Claiming the Courtesan

by Anna Campbell

  “Verity, stand aside,” Kylemore said wearily. The hum in his head gradually subsided, but the side of his face stung like merry hell. “He won’t hurt me.”

  “Yes, he will,” she said stubbornly and without moving. “He’ll kill you. You heard him.”

  “Verity, there must be a hundred people watching us. Someone will stop him before he does too much damage.”

  Now that he was capable of thought, he was actually surprised that no one had stepped in to restrain his assailant before now.

  Ah, yes. Relief was on the way.

  His bailiff raced up with a couple of estate workers in tow just as Angus and Andy leaped onto the dock. Hamish had observed the whole scene imperviously from the boat.

  Kylemore supposed that all that angry Yorkshire muscle intimidated the villagers. A justified reaction, he admitted, blearily eyeing his assailant’s brawny form.

  Ashton’s rage remained banked behind his black eyes, but at last he glanced at his sister, who stood as a barrier between him and her kidnapper. “Are you all right, lass? By God, if he’s hurt you, I’ll kill him in truth.”

  “Your Grace!” The bailiff arrived, panting in his heavy black coat and old-fashioned knee breeches. “This villain’s rampaging around the estate accusing you of terrible crimes. I’ve warned him you’ll have him in the stocks for slander.”

  “Aye, and I’ll see this overbred wastrel hang for rape and kidnap,” Ashton growled. “Verity lass, tell them what he did to you.”

  “Ben…” she said unsteadily.

  “Go on, tell them. Tell them how he set those great bully boys on me and abducted you at the point of a gun. I’ve had no rest for weeks imagining what you’ve suffered.”

  Kylemore braced himself for the scalding condemnation he deserved. If she chose to denounce him, he had no defense.

  She lifted her chin in a gesture he found heartbreakingly familiar. Her face was pale and set with proud determination.

  “I am the Duke of Kylemore’s mistress and I am with him of my own free will,” she said loudly enough for all around them to hear. Then softly and in a broken voice, she added, “I’m sorry, Ben.”

  Kylemore was moved beyond words to hear her claim him so unequivocally as her lover. How he loved her. He’d do anything for her. Anything. Including let her go if that was what she really wanted. In spite of their estrangement, he took her in his arms. Without hesitation, she leaned into him.

  Bewilderment replaced the violence in Ashton’s expression. “Verity lass?”

  Kylemore found it in himself to pity the man’s confusion. Benjamin Ashton wasn’t the villain here. He merely protected his sister. It wasn’t his fault the game had become considerably more complicated since that stormy day in Whitby.

  Kylemore spoke over the top of Verity’s head, which rested with a trust he couldn’t help but cherish on his chest. “Come up to the house, man. It does your sister’s honor no credit to stand around brawling in the public street.”

  Ashton’s “You give nowt for my sister’s honor,” clashed with his bailiff ’s protests. “Your Grace, this lout is a public menace. Surely you want him in custody.”

  Kylemore quelled his bailiff ’s objections with a glare. “No, I think not.” He looked around and found what he wanted. “We’ll take your carriage. I’ll send it back for you.”

  The bailiff wrung his hands in nervousness. “Your Grace, there’s something else I have to tell you.”

  The man was thorough but inclined to fuss. Details of estate management could wait.

  “Later, McNab,” Kylemore snapped.

  “But, Your Grace…” The man all but clucked with anxiety.

  “I said later, man. Andy will drive. Ashton, if you’ll ride with us?”

  The tone of ducal authority had the required effect on everyone, including the fractious Mr. Ashton and the fluttering Mr. McNab. The mob dispersed as Kylemore lifted Verity very gently up into his arms. Immediately, her lush scent filled his senses, reminding him piercingly of other times they had been as close as this, times when they’d been even closer and he thought he’d die with pure rapture.

  “I can walk,” she protested.

  “I know, mo cridhe.” The endearment slipped out although he knew he no longer had any right to use it. “But allow me to do you this service.”

  She nodded and curled her arms around his neck as he limped across the flagstones to McNab’s carriage. His body ached after his pounding at Ashton’s hands, but there was no way in heaven or hell he was putting her down. Having Verity in his arms was too sweet.

  He’d never hold her like this again.

  What she’d said to her brother still echoed in his mind—would always echo in his mind.

  He glanced back at Ashton to see if he meant to cooperate. The fellow hesitated, then followed, his face stiff with barely controlled anger.

  Verity still trembled with reaction as she sat next to Kylemore and opposite Ben in the carriage. The rig wasn’t designed to hold two such large men at one time, and space was cramped. It seemed more restricted because of the hostility smoldering between her companions.

  “Stop it, both of you! You’re acting like schoolboys!” she snapped when the door closed on them. “Kylemore, he had every right to hit you. Ben, if I’ve forgiven him for abducting me, you can too.”

  “I’ve run myself ragged all over the country seeking you, lass,” Ben returned with equal ill humor. “I’ve been to London and to at least a dozen of this bastard’s estates. The bugger’s got his mucky paws on half the kingdom.”

  “Mind your language, sirrah!” Kylemore growled. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”

  “I know that. But you’ve treated her nowt better than some trull you picked up at Covent Garden for a shilling.”

  “Shut your mouth, man, or I’ll shut it for you.”

  “The lass has been in my charge for the last four years. There’s nowt you can teach me about how to look after her,” Ben sneered.

  “Yes, I know all about Ben Ahbood, the famous Arabian eunuch,” Kylemore said with equal snideness.

  “I was there to keep her safe from self-serving pretty boys like you, Your Grace.” Ben made the formal address sound more of an insult than the unflattering description.

  “Well, you did a remarkably poor job, then, didn’t you?” Kylemore said coolly.

  “Oh, stop it! Please, stop it!” Verity cried in distress. The possibility of violence simmered closer to the surface. She decided to cut in before it exploded into another fight. The memory of her brother attacking her lover still plagued her. “Ben, I’m fine. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  The question summoned her brother’s familiar smile, perhaps a little reluctant but indubitably there. “Aye, lass. I am that. It’s grand.”

  “And is that all the welcome I get?” she asked and laughed brokenly as he leaned across the carriage to crush her in a long embrace.

  Verity closed her eyes and basked in her brother’s familiar presence. For so long, he’d been her only bastion against the world, the one person who had known the truth behind Soraya. She’d missed him so much, and now he was here. She stifled a grateful sob against his dark coat.

  Eventually, Ben pulled away and gazed at her, his black eyes bright with unshed tears. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. What did he do to you, lass? Where have you been? I’ve heard nowt from you. Couldn’t you have got word to me somehow? I’ve been that worried about you.”

  “Oh, Ben, it’s a long story.” Most of it, she was aware, unfit for a brother’s ears. “But the main thing is we can leave and forget this ever happened.”

  Kylemore shifted next to her in silent protest, but what else could she say? That he’d kidnapped her, forced himself on her and now she loved him so much that she thought she’d die of it? Even to her, it hardly made sense.

  They rolled through an ornate gateway and into a spacious courtyard. What seemed an army of servants flooded out of the massive arch
ed entrance to hold the horses, open the coach’s doors and line the steps to greet their master.

  The castle’s gray stone walls glistened in the sunlight. When Verity stepped out of the carriage, they towered above her, mocking her presumption to love so great a personage as their master.

  Kylemore stood at her side, seemingly oblivious to the magnificence. Even with his bruised face and dirty clothes, he was still the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  She thought she’d inured herself to leaving him. After all, she’d learned to endure her life as a whore when every shred of her had revolted at the idea. But each time she looked at him, the pain of parting sliced deeper.

  Blind with tears she struggled not to shed, she accepted Kylemore’s arm. She dashed her gloved hand across her eyes to clear her vision and looked up past the serried ranks lining the sweeping stone staircase. At the top, imposing double doors stood open to admit Kylemore Castle’s long-absent lord.

  An exquisite woman glided across the entrance. She was slender and uncommonly tall and wore a dizzyingly expensive gown cut to emphasize her height and fine figure.

  Even at the distance, one couldn’t mistake her air of confident possession. Or her incandescent outrage as she glared down at the newcomers.

  “Justin, good God! Are you so utterly lost to propriety that you bring your doxy here? Send the slut away at once!”

  Verity was close enough to Kylemore to feel him stiffen in reaction.

  “Mother,” he said flatly.

  Chapter 23

  Although Verity had never seen her in the flesh, she immediately recognized the warrior queen who faced them down as the Duchess of Kylemore.

  Even if a thousand sketches and portraits hadn’t immortalized her famous beauty, she bore a notable resemblance to the duke. Strange to see Kylemore’s uncompromisingly masculine features mirrored in his mother’s delicate face. And the chilly arrogance of expression was familiar after years’ acquaintance with the son.

  “Your Grace,” she said shakily as Ben emerged from the carriage behind her. Kylemore’s uncompromising grip on her arm made escape impossible, so she sank into a deep curtsey.

  The duchess didn’t even glance her way. Perfectly properly. Great ladies didn’t acknowledge demireps.

  Kylemore hauled Verity upright and dragged her up the stairs, leaving Ben in their wake. For a moment, she thought he meant to bundle her across the threshold without addressing his mother, but he paused as he reached the older woman.

  This close, Verity saw that age had marked the Duchess of Kylemore’s face. Skillfully applied paint couldn’t hide the lines of temper around her mouth, and the gentian eyes were less lovely when one saw the hardness shining in their depths.

  “What are you doing here?” Kylemore asked in his coldest manner.

  His lack of welcome didn’t cow the duchess. Her winged brows lowered in a frown the image of his. “I am the Duchess of Kylemore. I may visit the family estates as I please.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “You haven’t been to Scotland for twenty years, madam. Last time you left, you swore you’d never set foot in this barbarous land again.”

  “Send your whore away and I’ll tell you why I’ve come,” she said with the unmistakable voice of command. Behind her, the magnificent edifice rose to the sky, declaring that the duchess had every right to be here and Verity had none.

  “I should go,” she murmured to Kylemore.

  “No, you’re staying,” he said stubbornly.

  “Ben and I will return to the village. Squabbling openly like this with your mother does no good.” Then, on a note of entreaty because she couldn’t take many more emotional storms. “Please, I beg you!”

  She should have known he’d respond no better to her pleading than he did to his mother’s orders. The unyielding hand around her arm didn’t relax. “You’re going nowhere.”

  The duchess stared at her son with palpable dislike. “I’ve arrived just in time. It’s as I feared. Your father’s madness didn’t die with him. You’re the rotten branch from the rotten tree.”

  Shock rippled through the lines of servants at this attack on their master. Verity couldn’t let this public fracas continue.

  “I’ll wait for you in the village,” she whispered urgently. “You can’t want the household to witness this quarrel, Kylemore.”

  The duchess’s mouth tightened in aristocratic disdain. “You permit this common harlot to use your familiar name?”

  Beside her, Verity felt him draw himself up to his full impressive height. The duchess was tall for a woman, but he loomed over her. “I do. I would be the most fortunate man on earth if this lady were to call me husband, madam.”

  This was too much for Her Grace. The perfect complexion whitened and the delicate jaw dropped in astonishment.

  But she could hardly be more startled by the declaration than Verity was. He hadn’t mentioned marriage since Kensington. The concept of her as a duchess was still nonsensical, but nothing could dam the traitorous warmth his words poured into her grieving heart.

  “This lady adorns any abode she cares to enter,” Kylemore said in a low voice that still managed to cut. “You, however, have long been a disgrace to your exalted name and rank. Kylemore Castle belongs to me. You are not welcome here.”

  The duchess staggered back. For one awful moment, Verity thought she might collapse. “Justin! I am your mother!”

  “To my eternal regret,” he said softly.

  “Kylemore, you can’t throw your mother out,” Verity gasped. He had every right to hate the duchess, but an open break would only bring further scandal down on their heads.

  She turned to the duchess and tried to keep a reasonable tone. “Your Grace, my brother and I leave today. My arrangement with your son has ended. I won’t embarrass you further.”

  The duchess’s expression became more forbidding. Verity forgot the legendary beauty and saw only the obdurate, destructive will.

  What could it have been like to call this woman mother? She was astonished Kylemore had emerged from childhood with even a shred of humanity intact.

  As she’d expected, the duchess still refused to address her directly. “Justin, your behavior is unacceptable,” she said in an autocratic voice. “I am here to insist you act in a manner appropriate to your position. Dismiss this slut at once and return to London to select a bride. Pray, boy, recall who you are.”

  He remained unmoved. “I am the Duke of Kylemore. These are my domains. If you aren’t off my lands by this evening, Mother, my servants will escort you to the boundary.”

  He turned to face the staff with all the authority at his disposal. “The duchess will ride in Mr. McNab’s vehicle to Inverathie, where she will wait at the inn. Pack her trunks and send them down with her carriage, which she will then use for her immediate departure.”

  “Justin, you cannot be serious!” his mother protested, clutching at his sleeve.

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life, madam.” He shook her free as if she were an unwelcome petitioner. “Good day to you.”

  He turned to glance at Ben, who stood aghast at the base of the staircase. Verity realized Kylemore’s mention of marriage must have astonished her brother. She’d never confided in him about what had happened that last afternoon in London.

  Kylemore’s voice was peremptory. “Ashton, if you care to join us?”

  He dismissed his mother with a spin on his heel and strode inside. Perforce, Verity followed into an impressive hall decorated with displays of spears and swords arranged in complicated geometric patterns. Behind her, she was aware of Ben mounting the steps and the servants preventing the vociferously protesting duchess from pursuing them.

  She was still in a daze. How she’d treasure that moment when he’d announced that she was the wife he’d choose.

  But the duchess’s disbelieving response only echoed the world’s derisive reaction if he actually went ahead and wed his mistress.

  Her reason
s for leaving him were as urgent as ever.

  Kylemore didn’t wait to see what happened to his mother. His staff had their orders, and he knew they’d obey unquestioningly. Instead, he drew Verity into a salon on the ground floor.

  He turned to his two unwilling guests. Ashton remained mercifully silent, but Kylemore read displeasure and shock in the square-jawed face. Verity was exhausted, and strain left dark shadows under her beautiful eyes. He didn’t care about the brother, but he most definitely cared about her. He gently took her hand.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from that,” he said softly. “I had no idea my mother was in residence.”

  “I shouldn’t be here,” Verity said unsteadily.

  “Yes, you should.” His statement brooked no argument.

  If I had my way, you’d be here always, my soul’s darling.

  He handed her carefully into a chair and crossed to the sideboard to pour three glasses of local whisky. After what they’d been through, they all needed it, he thought grimly.

  “Here, drink this,” he said, handing one to Ashton. He couldn’t say he was any fonder of the fellow, but for Verity’s sake, he was willing to make an effort.

  “What is it?” Suspicion laced the man’s question.

  “Hemlock, of course.” Without pausing to see what Ashton did with the drink, he went back to Verity.

  “This will make you feel better,” he said in a totally different tone as he crouched down on his haunches before her.

  “I don’t drink spirits,” she said shakily.

  “Just this once, mo cridhe. It will help.”

  She nodded, and he pressed the crystal glass into her chilled fingers. He stood up and downed his own drink. The liquor soothed the physical aches lingering from his scuffle with Ashton. Unfortunately, nothing short of a bullet could cure the pain in his heart.

  Ashton returned the empty glass to the sideboard with a click. The whisky had revived his usual combative self. Perhaps hemlock would have been a better choice.

  “You heard what the lass said. I’m taking her home with me this afternoon,” he said with familiar belligerence.