Dancing in The Duke’s Arms

by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel

They’d found her.

  The assassins had found her.

  They hadn’t given up after all. They were here, and this time they would kill her.

  The sightless eyes flashed in her mind again—all those eyes and the blood on the carpets, sticking to the bottom of her slippers. She couldn’t bear to see it all again. She couldn’t shoulder the guilt of bringing death to any innocents at Wyndover Park.

  She had to go. She had to flee before the assassins found her and slit her throat.

  She staggered toward the Chinese screen and the boots set neatly behind it. She did not care about a dress, but she could not run without boots. She knew that well enough. She’d bent to pull them on when her mind froze, and even in her panicked state, one word broke through: Nathan.

  She couldn’t leave him.

  Vivienne shook her head.

  He was dead. He had to be. They’d already killed him. She could save only herself now.

  But her hand dropped away from the boots, and her gaze tracked to the bow and arrows near the bed. Even if he was dead, she couldn’t leave him. He would never have left her. He would have given anything to keep her safe. If there was a chance he still lived, she had to go to him.

  Snatching the bow and arrows, she readied an arrow and tiptoed back to the door.

  Silently, she turned the lock and eased the door open. The hinges made no sound, and if she lived, she would thank Mrs. Patton for that later.

  Peering around the doorjamb, she saw the corridor was empty. For a moment, she hoped she’d imagined the shadow and the man’s form, but then she heard the low rumble of men’s voices coming from Nathan’s room.

  Keeping against the wall, she crept down the hallway. Her heart beat so hard, her chest ached, and she was almost dizzy from the fear. As she neared the room, she heard the most terrifying sound yet—Glennish.

  If she’d had any doubts before, she had none now. These were the assassins, and they had Nathan.

  Alive.

  She knew that because she heard him answer them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know any princess.”

  “He lies,” one of them hissed in her native tongue. “Kill him.”

  “Slit his throat, and we’ll find her ourselves. She’s here.”

  Nathan would die. For her.

  Vivienne stepped into the doorway, arrow nocked and ready. She assessed the situation quickly. Two men were near the door, and the third had a knife to Nathan’s throat where he lay on the bed.

  “Touch him, and I’ll shoot you through.”

  One of the men by the door jerked toward her, and she swung her bow toward him. “Don’t do it,” she said in Glennish. “If you know anything about me, you know I can kill all three of you before you can shout for help. If there were anyone who would help you.”

  She swung her bow back to the man kneeling over Nathan. “Get off him and back away slowly.”

  “I’ll cut his throat and then yours, Princess.”

  “Get off him!” she shouted, afraid to wait too much longer, knowing every moment she waited was another moment closer to Nathan’s death.

  The assassin didn’t move.

  God! God! God!

  She didn’t want to kill him. She’d never killed anyone, man or beast.

  But her gaze collided with Nathan’s. His eyes focused on her, still alive, still full of love. She couldn’t allow his to become another pair of sightless eyes that haunted her.

  Twang.

  She loosed the arrow, heard the sickening thunk as it struck flesh. She yanked another from her quiver just as quickly and swiveled to face the last two assassins.

  *

  Nathan pushed the dead weight of the assassin off and jumped to his feet. Vivienne stood across the room, arrow trained on the two men intent on killing her. Both had drawn their knives—long, sharp weapons—and Nathan had no doubt they would use them on her and anyone else in their way.

  He had to help her, but for the first time in his life, he felt utterly helpless. He had no weapon, no means to rescue her. She’d rescued him.

  At an imperceptible signal, the assassins separated and began to circle the princess.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered in Glennish.

  The assassins ignored her. Despite her claims, she couldn’t shoot them at the same time, and if she fired at one, the other could attack. Nathan took a step toward the one closest to him. The man brandished his weapon.

  “Stay back,” he ordered.

  “Nathan, be careful!”

  He’d distracted her, and the assassins were now on either side of her. She had to pivot from one to the other in order to keep her arrow trained on them. She was fast and agile, but she couldn’t hold them off forever. Nathan pressed his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing to throw himself at one assassin, thereby removing one target. He’d probably end up dead and without an heir. The bloody American cousin would have the title.

  His poor mother.

  Nathan lunged just as the dressing room door opened. He caught the distracted assassin about the waist, and the two tumbled to the rug. Nathan got in a good jab to the man’s back before he rolled and brandished the knife in Nathan’s direction.

  “Let him go,” Vivienne said, her voice full of command.

  “I’m fine,” Nathan answered. “I can take him.”

  The assassin jabbed at him, narrowly missing.

  “Or not,” Nathan muttered.

  “I believe she meant me, Your Grace.”

  Nathan’s head jerked at the sound of his valet’s voice. “Fletcher!”

  His valet stood in front of the other assassin, the man’s knife a steel slash across his exposed neck.

  “I heard a sound and thought you might require assistance, Your Grace.”

  Goddamn it all to hell. “Let him go!” Nathan shouted in Glennish, kicking out to prevent his own attacker from coming closer. Thank God he still had the boots on. The knife grazed his calf and would have split his skin open without the protection of the thick leather.

  “Lower the arrow,” the assassin holding Fletcher told Vivienne. The assassin was dark and short, holding his knife like a seasoned warrior, whereas the one Nathan fought was younger and moved with less certainty.

  “Let him go,” Vivienne countered.

  “Shoot him, Vivienne,” Nathan said, kicking at his assassin again. This time, the knife did pierce his boot, and warm blood trickled down his skin.

  She shook her head, her eyes never leaving the assassin’s face. “Release him. I don’t want to kill you.”

  “I’ll kill him, then you,” the assassin hissed. “Put down your weapon.”

  She hesitated, and her arm wavered.

  “No!” Nathan yelled. Their only chance was to kill one of the assassins. “Kill him!”

  “I can’t!”

  The dark assassin pulled his hand with the knife back, and Fletcher closed his eyes.

  *

  Vivienne closed her eyes and let go. She half prayed the arrow would miss, though it would mean the death of an innocent man.

  But she didn’t miss. Of course she didn’t miss. She never did.

  The assassin screamed as the arrow plunged into the side of his face, the side exposed over Fletcher’s shoulder. The man’s knife clattered to the floor, and Fletcher went down on his knees, looking like he might fall over from the shock of it.

  There was no time to help the valet, no time to render any aid to the wounded assassin writhing on the floor. He’d be dead in a moment or two. Dead because of her.

  She pushed the thought aside and reached for another arrow, swung to Nathan.

  But the third assassin was gone.

  Nathan swiped the blood from his calf away.

  “Your Grace,” Fletcher wheezed. “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine.” He rose to his feet, looking a little unsteady but solid.

  Vivienne felt unsteady too. She wanted to collapse, to cry for days, to
run into his arms and bury her face in his chest. Instead, she gestured with the arrow toward the open bedchamber door.

  “We have to go after him.” She didn’t add what she’d been thinking: before he murdered innocent servants.

  “Not without a weapon.” Nathan pushed the dead man on his bed over and yanked the knife from his hand. “Now I’m ready. Follow me.”

  Without waiting for her agreement, he started forward, pausing at the door to sweep his gaze in both directions.

  “Fletcher?”

  “Left, Your Grace.”

  “Stay put, Fletcher.” Nathan glanced at her over his shoulder. “Coming?”

  He didn’t tell her to stay. He didn’t expect her to wait for him, like a helpless girl. This was her battle too, and he knew it, respected her need to end this herself.

  Oh, how she loved him.

  “I’m coming.” She raised the arrow again and followed him into the corridor.

  Nothing but shadows and the distant sound of a clock’s pendulum swinging back and forth with a quiet ticking. At the first doorway, which was closed, Nathan put a finger to his lips and lifted the latch. He pushed inside, knife raised, and she followed, swinging her arrow left and right. He parted the drapes, opened the tallboy against the wall, and peered under the bed.

  “Empty,” Nathan declared.

  She moved back into the hallway, and he followed.

  “There’s only one more room this way, a servant’s closet.”

  “And that door?” She pointed to a doorway made to look like the wall’s paneling.

  “The servants’ stairs. I’m betting he took those.”

  “I think you’re right. He wants to escape.”

  “He wants to kill you. I don’t think he’s given up yet.”

  She agreed with him on that point as well. He started for the end of the hallway, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “Nathan.”

  He gave her an impatient glance, then looked over his shoulder at the door. Vivienne placed a hand on his cheek. That earned her his full attention.

  “Just in case I don’t have another opportunity, I want to tell you I love you.”

  “You will have another opportunity. But I love you too.”

  She smiled. She couldn’t contain the burst of joy that raced through her. “Do you have the ring?”

  “What?”

  He must think her mad, and perhaps she was. This was no time to discuss marriage, and yet, she’d seen how quickly life as one knew it could come to a crashing end. Now might be the only chance she ever had.

  “Your mother’s emerald ring?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then his hand passed over the pocket of his waistcoat. “Are you saying you’ll marry me?”

  “Yes. I was coming to tell you when I interrupted that tête-à-tête in your room.”

  “I much prefer your company at any rate.” He pulled the ring from his waistcoat. “I don’t have time to do this properly.”

  She waved his protest away. “Put it on my finger. That’s as proper as I need or want.”

  He took her hand, slid the ring on her finger clumsily.

  She kissed him quickly, ran her thumb over the unfamiliar piece of jewelry on her hand.

  “Now, let’s go catch an assassin,” she said.

  *

  He would die. She’d finally told him she loved him, finally agreed to be his wife, his duchess, and now he was off to his death. Life was full of injustice. Nathan just hadn’t ever had so much of it thrown his direction.

  He led her down the servants’ stairwell, emerging silently onto the house’s ground floor. He mentally outlined the geography of the house. Short corridor leading to the expansive vestibule in front of him, door to his library, which led to a parlor on his left. Door to the music room, which opened to a large sitting room on his right. The dining room was on the other side of the vestibule.

  “I’ll take this side, you take that,” Vivienne said.

  “Hell no. Stay with me.” He would not let her out of his sight. “Let’s start in the library.”

  He opened the door, crept inside, keeping his back to the wall. Vivienne followed, closing the door behind her. Smart woman, he thought. No one could come in or out without alerting them.

  Nathan jerked his head toward a couch facing the fire. He doubted the man would be lying on it, but he motioned for her to cover him while he checked behind the curtains. The two of them moved silently toward their corners.

  Just as Nathan tugged the drapes open, he heard the swish of an arrow. He turned just in time to see the assassin raise his knife and hurl it.

  At him.

  Nathan jerked to the right, and the knife clattered against the window inches from where he’d stood.

  “You missed!” Nathan yelled.

  “So did she,” the assassin answered.

  Vivienne was already readying another arrow, but the assassin didn’t wait. He flung himself at Nathan, and the two men rolled to the floor, Nathan’s knife tumbled under his desk.

  “Nathan!” Vivienne shouted. “I can’t get a clear shot.”

  The assassin’s fist collided with his nose, and Nathan smashed his forehead into the man’s nose while the assassin kneed him in the breadbasket. The two tumbled over each other again and again, overturning tables and lamps. He smashed the assassin with an antique bowl and stumbled to his feet. For a moment, he thought he’d won, but the man was up again and plowed him in the face.

  Nathan saw darkness right before his head hit the floor. Vivienne’s scream brought him back, and he moved his head right before another fist slammed into it. The assassin pulled the punch but too late. His fist hit the hard wood of the floor.

  Nathan grabbed his neck and pushed him off, using his elbow to pop the assassin in the mouth. When the man was down, Nathan hit him again. And again.

  He would have punched him a third time, but Vivienne stayed his hand.

  “It’s done,” she panted. “He’s unconscious.”

  Nathan gained his feet, putting his hands on his hips and drawing in gasps of air. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. It hurt to exist.

  “And my father made me take fencing,” he said between breaths. “I told him those lessons were a bloody waste of time.”

  Vivienne gave him a bewildered look. “What did you want to take?”

  “Boxing.”

  She nodded, drew in a breath. “All of our children will be pugilists.”

  “Even the girls?”

  “Especially the girls.”

  He opened his arms, and she fell into them. He didn’t care if the servants were gathering in the doorway now, if Fletcher was calling for a doctor, if somewhere above a maid screamed.

  Vivienne was in his arms. His princess.

  His duchess.

  Epilogue

  ‡

  “He’s an insufferable muc,” she said, using the Glennish term for pig. The door of the Grecian parlor at the residence of the Duke of Stoke Teversault closed as the Prince Regent made his exit.

  “I will not argue.” Nathan leaned against one cream and dark lilac wall and watched her pace. His wife’s ire was stoked now.

  She was his wife. His wife. After they’d dealt with the business of the dead assassins and the live one, they’d received a letter from Prinny summoning them to an audience at the Duke of Stoke Teversault’s ball. Nathan had already planned to attend and to approach the prince, who never missed the annual affair, but he’d thought a formal audience a good sign. He should have listened to Stoke Teversault. The duke had cautioned him against reading anything into Prinny’s invitation. Nathan had hoped Stoke Teversault was just being…well, Stoke Teversault. He was naturally sober and restrained. Fortunately, Nathan had the foresight to procure a special license and marry Vivienne before the ball.

  Prinny might offer his protection, but she’d have Nathan’s in any event.

  “Can you believe the way he spoke to me?”
she said, striding across the parlor and then back again. Through the open windows behind her, he could see the famous row of lime trees that lined the house’s drive. “He acted as though it was my father’s fault he and my mother were killed. As though anyone deserves to die that way!”

  “He’s afraid,” Nathan said, moving toward her and laying his hands on her shoulders. “He knows but for luck and the grace of God, that could have been him.”

  She turned into his arms. “He’s allowing me to stay in the country only because of your gift.” Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly was this gift?”

  “A small token of my fealty.” Three ships were a token indeed. “But you are the Duchess of Wyndover now. He couldn’t make you leave even if he wanted.”

  “And so there’s to be no outcry over the massacre at Glynaven Palace, no public condemnation.”

  “Not from England, but you’ve written dozens of letters to other world leaders. Surely one of them will condemn the actions of the revolutionaries. Perhaps Spain or Russia.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, looked into her lovely eyes. The music from the orchestra Stoke Teversault had hired for the ball swelled and carried on a breeze scented with flowers. “I cannot give you public condemnation. But I can give you revenge.”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  He touched his forehead to hers. “Happiness.”

  “Happiness?”

  “Did you think I would suggest we hire mercenaries and order the revolutionary leaders slaughtered?”

  “It would be a nice gesture.”

  “You don’t want that.” Although he imagined a small part of her did, and he could hardly blame her. “Why not be my wife, have children with me, grow old with me? The revolutionaries who tried to kill you, to kill off the royal line, will always know they never succeeded. Our children and our happiness will be the best revenge.”

  She heaved a sigh of resignation. “You make sense, as usual.”

  “I am an extremely sensible man.”

  “You must be to tolerate all those swooning females. Three fainted in your path on the short walk to the ballroom.”

  He scowled, clearly not wanting to speak of the incidents.

  “I’m certain the heat overcame the ladies, nothing more. This ball is a crush.”