Dukes Are Forever

by Bec McMaster

His own were dark, the hunger eating up all the light in his world. Not immune. No matter how much he pretended to be.

  "Then I have been remiss in my duty as your wife. Let me make it up to you."

  She lifted on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. It had been days since he'd kissed her. Days of heated looks that belied the cool words that kept her at bay. Days of frantic yearning.

  A desperate sound escaped him.

  But he didn't push her away.

  And his mouth softened beneath hers, before he surged against her with a furious claim.

  Adele slid her arms around his neck, hungry for more. The nightgown clung to damp patches of her skin, a thin barrier between her soft curves and the hard planes of his body.

  Firm fingers dug into her waist, and then one hand splayed over the curve of her bottom, drawing her against him.

  God, it felt good.

  Adele bit at his lip, her hands sliding down his chest. She wanted to rouse the passion she knew he hid deep inside him, but he kissed her jaw in that moment, his stubble rasping over her ear and—

  A pained gasp escaped her.

  It broke the moment, broke her hold over him.

  "Damn it, Adele. This is precisely why this shouldn't happen." Malloryn caught her wrists and held her at bay, his breath whispering over her lips. "You're hurt."

  "I'll be fine."

  But he shook his head. "No."

  A third and final time.

  She wanted to reach for him so badly.

  She wanted another kiss.

  But he was locking himself down visibly, right before her eyes, and she didn't understand it.

  "I don't think it wise to stay here with you tonight, Adele."

  "Would you just stay... until I fall asleep?" It was the only sign of weakness she'd allow herself. "I don't want to be alone in the darkness. Not tonight."

  "I shouldn't."

  She hated herself for saying it, but she did. "I won't touch you."

  Malloryn stared at her for a long time before nodding. "As you wish."

  But when he lay down behind her, curling his arm over her waist, he remained dressed and atop the covers.

  Adele closed her eyes, burrowing into the pillows and blankets as she laced her fingers through his.

  She wouldn't push him further. Not tonight.

  But she was Adele Cavill, and she was determined.

  After tonight's revelations, the Duke of Malloryn didn't stand a chance.

  Adele's breathing softened as she fell asleep, her body relaxing against his.

  But Malloryn did not soften. Nor did he relax.

  Instead, he held her in his arms as he tried to analyze their previous encounter and work out precisely what had gone wrong.

  He'd meant to set her at bay, the way Gemma has suggested. He didn't want to break her heart. He didn't want to hurt her. He couldn't offer her anything more of himself….

  They were all truths he'd long believed, and yet somehow, they felt wrong.

  And to make matters worse, Adele had seen right through them.

  She'd routed him with all the ease of a master general.

  It felt like another opening in their game…. But if this was war, then he was badly outflanked. Adele seemed to hold every ace in her hand.

  He had no real clue how to deal with her.

  Why?

  Malloryn brushed a lock of hair from her cheek with soft fingers as he examined her in the dark. He could admit he found her dangerously intriguing. No woman had ever stood up to him so brashly, nor refused to back down when he arched a cool brow. Crossing wits with her felt like dueling, only, he was never quite certain of the outcome.

  And worse, he enjoyed the uncertainty.

  She was clever, cunning, and dangerously sensual. Beautiful, and yet callously dismissive of it—unless it suited her needs. Fiercely protective of those she loved—like her sister, and her friends—but also wary and guarded.

  He'd walked a dark path alone for so long, he'd thought he'd never encounter a woman who wouldn't flinch at the shadows of his soul, but Adele bore her own shadows.

  And she trusted him with them.

  Malloryn sighed as he buried his face in her hair, breathing in her perfume. Oh, you vexatious woman. What have you done to me?

  What was wrong with him? Why could he not deny her?

  Was it something within himself that left him so unsure of her?

  He kept finding himself with a smile on his lips at the oddest moments, when he thought of her. The memory of her giggling as he tried to wrestle her into bed the night she'd imbibed too much sprang to mind.

  "Did you know," she'd said seriously, lying flat on her back when he knelt at her feet and slipped her stockings off, "that I like your Company of Rogues very much. I like you very much too. Not the duke, mind you. I like Auvry though."

  "You do realize I am one and the same person," he'd mused, discarding her stockings.

  "No, you're not. The duke is cold and serious, and keeps everyone at arm's length, whereas Auvry argues with me, and flirts with me, and he kisses me when he can't help himself. He's my favorite husband. I like torturing the duke, but I adore Auvry. He does wicked things to me on his desk." She'd pressed her finger to his lips. "Don't tell the duke though. He'll lord it over me forever if he thinks I like him. He'd wear this sanctimonious expression on his face the whole time too, as though he thinks he's won. Like this."

  And she'd pulled a face that had made him burst into sudden laughter.

  "The duke doesn't look anything like that."

  "Oh, yes he does!"

  He'd kissed her then, and he hadn't meant to, and somehow her hands had woven through his hair and he'd been crawling over her when she suddenly pushed him aside.

  "Oh, no," she whispered, a horrified look on her mouth. "Chamber pot!"

  He hadn't managed to get to it in time, though she'd somehow managed to find one of his boots propped beside the bed.

  Afterwards, she'd groaned as she knelt at the foot of the bed, resting her head on the mattress. "I think I like your boots too," she'd said. "Though I'm afraid they're not going to be your favorite boots anymore. I will buy you new ones though. And I won't let Ingrid measure them."

  He'd never laughed as much in his life as he'd laughed that night, helplessly charmed by Adele when she had all her guards lowered.

  Imagine what it would be like to spend a lifetime with her, without those walls?

  All year they'd tilted at each other, lances shattering on each other's shields and savaged armor.

  But his armor was thin and cracked.

  Fractures slithered through his façade.

  He didn't want to fight her anymore. He didn't want to push her away. He simply wanted to stay in bed beside her and bury his face in the soap-scented mess of her hair.

  To let himself touch her and make love to her, without having to protect himself. He wanted to let himself be Auvry again, the husband she preferred. He wanted—

  Malloryn froze, as he realized he was musing in an almost daydreaming manner about a future with his wife. A violent spasm of something gripped his insides as he finally realized what it all meant.

  It wasn't her.

  It was him.

  He suddenly knew exactly what was wrong with him, and why she set him so at odds.

  "Malloryn?" Adele shifted in her sleep, almost as if she'd sensed his sudden shock.

  "Shush," he whispered, squeezing her fingers. "I'm here. You're not alone."

  The breath eased out of her as she relaxed back into his arms, snuggling her face into his biceps. His heart gave a horrifying little squeeze at the sight.

  She'd been right.

  He was lying to himself.

  The Duke of Malloryn did not dare kiss his wife and it had nothing to do with Balfour, and everything to do with the fact that, for the first time in seventeen years, a woman had slipped beneath his guard when he wasn't looking and started carving her name on his heart.

>   Chapter 25

  Dawn edged over the horizon, though the fog was so thick it was difficult to see the sun. After last night's revelation he'd barely slept a wink, and when Byrnes returned with news of Devoncourt's destination, it had been almost a relief to sneak from Adele's bed.

  Malloryn crouched beside Byrnes as they surveyed the pair of warehouses down by the docks. Old. Decrepit. Seemingly abandoned.

  "This is where Devoncourt went before he returned to his house," Byrnes muttered, his hard blue eyes locked on the target.

  It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

  From what Malloryn's sources had managed to discover, the warehouse belonged to the False Dawn Corporation, which was a front, if ever he'd seen one. Thomas Mowbray had once been listed as director, though the position had been transferred ten years ago and the records were currently obscured.

  "Think this is where Balfour is hiding?" Gemma asked, squatting on the other side of Malloryn.

  Instinct stirred. Too easy. By far.

  He couldn't help hungering for it though—an end to this cursed game.

  "One can hope." He cracked his knuckles inside the black leather of his gloves. "Kincaid, are you, Charlie and Lark in place?"

  Static shirred in his ear. "Ready," Kincaid replied gruffly.

  "We're going in," he replied, then made a swift gesture with his fingers to Obsidian and Byrnes.

  The pair of them slipped through the fog, taking up position on both sides of the nearest door.

  Malloryn gave the gesture, and then Obsidian kicked open the locked doors and disappeared into the shadows inside, his pistol tracking the room. Byrnes, Malloryn and Gemma were right on his heels, plunging into the shadowy confines of the warehouse.

  A pair of guards materialized out of nowhere, and Malloryn put a bullet directly between the eyes of the nearest, as Gemma handled the other.

  Shouts echoed.

  Only one or two more guards, by the look of it. Obsidian dispatched them coolly, and then glanced around at the pile of crates.

  "Not enough guards," Obsidian said.

  "Agreed." There was a faint light in the overseer's office and a shadow moving up there. "Watch your backs."

  Byrnes grabbed a crowbar and jammed it beneath the lid of a crate. The second he pried it off, he whistled under his breath. "Someone's planning one hell of a party."

  "Explosives?" Malloryn glanced inside the box, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. There was enough dynamite there to destroy half of London.

  "I think we just found Balfour's stockpile," Byrnes replied, with a grin.

  Seconds later, an alarm blared through the facility, and a pair of eerie red eyes lit up at the far end of the room.

  "What the hell is that?" Byrnes demanded, clenching the crowbar in one hand.

  "Ask questions later." Malloryn shot it, but the bullet ricocheted into the wall.

  A click sounded and a small flicker of fire ignited somewhere around the shadowy figure's waist. It had to be nearly ten feet tall.

  "I think you just... irritated it." Byrnes took a step back.

  The small spark suddenly ignited into a gush of flames, and then it was streaming toward them.

  They all threw themselves aside, heat stealing the oxygen from the air.

  "Jesus Christ!" Gemma rolled out of the way. "It's a metaljacket. One of the older spitfire models."

  Which should have all been destroyed following the revolution.

  The enormous automaton clanked forward, its breastplate stained with soot and slightly dented. That didn't make it any the less dangerous. No. A single spitfire could burn a street to the ground and was virtually unstoppable.

  "Draw its attention," Obsidian commanded, tugging a small grappling hook from his belt. Both he and Malloryn had managed to take cover behind a larger crate several feet behind the other two. "I can take it down if it's not locked on me as a target."

  "Anyone volunteering?" Byrnes drawled, staying exactly where he was.

  Gemma sighed. "You're faster than me."

  "You're prettier."

  "What's that got to do with anything?" she demanded. "It's a machine. It's not going to be staring down my bodice."

  "You do realize," Malloryn snarled, "that you're both hiding behind boxes of explosives?"

  "Fuck," Byrnes cursed under his breath as his thighs bunched. He was the closest to the automaton. "I hate fire."

  Then he was darting forward, trying to engage the metaljacket's motion sensors so it would lock on him as a target.

  Fire spewed across the factory floor as Byrnes skidded behind another set of crates. It licked at the crate, and Byrnes seemed to realize his predicament and bolted further into the darkness. The monstrosity followed, each clanking step echoing on the cement floors.

  Malloryn glanced up at the warehouse's office, noting the light there had been swiftly snuffed. The metaljacket was merely a distraction. The office was where he'd find whoever was in charge.

  "Go!" Gemma told him, watching her lover slip behind the metaljacket. "You can't let whoever that is escape."

  He'd given her command of COR upon their return to Russia, but as he slipped away, he wondered if she realized she'd just told him what to do.

  Moving like a ghost through the darkness at the back of the warehouse, he headed for the office. Shoes rang on the stairs as the overseer escaped into the morass of rooms at the back of the building.

  And a figure loomed nearby—

  "Don't shoot me," Kincaid called, materializing out of the shadows, as Malloryn jerked his pistol up at the last second.

  "Follow me," Malloryn commanded, moving to cut the bastard off.

  Charlie and Lark were presumably cutting off the rear, as instructed.

  Sure enough, the overseer had returned, clearly sighting the trap. Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Malloryn pressed his back to the nearest wall, holding a finger up to his lips.

  Kincaid vanished into the shadows with a nod.

  Someone cursed under his breath, and Malloryn could hear his target panting. Not Balfour. Whoever it was, they weren't used to running.

  Malloryn coolly stepped out of the shadows, his pistol locking on his target's chest.

  Sir George Hamilton skidded to a halt, the tails of his coat flapping.

  They both stared at each other in shock.

  "Malloryn," Sir George spat.

  "Sir George." This was an unexpected boon. Caught red-handed with his fingers in the till. "Fancy finding you in a warehouse full of explosives."

  Sir George's eyes darted this way and that. "You son of a bitch. You have no right to be in here."

  "I have every right," Malloryn told him as he advanced. "My men tracked a dangerous suspect who has ties to a dangerous organization to this building last night. My information tells me a group of terrorists are planning an attack on the queen, and they have enough explosives to level the tower. The only anomaly—as far as I can see—is your presence. But surely you can explain."

  Sir George's mustache fair quivered with rage. "I don't have to explain anything to the likes of you!"

  Malloryn stared along the top of his pistol. "You don't. But you will. Eventually."

  "What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

  A part of him would like to. He'd spent years dealing with belligerent fools like this, who thought themselves entitled to do anything they desired. They'd sneered at him at Eton, and spat behind his back when he first ventured into society.

  And they still sneered, even now he'd climbed to the top of the tree.

  No matter how many "Your Graces" he heard in a day, he would never truly be one of them.

  And he'd never truly cared.

  But something about Sir George rubbed him the wrong way—as if Malloryn's loyalty to the queen and his country was little more than the lip service of a social-climbing monkey, when it was one of the few things he cherished most.

  "I should." Malloryn hesitated. "But I won't."

&n
bsp; This was Adele's father.

  And while he knew there was no love lost between the pair of them, she might look askance on him putting a bullet in Sir George's skull.

  "You're under arrest," Malloryn said, putting up the pistol.

  "You can't arrest me! I'm a peer of the realm!"

  "And I have been granted the queen's authority on this matter. Anyone who is suspected to be part of this conspiracy is subject to my authority, no matter their rank. Put your hands in the air."

  Sir George tore something from the pocket of his waistcoat. "You're the traitor! You're a traitor to your class and I'll be damned if I'm brought down by someone like you! Rot in hell, Malloryn!"

  He held up a small device, thumb hovering over the red trigger.

  "Get out! He's got a detonator!" Malloryn screamed, turning and catching sight of a nearby window.

  Kincaid stood directly in front of it, his eyes widening in shock as Malloryn sprinted toward him. Slamming into the burly mech, he heard glass shatter as they both went through the window.

  A whoosh of sound lit up the warehouse behind him, heat and light exploding into being as they hit the docks and rolled. Slashes of pain speared through him. Glass stabbing into his sides, and splinters of timber slicing lethally through the air. Flame seared the air, stealing all the oxygen around him, until he thought—for a second—that it was all over.

  That this was the end.

  Then he and Kincaid were skidding to a halt as the enormous fireball rolled over the top of them. His leather body armor saved him from most of the intense heat, but he could feel his skin cracking and drying. His sleeve was on fire, but Kincaid slapped it out as they both scrambled to get to safety.

  Malloryn rolled behind a nearby pillar, tearing the earpiece from his ear as the high-pitched whine threatened to rupture his eardrum. He threw it aside, staring with horror at what remained of the warehouse.

  "Jaysus fuckin' Christ," Kincaid breathed, staring up at the enormous fireball. The color drained from his face. "Who was inside?" He scrambled for Malloryn's cast-aside earpiece, and fiddled with the transmitter. "Gemma? Byrnes? Charlie? Can anyone hear me?"

  Malloryn pushed unsteadily to his feet as Kincaid kept repeating the message.