have it, too.”
“When? And how?”
Her uncle—who had backed into the wall by the window when Angus charged across the room—offered a reply.
“There will be an inquiry into Colonel Bennett’s conduct,” he quickly explained. “We have witnesses. I have spoken to a number of them since I arrived here.”
Richard swung around and glowered at him. “Has everyone gone mad? Surely Your Grace does not mean to suggest that—”
“I mean every word I say, Bennett. Your methods are beyond the pale. You are a stain upon the King’s name.”
But Angus had not yet sheathed his broadsword. He still held it over his shoulder, poised to kill .
No one moved.
Angus turned to Duncan. “That woman has made you weak.”
She shivered, while Duncan offered no reply. He merely stood with legs braced apart, his pistol still aimed between Angus’s eyes.
Amelia could barely breathe.
“Fergus, Gawyn!” Duncan shouted over his shoulder.
“Take Colonel Bennett to the dungeon and lock him up.”
The dungeon? He had a dungeon?
It was only then—when the other two came scurrying across the hall to seize Richard and confiscate his weapons—that Angus lowered his sword and began to back away.
Duncan, however, kept his finger on the trigger of his pistol.
“My men will not stand for this!” Richard shouted, struggling against Fergus and Gawyn’s hold as they dragged him away. “I will have you shot, Moncrieffe!”
Duncan turned the gun on Richard. “Say one more word, Bennett, and I’ll splatter your brains all over these wall s.”
They dragged him from the hall while Amelia fought to subdue her anxiety—not only from the shocking nature of her husband’s threat just now but from all that had occurred in the past five minutes.
Overshadowing everything, however, was the fact that her future husband had kept his promise to her.
Duncan turned the gun on Angus again. “I’ll have your word that you will not go against my wishes.”
“My word?” Angus spit on the floor. “What good is any man’s word when you just let my sister’s killer live?”
“Muira will have her justice.”
“But will I have mine?” Angus asked. “I wanted him dead, Duncan, and you’re forgetting that not so long ago you wanted the same thing.”
Angus headed for the door, and Duncan lowered the pistol at last.
Just then, four broad-shouldered clansmen entered the hall and blocked the exit. Angus laughed indignantly. He faced Duncan and spread his arms wide. “Are these men here to escort me off the premises?”
“Aye. I can’t let you pay a visit to the dungeon, Angus, to simply do as you please.”
The guards took hold of his arms, but he roughly shook them away. “No need to bother yourselves. I’m leaving this place, and I’ll not be back. I’ve seen enough here today to turn my guts to ash.”
He walked out. One of the guards looked at Duncan. He nodded to indicate an unspoken set of orders. The men followed Angus out of the keep to make sure he left peaceably.
Duncan turned to Amelia.
Her knees dissolved into clotted cream. She realized suddenly that her hands were shaking, and she returned to the chair and sank into it.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” There was a hard, contemptuous edge to his voice.
“For keeping your promise.”
His blue eyes were cold as ice, and his shoulders heaved with barely contained fury. He pulled the wig off his head, dropped it lightly to the floor, then walked out of the hall without a word.
Chapter Twenty-one
Duncan entered his study, looked around at all the dusty books and roll ed-up documents, his telescope in the window, and the portrait of his French mother over the mantel. He slammed the door shut behind him, then turned and rested his forehead against it. Closing his eyes, he fought to suppress his fury.
He had never felt such des
ire to kill a man. For a few unpredictable seconds, even his passion for Amelia was overshadowed by a blind lust for blood. He hadn’t been certain he could resist the lure of drawing his sword from his scabbard and piercing Richard Bennett straight through his cold, black heart. Even now, when Duncan thought of what Muira had endured in the orchard that day, and what Amelia might have experienced as that man’s wife, he wanted to wrap his hands around Bennett’s throat and squeeze until every last drop of putrid life drained out of his body.
Duncan pounded his fist repeatedly against the door. He felt like he was being ripped in two. What sort of man was he? Was he the diplomatic aristocrat his mother had raised him to be? The educated scholar, who was pledged to marry an English duke’s daughter? Or was he his father’s son? A battle-scarred warrior, conceived in a whore’s bed, seething with darkness and vengeance. A man who solved his problems with an axe.
He turned around, tipped his head back against the door, and tried to make sense of his duality and the savage warrior that existed within.
On the battlefield, he had never killed gratuitously. He had long been aware of the consequences of death. One person’s demise had a ripple effect on the world. Others suffered and mourned that loss and were affected in ways only God could understand. Sometimes grief gave rise to compassion and kindness, depth of feeling, and an understanding of the soul.
Other times, it created monsters.
He was one such monster.
Richard Bennett was another.
Duncan opened his eyes and wondered suddenly—where had Bennett’s cruelty come from? Did he have a whore for a mother? Or had someone he cared about been sliced without mercy from his life?
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